Giorgio Baro

“... where the eagle raises its flight”

Biography:

Class 1961, lives and works in Turin, married.
Together with the mountain, frequented with more diligence in the recent past when the training allowed to tackle the climb with less effort, that of reading and writing have always been great passions. Among the favorite authors Pavese, Arpino, Rigoni Stern and Mauro Corona. As for writing, only a couple of years now, except for some sporadic previous episode, he pulled out the dream of the drawer, so he sent, the texts both in verses in and prose, to literary prizes, obtaining prizes as "The Book of Found again Tales," "Casentino", "Campagnola", "Verba Agresti," the first place in the poetry contest "Spouses Boccaccio" of Grillano and third place to " Marelli Prize" of Turin in 2008 and second place in the contest "Arno river of thought" and the third place "Plaque Apice of Poetic Merit " in 2009.
The poem is primarily inner listening, afterwards research, care in reading and structuring; seldom the improvisation is accepted as such into the final writing.
Although based on descriptive elements / landscape, the meaning and texture of the lines sometimes lose their physicality being translated as imagination or memory, moments that often reflect a pessimism dominant.

Critical comment : It is no coincidence that among the favorite authors of Giorgio Baro they are, among others, Rigoni Stern and Mauro Corona; references rugged, rocky, of clear skies and views among the snowy mountains where the eagle raises its flight. Up there, where "the fog light is embroidered on the hill and the wind defies the water" moved the lines of Baro, between pasturing herds and panniers exhausted by ice, between memories unearthed by time and "butterflies of words flown " . And here among the memories unearthed, the trip becomes listening and tenderness, the existence is muddle in the skein of images that reappear, grab the edge of existence, vibrating in the ropes of being. The balance is elsewhere, suddenly vanished, evaporated into the distance of time, "as the flight of moths in the abyss of suffering." But it is still domain of pasture and mountains, we'll find out part of this world, and to do a reason of life, of thought, creep measured in the cadence of a pain in waiting. Then at the same time we realize that that world, to use an expression dear to Cesare Pavese, “is business of other people", no longer belongs to us, it was alienated, the look is a look ancestral, inherited from our ancestors, rediscovered in the weather-ruined huts, abandoned too many winters of frost and snow. The rubble and the memories resist, the conflicts that tear and create illusions, there are still arms to settle bundles of wood and dogs to bring back the beef to the pasture but, meanwhile, digs into the "abyss of suffering" and what remains is the roof a mountain shelter "devastated to the west." (Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)
The poems: Equilibrium The stories on video destroy you, almost carpets of lies to roll stunning and laugh at tickling of long souls that run through the screen and sit on the couch as friends of games without end. You have hands that life slaps, cracks, scratches, and then return to you because you have not suffered all or perhaps because you can choose by yourself if still, and how conscious to dig into the abyss of suffering. Butterflies of words have flown undefined - like flight of moths -- long the days of young forces so as not to bend ever kidneys it was you, then - are you now -- the thread of life staring at the sun, I wish I had the balance right. The mountain shelter of my grandfather Feet aimed at curbing the slope grass slips of thin ice, a divine sign the stop at the pylon of the saint with the gown vanished in the uprising of demons and flames; cold and dark the mountain shelter with the roof destroyed to the west - too much snow and too many winters with the fire off -- on the floor the basket enervated by ice peak its skeleton of urchin needles. Silver hair the mirror looked for Where was the nail near the source; rain wind defying water embroiders the fog the light on the hill hard hooves etched in the meadow of litter coagulated by the seasons. I will have arms to settle bundles at the foot of the woods, and hands clear to dress of stone the walls folded; as a time I’ll call the dogs to bring the heifers from pasture and I’ll have breath to resist the steps telling a dream of frost. I will know to do, I owe to my grandfather. Magical fires The barn a gaping mouth disrepair and abstract flying ants in the heat bite boring flights parings of fruit Fresh of juice suspect a transient presence. Against the wall nettles fatten voracious sucking moisture of cracked pipes. A few nights back impalpable the transient presence and merges with the fireflies swarming magical fires.

Critical comment :

It is no coincidence that among the favorite authors of Giorgio Baro they are, among others, Rigoni Stern and Mauro Corona; references rugged, rocky, of clear skies and views among the snowy mountains where the eagle raises its flight. Up there, where "the fog light is embroidered on the hill and the wind defies the water" moved the lines of Baro, between pasturing herds and panniers exhausted by ice, between memories unearthed by time and "butterflies of words flown " .
And here among the memories unearthed, the trip becomes listening and tenderness, the existence is muddle in the skein of images that reappear, grab the edge of existence, vibrating in the ropes of being. The balance is elsewhere, suddenly vanished, evaporated into the distance of time, "as the flight of moths in the abyss of suffering."
But it is still domain of pasture and mountains, we'll find out part of this world, and to do a reason of life, of thought, creep measured in the cadence of a pain in waiting. Then at the same time we realize that that world, to use an expression dear to Cesare Pavese, “is business of other people", no longer belongs to us, it was alienated, the look is a look ancestral, inherited from our ancestors, rediscovered in the weather-ruined huts, abandoned too many winters of frost and snow. The rubble and the memories resist, the conflicts that tear and create illusions, there are still arms to settle bundles of wood and dogs to bring back the beef to the pasture but, meanwhile, digs into the "abyss of suffering" and what remains is the roof a mountain shelter "devastated to the west."

(Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)

The poems:

Equilibrium

The stories on video destroy you,
almost carpets of lies to roll
stunning and laugh at tickling
of long souls that run through
the screen and sit on the couch
as friends of games without end.
You have hands that life slaps,
cracks, scratches, and then return to you
because you have not suffered all or perhaps
because you can choose by yourself
if still, and how conscious to dig
into the abyss of suffering.
Butterflies of words have flown
undefined - like flight of moths --
long the days of young forces
so as not to bend ever kidneys
it was you, then - are you now --
the thread of life staring at the sun,
I wish I had the balance right.

The mountain shelter of my grandfather

Feet aimed at curbing the slope
grass slips of thin ice,
a divine sign the stop at the pylon
of the saint with the gown vanished
in the uprising of demons and flames;
cold and dark the mountain shelter with the roof
destroyed to the west - too much snow
and too many winters with the fire off --
on the floor
the basket enervated by ice peak
its skeleton of urchin needles.
Silver hair the mirror looked for
Where was the nail near the source;
rain wind defying water
embroiders the fog the light on the hill
hard hooves etched in the meadow
of litter coagulated by the seasons.
I will have arms to settle bundles
at the foot of the woods, and hands clear
to dress of stone the walls folded;
as a time I’ll call the dogs
to bring the heifers from pasture
and I’ll have breath to resist the steps
telling a dream of frost.
I will know to do, I owe to my grandfather.

Magical fires

The barn a gaping mouth
disrepair and abstract
flying ants in the heat
bite boring flights
parings of fruit
Fresh of juice suspect
a transient presence.
Against the wall nettles fatten
voracious sucking moisture
of cracked pipes.

A few nights back impalpable
the transient presence
and merges with the fireflies
swarming magical fires.