Milo De Angelis




Translated by Emanuel di Pasquale


Paperback, 204 pages
ISBN 0-9725271-0-9

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MILO DE ANGELIS, born in Milan in 1951, is the author of five books of poetry, as well as a volume of stories and one of essays. He has also published translations of several modern French authors and of selections from the Greek Anthology and from Lucretius.

EMANUEL DI PASQUALE's many translations from the Italian include Silvio Ramat's Sharing a Trip (Bordighera, 2001), Carlo della Corte's The Joumey Ends Here (Gradiva, 2000), and Umbeno Piersanti's Selected Poems (Gradiva, 2002). In 1998 he won the Bordighera Poetry Prize.

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"It would be difficult to find a poet so totally modern... From the first dazzling collection, Somiglianze (Resemblances, 1976), up to Biografia sommaria (Biographical Summary, 1999), the utterance has become more precise and efficacious... a superior vision, capable of reaching the heights of extraordinary lyrical persuasion."

~ Eraldo Affinati

"In his more gracious moments, De Angelis' poetry gives life to our modern age, in which the human and the machine seem to merge into one body of activity and being. Often his feeling of existential nausea is Sartre-like, and so complete that the poet expresses a sense of disorientation or 'dizziness' as an attempt to get beyond the 'blast furnaces' of man's inhumanity to man—perhaps symbolic of the despair felt by Europe after World War II, which made Europeans acutely aware that mechanical and scientific intelligence could be used for humane purpose or heinous evil. There is the echo of this realization throughout De Angelis' poetry."

~ Daniela Gioseffi, Rain Taxi, Fall 2004

"There is a luminous heart inside De Angelis' words—words made bright by both his genuine feelings and his startling imagery... In his creative grace, De Angelis gives us song, and images so close to life they become life—even the machine as holy... 'Between the blast furnaces and the dizziness, there is a celestial boat.' In Milo De Angelis' poetry, the human, the machine, and the divine merge."

~ From the Introduction by Emanuel di Pasquale

"Emanuel di Pasquale gives us a notable modern Italian poet we could not know otherwise. De Angelis is a modernist in the truest sense. His thoughtforms, abstract and passionate, remind us of Cubism, with its many angles, attitudes, inventions... Here is a mind unfettered, and Di Pasquale brings out every nuance with style and reach. He presents the language of classicism like jazz; one feels antiquity along with the avant-garde magically combined."

~ Grace Cavalieri, The Montserrat Review, April 2004

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Lo Straccio Caduto Nei Fossi / The Rag Fallen in the Streams
Notizario delle Sette e Trente /Seven-thirty News
L'Ocean Intorno a Milano / The Ocean Around Milan

Milo De Angelis


C'era, figlio o figlia, un mattino
triste sulle colline. Ho cuore
di dirtelo con la stessa musica di verderame
e stalle, la musica abbreviata, la stessa goccia
che vedemmo nelle tre metà. Nessuna epopea
ti parlò del denaro, nessuno ha saputo
stanare un pianto nella più assoluta scultura... non era
li, non c'era mai stato... olim... et
olim... et cotidie... et cotidie...
felice chi lasciò in tatto il quadrifoglio.


There was, son or daughter, a sad
morning on the hills. I have it in my heart
to tell you with the same music of virdigris and
stalls, abbreviated music, the same drop
we saw in the three parts. No epic
spoke to you of money, no one knew
how to make tears come out of the most absolute sculpture... it wasn't
there, it had never been there... olim... et
olim... et cotidie... et cotidie...
happy who left the quatrefoil intact.


Vivero qui, in una scatola
dello spazio, insieme alle ombre fossili
e al folle lamentato che si scagliò all'aperto.
La Bormida ha già lasciato il porto. Ogni lesione
nel lampardario, ogni concime,
è questa briciola di formalina dove
uomini ascoltano. Dirò che dolcemente si cresce
in un punto lontano: la solita strada
è il bel paradiso.


I lived here, in a box
of space, together with the fossilized shadow
and the lamented madman who hurled himself into the open.
The Bormida has already left port. Each lesion
in the chandelier, each bit of manure,
is the crumb of formalin where
men listen. I will say that one grows sweetly
in a faraway place: the usual road
is the beautiful paradise.



Milano lì davanti, lì davanti
come un'idea a perpendicolo
o uno sbocco di sangue
nel centimetro più lungo tra le tempie
guardiamo i pianeti della fortuna,
le scatolette che ci danno un confine
finché una strada ci conduce
nel colloquio straniero
mendicanti di hotel
con l'idea e lo scisma nell'idea.



Milan, there, in front, in front
like a perpendicular idea,
or blood flowing;
in the longest centimeter between the temples,
we look at the horoscope pages,
the small cans that give us a boundary
until a road leads us
hotel's beggars
in the alien conversation
with the idea and the schism in the idea.


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