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A small bag of ashes

It's been a while since I have not published on this site, and for cause: I moved!

I now live in the city of Loches in the south-Touraine, which I feel-and I know-will really become "our" region.

Shortly before my move, I received a collection of poetry, a small sack of ashes from Rossano Rosi, thanks to the operation Critical mass of Cabelio. I had a little trouble finding this book in the boxes, and so my critique is a little late, but here it is at last!

First of all, I must say that, unfortunately, I did not like this book. Poetry is a kind of hard to criticize, but I have some pretty specific criteria for it.

It is necessary either that the poems touch Me, move me, or that the writing is particularly beautiful, or imaginative and creative. Only, with a small bag of ash, I found neither. The writing is not bad, but it lacks a little something, maybe it lacks just one more poetry.

What poetry is not easy to describe and it is something special for everyone. It is not possible to say "I did not like this collection of poetry" in the same way as they say "I did not like this novel". In this, poetry may be closer than the novel of visual art, paintings and sculptures. Poetry is like an abstract painting and words to describe precisely why we love it or do not like it, why it touches us or not, are not easy to find, and are obviously very subjective. Poetry is, for me, supposed to touch in the depths of oneself, it can indicate paths, inner nooks which were sometimes not even known to exist.

With poetry, one must be able to go even deeper than with a novel.

I was all the more disappointed because I liked the very first poem of this collection, I liked how he played with punctuation, and his metaphors. But this promising start has, for me, been cooled by the three satires that make up the first chapter, and left me marble.

The second chapter, that of lyricism, has for a little while made me think that I could regain the style of the very first poem, which had aroused my curiosity, but over the pages – although I did not read this collection of a draft – it quickly Dull, and I started to get bored. The perception of poetry is different for everyone, but I have not been able to hang on to this collection, and his poems have not touched me. I did find what I was looking for, that is, emotion.

In addition to the paradoxical lack of poetry that I found in this book, I felt throughout my reading a certain misplaced pride. I felt the author as being very happy with himself, and although I think it is important, as an artist, to be proud. Age of his work, a little doubt, humility does not hurt anyone. I find it important to know how to question, to look at things from a different point of view, without letting self-satisfaction invade all his words.

I do not advise you, nor do you not recommend this book. At the risk of repeating myself, poetry is an infinitely personal reading, and I am not in a capacity to incite you to read or not a small bag of ashes. I just came out of this disappointing reading of not finding what I sought, and frustrated by this very first promising poem whose spark was lost in the midst of satire and rhymes.

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