Liliana Zinetti, I cipressi di Van Gogh, Giuliano Ladolfi 2011
On the one hand...the woman who takes the road to the moon, his silence on the other the need to live the newspaper that "the door looks in different / every gesture, everything," p.14.
It'an important step, which tells us the awareness of writing poetry today,nor angels cursed with black wings, visionaries,or little people with little words,drowning in squander the poetry of everyday life. Its,rather, the consciousness of the poet who knows how to recognize the presence of death before the door of the house, the size of the Nothing that inhabits all things, and the word that he himself writes, entrusted to the natural smoothing of the surf until the total decay, until the stars go out.
What remains, then, the poet who knows how to give awareness to the baroque metaphysics that always inhabits the words? It remains a landscape washed, made of things which remain, simplified its excesses human and monstrous, "lying like a blanket in the sun" after the rain, "a child" who "jumps / in a puddle of worms and stars," p. 17.
"The landscape is collapse" and "those who watch it invents." "We are guilty, all, / something", p.19. We have no responsibility, however, and we can not shirk the task, to judgment. Can not escape the man with the weight of his actions, of his choices. Can not escape even the poet with the responsibility of his words, which are also burdened with the weight of the most just say, for the image, at least, the image of a more just city. We remember the frogs of Aristotle: beauty as opposed to utility two great poets. Need to choose what we need now, that useful to our lives.
What kind of rightness and beauty chooses to interrogate Liliana Zinetti in this book? First, the acceptance of ignorance. "We know so little / and we need to invent a life," p.21. The ethics of a voice: that of a father, and the sound of the voice of a child, the suggestions of a landscape / background: "Riot and blood, and no traces / the moon in December," p. 20.
Choose to "unlearn also crying", to start anew, as if words could only approximate the thing, without being able to fully say never, but always in the highest possible voltage of hardness and affection. Things do not exist by themselves, do not want to be known except through the voice of those who have already named and described (the father) and that of the children who have yet to learn the name by ourselves, our gaze pilgrim in search of sense.
The words, then, are situated in a while, before or since, in the background of an unchanged landscape of a nature indifferent, certainly, but to which we can not but be imbued with and questioners: pilgrims of meaning.
I agree with Alberto Bertoni to consider this book a culmination of the search for Liliana Zinetti, and we must begin to take responsibility to indicate books that are valid, they can accompany us in the hard apprenticeship of life pointing out the words and places, to find a star in the infinite , watchful devastation of our night.
Sebastiano Aglieco
COMPITU RE VIVI