GIANLUIGI MATTIA

"Et dormir dans l'oubli comme un requin dans l'onde.
je suis une cimitier abhorrè da la lune
un vieux boudoir
ses yeux polis sont faits de minéraux charmants"

C. Baudelaire

When poetry is so sublime it almost torments you and stays with you, due to that special resonance which distinguishes every single poet, which in this case, for instance, is liquid, bright while on the contrary, in Milosz, is grave as the crash of a shipwreck.

"Così, avvicina alla mia tempia il tuo orecchio e ascolta. La mia testa è come una pietra miliare, come la pietra del torrente cosmico. Ecco, i grandi carri neri e sordi della Meditazione stanno per passare. Poi sarà la volta di uno spavento come di uno straripamento dell'acqua primordiale."

O. Milosz

If the voice (a senseless borborygmus) comes out so loud that I cannot stop the naughtier thought or text, in this solemn moment of my life, that is because, I considered, words or rather the word, is stronger than any thought of death, is stronger than any death of the soul. That is because the word is before and after any project and intention, before and after any rational construction.


At the tender age of seventy I realize I amuse MYSELF seeing the show of the countless clichés about good feelings and a profuse rhetoric. It almost makes me reverse words and/or the sense of the phrases; I describe to myself that particular moment of a movie or an interview using my voice to do the accents, the inflection of an Italian language, which is hampered by its dialects, or the sound echo of a single word.
Then I imagine hypothetical and paradoxical solutions for a movie scene, a soap opera, a special advertisement, etc.
Therefore I laugh at MYSELF, I laugh to myself; it happens more and more frequently.
I laugh at what I develop, derailing, dismantling the spectres of reality in its endless representations, above all when these representations pretend to be tremendously serious.
Therefore, desire for lightness, for messing about, for any form of stupidity in the style of Alberto Savino, may be a desperate need for an Edenic condition. A need to cut out excessive weight and meaning (increased by common rhetoric) to the meaning of life and its daily performance.