Emanuele Marcuccio's "Anima di Poesia"

Rather than analyzing Emanuele Marcuccio’s poetic collection, “Soul of Poetry” — work already largely accomplished in the impressive self-exegesis, in the preface, in the afterword and in the weighty critical apparatus attached, in which I thank him for quoting me with such good judgment — I prefer to focus my attention precisely on the general concept on which the volume is based. I wonder if, as it is desirable, the production of this young author were to continue for many years to come, how cumbersome would the volumes dedicated to his short poems become, including explanatory notes, dedications, bibliographies, biographies, introductions and comments?

“Soul of Poetry” contains twenty-seven multiform lyrics, some dedicated to news stories, such as the catastrophes that have marked the last few decades, others to nature, to the boredom of living, to love. Emotions are painful, private, and as worthy of the utmost respect as nostalgia for the deceased father. Always present the reverence for the poetic act itself which is essential and helps to live.

The references from Pascoli, and above all from Leopardi, are infinite, so much so that one suspects, more than an inspiration, even an identification of the author with the singer from Recanati.

The base, however, is still thin, between cacophonous verses (of an autumn dawn), an overly evident, even declared, imitation of the past and exclamation points to replace an emotion that one does not have the strength to express. But, in this magma, some sparse star shines: the “black and shameful hair”, “mountain that widens and in height”, “the burning shrubs”.

Clear and highlighted by the author himself what he calls his evolution, that is, the passage from the imitation of nineteenth-century poets to that of twentieth-century hermetics, with the fall of punctuation. (From Supersonic onwards.)

There is certainly an evident improvement from the first aphorisms of “Minimum and maximum thoughts” to this collection. Here, I suggest to this still young aspiring poet to take himself less seriously, not to analyze his own poetics as if it were something already mature and complete, but rather, to strip off the ballast of classical culture and let himself go to the wave of emotions, cultivating them, allowing them to flow, then channeling them in harmony of form and content. All this, through a less self-satisfied, more humble and serene study of poetry. If he manages to abandon, albeit temporarily and reluctantly, the much loved poets, finding his own path that is not mannered, but spontaneous, the successful tests will be more and more numerous, such as the pleasant Return of the summer and the promising Eternity:

THE SUMMER IS BACK

Summer is back

with its incessant chatter,

summer returns

for the burning shrubs

and in the streets,

for the mountains

and for the friendly valleys.

Summer is here,

in this sunny July,

in this burning sun,

in this blinding ray.

ETERNITY

Beyond that smoke,

beyond that door,

beyond the immense sea,

beyond the boundless horizon,

beyond the rains of mid-August

there is a light that I want to cross,

there is a threshold that I want to cross

in this rain of my vegetating,

in this sea of ​​my not living.