Poetry is a drop in the desert that will not die
Seems to be an indication overturned by the collection of Giulio Marchetti: is the "desert" to not have to die to ensure life to poetry: the enigma that shapes Black Ice. The configuration of a real space where our inner nature is corroborated by pictures and memories , assumptions and whispers, a figure no side item, but securely latched to life in unadorned rhythm, dry, free of emphasis, not for this park of meanings, tense in the short lyrical breath and intense.
If then the land is the last refuge / Flight latter is characterized as a hyperbole of human nature declined in falls and nell'affievolirsi of light on the horizon you can glimpse the possibility that all features which you are applying (can a dance / stage life?) so well articulated as to succor the admonition of the Greek classics. Finally chromaticism underlying the entire collection unfolds in a blue boundless rather than in the red with open veins or a kind word autumn and silent to slip into the size of a non-color, black shaping shadows (Eppure siamo ombre/che sanno di avere/una forma umana) tightening in the stillness of an ice under which pulsate rivulets of the heart that can beat even.
Cristina Raddavero