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“Farm-life” Deprived of metaphysics, she insists on writing sallow verses, questioning poets and poesies, angel of soft abuses, misusing speculation, with folded wings, head lowered on the discolored leaf, surrounded by heaps of quotes as soft and white as mountains of flour. Voice of all voices, what is a Poet, to her? - And She, to a poet? - (A jug of milk, a baby pot, a sunny day, a rug, a laundry basket or shelves of paperbacks?) And what is the poet’s mind? An expectation, cast in the quotidian warmth of a farm, gluey, pallid and granulose, as a well made yoghurt, eager to find a way to stick together luscious remains (those scattered germs) to state a phrase and urge vocalizations for a disguised autobiography. And what is poetry, then? The genuine humble caw who can make milk and feed all the kids at the farm, day after day, line after line, the one who - for herself - claims nothing. Erminia Passannanti