On Poetry
Note Lucia Arsi

E 'it is given to man by placing limits definitional Poetry? Absolutely no.
Perché la Poesia is un "agere cultuale", Soul is the thrill that s'invaga breath of the Cosmos, It is the emotional participation in the re-revelation of the mystery of life, is promptly reporting that Sapora compassion.
The act of Poetry leads through the labyrinthine path of truth, the truth that gives me the perfect square but perfectible; not the truth drawn in protocols and a few power and in favor dell'egoico, but it tickles me to watch on shared standards, to provide joy, hope and love.
Poetry, enigmatic classmate.
I imagine the poem to the way a girl, tenderly clinging to an oak; I follow, while, barefoot, He is lifting the arms of Eros fanete; now his eyes, veiled loneliness, They turn their eyes ... or do not seek more flickering dress provocatively ... his eyes slips on snowy slopes traversing steep ravines; that look, that s'afforza and elbowed asks more space, meets and images are the primary images, those that have shaped the world of here: crazed rampage, bloodthirsty tyrants, daimones imposing incest, bloodsucking brothers, separating tycoons and beggars because the first live of ravenous hunger; Meanwhile the eye and truth imbued, out of the darkness that suffocates, turns up more, wraps of light and there women who wrap themselves in the mantle blue to preserve the honest uprightness, but they are few and women are iron mo 'boulders they fill vast spaces and launch intense sparks of goodness; in that place-no place gaze meets the good-natured suffering of men who teach the measure in saying and doing, men burdened with all the pain of the world, and so wise and so ready to give themselves.
Now the girl flashed my imagination, It takes the stylus and, with a language far from simple, – It is easy to say the unsayable? – attempts to reveal in morphemes as "saw", and therefore knows.
Arduous undertaking!
Quite rightly, we read in a small piece of the Author Derveni: "Put doors to the ears". The metaphor is paid to many uninitiated to Poetry.
Techne and pathos are the ingredients needed to say poetic and the baggage is heavy and not all carry the load.
Most know how to read the agony of a soul that lives the eternal presence of absence?
Able to appreciate the constant and not split the yes and no, that blocks every step and makes man the Archegeta the mystery of mysteries?
Maybe that's Poetry?

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