Patrizia Poli
Bio
Patrizia Poli was born in Livorno in 1961. Writer of fiction and blogger, she published seven novels.
Stories (282)
Filter by community
Valentino vestito di nuovo
8 am. You pretend you don’t understand. What is this overflow of chocolate hearts, astonished-looking plush toys, candies with Peynet’s sweethearts perched on them? But it’s Valentine’s Day, the stupid festivity, in which you have to feel in love, even if you’re not fifteen, your daughter isn’t too anymore, and your marriage tastes like chewing gum chewed for hours.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Families
Marco De Franchi, "Il giorno rubato"
The Fantastico italiano series, directed by Luigi De Pascalis for the Lepre editions, deals with the fantastic “with roots in our culture”. “Il giorno rubato” by Marco De Franchi enters fully into this category. The plot tells of the massive eruption of the supernatural into daily life and does so based on the heritage of traditions of the city from which the author comes, namely Rome.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Fiction
The King is Naked on the Hill of Infinite
What does Gordiano Lupi, Piombino publisher-writer have to do with Leopardi? Nothing, in fact. Except that the undersigned is on vacation in Recanati and has brought with her a trilogy by the aforementioned Lupi (a bit dated but still current) that talks about the publishing world and contemporary literature and, here on the hill of infinity, read it whole.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Humans
Sabrina
“It’s late, Mario, let me go”. She had thrown herself out of the car, she had fumbled with the lock, for a moment the light had illuminated the entrance hall. She wore a shirt that was a little big on her. He was impressed with the image of her thin shoulders disappearing inside the door.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Fiction
Gauguin's Flowers
Sara took off her lenses and rubbed her eyes tired because of the light of the halogen spotlights. In her myopic world, the butcher shop across the street merged into liquid shadow with the drugstore beside her. She put her glasses back on in time to see the dust enter the door as a strangled truck passed through the narrow, dark street. Together, a strong odor of gunpowder stung her nostrils.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Fiction
The Free Wind
What awakened Oliver’s attention was the rippling of particles in the wind. The west wind that was strengthening. In his current state, the concentration he could achieve was little, but it was enough for him to feel the hand spreading the flowers and to smell a gentle woman’s scent. He gathered his conscience around him and crossed the darkness to be able to grasp the eyes, the oval of the face and the color of the hair. He also picked up the vibrations of the voice.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Fiction
The investigation
Word spread that the investigators were arriving and immediately the main street, the square, the church and Master Scoldig’s shop swarmed with people coming and going, gathering, lingering on the doors, as if to say one more thing, as if waiting for further information. Master Scoldig himself went to the isba of Baba Iaga, but did not tell a soul.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Fiction
John Gray, "Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus"
From the seventies to the nineties it was a flourishing of American self-help manuals: how to strengthen self-esteem, how to understand yourself, how to improve your social performance and relationships with others.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Families
