He does not know whether or not to raise antibiotic for ance,antibiotic inhaler

The poet, if he is and when he is truly a poet, that is to say, that which means only what the child said inside, succeeds therefore in inspiring good or civil customs, of patriotic, familial and human love. So the belief and the fact, that the sound of the zither would gather the stones to make the walls of the city, and animate the plants and tame the beasts of the primeval jungle; and that the singers would guide and educate the peoples. The stones, the plants, the beasts, the first peoples followed the voice of the eternal child, of a young god, of the smallest and most tender in the tribe of savage men. Which, in truth, they became more comfortable contemplating and listening to their childhood. So Homer, in ferocious times, presents us in the most ferocious of heroes, that is to say in the most real and poetic, in Achilles, a type of moral perfection, which could serve as a model to Socrates, when he preferred death to evil. So Virgil, in more gentle times, having the aim only to the poetic, shows us the show so much anticipated, alas! of a good, happy humanity, all at work and the pure joys of children, without wars and without slaves. Men, in his time, would seem to have impregnated, what is still the unfulfilled desire of our workers, the eight hours of work for every eight of sleep and eight hours of leisure. – Oh! sometimes the peasant adds to him the night a day! – Yes, but what a sweet work, that between the man who, with the pinnate, spears his branches of pine, which are to be torches, and the woman who either weaves the web or foam the pot singing. And in the Aeneid Virgil sings wars and battles; or all the meaning of the wondrous epic is in that morning chirping of swallows or sparrows, which wakes Evander in her hut, where the imperial palaces of Rome had to rise.

But Homer, but Virgil did not do it on purpose. But the poet must not do it on purpose. The poet is a poet, not a speaker or preacher, not a philosopher, not a historian, not a teacher, not a tribune or a demagogue, not a state man or a court. Nor is it, either with the peace of the master, an artisan who molds swords and shields and plowshares; and not even, with the peace of many others, an artist who nibbles and chisels the gold that others give him. To constitute the poet is infinitely more valuable his sentiment and his vision, than the way in which the others transmit one and the other. On the contrary, when he transmits them, despite being in front of an audience, he speaks rather to himself, than to that. Of the public, does not seem to notice. He speaks loudly (but not so much!) More to hear it better, than to be understood by others. It is, yes, as much as it can be displeased to say it, a greengrocer to use images that are now present to my spirit; a gardener, yes, or a gardener, who gives birth and grow flowers or cauliflowers. Do you know what it is not? It is not a cook and it is not a florist, that cauliflowers are used in beautiful dishes, with good gravies, that the flowers intertwine in bunches or garlands. He does not know whether or not to raise a few rotten or kissed leaves to the cabbage, and to tie the flowers to the best, with a press that rips off there at a salce: as if to say, he unites his thoughts with that native rhythm, which is in soul of the child that stern and of the naughty brat.

Now the poet will instead be an author of civil and social security? Without realizing it, if ever. It is located in the crowd; and he sees the flags pass and the trumpets are sounded. He throws his word, which all the others, as soon as he has pronounced it, feel that it is the one they would have pronounced. He is still in the crowd: he sees throwing away the household goods of a poor family. And it says the word, which is immediately full of the tears of all.

The poet is the one who expresses the word that everyone had on his lips and that nobody would have said. But it is not he who climbs into a chair or on a table, to harangue. He does not drag, but is dragged; he does not persuade, but he is persuaded.

Because you think about your country and society, you just have to think about it for a moment. If not, it’s a serious trouble. The one for mum, is the sweetest of affections. But what would you say of one who chronicled his mother’s day by day? This morning she got up, dear mother! I looked at her, poor mother! He gave me coffee and milk, poor dear mother! He is an imbecile, when he is not one who pretends and needs to give himself the air of loving that which is so easy to love! Oh! the mother is sick, the mother is far away, the mother is dead! Here, then, one thinks of one’s mother, and one loses one another. Or mother has a great consolation; and we are more than consoled, and we feel invaded by an impetus of song. So for the motherland. We do not notice her, except in her parties and her (our) misfortunes. And then the cry of joy and the cry of pain also burst forth from the child’s heart; and it is a cry that has undergone a thousand echoes. But the child is not a child who struggles to make daily lessons of fatherly love or paternal and maternal love to his little brothers, and indeed to his uncles and grandparents. Who pretends to do this, wants the lively child to be a boring old man: he wants, in short, that there is no poetry. Because poetry, forced to be poetry social, civil poetry, patriotic poetry, saddles on books, shrivels in the closed air of the school, and finally falls ill with rhetoric, and dies. And we have so much of this pseudopoetry, since when Virgil died, aging Horace, closed the great revolution that began, it can be said, and ended with the death of two women, Julia and Cleopatra, the daughter and the lover of Caesar: well, the ravens, as Pindar would have called them, threw themselves croaking on the immense battlefield, to peck not the eyes of slain, but seeds of poetry. And what were they doing? They told a historical fact, of the last ones; they share it with declamations, exclamations, curses; and put him in hexameters. But they too understood that poetry is not enough to make poetry; and therefore framed their versified and declaimed story with a description of sunrise and another of sunset; and the poem was made. Here is Giulio Montano. He was a poet like so many others. At every stroke he inserted sunrises and sunsets. Therefore, since a man had been annoyed that he had acted for a whole day, and said that one should not go to his performances; Natta Pinario exclaimed: “Or that I can be more condescending with him? I am ready to listen to him from dawn to dusk! “- He wanted to say, good Natta, that the dryness would have lasted little, and that after two or three verses it could go for his business. It’s useless. Already Orazio warned that it was not enough the description, the digressioncelle, the beautiful red and yellow patches, to make prose poetry. It is necessary that the historical fact, if it wants to become poetic, filters through the marvel and the ingenuity of our young soul, if we still preserve it. We need to remove the fact by moving away from it. Do you want a proof to which to distinguish poetry from pseudopoetia, in such historical genre? If the narrative, which the versifier makes you, moves you less than the same, made in prose, by the historian and the chronicler, you also say that the versifier has translated, and bad; he has not poetized. And he has lost his time and made us lose ours.

But in Italy the pseudopoetia is desired, it is asked, it is added. In Italy we are victims of literary history! To be true, nor in Italy alone, it seems to me that a false concept has engendered in letters. Letters are the tools of ideas, and ideas make of them so many groups that are called sciences. But we, fixed on the instruments, have finally forgotten the ends. We are farmers who think only of vague and speak only of plows, and more of their beauty than their utility. We do not take care of the seeds, the earth, the fertilizers. So it happens that we have, as physicists, philosophers, historians, mathematicians, so literati; a way of saying, as growers of hemp, vines, wheat, and olive trees, so as to have spades and plows, who do not take care of anything else, and believe that nothing else should be taken care of, and they estimate, I see, that theirs is the noblest of occupations. And at least they did them, these tools: no, they “judge” them and “collect” them. Codest’ozio we now call criticism and literary history. And everyone can see that there are much more useful and beautiful things to do: that is to cultivate and sow. But there is also, among the many branches of literature, the poetry that is in itself, the poetry that includes everything that is said and written for pleasure, bitter or sweet, his or others’. This is not with respect to the sciences what the instrument is with respect to the end. It is a cultivation, let us say, too, but of another order and species. It is, let us say, the cultivation, at all native, of the primordial and perennial psyche. But we put it together with the other “instrumental” literature, and we reason about it in the same way. We divide it for centuries and schools, we call it Arcadian, romantic, classical, realistic, naturalistic, idealistic, and so on. We affirm that it progresses, that it decays, that it is born, that dies, that it rises again, that it removes. In truth, poetry is such a marvel, that if you make a real poem, she will be of the same quality that a true poem of four thousand years is. Why? Thus: man learns to speak so much different or better, from year to year, from century to century, from millennium to millennium; but it begins with doing the same wails and whining in all times and places. The psychic substance is the same in children of all peoples. A child is a child in the same way for everything. And so, neither is there Arcadian poetry, romantic, classical, nor Italian, Greek, Sanskrit poetry; but poetry only, only poetry, and … not poetry. Yes: there is counterfeiting, sophistication, the imitation of poetry, and this has so many names. There are people who make the verse to the birds: and at the whistle they look like birds; and they are not birds, yes birders. Now I do not know how much vanity is the history of these idlers. Here it is in two words. A poet emits a sweet song. For a century or so, a thousand others repeat it by flowering it and spoiling it; as long as it comes to boredom. And then another poet resounds another beautiful song. And for a century, or more or less, a thousand others make us about their variations. Sometimes the initial song is neither beautiful nor sweet; and then worse than ever!

But in Italy, and elsewhere, we are not paid for this compendium. We reason and distinguish too much. That school was better, this worse. To that we must return to this renunciation. No: the schools of poetry are all worse, and none must be applied. There is no poetry that poetry. When then the intentions, because one makes, for example, a true poetry on a flock of sheep, they pronounce that the true poet is an arcade; and because another, in a true poetry, magnifies an appearance extraordinarily, they proclaim that that other true poet sins of secentism; here the intentions scoff and pedantic at the same time. Any subject can be contemplated by the profound eyes of the inner child; any tenuous thing can to those eyes a great opinion.

You only have to judge (if you have this mania to judge) if it were those eyes that saw; and leave aside and Arcadia. Poetry does not evolve and involve, does not grow or diminishes; it is a light or a fire that is always that light and that fire; which, when they appear, illuminate and heat now as before, and in that same way.

Only one says that they rarely appear. Yes: poetry, spoken and written, is rare. Pure poetry is rare. But there is “applied” poetry. The “applied” poetry is of great poems, of great dramas, of great novels. Now, a lot of us runs that these are all poetry. Imagine that they are a great sea, each one. In the sea are pearls: but how many? Very few; but in which more, in which less. It must also be said that in them poems, dramas, novels, pure poetry seldom is pure. I give an example. One of these pearls, in the great perliferous ocean that is the divine Comedia, we will say the evening bell:

It was already time that desires turn

to the sailors, and softens the core

I tell you that they said to the sweet friends goodbye;

and that the new peregrin of love

it stings, if it is heard from afar,

that the day is weeping that dies.

In this representation, which can not be more poetic (Dante represents the hour in which we become young again for a moment !), The most poetic touch is the last. It is the last; although the distant ring that cries the day that dies, both of those touches that we versifiers have made us go back to boredom, by dint of repeating them. And so that ringing sound can be faded and dim for anyone, deafened by so many doubles. But so is it. Now: the poet had to put, for the necessity of art, a little bit of alloy in his pure gold. Which? That “pair”. He had to put it, because he tells a poetic sentiment of others, though also of himself. And then he said that the ring seems to cry, does not really cry. Suddenly the child (here a little, and much elsewhere, much with others), the child half way is collected, and it seems ashamed to be a child and to talk childish, and corrects himself. “It seems, it is not, mind you”. But, dear child, we knew it from us, that the bell does not cry, but it seems to be weeping: even though the day seems to be dying, and it does not die.

antibiotic for ance,antibiotic inhaler

The beneficial poetry by itself, the poetry that in itself makes us love the country, the family, humanity, is, therefore, pure poetry, which is rarely found. In Italy then, which is my country (not yours, or child: you are from the world, and you are not from now but always), in Italy it is more rare than elsewhere. Indeed, elementary and spontaneous poetry was never loved by us. As in general our literature, so especially our poetry has had before of the models. We have mirrored our style in Latin art, as the Latins had done with the Greeks. This may have helped to give concreteness and majesty to our writings; but as for poetry, this has stifled it: poetry is not made on books. Then we love the ornamentation too much; and this taste is shown above all in what is least involved: in poetry. The Italic little boy does not ruffle that is well dressed and well-groomed: the walnuts with which he is threaded, must be covered with gold and silver paper. We always want to be honored: instead of looking after the game, we take care of ourselves: we are listening and we are clinging to our shadow. And even more than for us, we look after the public: we look at the big ones who are about to see each other out of the corner: and so we do everything without grace and without fluency. And since, especially in our days, everything is contested by us and everything is auctioned and everything ends with the award and the award, so we propose, more than anything else, to overpower each other and to win the favor of the judges with a few little ones. In the games of our children, much of it has to do with the gherminella, which is an old thing. They are too scrabbling, our children, and try better to be first, than to be them. So our poetry (to call it that) is mostly imitative, even collectible, and it tastes like a lamp, not with mud and fresh grass. We study too much, to poetize: and it is superfluous to add that, to know, we study too little. Let’s put the study, in short, where it has nothing to do with it.

Or how? Does not it have anything to do with poetry? Yes, but directed at the end, which Dante showed. Virgilio which is the study, leads Dante to Matelda which is art; art in general and in particular. The art of Dante is precisely poetry. So the study led Dante to poetry. Well Matelda, or poetry, is in the garden of innocence, chooses singing flowering flowers, has bright eyes, purifies the rivers of oblivion and goodwill. That is, the poet, thanks to his study, has succeeded in rediscovering his childhood, and as pure as he is, he sees well and chooses without any effort, chooses singing, the flowers that seem to snack on his feet. I, without insisting on the moral value of the myth so exact and beautiful, I say, interpreting the poet for artistic respect, that the study must be directed to remove more than to add: to remove the so much rust that time has deposited on our soul , so that we return to reflect in the limpidity of before; and be alone between us and us. The study must remove the dross from the pure crystal that we find almost casually; and that crystal, even with the slag, is worth more than a glass that we dilate and form by blowing. The study must make us naive, in short, as Dante figures himself as Beatrice forward respect and Matelda; that if one is scolded and made to cry and be ashamed as a child beaten, the other is, as a child who does not want or can not do by himself, taken and plunged into water and brought to drink at the source. The study must remove the artifices, and make us nature. So says Dante. His art is embodied in Matelda, which is primordially free, happy, innocent human nature.

But we Italians are, at bottom, too serious and clever, to be poets. We imitate too much. And yes, that by studying one must learn to make different, not the same. But we want to do the same and give to believe or give ourselves to believe to do better. So often it seems to us that, by embedding the gems of others in a ring of ours, we have found and perhaps made the gem; and more often we imagine that, by gilding the bronze statue, that statue is not only more beautiful, but becomes our work.

We no longer throw the hammer against the blocks of marble: we are content to clean and polish the beautiful and made statues. At most, we do the art of Giovanni da Udine: elegant stuccos: but we do not remember what Giovanni said, I think, to Pietro Aretino who admired it: Bambocci want to be!

And the schools bind us. The schools are thin wires of iron, tense among the green never of the Matelda forest: we, making the flowers, we fear every time to stumble and fall. I have already said it: if one abandons himself to the delights of the countryside, he fears that they call him an arcade; if another sees an antithesis ahead, there is a piece between yes and no, fearing to be called a secentist. While the imitator’s mandra is thrown in bulk behind some major ram, and everyone starts to bleat or mire in one way; yes, at some time it seems that the Italians (judging them from those who write in verse) have only their friend, in some others they have only their mother; true poets are full of the opposite affection: they want to be neither imbued nor in realism neither in idealism nor in euphoriaism (I think a little about the Calcidic Euphorion, and much to the Germanic): they do not want to go through Stecchettiani, for Carducciani, for d’Annunziani. These concerns make them too circumspect, too irresolute, too much strained. And Matelda turns away from them, causing her sweet psalm to fade further and further, which ends up mingling with the rustling of the leaves and the gurgling of the stream, and dying.

But then, for the real poetry, we lack, or seem to be missing, the language.

Poetry consists in the vision of an unnoticed detail, outside and inside us.

Look at the boys when they play serious serious. You see that they always have things found on the ground, in their way, that only interest them and that therefore they only seem to see: snails, bones, stones. The poet does the same. But how to call these ideal lapilli, these flying deer of his soul? Their name is not made, or is not disclosed, or is not common to the whole nation or to all classes of the people. Think of flowers and birds, that children are the greatest and most common joy: what name do they have? Do you always have to say birds, yes of those who make tottavì and yes of those who make a cross? Just say flowers or florets, and add, perhaps, vermilion and yellow, and do not distinguish between a greenery covered with daisies and another crammed with crocuses? Now if you try to say the name to them, here that the name of Linnaeus is not, for a hundred reasons, and the popular name varies, when there is, from region to region, indeed from contado to contado. If the Italian people took care of these things, flowers, plants, birds, insects, reptiles, which for the most part form the poetry of the countryside, the name that they have in one land, would have prevailed over the dominant one in others. But the Italians, mostly stunned by the shining of Scipio’s helmet, do not want to follow the changing twists of the dragonflies. And so the poet, if he wants to poetry, must be left to say “And what is this? what does it mean? or a learned and annoying poet! ” And yet so the poet must do, and let it be said, hoping, if nothing else, that the future poets will take advantage of it, which will find many names previously unknown and therefore called obscure. Is not it really the Adam who first names? In this way he must operate, doing at every moment some renunciation of self-love. Because the art of the poet is always a renunciation. I said that he must remove, not add: and this is renunciation. It has to do without so many doodles, so easy to make, of so many beautiful, so pleasing to the eye, of so many gildings, that they give so much idea of ​​their own wealth: and this is renunciation. It must leave a lot of raw and very imperfect. Oh! how imperfection is necessary to be perfect! Marziale also knew it , mocking that Matone who wanted to say everything beautiful. Say, he exclaims, sometimes only good, also neither well nor bad, maybe bad! Continuous elegance is extremely cloying. It is like that lunch described by De Amicis in Morocco, that all knew of ointment. This beauty in all respects is totally antipoetic; that poetry is ingenuousness; and that child, who does everything and says and does it with a moina and with a smorfietta, and says it with smashed and sweet paroluccie; that scapaccioni calls that child aware of his childhood!