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Alda Merini


E 'dead Merini Alda.

I'm not a lover of poetry. Of course, I'm excited reading Leopardi, Ungaretti and other popular poets at a young age.

My relationship with poetry has since been occasional. Leggiucchiate various things here and there.

I then met friends who write poetry, poetry in use in over my work as a trainer it is a training tool of extraordinary power. This helped me not to lose contact with the magic of poetic language.

Of all modern poets that I have, just for different reasons, to explore, Alda Merino is no doubt that more than any other I have touched the soul. Even Ungaretti, although I love, it never managed to penetrate my feeling as Alda Merini: my mind, my body, my soul.

body, scorned gray

scarlet with your cravings,

until I imprisoned?

soul circumflex,

bathed and incapable

soul circumcised,

you do lying in the body?

He sang like no one else I know, no love, what I call (in my book, Leadership and Love) bisognevole in a mixture of despair, awareness and spirituality.

'll wait and each day

I put out little by little

and I forget your face.

ask me if my despair

is equal to your absence

not, is something more:

is an act of death staring

know you do not give.

She sang the wonderful human limitations, with love and awareness.

Only one hand of an angel

intact self, his love for himself,

could

offer the concavity of her palm

because I pour my tears.

hand man living

is too entangled in the wires of today and of yesterday,

is too full of life and plasma of life!

the hand of man can never cleanse

for the quiet weeping of his brother!

And then, only one hand of an angel white

distant roots nourished by the eternal and of immense

may seep serene man confessions

not vibrate at the bottom in a wave of living rejection.

He sang the last hope, dim and powerful at the same time.

Child, if you find the kite of your imagination

tie it with the intelligence of the heart.

You'll rise enchanted gardens

and your mother will become a plant

that will cover you with its leaves.

of your hands makes two white doves

that bring peace everywhere

and the order of things.

But before learning to write

looking into the feeling.

Thanks Alda. Really is not rhetoric continues to live thanks to your poems.