GAS Featured Poet: Ivan Pozzoni

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literaturein Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L'Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poetsof the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).

IGNOTE TOMB

Corpse No. 2,

the shadow of the wave reflected in my right retina,

hands clenched to grasp Mediterranean sands

worn under red surfing bermudas.

Corpse n.7,

muffled screaming attempts at the pit of my stomach

Marrakech hash maps in my pockets,

scanty dirhams sown between my purse and trousers,

led me to the mouth of the abyss.

Corpse No. 12,

‘Eloi, Eloi, lemà sabactàni’,

I don't remember who was shouting it to whom

not being written in the Koran:

I too died invoking it in vain.

Corpse No. 18,

retreating on the roads between the dunes of Misrata,

in thirsty slalom between friendly and enemy missiles,

and dying of water.

Corpse No 20,

although nomads, like me, sway

on desert ships, detonated fluids,

never will they get used to drowning.

Every grave of the unknown migrant

whispers that it is hard to embrace

a death that comes from the sea.