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Patricia Venti, poet of the image and the word, began writing since adolescence. Those feverish years full of passion and learning were brought together into a small book called "Certain love story." And as each love has its own story (which does not mean, necessarily, that each has to be a single, one and only story) these poems have a beginning and an end and a process with moments of elevation and recoil. The lovers are the ones who begin the process of love, but their story is already programmed and written. The love process, with the help of this story, achieves the determination of its own duration in time and thus, both the beginning and the end, acquire their particular feature, but atypical of love. The rules are known and so to speak, you already give love before falling in love. The narrative operation transforms a spiritual experience in a love story. This story is the story of words, of images, of the minutiae of the myth or of a personal legend.
In this way, Patricia Venti's poetry comes through as heartbeats that, when expanded, they go through walls. And little can be done to break away from them once they you reach: when a life hit rings your bell and reaches you with its pulse, you can either open the door or fall asleep in the mist of uncertainty, and then you lose. Her book "Until we are swallowed by oblivion" (2006) talks about the loss, the childhood and love. "Losing is a difficult art," says the poet, because opening to the loss, digging into it and swallowing it, is like driving away a rich soil. But I, a Venti's hypnotic reader, approach her verses of doom and fear, of ice and absence, from where tranquility and the aborted sweetness suppurate ogres. If you approach the cliff, the wound climbs over you, and then you say to yourself, with her, with the poet, whispering to your side: "It's well known, rebirth is laboriously bitter". Through the wound, she and I, and you the reader, we drink a liquor that is both a generator of intensities and an invigorator of faded experiences.
And there, at the time of the bursts, when crawling the torture of the shortness of Being is nothing more than watching ourselves from an unknown territory, Patricia Venti's words act as peacekeeping substances. Then the father, the mother, childhood, the gangrene, the hate-love to what I loved, to what you loved, burst and the stars bond with the black sky. Cowards kill their memories / against the wall (Chants pour Van Gogh, 2009). This auto-heading, not for nothing is the tip of the inter-textual iceberg that lurks upon us and leads to poetic pleasure.
Thus, all Venti's poetry is torn between the love / death dualism and suggests a space, as a threat of eternity. Her word is interwoven with pain and silence, but her writing is not silent, but restarts again and again that struggle of the history of words. Patricia's poetic voice is a deep communication with the other, is the dialogue with the autobiographical, that is, memory's lost traces.
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