From: http://cittadelmonte.info/2013/06/10/franco-loi-ladro-di-dio/
The poetry of Franco Loi (1930) knows the breath of obedience. The echo of the dialect in its press page has a voice that induces fatal to wonder, like a distant wind that touches the wonder and pain of a blessed reminder.
The indefinite of his views grows as the naturalness of a lost breath or the curse of a loose or broken glass, such as a remote greeting.
It could be attributed to its extreme Book Lader de Diu (When God sings), what he writes Nicholas Cabasilas: "Knowing from experience [...] means to achieve the same thing: here hence the form is imprinted in the soul and awakens the desire as a vestige proportionate to its beauty. "
It is the sign of a beginning and a path, marked by a desire not ego, but open to the music of the world and at the touch of a helpless abandonment.
Loi crosses so the current Milan today, in the language of real air and consistent, which appropriates the tear of the contemporary world and one's breath, to affirm and feel the force of God
The poem, almost psalm, the vertex, in what he writes Giuliano Ladolfi in an exclamation which dilates the drama of an irreducible and ineradicable need: "How we need God! how far we are!: this is the torment of man and the poet, this is the goal of his quête, this is the anguish of a life and a condition. The verses of Franco Loi are religious in the deepest sense of the concept: God is inherent in his whole being, in his thinking, in his work, in his love, for he is the Alpha and the Omega, the joy and the torment, it is the presence and absence, voice and silence, it is reality and dream, is truth and absurdity, He is alive and active in relationship to the world. "
It is a breath of suffering ("In the belly of the life God will rummages'), while the eternal mystery of being, in the loss of a" voice that runs on a thread of his call, "which is the thrill of a restless tension anxiously.
We are thieves Infinite love and nostalgia of a restless man who utters God, awaits his turn, like a sentinel who watches the return to someone's house, in the silence of a thin night on.
The city of Milan, "city that now falls apart," where they walk the 'women dressed elegance eyes, "celebrates its sleek appearance, lack of taste, the violence of a hell strangosciato and brute, where you breathe, on the contrary, a chant of meeting and abandonment.
In Loi it emanates a rough hand that outlines a movement of love and utter joy that cloaks the distance between the self and the other: "If I walk to Milan in a few road / I talk to the trees, I speak with stones, / I always try and speak with the life / and port behind the shadow / - and I say chat, but it's like a dream, / a breath of the soul that comes behind / and the air that moves gives shape to the dreams. "
In the world crumble and disfigurement, the shock is not never turns into despair, because as Ladolfi writes: "Sing the poet sings God, sings the world: melody and harmony come together in musical architecture that permeates the spirit. For this reason, the pessimism that comes from watching a disconsolate this demeaning gives way to a Franciscan hymn ("we have to thank the very air we breathe") in which the entire universe is redeemed by the limitation caused by human weakness. "
The nothing happens and elbowed his way in this hunger that seems anything but consistency is true joy, finds a sharp and airy nostalgia for paradise, the breath that makes the heart communicate with the substance of the world.
This poem enters the magma of the dictation of love in a love that rises and fills places, memories, ferments of tears and stunned "precisely in this" tension mutually binding "of present and future, of matter and spirit, time and eternity must be interpreted also the stylistic choice of an intimate union between the concreteness of everyday metaphors such as bread, the dog, the garbage, and the vagueness of the light, the wind, the air, which in the reality of a real ontological sense perception are without dimensions and not completely controllable. '
The infinitive of the verb is the voltage and opening of doors and dripping, calls to expand the prospect of an endless melody, in which the presence dwells in biological objects and obeys the voice of one calling in the world hunger salvation.
The wound being is the essence of a perfect interlocking carnal and inescapable between the abandonment of the city and the mixed choir of madness: the thief of God and be crazy
It is his air and he is interested in pursuing. The figure of destiny and of the achievement that sharpens the word and soul into consuming itself, like a curious child to a pin.
In this, the restless and unruly, even indomitable, search for the Milanese poet is the sign of a resource shiny, where the mysterious secret set in the experience collects the nest of a promise of happiness.
There's like a possession that limps, a possessing musaica who bathes of concrete existence, to be slit and pride of eternal obedience and sacrifice, as Luigi Giussani writes: "Obedience mean abandoning himself to follow an Other, therefore is the only true full sacrifice. The only pain that is not necessarily or waiver, but it is also the law that makes us great and happy and that makes us have, according to the Gospel, a hundredfold now in this time. "
The food, from which it draws the sap poetry is a dappled shadows, a dream about and see themselves as a 'no fog in the shadows of our pass, "" If I fall asleep in me makes me fear, / is like losing view, close a door, / be a night to climb dark / where the shadow that I was no longer light ... / Where are they? Which air moved me? / Path More and more I feel dizzy, / is no longer I, but another one behind the wall / seek God and he keeps hidden, / maybe ran behind me where there is darkness. "
The existence that is renewed and moans, poor and glorious, hidden places his thin silence, is born and dies and is reborn again, browsed trees, in a touch of love: "Life is hidden in life / and be her is like the beautiful flower bud, / there are the things of God, they are there to touch you, / but how far are things from his probing! / There is light, and the sky is inside you / like the leaf is browsed in the trees. "
Andrea Galgano
Città Del Monte, 10 giugno 2013