Simon Weil, a poet of religious spirit, said that „the people need poetry like bread.” A blank margin, which the poet transforms into a pure voice that speaks, and not into a flower of oblivion in the spirit of the times. It is in the allure of mystery that the dreams of suffering and tragedy resurface in a human landscape, a chrysalis of light and life. Time reclaims itself: it is living blood in the rock, stripped of its own identity. A wound-free euthanasia in religious contemplation tied to the sacred values of life in their universal harmony. Childhood, memory, doubt, suffering, and love as a unique and personal dream of a nuclear yet integral osmosis, of a reality as innocent as it is dramatic, yet profoundly human. Poetry as a source of light, overcoming darkness, the victory of life over death, of love over hate. Love, understood in the true meaning of this complex and all-encompassing aspect of life, is not a relationship with a particular person, but an attitude, a character orientation that determines the individual’s relationships with the world and not with an „object” to be loved. Loving only one person and being indifferent to our fellow men would not be love, but a SYMBIOTIC attachment or excessive EGOTISM. Greater knowledge is inextricably linked to love… The weakness of the individual, which is a transitory condition, should not be confused with the normal and permanent state. (ERICH FROMM – „The Art of Loving”).
In this collection, „The Shadow Does Not Outshine the Light,” light and shadow chase each other, alternate, but each contains the other, the eternal struggle between life and death, between good and evil, the vision of the world and reality in its many aspects, with the absolute principles and values that cannot be abandoned. The shadow is never an end in itself, but rather a viaticum, awaiting joy. Man – Nature – Life not as a single path, but simultaneously. The condition of women, myth, war, terrorism, God, absent from the planets because He is hidden, world hunger, selfishness, injustice, arrogance, indifference, the pain that colors language and, often, gives flavor to the inexpressible. The presence and direction of a psyche almost always undermined and isolated, which accepts and lives both roles (that of shadow, which is agony, a blood clot, in a disorienting labyrinth, where the mind is the scalpel and the body the soul stripping itself of its identity), traverses all the declinations of pain to master it, to regain dignity and dimension, to be a presence, therefore, of time and history.
The translation of the self into symmetry with its Dionysian diorama. Instrument and research, in the night that is not a tomb, but the grace of waiting, a metamorphosis of consciousness where blood becomes fantasy and life and hope reemerge like light from the depths. It is the rising of the soul, but also of consciousness and wisdom. Lives appear to us as rivers, branches, rays that separate but then intertwine, becoming spheres, roots, oceans. Dispersion is eliminated in the unity of the divine. We have the world, nourished by our interiority, by the unconscious and obscure sphere of our mind and our senses, by the constant and biunivocal relationship with humanity, with the multiple realities, near or far, in which we are immersed and with which we interact. It is the sincerity of feelings that gratifies the poet, the touching awareness that makes the soul vibrate more than the fire that purifies; his breath, which is but an infinitesimal point in the meshes of humanity, on an endless road; The poet’s self-giving in an almost sacred intimacy, for poetry is above all silence, the long gestation of what words often fail to express. But it is precisely in that deafening silence that distances dissolve, one plunges into the unconscious regenerated by the rite of Love, life explodes in its continuous giving: the word separates to reach the heights of the spirit. It is the metamorphosis of thought into the stark realism of the abyss. The blood falls silent and the heart composes, restoring truth, dignity, and splendor to the word. We pause in an intermediate zone of reality (between the material consciousness of the world and spirituality), between the poles of the mind and that of the soul. Life arises from the void as if by magic, and Myth and Love prune away anguish. We have the impression of being inside a luminous mesh that attracts and at the same time provides us with the most desperate images and the most diverse tensions. Creating a mosaic of many fragments in a reality that overwhelms us and in which we are immersed means free-diving into memory and emerging not with a verse, but with the body and weight of our consciousness, with the very reality of our emotions, feelings, sensations, with the absurd hope of grasping at least the shadow of a reasonable light. Poetry: voice of the Spirit, soul, mind, conscience. Simultaneous voice of all things without circumstance or limit, on planes or levels. Poetry as emotional synthesis, critical awareness of Time, as a place „apart” from human experience in our need and refuge of the human race. It is an essentially social phenomenon in that it arises from the mind of the individual.
It is a long, interminable journey into the soul, the experience of an emotion directed at a soul willing to understand it, and it must be lived intensely, for it is the most precious gift of waiting. It is our soul that is clothed in charm and regenerates the boundaries between past and present, between truth and falsehood, between faith and dream. Like the river that flows and becomes caress and word. Only the heart can find harmony of sounds and colors. The secret of true poetry is the blind communion of the spirit that gives voice to forms from the darkness. Man needs the word (certainty), which is the necessity of self-expression to achieve greater self-awareness in the world. In fact, there is no void conceived outside our reality, which is both ardour and torment and which is concretized with the capacity for vision, which is the surrender of an emotion experienced and suffered intensely: the beat and silence of the same voice. It is the chaos of the Infinite, with its subterranean order. It is the shadow that dresses the uncertain (that circumscribes the limit and the dullness, the desperation of nothingness) where the being inhabits the body but remains estranged from the heart, incapable of revealing itself in its fragility and its own sadness. Consumerism causes the loss of human and social values, and poetry, like Love, induces a progressive rapprochement with the values of faith in family, civil, and political life. It gives meaning and value to one’s existence. Without poetry, there is no life. Man will be fertilizer of his own blood, but the word will never be ashes. A soul devoid of poetry is like a weak country where the family is in crisis. The individual lives in a curtain of fog that blurs the contours of a reality that is the tomb of the silent word, the total absence of his Love. Poetry, therefore, as the consciousness of time. The journey of the Myth through the word, the purity of fire in solitude, the gift of the dream that accompanies us until death in the dirge of pain. Poetry as the flavor of knowledge offered daily in the song of the word. Avoid competing to be like others, but be yourself. Don’t wait for the dirge of pain (darkness) to bring us closer. Live the word, drink from the chalice of light, and do not share the earth with the dead. Poetry as truth. Poetry as woman.
The urgency of the word as a passion for the naked (Truth) and feminine beauty (joy of the heart) – (see Sade and Masoch), the unconscious and the problem of the double, life as Art and Art as life. (Freud) and the psychoanalysis of dreams, (poetry as word on the trapeze.) (Freud). A succession of true and false, ghosts, suicides and murders for love, the soul crushed by the psyche, color overlaps, one word swallows the other. The word free as water (recalls the undines in Germanic myths). The quality Russians value most is the possession of Dusha, that is, of the Soul (keeping intact and defending the perception of what is immense and pure). Poetry as light. A long journey from the unknown to the familiar, the expressive pulse as a metaphor for existence, therefore, an expressive surrender and creative pursuit of the word that immortalizes it on paper, anticipating its times, the fulfillment of the expression, the possession of the metaphor (word), the joy of optimism that binds even two unknown souls; the roots of memory that bind seas, times, homes, that draw two minds in tune in that stupendous love that makes us guests in each other’s hearts, a pillow on which to rest, where body and mind transmigrate: consciousness becomes reality and not a suspension of time where experience reigns, the experience of everyday life that focuses the vision of life and death, in our imagination, but rather in the wounds of our breath. The poet enters into a relationship with his own essence, experiencing poetry in an extreme, radical, definitive way. It is a love for endless research, the preservation of an original way of life, the breadth of interests and knowledge: life with the events that pass through it.
Time transformed into poetry, therefore, an artistic form that reveals dreams and reality, but above all the emotion that is one’s own soul in the mirror, the reflection of that incubating mental magma, the other island of the heart, that which not even the poet himself draws upon and remains unknown even to himself: it is the moment of the sacred. Poetry as life, as experience, must be sought in the pulse of joy, grasped at the pinnacle of the senses, which makes us profoundly true, profoundly human in the eternity of light and wisdom. Poetry of Pain, poetry of Light, poetry of Life. – „You seek a happy life in a land of death: it is not there. How could a happy life be where life is absent?” From „The Confessions” by Saint Augustine. Poetry, therefore, is love, life, the dream of all time, and like Love, „it has a horror of what is not itself” (H. de Balzac) because „life is a sleep, love is its dream, and you will have lived if you have loved” (H. de Musset). Poetry as certain and secret hope, courage and not prudence, fire that reveals what the cold hides, emotion, passion. To borrow a phrase from AI QING, „No one can go against the truth of his heart.” POETRY is us!
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