Monia Minnucci

“Moments beyond time and space”

Biography:

Monia Minnucci was born at Sora on the 5th of May, 1973.
He currently lives and creates his writings in Frosinone.
Her is basically an artistic soul, so that, in a very young age, she will make the choice of studying art, suitable for a training properly poetic.
Her art is closely related to the literature, but even more to psychology.
Monia self-investigate, translating literary works in her life, often troubled, with a
analytical capacity that flows like a river in flood.
She could be called a great translator of human feelings: she shapes them, study them, condemn them, but often, with veiled indulgence, absolves them.
She is present in many anthologies of poetry and ranks first in various literary competitions, including:
National Award Virella Apicella Granese, with the poem "The Book of scattered"
2nd prize of poetry "Paola Albanian" with the poem "Daughter" on: My newspaper.
First place in the story: "The bastard" in the competition Literary "Tales agency of forgiveness", organized by the Publisher Level4

Critical comment : Recently walking along the banks of the Isis has become a pleasant habit, especially in these days where, particularly from the parts of Wolvercote, is flooded. Entire fields have been transformed into lakes of water and here and there emerge bushes of grass, some broken tree root transported by the stream; here quietly grazing horses, cows and sheep curious. I stand on a bench completely flooded, the water of the river is almost to my knees. Do not pass trough anyone ... campaign that stretches as far as the eye is empty. Strangely deserted, usually the footpath along the River Thames is always crowded with cyclists and walkers. Not today, today there is nobody, do not come out of their holes even moles and rabbits. I think about the poems by Minnucci. It is a sudden flash. Behind the cold soreness and vibrant of her verses, one may sees the wounded shadow of Giuseppe Ungaretti (And I love you, I love you, and is continuous crash) and appears, with an unusual soft lyrical, the large face of Oscar Wilde I always loved and love like few others: the words of his dazzling, aerial, memorial (Tread lightly, / she is near / Under the snow, / Speak gently, she can hear / The daisies grow.); gorgeous as the flight of a butterfly, delicate as the thoughts of a broken heart. In the lines by Minnucci is the same lyrical intensity of time and space: The House of Angels, Small World, Endless Night, run through the maze of the deepest and painful being, but run through watching them with compassion and detachment. The time overlaps with the time, space to space: everywhere is the same dismay, a defaulted answer to the whys of living: (I held your hand, but you were a flurry on the doorstep) in a flash time, the lightning that defines the before from the afterwards and what it was and what it is no more, what we were, from what we will never be. Her anthology encloses the holistic completeness of her thinking with an uncommon sense poetic; the verse is transformed into sound of experience by opening with images of memory and dream as if an invisible hand was carrying toward landings or distant heavens. The form is basically an elusive moment of escape (Like the stars,/ always and forever,/ away from this breakdown world), remains, however, anchored along the paths of their way (I loved every autumn day,/ habits transmitted,/ the body emaciated,/ the vitality of my smiles was hanging on your flight faded). The shadows that the skies cast find hard to dissolve, the placate only in the harmony of the verse with a sense of pitiful consolation. (Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)
The poems: Endless night In the yearbook of corrupt dreams you've entered my name, between far reserves and desires to become. In the parentheses of bruised ideas don't shake my hand, don't glorify me by imperfect posture of silence. We stood together as children believing that the blue which played to swallow us , was like sea not the endless night that took us. Fire arrows I fenced my fire arrows in, I inflamed ruby-red words, restored unhealthy thoughts. Carnivorous flower of humanity, solutions pinched to age ... endless gestations The unprepared face of damage serves the amphora of the lapel which lies intact, cup filled, perfect and shining wonder. To the hanging abstract of memory, overlooks purple a boast, a regret and beats the embryo of harmony, among multiple strokes of laughers and tears. Naked of Heart I don't give time to insult of the seas, opaque suns half lying. I have no age to scratch the wings judging the winds for opposite flights. Calibrate the chimes of time in deception pour the age. I praise the flavours of the world, I put on mist of moon I have winds close to hands and dominate lands below, with real wings. I have visions looking at the bottom where forces inhuman act, the blind knows indicate clods bruised in the world. I do not give time to the day that you offer. I burn lights on the naked of heart. Daughter For a long time I awaited in the snapshot of a particular, that stone sour has more liveliness of my doing. Memories evicted, suppressed by the vanity of existence dull the taste, disrupt the touch. Splinters of dead from the slit of the take-off. Broken soul, waiting with no return. I'm two in one. I'm thousands in one. These are the faces of the moon, but I don't pour out loving inspired lights nor kingdom proud of my pale skin. She smiles eternally, I crush! I burn in the thunder ... in the flash, whipped by great shout, autumn storm from yellow complaining. Leaf torn, daughter missed, blood torn. The fault dwelling into the vow of the branch cut. Your name Are flashes in the eye, kicks of the angels, the sizzle of thoughts into these weird letters, with a broken back and a support that has not reached the index. I'm rough bark, the sum unharmed of the deaths of the poet, the appraisal of laughter and tears from the perspective of shadow and asbestos where the world fleeing does not make much sense. I'm the farewell from you, not by your words, attached to the collar of eternity as it is, to the tomb, thy name. Prayer The day is dead with the dark sun of your eyes, swallowed up by the mud of my hands. The memory has become ash and the fireflies of dreams dodge me, dancing on the border of horizon. I am fixed, as I were ice, tears dissolve the embrace, the sun is off like a rusty nail, if you let this hand without forgiveness. The day is damped, the pulse falls silent, the feathers of silence fill the space. Shadows, stretch on my chest and silent, is the way in my ear, equal to your silent mouth. ... silent as a prayer on a grave. Small world Tonight, the shadow is light. A cloud listless, gallops the wall and dusk is not obvious with its stars in column, but the sum of the faces over the tent. The fate of memories etched in a dark scent and how small is your world liquefied in the eyes of the reflection. Words spoken by emotion translate the time in seconds passed. The pages of yesterday have an alibi so foreign I'm looking for the translation, the subtitles of a heavy downpour. Tonight, the shadow is a light I have seen many falter, flashes and steps were suspended in the blue, beyond the how and the why, higher than you and me. The flowers wail and water bloom where the hell dries. The House of Angels Like the stars, always and forever, away from this breakdown world. As the breath of sleep snoring exhausted, vermilion life fell, bottled from the pipes of your graves. Were filled with green your infinite eyes of father, two slivers of sun, in the decorated twilight of the campaign. How can I not call you "Father!" Chasing your wiry footsteps prodded by the aseptic ground of the hospital I searched, the blood, the quantity and colour which would not lose. I loved every autumn day, habits transmitted, the body emaciated, the vitality of my smiles was hanging on your flight faded. With the stars of the night is the triumph of all certainties, whispered prayers before the light of muffled breaths, in the images of martyrdom I take the last features of your face. The deaf and hoarse breath bowed to peace. I held your hand, but you were a flurry on the doorstep ... the house of the angels.

Critical comment :

Recently walking along the banks of the Isis has become a pleasant habit, especially in these days where, particularly from the parts of Wolvercote, is flooded. Entire fields have been transformed into lakes of water and here and there emerge bushes of grass, some broken tree root transported by the stream; here quietly grazing horses, cows and sheep curious. I stand on a bench completely flooded, the water of the river is almost to my knees. Do not pass trough anyone ... campaign that stretches as far as the eye is empty. Strangely deserted, usually the footpath along the River Thames is always crowded with cyclists and walkers. Not today, today there is nobody, do not come out of their holes even moles and rabbits.
            I think about the poems by Minnucci. It is a sudden flash. Behind the cold soreness and vibrant of her verses, one may sees the wounded shadow of Giuseppe Ungaretti (And I love you, I love you, and is continuous crash) and appears, with an unusual soft lyrical, the large face of Oscar Wilde I always loved and love like few others: the words of his dazzling, aerial, memorial (Tread lightly, / she is near / Under the snow, / Speak gently, she can hear / The daisies grow.); gorgeous as the flight of a butterfly, delicate as the thoughts of a broken heart.
            In the lines by Minnucci is the same lyrical intensity of time and space: The House of Angels, Small World, Endless Night, run through the maze of the deepest and painful being, but run through watching them with compassion and detachment. The time overlaps with the time, space to space: everywhere is the same dismay, a defaulted answer to the whys of living: (I held your hand,
but you were a flurry on the doorstep) in a flash time, the lightning that defines the before from the afterwards and what it was and what it is no more, what we were, from what we will never be.
            Her anthology encloses the holistic completeness of her thinking with an uncommon sense poetic; the verse is transformed into sound of experience by opening with images of memory and dream as if an invisible hand was carrying toward landings or distant heavens. The form is basically an elusive moment of escape (Like the stars,/ always and forever,/ away from this breakdown world), remains, however, anchored along the paths of their way (I loved every autumn day,/ habits transmitted,/ the body emaciated,/ the vitality of my smiles was hanging on your flight faded). The shadows that the skies cast find hard to dissolve, the placate only in the harmony of the verse with a sense of pitiful consolation.

(Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)

The poems:

Endless night

In the yearbook of corrupt dreams
you've entered my name,
between far reserves
and desires to become.
In the parentheses of bruised ideas
don't shake my hand,
don't glorify me
by imperfect posture of silence.

We stood together as children
believing that the blue
which played to swallow us ,
was like sea not the endless night
that took us.

Fire arrows

I fenced
my fire arrows in,
I inflamed ruby-red words,
restored unhealthy thoughts.

Carnivorous flower of humanity,
solutions pinched to age
... endless gestations
The unprepared face of damage
serves the amphora of the lapel
which lies intact,
cup filled,
perfect and shining wonder.
To the hanging abstract
of memory,
overlooks purple
a boast,
a regret
and beats
the embryo of harmony,
among multiple strokes of laughers and tears.

Naked of Heart
I don't give time
to insult of the seas,
opaque suns
half lying.
I have no age
to scratch the wings
judging the winds
for opposite flights.

Calibrate the chimes of time
in deception pour the age.
I praise the flavours of the world,
I put on mist of moon
I have winds close to hands
and dominate
lands below,
with real wings.
I have visions
looking at the bottom
where forces inhuman act,
the blind knows indicate
clods bruised in the world.

I do not give time
to the day that you offer.

I burn lights
on the naked of heart.

Daughter

For a long time I awaited
in the snapshot of a particular,
that stone sour
has more liveliness of my doing.
Memories evicted,
suppressed by the vanity of existence
dull the taste,
disrupt the touch.

Splinters of dead
from the slit of the take-off.

Broken soul,
waiting with no return.

I'm two in one.
I'm thousands in one.
These are the faces of the moon,
but I don't pour out loving inspired lights
nor kingdom proud of my pale skin.

She smiles eternally,
I crush!
I burn in the thunder ... in the flash,
whipped by great shout,
autumn storm
from yellow complaining.

Leaf torn,
daughter missed,
blood torn.
The fault dwelling
into the vow of the branch cut.

Your name

Are flashes in the eye,
kicks of the angels,
the sizzle of thoughts
into these weird letters,
with a broken back
and a support that has not reached the index.

I'm rough bark,
the sum unharmed
of the deaths of the poet,
the appraisal of laughter and tears
from the perspective of shadow and asbestos
where the world fleeing
does not make much sense.

I'm the farewell from you,
not by your words,
attached to the collar of eternity
as it is, to the tomb, thy name.

Prayer

The day is dead
with the dark sun of your eyes,
swallowed up by the mud of my hands.

The memory has become ash and the fireflies of dreams dodge me,
dancing on the border of horizon.

I am fixed,
as I were ice,
tears dissolve the embrace,
the sun is off like a rusty nail,
if you let this hand without forgiveness.

The day is damped,
the pulse falls silent,
the feathers of silence fill the space.

Shadows,
stretch on my chest and silent,
is the way in my ear,
equal to your silent mouth.
...
silent as a prayer on a grave.

Small world

Tonight, the shadow is light.

A cloud listless,
gallops the wall
and dusk is not obvious
with its stars in column,
but the sum of the faces over the tent.

The fate of memories etched
in a dark scent
and how small is your world
liquefied in the eyes of the reflection.

Words spoken by emotion
translate the time in seconds passed.

The pages of yesterday
have an alibi so foreign
I'm looking for the translation,
the subtitles of a heavy downpour.

Tonight, the shadow is a light
I have seen many falter,
flashes and steps were suspended in the blue,
beyond the how and the why,
higher than you and me.

The flowers wail
and water bloom
where the hell dries.

The House of Angels

Like the stars,
always and forever,
away from this breakdown world.
As the breath of sleep snoring exhausted,
vermilion life fell,
bottled from the pipes of your graves.
Were filled with green your infinite eyes of father,
two slivers of sun,
in the decorated twilight of the campaign.

How can I not call you "Father!"

Chasing your wiry footsteps
prodded by the aseptic ground of the hospital
I searched, the blood, the quantity and colour which would not lose.

I loved every autumn day,
habits transmitted,
the body emaciated,
the vitality of my smiles was hanging on your flight faded.

With the stars of the night is the triumph of all certainties,
whispered prayers before the light of muffled breaths,
in the images of martyrdom I take the last features of your face.

The deaf and hoarse breath bowed to peace.

I held your hand,
but you were a flurry on the doorstep
...
the house of the angels.