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Benvenuto nel blog della Scrivente Errante! 

Uno spazio dove conoscere una Mamma, AUTRICE degli ARTICOLI e delle RECENSIONI che troverete su questo blog, appartenente alla generazione dei Millennials di due bambine Cosmopolite, a cui spero di poter dare gli strumenti per realizzare i loro sogni ed essere FELICI! 


Burns’ skill in conversational rhythms in smooth flowing verse is best illustrated in his verse letters. In a way, I will write you about the letter written in 1785 to David Fellar. For him friendship was very important. Through friends he developed his writing skills because he had an audience and he felt to belong to someone.

The starting point of this poem is a tender imagine: you must to draw in your mind a man during the winter huddled over the fire. I would just add in this image, a dog near to the man and a book in his hand. The representation of peace and relax is done.

Through the Nature he compared rich with poor people to end with an explanation of how he felt for his beloved friend and his lover.

You must to remember these words, Chikaima Maitea. I would for you true friends, not “spinach people”. You must to avoid them as to avoid being like them. Do you know who are the “spinach people”? It is simple. When we are buying spinach, maybe it looks that we bought a huge amount of them until we put in the pot to cook them. After a while, you can notice that the huge amount of spinach will become just a small portion of them. Spinach people will tell you that you are gorgeous, you are beautiful, they will be always on your side in the important events of your life, but instead they will just be disappeared when you will ask them an advice or a suggestion about anything. To write you with a recommendation that you never asked before. You don’t need of this kind of people. It is better a true friend, chatting with you regularly and without any mask. You will recognise the true friends, don’t worry. From the smallest things as the time they will spend to answer you, or to come to see you without that you remind them many times.

Henri David Thoreau, the author of Walden – life in the woods – the book who inspired B.P. when he created the scouting movement, said the following words about friendship:

“Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitudes.”

There is another writer I want speak about with you about the importance of friendship who I discovered when I am writing this article: Hellen Keller. She was born on June 27, as Giacomo Leopardi. She was not only a writer but also a politic activist.

I discovered her through the web and thanks to the fate I wanted speak with you about the link between the poetry and the politics during the first time in which I was reading the poem Epistle to Davie a brother poet. In fact, even if the public opinion could try to persuade you that writers, philosophers and poets have not a role in the daily life, Helen Keller is the proof to refuse the common opinion and to be involved in the activity of reading.

I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light.”

At the end of Burns’ poem, the love is the subject that bright the darkness.

In the day of Epiphany, in which I dressed you with a dungaree with yellow dogs, I finally finish to write this letter to you, my dear. Our CHI is still collaborating with us, as the fairy evening in which I met for the first time your wonderful father.

January While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw, An' hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, In hamely, westlin jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift, That live sae bien an' snug: I tent less, and want less Their roomy fire-side; But hanker, and canker, To see their cursed pride. It's hardly in a body's pow'r To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't; But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear; We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: "Mair spier na, nor fear na,"^1 Auld age ne'er mind a feg; The last o't, the warst o't Is only but to beg. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', Has aye some cause to smile; An' mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; Nae mair then we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'. What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either house or hal', Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, We'll sit an' sowth a tune; Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't, An' sing't when we hae done. It's no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest: It's no in makin' muckle, mair; It's no in books, it's no in lear, To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat An' centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest; Nae treasures, nor pleasures Could make us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet and dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, As hardly worth their while? Alas! how aft in haughty mood, God's creatures they oppress! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess! Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or hell; Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale! Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, Nor make our scanty pleasures less, By pining at our state: And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some- An's thankfu' for them yet. They gie the wit of age to youth; They let us ken oursel'; They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill: Tho' losses an' crosses Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where. But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I; An' joys that riches ne'er could buy, An' joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien'; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean! It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, An' sets me a' on flame! O all ye Pow'rs who rule above! O Thou whose very self art love! Thou know'st my words sincere! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief, And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray'r; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care! All hail! ye tender feelings dear! The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow! Long since, this world's thorny ways Had number'd out my weary days, Had it not been for you! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In ev'ry care and ill; And oft a more endearing band- A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie, or my Jean! O, how that name inspires my style! The words come skelpin, rank an' file, Amaist before I ken! The ready measure rins as fine, As Phoebus an' the famous Nine Were glowrin owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp, Till ance he's fairly het; And then he'll hilch, and stilt, an' jimp, And rin an unco fit: But least then the beast then Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

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