We should mention names but would enter into a vicious circle. Here it is only signal the small, inconspicuous portion of a set of resistance represented by a dense small book and in many bright points of Maddalena Bertolini, a poet that even thirty Trentino same, I suppose, know you have. This small book, which is now published is called a (well, strictly tiny, with no claim to greatness, pace of fashion titers explanation), he has strongly backed and eradicated with meritorious obstinacy from the computer of his author Matteo Fantuzzi, young editor of Ladolfi, in whose mind resists, evidently, an affinity for poetry.
Let us read one, the poems of quest'una, who has the audacity to chase without too much rouge and no ideology images and revelations in the daily reality: "the sky is sleeping with their arms up / when breathing raises the mountains / and see the tides under the eyelids. / Everything is done in the form of child / cavity virtuous that she carries inside / arm movement he / when they work, the space between the desire / and the unexpected. Between the first and the last cry. " In just eight verses full of candor, the poet brings us naturally into the landscape autobiographical experience, emotion and intellectual of maternal, reverse mirror image of filial love, outline a small "picture" in which antropocosmico ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny: and manages to make a clean sweep of the distinction between visual and visionary through the grace of a cameo distilled essences timeless that it does not matter even more due to the fire originating in a sentipensiero reminiscent of epiphany lived in the open air ( There is much poetry of the mountain, in the poetry of Bertolini), if it is true, as pointed out by Sarah Tardino in his passionate preface, that the Bartolini the word "want an absolute coincidence between thought and created, between the body and the earth that is mountain stone ground, totems but male, husband and son to grasp as leaf and desire. "
The Bertolini takes us into the secret of the motherhood of poetry, without indulging in the topoi of the body and its songs, icebergs runs aground on which, today, much of women's poetry. But above all back to revive the sense of a poetic tradition that is not afraid to confront without pretense with the reality of every day in order to restore a tangy juice-rich slag material and spiritual, strong of his small but irreducible creaturely wisdom, indicating a 'ancient rich possibilities of the future of poetry: to open our eyes to reality, even the most minute, with the de-siderio infinity. Without listening to the sirens that call abstractions and brainstorms ways to service residual, not up to man.
Massimo Morasso
Humanitas Magazine