"Sublime spirit, you gave me, you gave me all that I will
prayed. Not in vain your own face in the fire
me you face.
You have given me the wonderful nature to reign,
strength to hear it to enjoy it.
not only the cold of a surprise visit, I grant,
allow me to peer into its deep chest
as in the breast of a friend "(Goethe, Faust).
Its never been a reassuring to know.
His was a constant watch at the same time a distancing itself from any intellectual seduction, seductive song each.
Inside his voice was heard damnation and redemption.
He gave the poem to those who have never sought.
given to all, different for each of its perennial question, addressed to our questions.
Recently, his writing had become more urgent, as subjected to a pressing need. When the urgent press squeezes the aesthetics. It was not a nihilist, but the meaning of the language of his writing translates the annihilation of the human being estranged from the desert of the real. So, Ugo Lanzalone, hell comes to exploring the aesthetics of existence and denied that the height of immediacy of feeling that is transposed and digest easily, all that betrays the power of the mind. "My poetry is infected, but may give the vaccine to protect against simplistic thoughts comfortable," says Hughes. His death is so difficult to digest, it is even harder to having to endure, not only for humans but for what it was that we left inside. I will miss his LOGOS tearing. The screaming never given its perennial inconvenient truth.
His thinking - essential requirements between philosophy and poetry - as if to embody living on the edge of knowledge at times, of his knowledge, his view being intellectual, critical and community, "even if the matter of his say it was a song. " Anyway, never just a song. An open world of poetry, where everything can be possible, it should be possible, such as changing the boundaries, and his contribution was such that the lines end up no more. Indulge Genio, said her most intimate and personal God and He has answered a Genius with its requirement that has become ours. This leaves us to our dear Ugo. And Joseph Spinillo, who had cooperated with him, was a witness of your consent and grant to the open world of poetry as condescending and granted him open to a broader sense of the possibilities: hence the need to Joseph and also coincides with what His was the requirement. Ugo
mixed with rare humility - with impeccable rigor of separate "his" poetry - poetry with the audience and the author. Within the viewer content of poetry did dwell misunderstood, that the viewer has made its own, thanks to his having been author-poet-spectator. Hugh was one of those who did climb over the brick walls that poetry often puts the viewer. Someone has discovered the self-disclosure, revealing that their vertigo had previously been silent. I'm not sure I look at those "sails to lands not yet discovered," says Nietzsche, and the poetry of Hugh is right to those lands that ambition and lands, from my point of view.
light of Hugh tries to get and succeeds, is the contemporary poet that holds our gaze into the eyes of our century, never becoming blind, seeing lights, shadows and darkness. "Contemporary is the one who receives the beam across the face of darkness that comes from his time," says G. Agamben. And Hugh, contemporary poet, this bundle of darkness to receive, and moves with him to submit his poetry. As we shall also, in the final fragments of a poem, the text of his poetry and his poetic warning, hoelderliniana, knowing that the fatality of death, always lurking, imposes the impression that it would soon do not save.
I wanted to find other words and is not likely transfiguration expressed in these few lines, to be able to say of his LOGOS-style and effectiveness of his poetry, which I have always loved and appreciated because it is extremely brief. I find in the Poetics, epigram of his will power, which dis-fold what his poetry is, what inspires, what you leave inside. Poetics is the first text of the final fragments of a poem, I read that now.
Poetics
My poetry is not suitable for recreation,
so maybe the party, does not rest, it's hard
porcupine quills that launches, you
arches in the attack and it hurts.
but then suddenly turns
can refresh the panting
female traveler who passes through it.
My poetry is infected, but
can give the vaccine to protect against simplistic
comfortable thoughts.
Can you even play.
The wound remains.
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