“Book of debut of Domenico Cipriano, a still young poet who lives in Avellino. He perfectly succeeds to hold in equilibrium in his lyric, the mixture of prose and poetry, the linguistic radicality
and this concrete will of song, desire of a poetry to sing. Book of formation, invisible and continuous growth, now well metabolized between saucy verve and metaphysical alienation,
mass-mediological control and immense desire to indulge in a new poetry which is born really infringing to itself, and it saves the elegy, the only one today possible, really in one structured game of dissonances, or however performances, which aren’t only internal”.
(from introduction by Plinio Perilli)
“I don't believe to be wrong when I say the Jazz is still, through the language of the poetry, the tool of the ransom of Domenico Cipriano. A Jazz which is sometimes caressed, whispered, sometimes imposed or intentionally underlined in the rhythmic form of the text or in the apparent casualness and consequentiality of a phonetic order of the word.”
(from liner note by Paolo Fresu)
“It is rare to find in a youth, to the first exit of his texts, such a marked textual incisiveness. Domenico Cipriano is inserted in the anxieties of his and our time with a lyric-formal approach that is sceptic, playful and wise. A poetic language that testifies us mnemonics personal convictions with the separation of the improvisation: also baring the same one in the rhythmic vibrations of his verses which talk intimately and to distance. To submit to the narrow, as well as popular one, world of the Italian poetry a youth and promising author as Domenico Cipriano, is one of the most pleased prerogatives of the Jury of this prize. And it is not able whether to wish that this due recognition involves, for the young author, a greater appointment for his future and for that of the Italian poetry.”
(Motivation of the Camaiore prize, Francesco Bellomi, president)
With the trip I pretend me shade
to mark passages in the time
without trace not even mentioned,
visible essence in the instant, doubt
to have appeared, or to be a forgery.
On my mountains
there is the sea.
I look at it supporting
my shade at the pole.
Everywhere in tempest
it reflects the mind
of this people.
Who lives outside there
sees foggy days
repeat themselves, useless,
without dreams, without
expectation to change.
We are few
remained to look at
when low tide
absorbs its clouds.
My love, I don't believe
in the economy of scale
in mass production
for this it’s only one
the rose I give you
because he is only in a way
Reflex circle weak lamps
thin rhythms been born by added
circles: mouths eyes throats
of the dark centers saxophones
(every circle is dark in its center
it strikes insistent itself
it reawaks in the intrusive signs
of the world and the round symbols)
lipstick on the edges tickles
shapeless smile at half moon
the note that swims in the curls:
round ringlets put in the needle’s eye.
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