… Gio Evan, a modern-day Italian writer and poet, is adamant in his belief that poetry cannot save lives. Of course, I disagree with him whole-heartedly. (How else can I explain my current-day life and longings?!) But , we need to hear him out.
Gio suggests that poetry allows you a place to think and unravel your darkness and reshape it into words and actions that can ultimately, help others .. and your own self.. to find the peace that escapes you…
…or at least make space for that peace once it finds its way back…
Peace does, indeed, find its way back… But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s return to Italy and pick up this story where we left off at the La Feltrinelli Bookstore shelves, browsing, furtively.
… I’ve never met Gio. I bought his book at the Capodichino Airport in Naples while waiting for my connection to Paris and then home to Detroit. The cover of his book boasts a picture of Gio carefully stepping out of a massive gilded frame hanging from a museum wall, quite possibly the Uffizi in Florence or the Museo Madre in the heart of Napoli.
Gio and his big frizzy hair are quite-literally leaping through the frame like an escapee prisoner who stole the jail keeper’s keys while he was sleeping. Crazy luck ! “Run , Gio , run !!! ,” scream his imaginary comrades, cheering on his impromptu race towards freedom, or at least a decent poem about missed opportunities, lost loves and boundless joy.
The title of Gio’s book, “Se c’e un posto bello, sei te” (“If there’s a beautiful place, it’s you.”) resonates as a one-sentence poem, a declaration of love and unabashed tenderness. We haven’t even cracked open the book and I’m intrigued with his honetsy. If Gio can be so forthright with his intimacy, how can that NOT be a testament to self-preservation and a carefully articulated future that includes sweet forehead kisses , morning espresso in bed with a sfogliatella pastry and assumed dinner plans ( pasta puttanesca, of course!).
Fast forward to Air France flight 1179 to Paris, seat 12D. Seat belt fastened, sipping a midday Aperol spritzer, I’m feeling totally committed as I willingly delve into Gio’s 206-page book of poems and prose. Gio takes my hand (and heart) and guides me through the galleries of his poetic palace, his museum of words and wisdom and I think, unknowingly, disproves his own theory of salvation.
Just look at pages 205 and 206 and you’ll hear what I heard:
Gio shares a story about his grandfather who desperately wanted to applaud and affirm Gio’s childhood hubris and fervent belief in poetry’s power, yet wanted to protect him from the world’s everyday harshness. His grandfather held him and said:
“La poesia non puo cambiare il mondo, e troppo fragile, ha ossa esili, sguardo antico, schiena martellata, mani delicate.”
“Poetry can not change the world. It’s too fragile. Poetry has thin bones and antiquated glances, a curved back and delicate hands.”
And, of course, Gio’s heart sank when he heard these words from his beloved grandfather, a mentor, his childhood confidante. Gio couldn’t fathom a way of understanding his grandfather. He asked himself: How can poetry, a way of finding words and phrases to describe our dreams, be so weak, so lame?
Gio’s nonno (grandfather) must’ve realized he said too much to such a young boy who may not be ready for such a degree of truth and reality. Nonno continued his story:
“Tesoro: Devo dirti una cosa molto importante, forse la più importante di tutte le cose che te hanno detto gia….
“My treasure: I must tell you something , perhaps the most important thing I may ever tell you…”
Gio waits for the words, waits for his nonno to speak:
“Non dimenticare mai: bisognerebbe tutti lasciarci sognare en pace, non importa come lo sogniamo”
“We should all allow ourselves to dream, to dream in peace, to dream of peace, no matter how we dream it”
It wasn’t until Gio was much older, years later, that he realized and more fully understood the gift that his nonno had given him , tempering the harshness of his story, his own words , in order to , ironically, save Gio’s ability to hope, to dream, in any way he chose.
Poetry does, in fact, save lives…
… or , at least, it allows us to continue dreaming.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
 White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism |
 Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box |
 The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
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Photo credit: iStockPhoto.com
