Write an explanatory statement is vacuous, perhaps, given the skill of the editor's preface, Paolo Paoloni, in this "noisy". But equally I would like to tell you what I've heard, without necessarily wanting to do logoscopia a poetic or a paraphrase of John Abbate.
many times I reread the verses of this work, because I was intrigued by the titles in Romanian, etched into the first part of the anthology. I could not resist and I hunger for literary sin: I asked my friend Ovidiu make me a translation. We will not revealed, but I urge you to sin in the same way, if you have a friend or acquaintance Romanian.
I think there is a match, but enjoyable at the same time, disillusioned, from the first part of this anthology (The Girl of Brasov) and the second (noisy) which then gives its name to the entire collection.
not only the use the Romanian language that struck me between the two proxemic poetic. It is as if the first Abbate maintained a ring road of tenderness, respect, passion, love, listening and research. Please share, in one final expression. In the second part, however, the disenchantment with a world of magic has nothing comes suddenly clear, unequivocal, strong and schiaffeggiante.
The poet arises because of the existential, but never granted and whatever. Try to know the world and does so through the many questions about this strange and - in some ways - hallucinatory existence. It remains to specify the watermark in the background: we do not know who we are, even after thousands of questions and even in the glare of (un) certainties impregnable, imbued with the divine and human idiosyncrasy. It is vain rush of words and meanings, because they have become an oxymoron of the mouth. We fill every day of concepts that are never true, if not visions of a world on the same relative, at least in the perspective of today.
I said that earlier in the anthology, the poet is as if he had lost hope entirely, with the woman as if somehow able to see, read, hear and speak more than we have seen, heard and read. It is a world that is revealed little by little, between the two: in the rush of the enchantment of the moment and the spatial distance that sometimes Non-contact. It is as if the poet wants to eat by biting the woman's name, to hear it again with them, part of their "breathing reality," with an introduction through the mouth of the beloved in a symbolic psychotherapy. But the absences come at some point and become contrast, even in the aspect of a relationship that seems to be gone regardless. But a relationship of any kind, can not live long away from the tentacles of the world.
John Abbate is good, because it carries no compulsion on the other side of the anthology. Once again, we are faced with a poem - as different from the first, therefore less "magic" if you will - that does not close itself in existential pain, although the latter live on the meat. It is a poem that meets the other, the one that has never known as "alien villain, if only because those who will not belong to useless in this world, come from anywhere, is a stranger in their land. It is a poet and a man at the same time, Abbas. He feels a strong desire to be seen through the eyes of men, women so close to himself and his life. And who knows how it would at least our world if we could move a few times at the prospect, far from our daily intake of absolute truth and useless.
John Abbate we talk about God and his existence (always assumed and never certain), especially the last part of the entire collection. Everyone has to ask: "But if there is, where is he? What will he be doing ever so important to not realize? ". Yet the world goes still, every day wearing loose clothing and tight clothes. There sands of life and death, as usual. And if we were playing in this macabre game of hide and seek?
'm the editorial editor of this anthology, seems to speak well seems almost a duty. But I wonder, indeed I ask you, would never can write so well, so the flow lines, if you do not possess the depth of vision that can not be stumbled at the first step? I would say no. John Abbate has, perhaps to age or perhaps for stylistic maturity, the writing of life in many ways in which chase to no avail.
We are not faced with the meaning of hermetic, enucleated for himself only, but we reflect saturated with remnants of life of each of us.
And even we, as the poet Abbate, should we stop in the search for us both. At least until we know at least a little 'about us.
