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THE SKY NOT IS, BUT THE POETRY.
Umberto Saba, one of the greater poets of the nine hundred, from me a lot loved, has written: "You it sapete friends, and I know Also the backs to it somigliano to the soap bubble; one knows them an other not ". Here, son said reading poetries to me of Elena Saviano, these poetry-bubbles go up;
The word to the moon luminosity it sendes thoughts far to the love
they go up carrying behind the purity of the infantile song and the trucidezza of the daily paper.
The dew drops on the leaves they speak but nobody listens
The backs of Elena Saviano go up in order to disperse themselves in the more and more polluted atmosphere.
It is opened under the bridges of Palermo it watches empty faces plagued roads green summers...
Pure, cutting, urgent backs. The poet searches outside and within of if in fact, she does not have fear of scorticarsi in order better to offer itself to the careful reader, for me a distracted poetry reader is not a reader. The true poet succeeds to construct to a tie of word and a bridge in order to cross undamaged, or nearly, daily massacring.
The hail it destroys millimeters of green it swallows borders of pine wood deformed. In tearing suffering the unexpected sleep it does not bewitch love.
From its hermit observation point, than but it is not place in the solitary tower, of leopardiana memory, but in the roads to sultry and stinking times to times airy and perfumed of one Sicily, much mistress. Elena Saviano tells the difficult sublime and daily relationship between, between ups and downs, soiling itself the hands, as Paul Pasolini has always asked the Pier poets. The Saviano above all makes this with grace and with the gift of the poetry and a incisività that do not leave indifferent. Just its to debate itself in the familiar affections, in the liberation dreams, but also a simple metaphysical island where it lands after the unavoidable existential shipwrecks, ago to flow inexorable the time from which, according to Sofocle, every thing is capacity to the light and our author is ancient and most modern also as dictated.
Sigh incessant hungry car clacson disheartened ears … They emerge, in fact, in its backs infantile nenie, pregambling chip of black dressed, the song of the waves, but also urlo it of pain of the degradation and of I talk nonsense of the lupara and some backs could be reppati or sing to you in key jazz.
To forget dumb words looks intercross to you between fico of India scattered angels...
Elena Saviano has a clear voice and succeeds to render, with its backs, highlander the side of the human and the mortal world them. An acute look on the existing and a sensibility in a position to bewitching and to be strange, and you say to me if it is little! Antonio Veneziani
Rome, 4 December 2004 |
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Copyright © 2005 - Ultimo aggiornamento: 1 dicembre, 2009 10.20.19elesaviano@hotmail.it |
