As soon as I finished reading the book of poems Daturapublished by Einaudi in 2013, I wrote about it on this blog and therefore do not remember it Patrizia Cavalli, picks up that little volume that later moved me. But to complete my little game today, I will extract some joys from that chest to which I will add selected poems from other collections.
My portfolio is a beloved and familiar container, a source of daily and compulsive consultation; I am often afraid of losing it and seeing it in my bag comforts me. Sometimes it inflates other times emaciatedstorage of important things, money, identity documents, driver’s license, credit card, health card … souvenirs old like that brown penny coin that was found one day on the sidewalk. Good luck amul, like the stick feather I keep in a compartment. The poem by Patrizia Cavalli (who died at the age of 75, and the death of a “poet”, as it was called, is a tragedy for everyone, even for those who did not know her), is my portfolios interior: contains in his verses all the essentials that must accompany me during the day. And so I agree with you, when you write, in With Japanese steps, his collection of prose published in 2019: “What dreams do, objects force us to do. Which one dreams his stupid imperfection of perfection resurrects us! ”
Patrizia Cavalli’s verses are objects capable of awakening wonder for his perfect imperfection and his daily ability to resurrect me. I will choose some of his verses and give each one the name of a member of my portfolio: worn out yes, but familiar and sweet. My identity card is the poem of Datura:
This perfect night, this sweet hour,
silence, and no one to bother
in this house exposed only to the sea and the sky
at the right temperature of the meat,
I without flesh here before you
while I am bored and while you are bored and believe
that breaking the silence breaks the boredom
that instead each word increases. And now?
Boredom alone is perhaps a luxury,
but getting bored in two is despair
it is not boring to reside placidly,
but it actively works in my blood
and it makes me scarce and weak, it extinguishes me.
My health insurance cardthat allows me cheap medications and affordable medical visits, comforts me in my excesses, is in the volume of Einaudi Poems (1974-1992) of 1992.
… So one evening maybe at a party
I run out of breath, I don’t breathe, I drown,
this stinking city is fatal to me,
instead I think it depends on the faces,
of those sad papier maché faces,
the streets offend me and my friends too
and the disgusting straight couples,
and so I go, enough, goodbye
only to discover that he was only oppressed
of the Gibaud elastic belt (…).
The tablet of antidepressant what I keep to the pennies is the song he wrote and sang with Diana and Chiara: It is good for the heart to climb the stairs; watching this video takes away the bad mood. Patrizia Cavalli is having fun, laughing with that blond goat and the inevitable cigarette …
My amulet of fate is one of the poems of My own singular ego:
A messy lady with herself,
My God, free me from this.
And the funeral vigils
to the barricaded bodies of projects
and with spike edges
of the moral districts. I lose my breath
God, get up, destroy the gardens
well cared for and very flowery. Come on, forest!
My money are the verses of the poem Homeland that the night-time publishing house has published in a delightful and small series of very short books, The stones.
Sometimes it happens
if you have a mid-afternoon at one of the many
beautiful Italian provincial cities.
Go where you have to go, you don’t feel like it
be a tourist and in fact choose
side streets, no people;
walking you find an open space
with a church, one of those a little neglected,
often closed; you’re late, but look
facade of the wing asleep, and immediately
your footsteps loosen, unravel,
they make you dream until you stay
motionless to ask what it is
that dense concentrate of existence
surprise in a time that absorbs you
in an original proportion.
More than beauty: it is a belonging
elementary, simple, already given.
Oh, don’t touch anything, don’t waste it!
There is my homeland in those stones, asleep.
And my memory, the copper dime, is along these lines:
The rain makes me come back
the missing pieces
of friends, push the flights down
too high, slows joints and closes
on this side of the windows finally
There credit cardwhich gives me that illusory feeling of wealth:
Now it moves as if it were love
an ambition of cells in transport
to some unlikely station
exiled flesh seeking its homeland.
Now we move from anger to pity …
that which was dead in the heart and in judgment
to relive it with a more vivid reality;
firm contempt and closed displeasure
here they are transformed in a few moments
in an enterprising nostalgia.
But nostalgia for what?
Just nostalgia that goes round and round
inside he has nothing very busy.
Finally these lines could be mine license driving:
What is said is said.
But will it be true? I have no access
in truth, my thinking tends
uncertain, it is subject to the wind
of siroc (…)
They only allow me to cross bridges
and looks at the red light with envy
some obsessed with blasphemies and insults
at a slow pace he breaks the compact army
of machines. And enough, there is only that.
And so I was able to continue, scattering the poems and all the contents of the portfolio on the table. I choose one last to say goodbye to Patrizia Cavalli, who a leave of absence he says.
May death happen to me within a desire
going through a door, because otherwise
I couldn’t bear it slowly
disappears from my sight
or the heavenly sheet of memory,
the white blanket, the beautiful light
which illuminated the room (…)
May death, Patrizia Cavalli, have trapped a desire within you, with a white blanket and a light in your eyes and in your memory beautiful. For me you are still a beautiful envelope, protection of what makes sense to me.