Born in 1964, lives in Umbria Umbertide, Paolo Pistoletti is his first book to the already valuable, albeit recent, Giuliano Ladolfi Editore. Debut virgin but it not as probed, tested by an attendance of poetry that from 2010 has its actual practice in the care and management, with reading, a program dedicated to it in the issuer Umbrian and Tuscan Radio RCC.
Place then, the poetic tale of everyday whose writing then reveals mainly within the preservation of a center, of a measure still adequate to the human face of the meshes of a contemporary who proceeds to fragmentation and cancellations. And the measurement and this is the miracle and joy for those who writes- is that of the family nucleus here of a speech about the world that is not imposed but that you look and live lives of incompleteness or less generational and reference leaks, separations and awards of direction that often tell us -as whenever substance verso- for something more and different even compared to analysis of other (economic or sociological they are).
So if poetry is dialectical oppositions in mending the distances date for nomination (in evocation, in images to whip us, to remind us in fury and in the sweetness of returns) the work of Pistoletti, in itself home to radical scaffolding and instances, the house itself is the centerpiece of its privileged observations, time and steps along the inner and physical bonding in close with an external dimension never separated but daily dilated in a dialogue of reciprocity and factuality questioners. Above all, yet, most of the time in saying Pistoletti seems lend voice not so much in itself, but to the consciousness in the making and in the comparison of their together father mother daughter elderly parents, funnel floating and that existing in the containment time same then transfigures and transcends them.
What to emphasize, in a system that is the point of originality and strength of the book, the simultaneous membership of a domesticity and a wider fraternity, the human that can not be avoided but only, evangelically and civically, to share simple recognition themselves in the verticality of the passions. It should perhaps be given to respect in full the preface with which Marco Beck introducing us to the text focuses on a sobriety of vision that in the pivotal piety proximity to those "around him suffer, struggle, love."
Lyricism of feelings, and on this we agree, expressed mainly by the eloquence of the faces and bodies that can read intimacy and directions. Because as poetry in size thinking of silence can not be achieved except by sudden insecurities and questions and considerations, leaving little room for verbalness direct that nothing would confirm if the unsuitability of an era in stalemate. Dystonia therefore between their inadequacies (word, substance) and the places to which they remain suspended in an attempt dell'appiglio well dilated by "the immateriality of atmospheres, moods, feelings, thoughts" (still Beck) where the wooden material as a fabric acts as conductor in a symbology vital that the home space expands to that same man (until poignant comparison of the father at the time of his death in a forest to take "the way / from light not It sees ").
Mirror this especially given the initial two texts: "wood house" and "Wood", in fact, as the title. The first fact, the observation of the strength and fragility of the house (on age and existence that over us, despite us, there flows) is reflected from the intensive care unit of a hospital life that still multiplies in seasons of deaths that follow. This, in the vastness of a whole which always reminds us of something else, seems to be "the marrow of light" which argues, in the wave immense "maybe what you do not see" and in which the same bad but this seems to lose weight zeroing in fluidity of the expanse.
Mystery that always refers Pistoletti views between overlying and small metaphysical interior (in the descriptions for some passages remind us of something of Wallace Stevens and Edward Hopper) in a web of mutual journey often reported by the author meditations driving the car such as halfway and in the metaphor of a world seen from the mirror where you go to the horizon of sense (their affections, the walls ones) of "that one point that matters." Point whose clarity and depth of root, "such as water, / like the flame of this solid chestnut on the bench", is central to its interpreters, the wife and daughter of man perhaps most of which are in the projections pact of a circle of vacuum resistance, squeezing of "all the dark" by "clusters of days blacks" ("Sulky", "vineyard") in accuracy of an embodiment to measure the transparency of the glass, window there outward surface which overcome it, which re-emerge as the bad dreams from the fears of our doubles.
The path of the couple in this way has its original strength, its paradigm; between buildings and injured, including disappearances and omens, the communion always be there to testify, as Beck would say, in love and in fact the hidden truth of the existence of nuclei. Truth of bodies "that are in things" and of souls tended to someone waiting in extended support that can only compierci in the fullness of dignity in the face of a dictation which the word (and not only the poetic) escapes and who can be united only crossing.
"Be one with the field until the last rush / not yet in the ground," he says in fact "Campo", in the knowledge that not alone in the passage, is take account of themselves first and then also the other in belonging to the same fate in "Network" has the beautiful image of vessels waiting to pull up the nets and to be taken out of the picture itself that this contains ("as when a wave of pain / us to overcome a threshold ").
Fate to another, each other, somehow unites us and is responsible for inviting us to go beyond the virtuality of news and images (see "Inside" with references to the death of a child in the fire in a gypsy camp and the photo of a boat full of immigrants "load / with his back turned the lot into the future"), because in the confusion of the times when the same certainties no consolation, in suffering for mutual recrimination in the relations, the fade in a Christian world, the yield in 'gait is common salvation and a die rather its opposite: "flower / petal after petal that goes out."
Gian Piero Stefanoni
La Recherche.it