Achmadulina Bella is an Italian poet unknown to the public, but in Russia it is considered the greatest living poet.
His poetry uses simple language that can to be taken up also by the less educated, a language with different keys, a layering semantics and symbolic Costituto the fullness and power of his poetry.
"What puzzle me is infatuated,
my way out to those who benefit will be sweet,
if I am given at the end of the day
mutarmi in werewolf, d 'order greedy?
But what is poetry? It 'a literary form, or much more? It's something you're born with, or rather we learn as we learn to draw or write?
Montale said that it is a commodity of which little is known but where it is seen as an object came from the need to agiungere a vowel sound, then a close relative of music legends from the early Nibelungs fact the true subject of poetry is the sound:
" is a difficult question. Let me explain. There are people who write poetry, but are not poets. And vice versa. I say that poetry is not invented by the poet but exists on its own. And the poet is he who is able, in the verses, to show how poetry exists.
to Ungaretti's poetry as the war put a naked man, makes him touch the material and psychological needs of elementary, makes him feel the feelings essential (primary, because they are essential): corporate and frailty, fear and hope, love and horror, clinging desperately to life. It confronts the very limits of human existence - life, death, post, material needs, the spiritual tensions, the contingent, the absolute - and establishes a dialectic between the horror of this condition, a sense of fragility, of the one hand, and comforting and liberating power in the memory, imagery, metaphysical in the elsewhere, on the other. This brings the young man thrown into upheaval in the world to a more mature self-awareness and its relationship with nature and history of the human condition in short :
( "I recognized / a docile fiber / universe).
Saba would say that poetry is essentially honest, if for him poetry is a whistle,
"a song that eludes so who gives voice to what the hearer," whistle you can understand that this ends up being too large in relation to the flatness of the communication media. The poetic word, in its physiological capacity to remain, is in contradiction with the word frothy and artificial society of the spectacle seems to want to tell us and show us everything let us not remember anything
It 's like a man beaten by the wind, blinded by snow -
ping around the city a hell polar
the opening along the wall, of a door.
Join. Goodness is not found dead,
the sweetness of a warm corner. A name
lay forgotten, a kiss on
hilarious faces, saw that only in dark dreams
threatening.
Back to the street, even the road is another.
time to beauty is back, the ice
broken hand works, the heavenly
crops up in heaven and in his heart. And think
that one end of a mali good ads.
Rilke instead brings us to the ineffable when it responds to the big question of his Young Poet:
" most events are inexpressible, take place in an area inaccessible to the word, and more indicative of all are the works of art, lives full of mystery whose life, next our ephemeral, continues.
occur if it stretches out its roots in the deepest of his heart, confess to himself, would die, if she refused to write? This above all: you ask, at the hour of his quieter night if his day seems the poor, not accuse, accuse himself, saying it is not enough to evoke the poet's treasure, because for those who create poverty does not exist, nor are there places indifferent or poor, must be because those who create a world for themselves and find everything in himself and his mate in nature.
If for Plato poetry is closer to the truth of history, then poetry can save us from confusion, vulgarity, especially from the false gods and false feelings.
Antoine Duhamel Iurilli
painting AID
His poetry uses simple language that can to be taken up also by the less educated, a language with different keys, a layering semantics and symbolic Costituto the fullness and power of his poetry.
"What puzzle me is infatuated,
my way out to those who benefit will be sweet,
if I am given at the end of the day
mutarmi in werewolf, d 'order greedy?
But what is poetry? It 'a literary form, or much more? It's something you're born with, or rather we learn as we learn to draw or write?
Montale said that it is a commodity of which little is known but where it is seen as an object came from the need to agiungere a vowel sound, then a close relative of music legends from the early Nibelungs fact the true subject of poetry is the sound:
" is a difficult question. Let me explain. There are people who write poetry, but are not poets. And vice versa. I say that poetry is not invented by the poet but exists on its own. And the poet is he who is able, in the verses, to show how poetry exists.
to Ungaretti's poetry as the war put a naked man, makes him touch the material and psychological needs of elementary, makes him feel the feelings essential (primary, because they are essential): corporate and frailty, fear and hope, love and horror, clinging desperately to life. It confronts the very limits of human existence - life, death, post, material needs, the spiritual tensions, the contingent, the absolute - and establishes a dialectic between the horror of this condition, a sense of fragility, of the one hand, and comforting and liberating power in the memory, imagery, metaphysical in the elsewhere, on the other. This brings the young man thrown into upheaval in the world to a more mature self-awareness and its relationship with nature and history of the human condition in short :
( "I recognized / a docile fiber / universe).
Saba would say that poetry is essentially honest, if for him poetry is a whistle,
"a song that eludes so who gives voice to what the hearer," whistle you can understand that this ends up being too large in relation to the flatness of the communication media. The poetic word, in its physiological capacity to remain, is in contradiction with the word frothy and artificial society of the spectacle seems to want to tell us and show us everything let us not remember anything
It 's like a man beaten by the wind, blinded by snow -
ping around the city a hell polar
the opening along the wall, of a door.
Join. Goodness is not found dead,
the sweetness of a warm corner. A name
lay forgotten, a kiss on
hilarious faces, saw that only in dark dreams
threatening.
Back to the street, even the road is another.
time to beauty is back, the ice
broken hand works, the heavenly
crops up in heaven and in his heart. And think
that one end of a mali good ads.
Rilke instead brings us to the ineffable when it responds to the big question of his Young Poet:
" most events are inexpressible, take place in an area inaccessible to the word, and more indicative of all are the works of art, lives full of mystery whose life, next our ephemeral, continues.
occur if it stretches out its roots in the deepest of his heart, confess to himself, would die, if she refused to write? This above all: you ask, at the hour of his quieter night if his day seems the poor, not accuse, accuse himself, saying it is not enough to evoke the poet's treasure, because for those who create poverty does not exist, nor are there places indifferent or poor, must be because those who create a world for themselves and find everything in himself and his mate in nature.
If for Plato poetry is closer to the truth of history, then poetry can save us from confusion, vulgarity, especially from the false gods and false feelings.
Antoine Duhamel Iurilli
painting AID
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