Aldo Carnevale

“A poetry made of scratches and screeching driven into the bushes of experience”

Biography:

Aldo Carnevale was born in the town of Pico, in the province of Frosinone.
In 1965 he graduated at the Commercial Institute for Accountants in Cassino (FR), and emigrated to Canada in 1969.
In Toronto he has completed the post-secondary studies and graduated as a CGA, a designation for professional accountants.
He is presently an SAP consultant, after having completed a long career at the managerial level in Accounting and Finance.
In Canada he has tought Italian, English and Accounting to immigrants of many nationalities. He has worked in Canada, USA and Africa, and has travelled the world over.
With his family he has lived in Liberia (West Africa) in the 1989-1990 period, which coincided with the beginning of the civil war that lasted many years. The time in Liberia has profoundly affected him and has left a lasting imprint in his soul and character.
He presently works in Toronto, and lives in the city of Oakville with his wife Rita and daughters Daniela, Carla and Gloria.
He loves to run and constantly trains on the long distance. He loves poetry and his favourite singers are Bocelli, Endrigo, Celentano and Dorelli.
But above all he loves Pico, the medieval town situated at the foot of the Aurunci mountain chain, and in spirit he lives there 24/7. He returns to the native place every year to visit his relatives and to re-live his youth.
With Prospettiva Editrice (Civitavecchia) he has recently published “L’attesa”, his first novel.

Foreign Affairs and International Trade Canada | Affaires étrangères et Commerce international Canada
Government of Canada | Gouvernement du Canada

Egregio Dottor De Giorgio,

Siamo particolarmente lieti di apprendere che il cittadino canadese Aldo Carnevale ha vinto il Concorso Letterario "Targa APICE al Merito Poetico 2009". Questo eccellente risultato consolida i profondi legami di amicizia, collaborazione e tradizione che da sempre legano l'Italia e il Canada.

Al Signor Carnevale vanno tutte le nostre più sentite congratulazioni per aver conseguito questo premio e il nostro augurio di una luminosa carriera artistica. All'Associazione APICE, che ringraziamo per la meritoria azione svolta a sostegno delle persone affette da Epilessia, vanno tutti i nostri più sinceri auspici di conseguire importanti traguardi nella lotta a questa patologia.
Ringraziando ancora tutti gli intervenuti a questa manifestazione, l'occasione è gradita per porgere, a nome dell'Ambasciata del Canada, i più distinti saluti.

Peter Egyed
Consigliere, Relazioni esterne
Ambasciata del Canada
Roma

Critical comment : Dictamundi’s readers will recall Aldo Carnevale for the review of his novel "L’attesa” (Prospettiva editrice), written by Valentina Incardona who, by careful and analytical exegesis, observed: "The narrative is structured through parallel stories in a dense web of events and is dotted with numerous characters, shaped, well-rounded, deeply steeped in a matter of humanity... ". Aldo Carnevale is now back as poet: the compilation that we present has been awarded with the first prize at the initiative organized by Apice (Piedmontese Association Against Epilepsy ) "Plaque of poetic reward 2009" which was attended by over 200 poets both from Italy and abroad, with the following reasons: "Captures images are not familiar with immediacy and translated them into poetic synthesis accomplished and evocative." In fact, his is a poetry made of scratches and screeching driven into the bushes of experience, which climbs the ridges of a sudden lacerations between loneliness and paths without a goal. Often the protagonist is a night and upset in the syncretism of visions and memories tangled: lunar landscapes, anguish, the lights of the signs of the bar with the tinkling of pinball and the roads that stumble in the ghosts of "una vita vissuta a metà - of a life lived in half. " It is the biography of a globetrotter: Africa, United States, the landing in Canada, the country far into the veins, in the distance we also see the lonely lighthouse on the pier in Oakville, the Canadian parks, the night and vagabonds colors of Edward Hopper. Both in English and in Italian, the rhythm is always elevated, engraves music and desolate prairie of stars, " Traccerò solchi nel cielo/ e pianterò sinfonie dei tuoi sorrisi /a limitare la via del tuo cammino - I'll plow furrows in the sky / and Plant Symphonies / of your smiles / to guide you along safely”. (Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)
The poems: Drunken road The whistle surfs the concentric circles of one drink too many. My train is always late. But it will end. Sooner or later. And you, drunken road, will let me walk. Strada sbronza Il fischio naviga i cerchi inanellati d’ un bicchiere in piu`. Il mio treno è sempre in ritardo. Ma finirà. Prima o poi. E tu, strada sbronza, mi lascerai camminare. Furrows in the sky No roads or mountains to mark the journey, nor wind to stroke your skin. Be not afraid. I’ll plow furrows in the sky and plant symphonies of your smiles to guide you safely along. Follow them beyond the stars, where wind has lost its wing the wave has fallen silent and thunder is at peace. Where darkness has been banished you’ll know you’re home. And when you reach we shall be whole again. Solchi nel cielo Non vi sono strade per il tuo cammino, nè vento a carezzar la pelle. Ma non aver paura. Traccerò solchi nel cielo e pianterò sinfonie dei tuoi sorrisi a limitare la via del tuo cammino. Seguili oltre la cupola del cielo, dove il vento muore e l’onda tace e imbavagliato è il tuono. Là dove la luce ha divorato il buio saprai d’essere a casa. E quando arriverai saremo interi. Gravedigger moon In the last evening a moon at half strength digs my grave. At the bar a skeleton full of beer stumbles to the exit zigzagging like a ball in a pinball machine. On the drunken road memories of a life lived in half strike up a dance. I crouch in the dark sucking my thumb hoping time will forget me. But the gravedigger moon is unforgiving tonight and in silence continues to dig. *Luna becchina* Nell’ultima sera una luna a mezzo servizio mi scava la fossa. Al bancone del bar uno scheletro colmo di birra punta l’uscita zigzagando a biglia di flipper. Sulla strada ubriaca danzano i falò di una vita vissuta a metà. Mi acquatto al buio col pollice in bocca sperando che il tempo si scordi di me. Ma la luna becchina non perdona stasera e in silenzio continua a scavare. The shawl From the balcony she spent summer and winter on the Russian front, searching tangled designs in grey-green over red. “He dressed light” is the last thing she said. She spread the shawl on the bed to warm his frozen body, fell asleep and continued the wake. That’s how I found her. In the hands was a rosary and a telegram from 1942. *Lo scialle* Dal balcone svernava e passava l’estate sul fronte di Russia, tra intricati disegni di grigio verde su rosso. “Vestiva leggero” è l’ultima cosa che ha detto. Ha spiegato lo scialle sul letto a riscaldargli il corpo di ghiaccio e nel sonno è rimasta a vegliare. L’ho trovata così. Nelle mani il rosario e un telegramma del ’42. Very Brief Summer The field thought it had lost us. Unbuttoning glances, arrogant nipples, ears of wheat eagerly in wait. Unburdened by age in the golden waves we speak the words of when we were young. But it’s a brief, very brief summer. Merciless time, faster than ever, covers our mouths before we can start. Brevissima Estate Il grano credeva di averci smarriti. Sguardo sbottonatore, capezzoli arroganti, baffi di spighe in attesa. Svestiti d’argento nell’aurea marea parliamo il linguaggio di tanti anni fa. Ma è una breve, brevissima estate. Il tempo impietoso, più veloce d’allora, ci copre la bocca alla prima parola

Critical comment :

Dictamundi’s readers will recall Aldo Carnevale for the review of his novel "L’attesa” (Prospettiva editrice), written by Valentina Incardona who, by careful and analytical exegesis, observed: "The narrative is structured through parallel stories in a dense web of events and is dotted with numerous characters, shaped, well-rounded, deeply steeped in a matter of humanity... ".
Aldo Carnevale is now back as poet: the compilation that we present has been awarded with the first prize at the initiative organized by Apice (Piedmontese Association Against Epilepsy ) "Plaque of poetic reward 2009" which was attended by over 200 poets both from Italy and abroad, with the following reasons: "Captures images are not familiar with immediacy and translated them into poetic synthesis accomplished and evocative."
In fact, his is a poetry made of scratches and screeching driven into the bushes of experience, which climbs the ridges of a sudden lacerations between loneliness and paths without a goal. Often the protagonist is a night and upset in the syncretism of visions and memories tangled: lunar landscapes, anguish, the lights of the signs of the bar with the tinkling of pinball and the roads that stumble in the ghosts of "una vita vissuta a metà - of a life lived in half. "
It is the biography of a globetrotter: Africa, United States, the landing in Canada, the country far into the veins, in the distance we also see the lonely lighthouse on the pier in Oakville, the Canadian parks, the night and vagabonds colors of Edward Hopper. Both in English and in Italian, the rhythm is always elevated, engraves music and desolate prairie of stars, " Traccerò solchi nel cielo/ e pianterò sinfonie dei tuoi sorrisi /a limitare la via del tuo cammino - I'll plow furrows in the sky / and Plant Symphonies / of your smiles / to guide you along safely”.

(Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)

The poems:

Drunken road

The whistle surfs
the concentric circles
of one drink too many.
My train
is always late.
But it will end.
Sooner or later.
And you, drunken road,
will let me walk.
Strada sbronza
Il fischio naviga
i cerchi inanellati
d’ un bicchiere in piu`.
Il mio treno
è sempre in ritardo.
Ma finirà.
Prima o poi.
E tu, strada sbronza,
mi lascerai camminare.

Furrows in the sky

No roads or mountains
to mark the journey,
nor wind to stroke your skin.
Be not afraid.
I’ll plow furrows in the sky
and plant symphonies
of your smiles
to guide you safely along.
Follow them beyond the stars,
where wind has lost its wing
the wave has fallen silent
and thunder is at peace.
Where darkness
has been banished
you’ll know you’re home.
And when you reach
we shall be whole again.
Solchi nel cielo
Non vi sono strade
per il tuo cammino,
nè vento a carezzar la pelle.
Ma non aver paura.
Traccerò solchi nel cielo
e pianterò sinfonie dei tuoi sorrisi
a limitare la via del tuo cammino.
Seguili oltre la cupola del cielo,
dove il vento muore
e l’onda tace
e imbavagliato è il tuono.
Là dove la luce
ha divorato il buio
saprai d’essere a casa.
E quando arriverai saremo interi.

Gravedigger moon
In the last evening
a moon at half strength
digs my grave.
At the bar
a skeleton full of beer
stumbles to the exit
zigzagging like a ball
in a pinball machine.
On the drunken road
memories of a life lived in half
strike up a dance.
I crouch in the dark
sucking my thumb
hoping time will forget me.
But the gravedigger moon
is unforgiving tonight
and in silence continues to dig.
Luna becchina
Nell’ultima sera
una luna a mezzo servizio
mi scava la fossa.
Al bancone del bar
uno scheletro colmo di birra
punta l’uscita
zigzagando a biglia di flipper.
Sulla strada ubriaca
danzano i falò
di una vita vissuta a metà.
Mi acquatto al buio
col pollice in bocca
sperando che il tempo si scordi di me.
Ma la luna becchina
non perdona stasera
e in silenzio continua a scavare.

The shawl
From the balcony
she spent summer and winter
on the Russian front,
searching tangled designs
in grey-green over red.
“He dressed light”
is the last thing she said.
She spread the shawl on the bed
to warm his frozen body,
fell asleep and continued the wake.
That’s how I found her.
In the hands was a rosary
and a telegram from 1942.
Lo scialle
Dal balcone
svernava e passava l’estate
sul fronte di Russia,
tra intricati disegni
di grigio verde su rosso.
“Vestiva leggero”
è l’ultima cosa che ha detto.
Ha spiegato lo scialle sul letto
a riscaldargli il corpo di ghiaccio
e nel sonno è rimasta a vegliare.
L’ho trovata così.
Nelle mani il rosario
e un telegramma del ’42.

Very Brief Summer
The field thought it had lost us.
Unbuttoning glances,
arrogant nipples,
ears of wheat eagerly in wait.
Unburdened by age
in the golden waves
we speak the words
of when we were young.
But it’s a brief, very brief summer.
Merciless time,
faster than ever,
covers our mouths before we can start.
Brevissima Estate
Il grano credeva di averci smarriti.
Sguardo sbottonatore,
capezzoli arroganti,
baffi di spighe in attesa.
Svestiti d’argento
nell’aurea marea
parliamo il linguaggio
di tanti anni fa.
Ma è una breve, brevissima estate.
Il tempo impietoso,
più veloce d’allora,
ci copre la bocca alla prima parola