"Sometimes it happens, suddenly, unexpectedly. You hear a sound behind all the noise, stop and listen. In the excess of the world there is in music a free space in which, even if only for a moment, to linger, take a breath ”.
It's a quote from a book by Nooteboom, a Dutch writer I love so much. But if I replace poetry with music I find myself savoring, in this book open before me, which I read and reread with growing amazement, a rhythm and a melody not so different from those derived from the score of an appreciated composer, and so similar to writing evocative and melancholic of a poet. And the poet in question is Grazia Procino.
His little white booklet, edged with light blue, entitled "E sia", can enter into a pocket or purse but the space that opens inside is the threshold that, once crossed, projects into a world of rythmós and of tension energy that will produce unexpected suggestions, a sort of estrangement in a receptive exercise that forces us to question everything.
“Da dove venite? Perché mai siete giunti qui? Chi siete?” (pag. 75)
it is the first lesson necessary to prevent us from dispersing our vital energy in the fatalism of things. And if fatalism has two sides: an optimistic or a pessimistic one, that of Procino is now a mythological thought, now aesthetic, now archaic and oriental to merge with the light of the sea, with the blue of the world of heroes and the kingdom of of. An elegiac world, fatal, but also gentle and impetuous, which recalls the roar of the Hellenic seas and the wind phoneme that, blowing from the Aegean, surrounds the Greek islands as mental horizons, categories of the spirit, in a map of voices, of geographies and characters that constitute the scenario. A genius loci to which to entrust poetic thought, research beyond reality, the temptation of the deep, the conversation with one's own conscience, the representation of a multi-faceted, abysmal and sunken world, the invocation to be against the car - repeal where the I and God discover threatened and dying identities.
“Siamo uomini in preda all’abisso
dell’angoscia, nuovi Odisseo, che
rinunciamo all’immortalità
fieri della propria finitezza effimera”. (pag. 17)
And if the landscape sets up a stage for the perorations of a disoriented humanity that shouts its own orphanhood, the linguistic game of the Procino, applied to his poetry, is an exercise of high efficacy, oriented to a pedagogy of being. The communicative system, based on the Greek structure with four stasis, a prologue, a monody and an epilogue, is a cultured expedient but it delivers a temporality that is a source of questions for the final recognition of who we are.
“Passiamo una vita intera a cercare il senso.
…
Qualche testardo continua nell’impresa:
a Cuma interroga la Sibilla
…
che si gira dall’altra parte
“Chi ha osato disturbarmi?
Io non perdo il mio tempo
d’eternità in ricerche impossibili” (pag. 30)
All the tropes and transfers that the energy of the texts enacts possess the independence of a reading in its own right, an extrapolated participation that becomes the dreamlike projection of solitude and discomfort. The solidity of the texts anchors the passion, as a natural thing, to a silent and concentrated reception capable of making the karst river of alienation resurface, which however foresees, in a dramatic and conflicting process, a final assent, allowing exit routes and areas frank.
“Gli oggetti resistono al tempo, ai tempi
alla cenere
alle ceneri.
… i nomi
resistono ai morti
…
A esergo pongo
“Si cade. Si resiste.
Si resiste. Si cade”. (pag.67)
Within the widespread game of dividing and recomposing the verses, the poetic word of Grazia Procino is together isolated, hurled and emptied, cut off from the purely communicative system, exposed as a trace, enigmatic and magmatic, to become a voice that does not occupy only a metric space but involves vocal cords to reveal spaces of dissent and heart to wish that Arbor felix of new lives, a new miracle from which to give birth to a future time, a story that curves into transcendence, opens on the horizon beyond the night .
And so Cassandra overlaps the last cicada that sings, Orpheus can accept rites of rebirth in the grace of the resurrection, Penelope returns to the pebble beach of a Corfu under the light of July. As in the man of Oedipus, all of us who do not defeat the oracles but fall and resist precisely in how many men.
INCANTOerrante