Tiziana Monari

“The overflowing of “I” from the banks of the history ”

Biography:

Tiziana Monari was born in Monghidoro, in the province of Bologna. She lives and works in Prato with her husband and her dog Bullone.
She is present with novels and poems in several anthologies published by Aletti and Perrone. She ranked the first places in several literary competitions, winning the trophy Mons Aureus of Montelepre in 2009, Vigo Prize for poetry in dialect, prize Stella Stella and AntonioNorbiato, the Viareggio carnival, the poetry prize of the third millennium of Capit in Rome, the Silchelgaita, Arteinstrada, Deandreade, Castelli magical world of stone, The International Award Poet in Fucecchio; Prize Giuseppe Altobello -She received the prize Mario Barale of the Press in Vercelli, the critics' prize at the poetry contest Luciana Baroni Capannori-Lucca-The Jury Prize in the contest of Vallecrosia-Natta This year she is the winner of the prize Semaforo Rosso in Florence, Giovanna de Martini in Genoa, Airasca in Turin-Ama Rossella in Rome Raccontarviaggiando-Poems without borders of the Mons Aureus, the prize of the Poetry of Walls-Mare Nostrum, Fra’ Damiano da Bozzano, Targa Apice.
In 2006 she published the work of poetry "Fragments of the soul." With the collection "The sky turned upside down" won the Literary Award-Editorial, "The Author".
In 2009 published "The Lament of Antigone."
In 2010 she published "The moon at Dachau" the result of the literary prize Patrizia Brunetti-Senigallia- She is present 'in the museum of the poetry of contemporary poets of Garassio, and in the anthology "Aletti" of Italian poets.

Contact Tiziana

Critical comment: Strange and curious, but the poetry of Tiziana Monari brought me back to coast the rocky profile of Brittany and pushed me over the many "Point de vue", the visionary viewpoints that descend on the cliffs and expand on the ravines of endless blue oceans . And here, within these bays where the vehemence of the wave shattered against the bulwarks of lighthouses, on the reddish expanses of heather, on the routes of unfurled sail, adventures, battles and legends, it is easy to find yourself and compete with own history, own little world of memories, dreams lying on the grass, meetings that have never been. The "Point de vue" Tiziana Monari are the life that flows on the history, it is the blood that permeates the streets of Badgdad, it is "just the rummaging restless and confused/ of women torn between the rubble of life", it is the scent of jasmine, the forgotten song of the nightingale (see Dust in Baghdad). But on the pages impregnated of blood and misery that the dawn of our century is so determined to tell with a violence that does not seem to doze off, between the "blue shutters" of soul spread gusts of life and memories of old sepia-colored: "shadows without color / without boundaries ", but still shadows that have marked and written and still emerge in the"summer breeze "playing "silver bells". In this overlap the Monari’s poetry is compact of substance, sealing lyrical impact and thought, structure and linearity of a versify prosemetric controlled and mature, sober, with a vigorous scaffold. The 'I' is always there, on the alert, ready to overflow from the banks of the story to flow in the furrow of images and sounds scanned in the colors of time, of scents collected in the wind as the sorrowful signs of experience. (Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)
The poems: THE DUST OF BAGHDAD It 's just dust in Baghdad scented of jasmine and blood which stands under a quarter of a red moon cracked to the time axis light as a butterfly in a fine dust of the sun only the restless and confused search of women torn between the debris of life vermilion stains of death veins of dreams trampled the sour of lemons sweet and split on the way home. It 's just the sound of the sitar dipped of incense in a city of shadows the tortured bodies of the soldiers between tufts of grass the homeland occupied by invading ghosts Aspen rags waving in the wind My captain is only war that makes us forget the song of nightingales that makes us fertilize the fields of tears and pain a madness called hate posed as a red poppy on the headstones that have no name only hearts of children overturned and a white cross in the middle of the blue KATRYN I saw the death with mantle and hood wandering furtively between dust and stones the nail red enameled the dress of an old beggar I've seen floating as light as a summer fire fatuous harbinger of light rain between dead and dormant levitating on wounds by Cyclops on rivers of red blood I wanted to kiss her mouth in the strip at night swim in her belly of ears in her soul of ripe wheat saved me a distant light black hands, white hands, that moves stones of Nike walking slowly then only a puff of wind a drop of rain on the face confused with the tears running down slightly. Out of the stillness of dawn from where I left myself exhausted lull. LOVES OF YESTERDAY Live in a tiny house on the heart of blue shutters the loves of yesterday hidden under a table boudoir behind a sofa unharmed by dreams by the summer breezes of life bordering on tiptoe to the memory ringing silver bells disheveled hair seeds in the pockets of the Treasury in the dark ousting the light oppressed by low clouds by a slight glimmer of dew. Glimmer tired photographed in sepia in nights of terrible beauty wrapped in a haze of illusory peace fixed in the moment walking in their purple leaves I count them in a stormy night on the hills flagellates in their smell of smoke and sea wrapped in a blue cloak small twigs brown and shiny that one day I loved shadows without colours without boundaries my tired loves of yesterday now rain. ABOUT GOLGOTHA In the woody alternation of Golgotha broken heart in the shadows smiled the red wounds stripped from the rain bless those days with lazy voice light clouds passing over the step nailed to the ridge of a dawn you forgave the evening that made vain the colors of the sunset laid slowly at night-fall to the horror of the thorns to a shiny dark of rocks and banks. Flowered mimosa a small wing of a butterfly writhed in an beginning of dawn in a time suddenly dilated accomplice radiant of a cross winked at the touch of pain almost like a love of bored wind a dove was holding in its beak a golden thread and you exhaled your last breath in a twilight of snow still winter and always winter in the pale season of silence.

Critical comment:

Strange and curious, but the poetry of Tiziana Monari brought me back to coast the rocky profile of Brittany and pushed me over the many "Point de vue", the visionary viewpoints that descend on the cliffs and expand on the ravines of endless blue oceans . And here, within these bays where the vehemence of the wave shattered against the bulwarks of lighthouses, on the reddish expanses of heather, on the routes of unfurled sail, adventures, battles and legends, it is easy to find yourself and compete with own history, own little world of memories, dreams lying on the grass, meetings that have never been.
The "Point de vue" Tiziana Monari are the life that flows on the history, it is the blood that permeates the streets of Badgdad, it is "just the rummaging restless and confused/ of women torn between the rubble of life", it is the scent of jasmine, the forgotten song of the nightingale (see Dust in Baghdad). But on the pages impregnated of blood and misery that the dawn of our century is so determined to tell with a violence that does not seem to doze off, between the "blue shutters" of soul spread gusts of life and memories of old sepia-colored: "shadows without color / without boundaries ", but still shadows that have marked and written and still emerge in the"summer breeze "playing "silver bells".
In this overlap the Monari’s poetry is compact of substance, sealing lyrical impact and thought, structure and linearity of a versify prosemetric controlled and mature, sober, with a vigorous scaffold. The 'I' is always there, on the alert, ready to overflow from the banks of the story to flow in the furrow of images and sounds scanned in the colors of time, of scents collected in the wind as the sorrowful signs of experience.
(Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)

The poems:

THE DUST OF BAGHDAD
It 's just dust in Baghdad
scented of jasmine and blood
which stands under a quarter of a red moon
cracked to the time axis
light as a butterfly in a fine dust of the sun
only the restless and confused search
of women torn between the debris of life
vermilion stains of death
veins of dreams trampled
the sour of lemons sweet and split on the way home.
It 's just the sound of the sitar dipped of incense in a city of shadows
the tortured bodies of the soldiers between tufts of grass
the homeland occupied by invading ghosts
Aspen rags waving in the wind
My captain is only war
that makes us forget the song of nightingales
that makes us fertilize the fields of tears and pain
a madness called hate
posed as a red poppy on the headstones that have no name
only hearts of children overturned
and a white cross in the middle of the blue

KATRYN
I saw the death with mantle and hood
wandering furtively between dust and stones
the nail red enameled
the dress of an old beggar
I've seen floating as light as a summer fire fatuous
harbinger of light rain between dead and dormant
levitating on wounds by Cyclops
on rivers of red blood
I wanted to kiss her mouth in the strip at night
swim in her belly of ears
in her soul of ripe wheat
saved me a distant light
black hands, white hands, that moves stones
of Nike walking slowly
then only a puff of wind
a drop of rain on the face
confused with the tears running down slightly.
Out of the stillness of dawn from where I left myself exhausted lull.

LOVES OF YESTERDAY
Live
in a tiny house on the heart of blue shutters
the loves of yesterday
hidden under a table boudoir behind a sofa
unharmed by dreams
by the summer breezes of life
bordering on tiptoe to the memory ringing silver bells
disheveled hair
seeds in the pockets of the Treasury
in the dark ousting the light
oppressed by low clouds
by a slight glimmer of dew.
Glimmer tired photographed in sepia
in nights of terrible beauty
wrapped in a haze of illusory peace
fixed in the moment
walking in their purple leaves
I count them in a stormy night on the hills flagellates
in their smell of smoke and sea
wrapped in a blue cloak
small twigs brown and shiny that one day I loved
shadows without colours
without boundaries
my tired loves of yesterday
now rain.

ABOUT GOLGOTHA
In the woody alternation of Golgotha
broken heart in the shadows
smiled
the red wounds stripped from the rain
bless those days with lazy voice
light clouds passing over the step
nailed to the ridge of a dawn
you forgave
the evening that made vain the colors of the sunset
laid slowly at night-fall
to the horror of the thorns
to a shiny dark of rocks and banks.
Flowered mimosa
a small wing of a butterfly
writhed in an beginning of dawn
in a time suddenly dilated
accomplice radiant of a cross
winked at the touch of pain
almost like a love of bored wind
a dove was holding in its beak a golden thread
and you exhaled your last breath
in a twilight of snow
still winter and always winter
in the pale season of silence.