Patrizia Poli
Bio
Patrizia Poli was born in Livorno in 1961. Writer of fiction and blogger, she published seven novels.
Stories (282)
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Life of a Midwife
I remember my mother’s braid touching the road, and her eyes. Her father made bricks in Amritsar, the city of the Golden Temple, he was a Muslim but did not have the Koran in his heart. He was called Mohammed and married Ruttie. On the first night after the wedding, five twins were conceived. My grandmother gave birth to them, one after the other, but all the males were born dead. Only two girls survived, my mother and my aunt.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Fiction
No Pain
It’s scary how a person comes out of your heart. You look at him and understand that you have given up hope. He will never be the way you want him to be. There is a bridge between you, which you struggle to cross every day, but he never leans towards you. The emptiness grows inside you, you see the abyss that is being dug, and you feel helpless.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Criminal
The Vampire Diaries
At the beginning of The Vampire Diaries, episodes taken from the series of books started by Lisa Jane Smith and continued by other authors, I was so disliked by Damon Salvatore that I didn’t even see him as handsome, despite — played by actor Ian Someralder — handsome he is up to the impossible. He was the bad-bad, unscrupulous, arrogant, evil, while his brother Stefan was the good. The bad and the good vampire, in short, in the wake of all the new bloodsuckers of urban fantasy of the 2000s. But when, at the end of the first season, he dances with Elena, his brother’s girlfriend, it is now difficult to remember that he is not the one to love. And when, in Season 6, Elena lets herself be hypnotized to forget she loved him, she herself wonders — like me at first — how Damon Salvatore could be found attractive.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Geeks
Iceland, Finland and the Myths cherished by Tolkien. Top Story - August 2022.
Thingvellir: I am behind the black basalt spur, in front of the immense lichen-covered lawn where the Althing was held, the open-air parliament of the Icelanders. In the cold, sulfur-smelling air, in this asphalt-colored lava land, among pumice dunes and geyser puffs, it is necessary to make a classification of memories and mental associations that pile up confused in my head.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Humans
Tra Livorno e Genova, il poeta delle due città Omaggio a Giorgio Caproni a cura di Patrizia Garofalo e Cinzia Demi
There are literary essays that enlighten, enrich, make people say: “Here, this is exactly what I thought and felt”. There are others dripping academia, for example those read on university days, when you had to waste an hour, not to study the poet or novelist in question, but just to understand what the critic meant with his nebula jumble of words. We students ended up telephoning one another, asking: “But what did you get?” We tried to reconstruct the thread of the discourse, to “translate” the text into an understandable Italian, laboriously linking the subject and the predicate. Often, in the end, once paraphrased and vulgarized, the essay could be summed up in three or four key concepts. We felt, then, the need to move away from a world made up only of people talking to themselves, and immerse ourselves in real life, in concrete things.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Humans
A Single Summer
He had something lingering in his chest, he was looking at the whitened tips of the cypress trees, at the terracotta tiles on the sides of the gate, at the lemons numbed by the cold and slowly filling with snow, at the trees twisted and depressed as his own mood was. He had walked up and down leaning on crutches, pondering her absence, seeking solace in her objects scattered around the house, in the orderly row of books in her library. He had passed his finger on the cover of the leather agenda in which she, sitting under an olive tree, wrote her poems, until last October. He wondered why she had not taken her medication with her, all the pills that she took every day, at set hours, with meticulous patience.
By Patrizia Poli3 years ago in Humans
