Fabrizio Ulivieri - TrendSetter

  In this poem, Bukowski is an excellent example of what I am saying , that poetry says to the poet by naming things where you have to go and where you have to go is the threshold of Beauty, which is the point where you are transcending this life ( saeculum ) and you hear the breath of God on you. And poet can be everyone, who is looking for Beauty and lives and experiences Beauty in life, without writing it on paper. your life is your life don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission. be on the watch. there are ways out. there is light somewhere. it may not be much light but it beats the darkness. be on the watch. the gods will offer you chances. know them. take them. you can’t beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes. and the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be. your life is your life. know it while you have it. you are marvellous the gods wait to delight in you. ( The Laughing Hear t by Charles Bukowski) Follow me on Substack  

A poet is a form of resonance with respect to the astonishing the very moment he perceives it. The poet resounds in conjunction with that moment. The very moment he resonates he is urgently driven to find a way to express that resonance in which he unexpectedly finds himself centred. Me porté como quien soy. Como un gitano legítimo. La regalé un costurero grande de raso pajizo, y no quise enamorarme porque teniendo marido me dijo que era mozuela cuando la llevaba al río  [1] Here the poet (Federico García Lorca), because of the deception that the woman has operated to be alone with him at night along the riverbank, after he has enjoyed her body, resounds in a vibration that takes the form of resentment: y no quise enamorarme porque teniendo marido me dijo que era mozuela when he took her to the river. --------------------------------------------- [1] I behaved like what I am, a gipsy through and through. I gifted her a big sewing box made of straw-like satin, and I didn't want...

Poetry is the best way to express the depth of humanity of our  saeculum . Poetry doesn't lead directly to God, but it leads inside man, inside those depths that few people can access. A face and the consequent feeling of a profound sentiment at the mere sight of that face already deserves to be named "poetry". Poetry of our soul, not written, but poetry.  Anyone who is moved by encountering a face, looking at a gesture, deciphering a sign, listening to a word...has an inborn aptitude for poetry. Il giorno ha gli occhi di un fanciullo. Chiara la sera pare una ragazza altera. Ma la notte ha il mio buio colore, il colore di un cupo splendore. Poetry is also an embracive dialogue between the subject and his culture, his homeland, nature, earth, sky and sea and ... and the individual human soul. Poetry is rarely religious. rarely questions about religious themes, precisely because poetry is primarily probing for the human soul, disclosing the depths of the human soul and...

This story begins a year before and ends almost one year later. A span of time in the human being life relatively short but long, nonetheless. As life on earth: long but relatively short yet. It all started with a photo, which looked as many other photos, only a photo which aimed to fix a moment of happiness. And it fixed it forever, that is to say, for as long as it will exist. But happiness is not  only a moment of our lives, happiness is not even eternal, as eternal are not photos and people. But why then we look for happiness? What strange idea is this odd idea of ours? An absurd idea, but substantially possible though, in spite of everything. Because of that picture taken at the beginning of this book the destiny (but destiny does not exist — it's just a way of talking about life directions) wanted to be discussed for many pages to narrate the life of a family that in Vilnius, Lithuania, fought for their happiness in a time frame that corresponds to almost twelve mont...

Foto Živilė Abrutytė Un’ idea assurda  Questa storia comincia un anno prima e termina quasi un anno dopo. Un arco di tempo nelle vite di alcuni esseri umani relativamente breve eppure lungo. Come la vita sulla terra, lunga ma relativamente breve. E tutto comincia da una foto, che cerca come tutte le foto, di fissare un attimo di felicità. E lo fissa in eterno, ovvero per tutto il tempo che essa esisterà. Ma la felicità non è un attimo e la felicità non è neppure eterna, come eterne non sono le foto e le persone. Ma perché allora cercare la felicità? Che idea strana è mai questa idea? Un’idea assurda, eppure possibile, nonostante tutto. Da quella foto il destino (ma il destino non esiste — è solo un modo di dire) ha voluto che si parlasse per molte pagine di una famiglia che a Vilnius, in Lituania, ha cercato la propria felicità in un lasso di tempo che corrisponde a quasi dodici mesi di esistenza. È una storia vera, come vere sono tutte le narrazioni che ci fanno cre...