THERE IS a therapeutic power, in a psychological sense, of writing. And we have often published some of the stories and poems of an initiative that we have been following for many years. We are talking about Donna over the top, a literary prize that had the great writer as honorary president Andrea Camilleri and which this year reaches its thirteenth edition. The play on words and the double meaning are not intended: the title ‘Woman over the lines’ comes from nothing but the image, simple and realistic, of a woman bent over the lines of a sheet of paper. As often happens when the inspiration is genuine, the rest has come by itself. In this week’s Health Breast newsletter we will tell you a little of its history and, on the occasion of the new announcement, we publish one of the winning poems of past editions. The full version of the newsletter, with the work ‘La strada’ by Francesca Di Meo, winner of the “Short stories” category, can be requested from [email protected] after registering for free (here).
Competition
The competition is promoted by an association of patients of Chianciano Terme, Iosempredonna, which every October, within the National Gathering of breast operated women, organizes the award ceremony: a real literary festival dedicated to those who have lived the experience of disease. “When I got sick many years ago, I had no idea that writing could have therapeutic power. I simply had no one at that moment to express my fear to, so I did it on a sheet, even though I didn’t know how to fill it. But I touched it with my hand: I wrote and felt lighter and lighter. I could feel the weight lifting off my shoulders, ”he says Pinuccia Musumeci, president of the Iosempredonna association and creator of the literary prize.
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Also open to men
It started as a small thing, while today it is probably the most important literary event dedicated to this topic, also open to men who fall ill with breast cancer and to family members. The works received in the past 12 years are now more than a thousand, all ordered and published in 12 collections, also preserved in the national libraries of Rome and Florence, and at the Faculty of Literature of the University of Siena. The anthologies are donated to hospitals that request them and can be purchased (there is no digital version, but if someone wanted to make their skills available to make it, the association would be happy). The proceeds are used to cover the costs of publishing and organizing the awards event. An event that, despite Covid, was also held in attendance last October, respecting all safety measures.
The emotional impact
“The first year of the competition, in 2009, I was called to read some passages,” she says Maria Luisa Bigai, interpreter, theater teacher, director and artistic director of the event: “I remember that with the other actors we arrived in front of the lectern with our text, like so many other times. But it was not at all like all the other times: the impact emotion of the words was very strong, an unexpected echo that came back to us from all those women who had experienced breast cancer and who were listening to their stories. Giving voice to these experiences requires a non-trivial expertise. It is not enough to read them well, you have to find the right temperature to restore the sound to the lyrics. The actor’s tear is not interesting here. I find it a great lesson in theater and art. Virginia Woolf in ‘How to read a book’ wrote that we must stop dictating to our author and listen to what he says “.
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The word
In this case, then, is the content more important than the form? “This is one of those rare cases in which we really have to listen and read what has been written, even if with inaccurate syntax. It is a privileged observation point on culture, on language – adds Bigai – that is used to talk about these experiences. . The urgency of storytelling is much stronger than style. It is a lesson in essentiality and humility: having a technique means having an art, but how you use what you can do is more important. What you do here is a civil reading. , and reminds us of the primary task of the theater, the reason why it was born, catharsis. Setting up this competition requires immense effort: the women of the Iosempredonna association make a great gift. It is a work on listening that has no economy, and these evenings are not a show, but a way of being together. It is beautiful and it is rare “.
The call to participate in the 2021 edition has opened in these days and it is possible to send the works by 6 August. The categories are: poetry, long story and short story. The jury is made up of some volunteers from the association (who cast a single vote), a former patient, a psychologist and a teacher of literature. First, second and third prizes are awarded for each category. In addition, the Irony Award and the Andrea Camilleri Award (the latter given to the writing that gets the most reports from the jury, regardless of the category). One of the works presented in past editions is a poem written by the daughter of Pinuccia Musumeci, Clarissa Gori, following the death of his aunt (and Pinuccia’s sister) caused by breast cancer. We publish it below.
UNLIMITED PRAYER
by Clarissa Gori
Dear Lord or Great Spirit, It is me.
It is really me, who has prayed to you so much, because confused, disappointed, won and lived.
I begged you to return the tender flesh of a child from the swinging shoes.
To have no more thoughts.
Here I am.
Look at my hands. I’m almost plump now, with brittle newborn nails dipped in amniotic fluid. You made them delicate for me Lord Good God.
They were hands nervous of skilful gestures, of caresses.
Now I look at them and they make me tenderness,
there,
devoid of chaotic movement.
What about your hair, sir?
Fluff. Newborn hair, newborn head, featherless bird.
I caress my head, you know, every morning to remind me that I am reborn as a child.
Tenderness I feel. Tenderness.
Tenderness for my nonexistent breasts.
Sometimes people confuse thoughts, which seem certainties but vanish quickly if a glance is too much.
Because I wake up beautiful in the morning until the eyes of others tell me otherwise.
I, Lord, am not getting lost in sickness, I’m just being reborn.
Tell the people who look at me sad that they don’t understand anything.
I know that to be reborn it takes you to die a little. Here it is.
Compassion yes, yes, in the sense of “suffering together” for this rebirth I approve.
As in childbirth.
And look at my skin, yellow as a baby’s jaundice.
Here Lord, I would like baby eyes.
Not the eyes outside, those inside, that look that every child has.
Look of wonder. Here: what I would like.
I can barely walk. Uncertain steps of early equilibria.
Give me a sign, Lord, that this is the right way.
Sometimes I get lost in the fear of never being born again.
I am a soul waiting for my body of flesh.
I would like him to run and jump as before and satiate him with foods that are also bad.
Yes, those inviting, hyper-colored, high-calorie, hyper-fat, hyper crap
rewarding.
Can I trust you one thing Lord Good God?
Sometimes, good Lord, I am afraid. A lot.
Gripping pain, slashing, horrible bite in the throat.
And the mouth, soft lips, cannot describe this abyss that invades my body, eviscerating the natural rhythm of my going.
Sometimes I sit and wait
Swinging.
Then I wonder what on earth he is waiting for.
I do not know.
I haven’t figured it out yet.
But I sit and wait.
I wear the best dress, because I am beautiful and I wait.
I wait and get angry with you Lord.
Sometimes I’m really mad,
disappointed, pissed off, blasphemous.
was all this necessary?
Why?
Why did you listen to me?
You just took me at my word, strength of boundless prayer.
You made me a child.
Bald, frail, petite, uncertain, with paper bones, in need of care.
Silence….
Rock me a little bit.
Head rest.
Will this drip be over?
Lord, Great Spirit, I have been spying on myself.
There is a mirror there, in that corner next to the window.
But who is that creature?
He has a new look: amazement.
Here’s what I see in my eyes: amazement.
The amazement of my children in front of the hatching of the eggs in spring.
I was finally born, my illness has made me a daughter.
Daughter of life.
Amazement and wonder.
.