Dear Stephen,
I recently completed my journey to the homeless. I would like to express my sincere appreciation for this thy work, who not only write poetry, but you live, giving it meaning, making it breathe. I do not think it is only a book for insiders. It 'a book for those who love poetry, understood not as a mere exercise in good writing, but as a path that leads to a (responsible) freedom.
My impressions are limited to only some of topics you covered in the book, those on which I focused more, I shall return, because there are many thoughts that crowded in my head, I'm trying to untangle. Impressions are very personal, unpretentious. Maybe mine was an improper reading, perhaps I went to look for what I wanted to find.
Poetry "does not serve anyone." It "shows us a model report no masters and no slaves. I do not think a little. "It 's been the starting point of this trip, and was also the arrival point.
The poem, the "honest", is free. Did not owners because the poet when he writes, breathes on its own. In verse one often comes along a bumpy road, looking for questions and answers, by appointing his own ghosts, ordering his thoughts and to be freed. In the end, you choose. However, the choice is never the point of arrival: it starts, it starts again. You say: "I write to get ready to choose, freedom of thought, which opens direction and breath." It 's so, it should be.
constraints there are, the language is a constraint. The items are both cage and knotted sheets, thrown out the window of the cell to reach the outside. There is the bond of responsibilities ("do the best you can"), the need to be there, not to be outside, even if you do not write poetry "civil" in the strict sense.
I was particularly involved in the chapter on rent and finite, where talk of writing close to the margin. Writing: "if the slack from the extreme edge is approached and attended by the author, the work and the same finite in it breathing is less singular, almost to zero by the open era to which they belong ..." .
I'm not sure I have grasped the meaning of your words, but the head was slowly formed a picture: the margin (unreachable, unspeakable) as a kind of moving line, moving away and approaching in the light of experience, age, feel, that you accept the risk of running .
Close to the edge I imagined the word dangling from his lips. Below is a ravine and opens up the sky. In any case, it is vertigo. In any case, the jump in the air does not provide protection, shelter. There is this to be suspended, this time in the balance, the words come by themselves or they are seized, brought to him, worked on a line, christened. Before being delivered to others. May fall on the ground or flying. There are times when I like to see the words down, dirty with mud, others I prefer to see them take off, or suspended in midair, about to stop. I'm going off topic ...
I found very interesting (again, your words are wise beyond) the section on "challenge to the strength of the text" challenge in which, say, the author comes into play, along with the criticism. Individual work on their texts author is primarily a work on oneself, the truth value of his writing and thinking behind all the writing, the result of a certain way of life and feeling.
In addition to the trial (necessary) on the "leak" of a text carried by the critics, I think is important in the history of the personal work "in the silence of his study" (maybe the kitchen?) Is the single author . If the text "takes", if over time it will be true in all honesty, beyond the contingencies, as well as the emotions of the moment, then we can truly say that poetry "does not serve anyone." And for this writer is, in space and time of a poem, free, with the possibility, almost a responsibility, to push the boundaries. Not cheap.
Stefania Crozzoletti
0 comments:
Post a Comment