The many colors of Anna Amoroso that push us to look at the sky
[ad_1]
There is only one category of people to whose heart it is possible to get close, in whose soul it is allowed – if not really to enter completely – at least to look out, to peep out, to look at what is hidden inside, and then to withdraw in the name of modesty and respect. I’m talking about the artists. Painters, musicians, sculptors, writers, poets. Poets, above all. For me they are the most mysterious and yet also the most generous, because instead of a brush, a violin, a scapezzino, they use the pen, the pacifist weapon par excellence that draws trenches in which they hide to be found, to be known . So, even if I did not have the privilege of meeting her in person, even though I had only read about her the beautiful articles published in our newspaper – in the editorial office of which she had presented herself asking to be accepted because she wanted nothing else at that moment – I I feel to say that I know Anna Amoroso. I met her when the postman handed me the envelope that contained her book of poems and I opened itI sat down and started reading what in fact is her spiritual testament, because today is a year that Anna is gone. Yet she is still there. You have to believe me, she is there, I tell you that I breathed her in the forty-five pages of the volume Of lands and discoveries (published by BraviEdizioni). She is there, as Leopardi still is, with whom Anna shares her hometown and the hill of Infinity; as there is still Montale, who certainly draws inspiration from Anna for the saving image of the passage (“I chase the whisper, the half way, / the road that opens the portal”).
All those who, before leaving, leave clear and at the same time abysmal words as a gift are still among us. Is there a need to see, touch, hug someone, to be sure they are there?The man from the penultimate, heartbreaking poem collected in this book (Per Edoardo) would perhaps answer yes, because when you love a woman so much you need the guarantee of existence; yet, a year later, I clearly saw their light caresses, their resistance, their deep-rooted path, their moments of peace carved out in a struggle that never stopped until the end. As I have seen all the threads, the tears, the ropes Anna wrote about, in search of a center that is never easy to find (“I am still looking for the center / without the wires that bind me”). The most recurring verbs of this poignant collection of verses all come from the same etymological matrix, to tie, and if they often mean imprisoning, holding back, preventing, blocking, fastening, just as often they confess the need to feel protected by human anchoring, safe in the relationship with the other.
I saw many colors, in Anna’s poems, the vermilion of a thought, the emerald of a link between herself and the tremors of the air, swarms of yellow bees, blue lapis lazuli races, and the gold of her hill torn by avalanche of a wound, the rea scar. I clearly felt his pain (“There is no respite, / but resistance in the meshes of a sharp spasm, / of a breathlessness / green, sprawling, which cuts my breath for hours”) and, perhaps to give him a justification that relieved the weight that that reading placed on my chest, I remembered what Virginia Woolf wrote about illness and the immense proportions of the spiritual change it produces, but also about the incalculable opportunity to see well what, overwhelmed by our insane way of living, you never see enough, the sky for example, that we do not allow ourselves to look sufficiently because we would hinder hasty pedestrians, so that we only catch a few mutilated pieces of chimneys and churches, among the branches of disheveled autumnal plane trees, and only to understand if it will rain or if the weather will be fine: “Now, while you lie there, looking up, you discover that the sky is something so different from all this that it almost upsets you. So it happened all the time without us noticing it! This incessant pulling up shapes and then throwing them down, this clashing of clouds, (…) this endless experiment of golden darts and blue shadows, veiling the sun and revealing it ».
There poem by Anna Amoroso – which although subjective, intimate, is never umbilical since in her own pain she does not forget the torment of the Afghan women who, like her but unlike her, seek a ford towards “the improbable hour of departure”, towards “the free exit still denied “- leaves our head full of sadness. “I am not ready for this greeting / anticipation that / throws wide open flashes at me / on my closed eyes, / in this grip / which continues to hold me / enveloped and entangled / in the renunciation. my shadow “. Yet, like those of the great Recanatese, his words also produce the opposite effect to what we would expect. Anna pushes us to look at the sky even when healthy, she pushes us to live in the freedom that the absence of the disease gives.
The newsletter
If you want to stay updated on the news of Florence, subscribe for free to the Corriere Fiorentino newsletter. It arrives every day straight to your inbox at 12 noon. Just click here
12 October 2022 | 10:25
© REPRODUCTION RESERVED
[ad_2]
Source link
