Biography:

Sandro Orlandi was born in 1951 in Rome. Hospital doctor, has written songs that have received several awards and recognitions. Some of his songs have been recorded on CD. He also wrote poems, short stories and novels, earning awards and nominations. His works have been appreciated by the public and critics.

Published Le api di Paulette (Ed. Il filo ’08) L’odore del pane (Ed. Montag ’10) Una rossa rosa bianca (Ed. Robin ’10 – Award Giovane Holden Lucca) Soffi di vita (Ed. Progetto cultura ’11) La chiave del cielo d. Gds ’12) Soli diversi (Ed. Gds ’13) Il popolo delle stelle (Ed. Antipodes ’14) I.V.G. (Ed. Antipodes ’14) Calma di vento (Ed Antipodes ’15).

Contact Sandro Orlandi      

Critical comment:

The Orlandi’s unlikely white daisy is the result of the seven colors of the rainbow on the disk of cardboard that they asked to me to realize in primary fifth when I had to study the scientific phenomenon of light. When the disk rotates, rather than the colors, the eye sees white. Ergo: the white light is composed of seven colors.
The chromaticism of Sandro is closed in the humblest flower and emits the same life perceived only a body now absorbing and  now rejecting all the acts to the last cruel counting end, in the unequal struggle with the soul "softened" but, not for this,  saves from the barbarism of all-devouring time (when the anxiety confused thinking).
Orlandi says, lingering in a rhythm diluted and stretched: after all, how angry, the waves take "their" time to beat on the rocks, as well as sickness and old age harass in solitude a mirror of you a faithful Argo of Homeric memory.
Orlandi visit suffering as algos (from the greek, root that underlies an active  feeling) and as dolor (from the Latin doleo with a greater incisiveness in the liabilities of those who receive the great wound of autumn that takes you by the hand.
This is enough to universalize his poetic act marked in the torment that rises and dies with the man.
(Commento di Cristina Raddavero)

 

About Sandro Orlandi I know nothing except the few biographical lines he sent. I read that he is a hospital doctor and his profession, perhaps, has influenced my reading. I suddenly saw myself with the same emotions and the same imagination I lived reading the pages of "To the Ancient Stairs" by Mario Tobino. I found myself around the white coats of doctors, the patients' pain, the life flowing through the eyes of those around you seeking help, crying for help, extend their arms to the discomfort and sometimes crying with their soul to sunset.
Here, I said to myself, this is the job of a physician; sometimes, from here, from these paths art and life mingle and  experiences of other people  invigorate into a fabric hovering between consciousness and artistic inspiration. It could not be otherwise reading the intensity of the lines of "He's my son," where the view unfolds and expands the boundaries of mystery and where the anxieties that move in the depths of every human being are, surely, without any response. And without any response you give yourself up under a blazing sun, tormented by the buzzing of the flies, barely remembering the place where you were born.
Then you wander between wards and you will meet the old hunter; the memory of the vigorous adventures in the woods was tarnished, the rifle was shelved, hands trembling on the trigger and waive to shoot; only the loyalty of the dog is remained, mere presence of consolation on the last threshold of solitude.
Yet still flourish daisies; flourish even under the fury of the mistral, between the foam rocks washed by the waves of the sea, in a perpetual becoming of existence as an eternal synopsis generating fleeting glimpses of magic and poetry.

(Pier Luigi Coda)