Whoa! You're kidding me! In Italy, Italian schoolkids are reading the poetry of an Italian poet????
SHOCKING!!!
I feel so deprived. When I was in grammar school, I was reading junk by guys named Twain or Whitman or Melville (among others).
If you want crap masquerading as worthwhile poetry, you can’t do much better than Whitman.*
“I celebrate myself” . . . indeed, he does, and it’s about the only damn thing he knows how to do.
*Okay, except Thoreau. What a poser. “On Walden Pond,” my happy foot. “On my mother’s back forty” is more like it.