Emilio Coco

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Emilio Coco 2017-07-13T07:48:08+00:00

Project Description

Emilio Coco

He is a graduate of the university of Naples in 1963., and his thesis was on the theatre. He has translated and published numerous Italian, Spanish, Latin American, Lithuanian and corsican poets. Since 1986 he has been editor of the poetry collections I quaderni Della Valle and I quaderni di fan; since 2009 he is also director of the uni-Version Collection; he works in the Italian poetry magazines pagine and bow Italy, in Spanish Salina and the Mexican the other, whose drafting committee is part. He is a member of the group of translators of “els plecs del magnànim” in Valencia. Prize forward to the poetic career, Alessandro Ricci-città di garessio award, di adelfia award and the award della giuria alda merini. In 2011, the college of Mexico awarded him a silver medal for his work as translator of Mexican authors.

The White scratches and burns over the walls ”

Emilio Coco

To on the steep steps
Clings to a straight line
Sperdendosi between the ditches and the rubble.
Built on bread and olives and quartabuono
Is and is downhill
Towards the sea dreaming behind the woods.

In the street cappellini le wives
It on the doorstep.
But the sun doesn’t brighten your meat
Restless under a thousand-year mourning
And with lime hands you hold me
Hair from the wind wind.

He shouts at night and in in he pours
In the square below in Santa Chiara.
With the dark is the beams
And the dismal trumpet
Open your eyes and wipe your saliva.

I went up to the new way.
Behind the wall the roofs of st. Mark’s.
I have short pants with patches
And the look.

Italian Translation: Marco Antonio Campos

“The White Stripe and burns on the walls”

And it falls on steep steps
He clings to a straight line up on the mount
Astray between pits and debris
With calipers and bread and olives built
It fits and unwinds down
To the sea dream after the woods.

In rue capellini the wives
Recaman on the threshold of the houses.
But you don’t light the sun.
Restless under a millennial mourning
And you hold me with calcareous hands
The hair of the wind.

Shout out the sunset and pour it over
In the square below Santa Clara.
With the dark desclávanse the beams
And open your eyes dry your saliva
The of the barrel.

I’ve ascended to the new road.
After the wall, the roofs of st. Mark.
I bring the short pants with patches
And the surly look.

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