Fabio Franzin

“A village has its silences, like poetry...”

Biography:

Fabio Franzin was born in 1963 in Milan. Lives in Motta di Livenza, in the province of Treviso. He has published the following works of poetry
In the dialect of Veneto-Treviso-of Opitergino Mottense:
El coeor dee paroe, Rome, Zone, 2000, preface by Achille Serrao.
Pare (padre) (father), Spinea, Helvetia, 2006 introduction of Bepi de Marzi.
Mus.cio e roe (Moss and plugs), Sasso Marconi, The voices of the moon, 2007 2nd ed. 2008 introduction of Edward Zuccato, "Award S. Pellegrino Terme 2007, "" Superpremio Insula Romana 2007, ""Award Guido Gozzano 2008 "
Fabrica, Borgomanero, Atelier, 2009 2nd ed. 2010 "Award Pascoli 2009," "Baghetta Award, 2010".
Silenzi de Rosario (Rosary of silence - Rožni Venec iz Tišine), Postaja Topolove, 2010 trilingual edition with translation into Slovenian Marko Kravos.
Siénzhio and orazhión (Silence and prayer), preface by Franca Grisoni, Motta di Livenza Edizioni Prioritarie, 2010.
Co’e man monche (With hands cut off), Milan, Le voci della luna, in 2011, with a preface by Manuel Cohen Prize "Achilles Marazza 2011,"
Fabrica e altre Poesie (Fabrica and other poems), Borgomanero, Ladolfi Publisher, 2013 with the introductory essay The loneliness of the "global citizen" by Giuliano Ladolfi.
Bestie e Stranbi (Beasts and Stranbi), Martinsicuro, Di Felice edizioni, "Poets of Smerilliana", afterword by Matthew Vercesi, 2013.
In language
Il groviglio delle virgole (The tangle of commas), Grotteria, Stamperie dell'arancio, 2005 award "Sandro Penna 2004 section new" with an introduction by Elio Pecora.
Entità (Entities) in E-book, Cepollaro Biagio E-edition, 2007.
Cantidell'offesa (Songs of the offense), Cesena, Il vicolo, with an introduction by Gianfranco Loreto, 2011.
In language and dialect:
Margini e Rive (Margins and banks), Città Nuov,a Roma, 2012. Note by Daniele Piccini.
*******
In 2009, the magazine Atelier has dedicated to him, monographically, the No. 53. In 2010 he won thePrize "Giacomo Noventa - Pascutto Roman", and in 2012 the prize "Tito Maniacco." His poems, collected in numerous magazines in Italy and abroad, have been translated into English, French, Chinese, Arabic, German, Spanish, Catalan and Slovenian.

Critical comment : Fabio Franzin: poet by subtraction Subtract ... always means that something has been taken away only to discover that the "removed", the "Subtracted" is necessary due to the fact that it's "missing" ... There!, the Fabio's poetry, has the imperative of "necessity" ... I met up with Fabio Franzin, who has been called "the poet by subtraction", in a copious rain morning of April that, respecting the classic adage of a madcap spring, at the same time it materializes and consolidates the vagaries distorted as in the bowels , by the many changes which man is mainly the responsible and guilty, forgetting with tremendous ease his membership to Nature, summit of creation, knowing superbly dwell at the bottom of the ranking. Or rather, on the one hand, in the poetic works of Fabio, especially in the "Fabrica and Other Poems", Ladolfi Publisher, 2013, leaks the image of that part of humanity "powerful" (?) that has upset the very essence of life in the name of economy, globalization, the laws of the market with a new sheet music in which, instead of notes, echoes the frantic "spread", on the other side, emerges that slice of "blood and soul" where the sinister and " evil " Today has taken away dignity from the foundations that allow humans to live" his "fullness of life: employment in extinction even in the rich North-East ... and with the work a pulsating and vibrant microcosm of" belonging ", affection, solidarity and communion. Just the "wording" of poet by subtraction has progressively involved myself in an emotional tension that flows in the direction of Fabio's verse as a figure emblematic of his production, along the Venetian land dotted with rich images of "memory", the one that makes us say, in full conviction that if we are here, it is because we are someone's Memory. The someone who first of the new species "homo consumens oeconomicaes legis servus" (to put it as in the preface of the collection by Ladolfi) 'breathed' the field or factory in a dimension far from fractures to osmotic ad venienti. Lyric after lyric we go into the history of one disappeared universe, and of one that absorbs and affects humans with a deadly claw, into fragments that flow, in images that alternate the symbolism of the crib and the sign of the cross to the placards with large letters with the words "For sale / warehouses for rent" ... in that stupor and soft Venetian dialect which marks the reality on the white sheet, as guarantor of the strait, indispensable relationship between logos and bios .... And in the dust of a shattered Italy, can almost feel the cough of the soul, phlegm and uncomfortable of men deprived of spes and of their dignity as persons. But a"full" reading of Franzin poetry forces us to go further, to take the paths of a poetry that looks at the Big of twentieth-century, to the writing in "suffering" of Pavese that we all have committed to memory in a wonderful "we need a village, if only for the sake of leaving it" laying in the instance to return. On the morning of abundant rain, the voice of Fabio overlaps with mine and that of the reader, in deciphering symbols of existential sadness that manage to paint the sadness metaphysics of living this remnant of time that we are allowed, and into which we happened by virtue of a courageous and authentic re-reading that can only come from those who live in the "fire" every day and where in the calendar don't live even more the Saints. (Comment by Cristina Raddavero)
The poems: Marta l’à quarantatrè àni. Da vintizhinque ‘a grata cornìse co’a carta de véro, el tanpón, ‘a ghe russa via ‘a vernìse dura dae curve del ‘egno; e ghe ‘à restà come un segno tee man: carézhe che sgrafa, e onge curte, da òn. I só bèi cavéi biondi e bocoeósi i ‘é ‘dèss un grop de spaghi stopósi che nissùna peruchièra pòl pì tornàr rizhàr. Co’a cata ‘e só care amighe maestre o segretarie, ghe par che ‘e sie tant pì zóvene de ea, ‘a ghe invidia chee onge cussì rosse e longhe, i cavéi lissi e luminosi, chii déi ben curàdhi, co’ i sii pàra drio ‘e rece, i recìni. Le varda e spess ‘a pensa al só destìn: tuta ‘na vita persa a gratàr, a gratarse via dal corpo ‘a beézha. Marta has forty-three years. / Twenty-five / smoothes frames with buffer / sand paper, with these humble instruments cares / the hard varnish in the mouldings / / of timber; and remained to her/ as a sign in her hands; / caresses scratching, and nails / stubby manlike. Her beautiful hair / wavy blond are now / / a tangle of strings stringy / that no hairdresser can / remodel more. When she meets / her peers, teachers / or secretaries, they look / / much younger / she envies those nails / so red and long hair / smooth and bright, those fingers / well groomed, when they push away / / behind the ears, the earrings. She / observes them and often thinks /to her destiny: an entire life / lost to scratch, scratching away from the body her beauty. Me despiase** Ieri, el kosovaro che ‘l lavora co’ mì el me ‘à domandà se podhée prestarghe zhinquanta euro, el se vardéa tii pie pa’ far su ‘l coràjo de chee paròe chissà par quant rumegàdhe – lo sa che ‘ò dó fiòi, el mutuo pa’a casa e tut el resto – e za ‘l savéa, son sicuro anca ‘a mé risposta, parché no’l se ‘à ciapàdha, sì, sì, certo, capisco l’à dita sgorlàndo ‘a testa intànt che ‘ndessi verso i reparti, i guanti strenti tea man. Però mi nò che no’ lo riconossée pì co’là che ghe ‘à tocà dir mi dispiace proprio co’ ièra drio sonàr ‘a sirena e no’ restéa tenpo nianca pa’a vergogna. I'm sorry Yesterday, the Kosovar who works with me / asked me if I could lend him / fifty euro, he looked at his feet / / while formulating his request that, / who knows, how long meditated - he knows / I have two children a home loan / / and everything else - and I'm sure he knew / also my answer because he didn't get angry with me/ yes, yes, sure, I understand continued / / to say shaking his head, while we walked / towards the departments, tightened the gloves in ours hand. / But I didn't recognize / / that one who had to say I'm sorry / just when the siren sounded / and there was no time even to shame. Artù El scavo l’é quel pa’e fondamenta, un buso grando, largo, scuro; in banda ‘na mùtera de tèra smossa come quea che buta su ‘e rùmoe tel prà. Lo varde in fra un sbrègo del teo aranción tut a busi del rezhinto, te ‘sti dì de vent e gèo. Tea mùtera dura come cròdha calche murèr l’à piantà là un badhìl. No’é pì tenpi de fàvoe e lejende, lo so, e so che l’Artù che un dì cavarà via el badhìl daa tèra ‘l sarà albanese o romeno, fòra règoea, pagà in nero, e so che no’l deventarà re, dopo, che no’l podharà portar pase e ben, salvar un regno in crisi. Resta chel pal sbiègo come orméjo pa’ picàr i nòvi s.ciavi. Arthur The excavation is for the foundation, / an excavation large, wide, darkly; beside / a mound of loose soil like that / crowded by moles in a meadow. I spy it/ / between a break in the orange towel / holed in the fence, in these days of wind / and frost. In the hill as hard as stone / some mason has stuck a shovel. / / No more times of fables and legends, I / know, and I know that one day the Arthur that will extract / the shovel from the earth will be Albanian / or Romanian, outlaw, paid in black, / / and I know that he will not become king after that / he will not have the power to bring peace and welfare, save / a kingdom in crisis. Remains that pole oblique / as mooring for shackling new slaves. From Fabrica e altre poesie, Ladolfi editore, 2013. Poems published at the request of the author**

Critical comment :

Fabio Franzin: poet by subtraction
Subtract ... always means that something has been taken away only to discover that the "removed", the
"Subtracted" is necessary due to the fact that it's "missing" ...
There!, the Fabio's poetry, has the imperative of "necessity" ...

I met up with Fabio Franzin, who has been called "the poet by subtraction", in a copious rain morning of April that, respecting the classic adage of a madcap spring, at the same time it materializes and consolidates the vagaries distorted as in the bowels , by the many changes which man is mainly the responsible and guilty, forgetting with tremendous ease his membership to Nature, summit of creation, knowing superbly dwell at the bottom of the ranking.
                Or rather, on the one hand, in the poetic works of Fabio, especially in the "Fabrica and Other Poems", Ladolfi Publisher, 2013, leaks the image of that part of humanity "powerful" (?) that has upset the very essence of life in the name of economy, globalization, the laws of the market with a new sheet music in which, instead of notes, echoes the frantic "spread", on the other side, emerges that slice of "blood and soul" where the sinister and " evil " Today has taken away dignity from the foundations that allow humans to live" his "fullness of life: employment in extinction even in the rich North-East ... and with the work a pulsating and vibrant microcosm of" belonging ", affection, solidarity and communion.
                Just the "wording" of poet by subtraction has progressively involved myself in an emotional tension that flows in the direction of Fabio's verse as a figure emblematic of his production, along the Venetian land dotted with rich images of "memory", the one that makes us say, in full conviction that if we are here, it is because we are someone's Memory.
                The someone who first of the new species "homo consumens oeconomicaes legis servus" (to put it as in the preface of the collection by Ladolfi) 'breathed' the field or factory in a dimension far from fractures to osmotic ad venienti.
                Lyric after lyric we go into the history of one disappeared universe, and of one that absorbs and affects humans with a deadly claw, into fragments that flow, in images that alternate the symbolism of the crib and the sign of the cross to the placards with large letters with the words "For sale / warehouses for rent" ... in that stupor and soft Venetian dialect which marks the reality on the white sheet, as guarantor of the strait, indispensable relationship between logos and bios ....
                And in the dust of a shattered Italy, can almost feel the cough of the soul, phlegm and uncomfortable of men deprived of spes and of their dignity as persons. But a"full" reading of Franzin poetry forces us to go further, to take the paths of a poetry that looks at the Big of twentieth-century, to the writing in "suffering" of Pavese that we all have committed to memory in a wonderful "we need a village, if only for the sake of leaving it" laying in the instance to return.
                On the morning of abundant rain, the voice of Fabio overlaps with mine and that of the reader, in deciphering symbols of existential sadness that manage to paint the sadness metaphysics of living this remnant of time that we are allowed, and into which we happened by virtue of a courageous and authentic re-reading that can only come from those who live in the "fire" every day and where in the calendar don't live even more the Saints.
(Comment by Cristina Raddavero)

The poems**:

Marta l’à quarantatrè àni.
Da vintizhinque ‘a grata
cornìse co’a carta de véro,
el tanpón, ‘a ghe russa via
‘a vernìse dura dae curve

del ‘egno; e ghe ‘à restà
come un segno tee man:
carézhe che sgrafa, e onge
curte, da òn. I só bèi cavéi
biondi e bocoeósi i ‘é ‘dèss

un grop de spaghi stopósi
che nissùna peruchièra pòl
pì tornàr rizhàr. Co’a cata
‘e só care amighe maestre
o segretarie, ghe par che

‘e sie tant pì zóvene de ea,
‘a ghe invidia chee onge
cussì rosse e longhe, i cavéi
lissi e luminosi, chii déi
ben curàdhi, co’ i sii pàra

drio ‘e rece, i recìni. Le
varda e spess ‘a pensa
al só destìn: tuta ‘na vita
persa a gratàr, a gratarse
via dal corpo ‘a beézha.

Marta has forty-three years. / Twenty-five / smoothes frames with buffer / sand paper, with these humble instruments cares / the hard varnish in the mouldings / / of timber; and remained to her/ as a sign in her hands; / caresses scratching, and nails / stubby manlike. Her beautiful hair / wavy blond are now / / a tangle of strings stringy / that no hairdresser can / remodel more. When she meets / her peers, teachers / or secretaries, they look / / much younger / she envies those nails / so red and long hair / smooth and bright, those fingers / well groomed, when they push away / / behind the ears, the earrings. She / observes them and often thinks /to her destiny: an entire life / lost to scratch, scratching away from the body her beauty.

Me despiase

Ieri, el kosovaro che ‘l lavora co’ mì
el me ‘à domandà se podhée prestarghe
zhinquanta euro, el se vardéa tii pie

pa’ far su ‘l coràjo de chee paròe
chissà par quant rumegàdhe – lo sa
che ‘ò dó fiòi, el mutuo pa’a casa

e tut el resto – e za ‘l savéa, son sicuro
anca ‘a mé risposta, parché no’l se ‘à
ciapàdha, sì, sì, certo, capisco l’à dita

sgorlàndo ‘a testa intànt che ‘ndessi
verso i reparti, i guanti strenti tea man.
Però mi nò che no’ lo riconossée pì

co’là che ghe ‘à tocà dir mi dispiace
proprio co’ ièra drio sonàr ‘a sirena
e no’ restéa tenpo nianca pa’a vergogna.

I'm sorry
Yesterday, the Kosovar who works with me / asked me if I could lend him / fifty euro, he looked at his feet / / while formulating his request that, / who knows, how long meditated - he knows / I have two children a home loan / / and everything else - and I'm sure he knew / also my answer because he didn't get angry with me/ yes, yes, sure, I understand continued / / to say shaking his head, while we walked / towards the departments, tightened the gloves in ours hand. / But I didn't recognize / / that one who had to say I'm sorry / just when the siren sounded / and there was no time even to shame.

Artù

El scavo l’é quel pa’e fondamenta,
un buso grando, largo, scuro; in banda
‘na mùtera de tèra smossa come quea
che buta su ‘e rùmoe tel prà. Lo varde

in fra un sbrègo del teo aranción tut
a busi del rezhinto, te ‘sti dì de vent
e gèo. Tea mùtera dura come cròdha
calche murèr l’à piantà là un badhìl.

No’é pì tenpi de fàvoe e lejende, lo
so, e so che l’Artù che un dì cavarà
via el badhìl daa tèra ‘l sarà albanese
o romeno, fòra règoea, pagà in nero,

e so che no’l deventarà re, dopo, che
no’l podharà portar pase e ben, salvar
un regno in crisi. Resta chel pal sbiègo
come orméjo pa’ picàr i nòvi s.ciavi.

Arthur
The excavation is for the foundation, / an excavation large, wide, darkly; beside / a mound of loose soil like that / crowded by moles in a meadow. I spy it/ / between a break in the orange towel / holed in the fence, in these days of wind / and frost. In the hill as hard as stone / some mason has stuck a shovel. / / No more times of fables and legends, I / know, and I know that one day the Arthur that will extract / the shovel from the earth will be Albanian / or Romanian, outlaw, paid in black, / / and I know that he will not become king after that / he will not have the power to bring peace and welfare, save / a kingdom in crisis. Remains that pole oblique / as mooring for shackling new slaves.

**From Fabrica e altre poesie, Ladolfi editore, 2013. Poems published at the request of the author