Lisa Pesatori

“On the threshold of a whisper of life”

Biography:

Lisa Pesatori lives in Genoa city that feels very connected and are expected Ligurian adoption.
He loves music and literature, in particular the classical poets.
He published his first anthology of poems "Interlude" in 2000. In subsequent years, "Mirage" and two books of short stories fable: "The wood tells" and "Blue Mountains" that presented in various schools and which have been assigned an ethical morality.
Lisa is the founder and vice president of an association of Santa Margherita Ligure commitment to collaborating with many issues of Environment and Territory Protection of cultural heritage, the preservation of memory and the traditions of Liguria.

Critical comment : The poetry of Lisa Pesatori relies on overwhelming force of memories in the swing that makes and breaks the human spirit relying on a very solid style in the "silence" that reveals the line. It seems that "everything" is deliberately out of place and then collected with a touch of grace perceptible in attractive formulations: on tired eyes / stems wet / shows the living to love. But here is that suddenly emerge that "disorder" (And you flower / wrap your petals / in the fleeting moment / of deaf fears!) in the maturity of a writing and of a content, without empty space, rather, empty of that fullness that only the life can lead to awareness and discernment. It is the lyrics of endless fatigue that envelops all things, and that Lisa baptizes secret melancholy. Enclosed within the line, webs of correspondences between man and nature, heaven and humus in which we perceive the thickness of a lyric in which converge the darkness of "night" with beams of light radiating mysterious faces. Suggestive The wait paladin of the journey of the authoress, call for a life permeated by mysterious presences with a lot of prophecy overflowing once again in a personal style addressed to the more "unpredictable contagion" between invention and reality: They'll be back together/ have said the spirits of the night / listening / behind ajar windows. (Comment by Cristina Raddavero) There is, in the poetry of Lisa Pesatori, something of a distant and mysterious at the same time, a feeling of unknown and vast swirling in the solitude of universe. They are images scratched on an invisible scenario that surrounds our being, carved with the breath of dreams and memories. And all unraveled with calmness, serenity, a tender sweetness of words, of suspensions who stay on the thresholds of a mentioned whisper of life in a succession of closed doors and opened up the mystery that surround the ego. Reading "The door closed," I saw the beautiful images of the films of Resnais' Last Year at Marienbad "of dialogues and texts by Alain Robbe-Grillet, I saw a measured and dismay Giorgio Albertazzi wandering around the endless an surreal halls of the " palace of existence "... still one, another, another ... always with the expectation that besieges the approach of the unknown and the amazement to find placed between the lines of a world to explore with weakness and trembling. (Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)
The poems: A locked door Forgetting that door closed and open another yet another. The room is empty; an insect buzzing around a lamp. Other beings are hidden behind doors unknown while the daybreak waits for free flights. If I had the ability of clairvoyance I would observe that little or that nothing which is reflected in a semi-circle of life. Infinite Unlikely in the form, unreal in the iridescent glow I saw them last night: Celestial bodies oscillate in cadence of notes vibrating sighs. A metamorphosis of amazed figures radiates the riddle of the faces. Mysterious powers enlarge my body that floats between waves of light madness, subtracted to a small world. The wait Where are my sweet sisters? I heard the joyous rush of steps down towards the lights of the village. Getting back together, They told the spirits of the night who listen behind half-closed windows. All time is here contained in these long shadows that raving and dissolve the rise of the day that is late in coming ... Love simplicity When the thunder pierces the clouds and then divides the order of things, I’m looking for your hand to rest in the shadow of memories. On tired eyes moist stems show to live for love. The vertigo of the world is pale reflection. Looks These seraphic stars! In their brilliant shine I guess a secret melancholy almost a cry in the mystery of the universe. The earth smells an acrid aroma of wet clods. Emerges from the pond a small frog waiting the short song of the cuckoo And you flower, wrap your petals in the fleeting moment of deaf fears!

Critical comment :

The poetry of Lisa Pesatori relies on overwhelming force of memories in the swing that makes and breaks the human spirit relying on a very solid style in the "silence" that reveals the line.
It seems that "everything" is deliberately out of place and then collected with a touch of grace perceptible in attractive formulations: on tired eyes / stems wet / shows the living to love.
But here is that suddenly emerge that "disorder" (And you flower / wrap your petals / in the fleeting moment / of deaf fears!) in the maturity of a writing and of a content, without empty space, rather, empty of that fullness that only the life can lead to awareness and discernment.
It is the lyrics of endless fatigue that envelops all things, and that Lisa baptizes secret melancholy. Enclosed within the line, webs of correspondences between man and nature, heaven and humus in which we perceive the thickness of a lyric in which converge the darkness of "night" with beams of light radiating mysterious faces.
Suggestive The wait paladin of the journey of the authoress, call for a life permeated by mysterious presences with a lot of prophecy overflowing once again in a personal style addressed to the more "unpredictable contagion" between invention and reality: They'll be back together/ have said the spirits of the night / listening / behind ajar windows.
(Comment by Cristina Raddavero)

There is, in the poetry of Lisa Pesatori, something of a distant and mysterious at the same time, a feeling of unknown and vast swirling in the solitude of universe. They are images scratched on an invisible scenario that surrounds our being, carved with the breath of dreams and memories. And all unraveled with calmness, serenity, a tender sweetness of words, of suspensions who stay on the thresholds of a mentioned whisper of life in a succession of closed doors and opened up the mystery that surround the ego. Reading "The door closed," I saw the beautiful images of the films of Resnais' Last Year at Marienbad "of dialogues and texts by Alain Robbe-Grillet, I saw a measured and dismay Giorgio Albertazzi wandering around the endless an surreal halls of the " palace of existence "... still one, another, another ... always with the expectation that besieges the approach of the unknown and the amazement to find placed between the lines of a world to explore with weakness and trembling.
(Comment by Pier Luigi Coda)

The poems:

A locked door

Forgetting that door closed
and open another
yet another.
The room is empty;
an insect buzzing
around a lamp.

Other beings are hidden
behind doors unknown
while the daybreak
waits for free flights.

If I had the ability
of clairvoyance
I would observe that little
or that nothing
which is reflected
in a semi-circle of life.

Infinite

Unlikely in the form,
unreal in the iridescent glow
I saw them last night:

Celestial bodies
oscillate
in cadence of notes
vibrating sighs.

A metamorphosis
of amazed figures
radiates
the riddle of the faces.

Mysterious powers
enlarge my body
that floats
between waves of light madness,

subtracted to a small world.

The wait

Where are
my sweet sisters?
I heard the joyous rush of steps
down towards the lights of the village.

Getting back together,
They told the spirits of the night
who listen
behind half-closed windows.

All time is here
contained in these long shadows
that raving
and dissolve
the rise of the day
that is late in coming ...

Love simplicity

When the thunder
pierces the clouds
and then divides the order of things,
I’m looking for your hand
to rest in the shadow of memories.

On tired eyes
moist stems
show to live for love.

The vertigo of the world
is pale reflection.

Looks

These seraphic stars!
In their brilliant shine
I guess a secret melancholy
almost a cry
in the mystery of the universe.

The earth smells
an acrid aroma
of wet clods.
Emerges from the pond
a small frog
waiting
the short song of the cuckoo

And you flower,
wrap your petals
in the fleeting moment
of deaf fears!