A cura di Lorenzo Spurio
I struggled a little to read his book; [...] this is not in any way a review, has no ambition to show itself as such. It is clear from his lyrics a clear preference for forms and images of classicism and this could not be otherwise given its nature, its inclination and its interests that they see the teacher in that branch of knowledge.
Beyond the exquisite workmanship of the book that testifies as always the superfluous editorial care of a publisher such as Ladolfi, I read his book in numerous shots, often returning back, rereading even two or more times some lyrics because perhaps a single and summary reading could not be considered sufficient to allow the reader to have interpretive tools. This is clearly a company that always takes the form of a book of poetry: on the one hand we try to understand what the poet really meant, on the other we often conclude that poetry is merely a communication -evocative, that is to say that it can - indeed must - be realized on several levels and therefore provide for various exegetical keys. Understanding what one is able to see and what that one thinks of seeing you.
The poetry contained in Stone and butterfly is inserted in an even more vivid way in this interpretative and relational approach that the reader interweaves with the various staves. The prefator Giulio Greco, I believe, has outlined in his initial notes - with great capacity - only some of the angles of his poetic work which, in fact, is much less catalogable and definable than what he himself - in fact - has done. The intentionally oxymoronic or manichean scaffolding is what immediately jumps to the eye, right from the title's reading, and from a series of images, references and reflections that, all along the work, peep, wink, and glimpse they also announce themselves by means of a less luminous language.
Some verses that have positively grasped my soul - and for their workmanship and for the building of the images - I can also bring them back to them: “La notte è pure/ nuvola che dilaga imprevista/ per la ferita del monte” (p. 15);
also interesting is the poem "Ethos daimon" which, in the forging of a character, we can also see the same primitive nature of the etymology of the term "poetry" as, indeed, creative act of construction: "I created you for play / desperate need "(P.28).
I am very impressed by that "nothingness that expands" (p.15), a total obtundation, a domination of the unprecedented cofosis, a net gash on a canvas waiting to be painted. It is also a deafening and repeated call that threatens our ears in today's society divided between indifference and voices, not far from an undefined or definable chasm. Certainly it is not "nothing" as such to throw into the gloomy anguish, rather that anonymous expansion, that massive and unmanageable opening, that abyss that widens, that stain that spreads. Not even the "black pupil" of the night that, a few staves underneath it, is able to scratch the hardness of that construction which - I feel obliged to repeat - is terrifying and at the same time imperious, indefinable and tragically absurd.
Thanking you again for the gift […] saluto sulle “punt[e] delle dita ai suoni/ che divampano sul frigido/ aplomb della tastiera” (p. 58) delle nostre “percezioni indirette”.