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by P è n i n ș o l a r
Reading and sonopoetry
by Ilaria Boffa
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Im Westen Nichts Neues
by Ilaria Boffa

All quiet. Niente di nuovo.
Where is the storm, the awe
that yelling at the top
of our lungs, the desperate flight?
Im Westen Nichts Neues, Europa.
Before and after, hidden and heedless.
Consciously superfluous to yourself.

We walk your geology Europa
And nothing is pristine.
What is missing, what thought
what sorrow?
It cannot be that we forgot our intents.
You keep withdrawing.
And I keep talking to myself.

Excerpt from All Quiet on the Western Front (Chapter 12) by Erich Maria Remarque

‘Had we returned home in 1916, out of the suffering and the strength of our experiences we might have unleashed a storm. Now if we go back we will be weary, broken, burnt out, rootless, and without hope. We will not be able to find our way anymore.

And men will not understand us – for the generation that grew up before us, though it has passed these years with us already had a home and a calling; now it will return to its old occupations, and the war will be forgotten – and the generation that has grown up after us will be strange to us and push us aside. We will be superfluous even to ourselves, we will grow older, a few will adapt themselves, some others will merely submit, and most will be bewildered; – the years will pass by and in the end we shall fall into ruin.

But perhaps all this that I think is mere melancholy and dismay, which will fly away as the dust, when I stand once again beneath the poplars and listen to the rustling of their leaves. It cannot be that it has gone, the yearning that made our blood unquiet, the unknown, the perplexing, the oncoming things, the thousand faces of the future, the melodies from dreams and from books, the whispers and divinations of women; it cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels.

Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the skyline, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace.
I stand up.

I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me, they can take nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me.’