Alberto Rigettini is a poet, playwright, screenwriter, freak-show barker. Long time a main host of “Spoken Word Paris” he still returns to host occasionally. Also host of The Poetry Brothel Paris and the fight club “Writers Get Violent”. In 2011 he was awarded , the Troubadour International Poetry Prize at The Lorca in Translation Competitionand. Also included in the Anthology “Strangers in Paris: New Writing Inspired by the City of Light” by Tightrope Books. In the last 10 years he has lived in London, Milan, Rome, San Francisco, New York, Malaga and Paris and he is writing a poetry book in 4 languages and 5 settings: London, Spain, Italy, U.S. and France.Here’s a sample taken from the London Chapter: Fulbourne St, Whitechapel, East London Our bathtub is so close to the tube that the whole room trembles as it passes. In this tame earthquake the train has come, I came, the train’s gone. You wash your cheek with the foam and you ask me: “Are you happy now?” Another train rumbles and we watch each other trembling, flickers on water. You swim on my side, just turning your back. The bathtub is so small and this town so cold. We aided each other with no trace of love. Two minutes later we are trembling again. Here’s the monologue which I use to open the fights in Writers Get Violent: (A remix from)
The Sentimental Boxer
I want to tell one thing to the fighters who’ll get into this ring in a few minutes. To the winner: This is a sport where it is better to put aside any Cartesian doubt, where the only certainty that counts is that of a big clout right on the nose. There is no point to wonder why. There is no point to pursue the search for truth, when the only truth that counts is that of the winners. That goes for war, sadly, and for the smallest type of conflict. So, knock him down and enjoy the natural spectacle of seeing a boxer slowly fall backward, straight as a shaft, following the trajectory of a toppled oak, of hearing him crash to earth and the numerical tick-tocking of a grown child that has become a man, (a hand on the referee’s shoulder) but who still hasn’t stopped counting to ten to give some meaning to this game. For you the loser, or is better to say you who’ll lose JUST tonight, when your cheek will be there, stuck on the ground, don’t ask yourself why YOU got it, YOU got it for everyone of us, the cowards, your face got it for all these faces, your eyes saw it for all these eyes, like a diamond that refracts everything around it into a thousand brilliant slivers and glares, like a lake that is mirrored in every raindrop when it rains. Yes, like a limpid lake that reflects every face, you absorbed every punch, and every mirrored feeling connected with those punches, we felt. You’ve been battered from feeling our fears, sorrows, greed, wonder, like a human God listening to everyone’s prayers at the same time… you’ve been worn out by OUR emotion and… you’ve been defeated by YOUR empathy. When you gonna be laying here, don’t ask yourself if you are dead, you’re not dead. You’re too alive.