Journal of Italian Translation

Journal 

of Italian Translation

Editor 

Luigi Bonaffini 

Associate Editors: 

Gaetano Cipolla 

Michael Palma 

Joseph Perricone 

Editorial Board 

Adria Bernardi Geoffrey Brock 

Franco Buffoni Peter Carravetta 

John Du Val Rina Ferrarelli 

Luigi Fontanella Irene Marchegiani 

Adeodato Piazza Nicolai Stephen Sartarelli 

Achille Serrao Cosma Siani 

Joseph Tusiani Lawrence Venuti 

Pasquale Verdicchio 

Journal of Italian Translation is an international journal devoted to the translation 

of literary works from and into Italian-English-Italian dialects. All translations 

are published with the original text. It also publishes essays and reviews dealing 

with Italian translation. It is published twice a year: in April and in November. 

Submissions should be both printed and in electronic form and they will not 

be returned. Translations must be accompanied by the original texts, a brief profile 

of the translator, and a brief profile of the author. All submissions and inquiries 

should be addressed to Journal of Italian Translation, Department of Modern Languages 

and Literatures, 2900 Bedford Ave. Brooklyn, NY 11210. l.bonaffini@att.net 

Book reviews should be sent to Joseph Perricone, Dept. of Modern Languages 

and Literatures, Fordham University, Columbus Ave & 60th Street, New 

York, NY 10023. 

Subscription rates: 

U.S. and Canada. Individuals $25.00 a year, $40 for 2 years. 

Institutions: $30.00 a year. 

Single copies $12.00. 

For all mailing overseas, please add $8 per issue. Payments in U.S. dollars. 

Journal of Italian Translation is grateful to the Sonia Raizzis Giop Charitable 

Foundation for its generous support 

Journal of Italian Translation is published under the aegis of the Department of 

Modern Languages and Literatures of Brooklyn College of the City University of 

New York 

Design and camera-ready text by Legas, PO Box 149, Mineola, NY 11501 

ISSN: 1559-8470 

© Copyright 2006 by Journal of Italian Translation

Journal 

of Italian Translation 

Editor 

Luigi Bonaffini 

Volume I, Number 1, Spring 2006

In each issue of Journal of Italian Translation we will feature a noteworthy 

Italian or Italian American artist. 

In our first issue we feature the work of Giulia Di Filippi, an artist from 

S. Agapito, (IS) Molise.

Journal of Italian Translation 

Volume I, Number 1, Spring 2006 

Table of Contents 

Essays 

Franco Buffoni 

La traduzione del testo poetico .................................................................... 7 

The Translation of Poetry as an Autonomous Literary Genre. ............ 20 

Lina Insana 

Tracing the Trauma of Translation: The Ancient 

Mariner’s voyage from English to Italian—and back again ................. 23 

Rina Ferrarelli 

Lost and Found in Translation: A Personal Perspective ....................... 35 

John DuVal 

Translating by the Numbers ....................................................................... 43 

Giose Rimanelli 

Traduzione da altre lingue nel dialetto molisano ................................... 51 

Translations 

Adria Bernardi .............................................................................................. 55 

English translation of poems by Raffaello Baldini 

(Romagnolo dialect).............................................................................. 61 

Roberto de Lucca 

English translation of Chapter 5 of Gadda’s Quer pasticciaccio brutto 

de via Merulana. .................................................................................... 104 

John Du Val 

English translations of poems by Giorgio Roberti ................................ 117 

Gil Fagiani 

English translation of poems by Cesare Fagiani 

(Abruzzese dialect) ............................................................................. 127 

Gregory Pell 

English translation of poems by Davide Rondoni ................................ 136


English translation of poems by Raffaele Carrieri ................................ 150 

Italian translation of poems by Rina Ferrarelli ..................................... 158 

Adeodato Piazza Nicolai 

Italian translation of poems by W.S. Merwin ........................................ 167 

English translation of poems by Luigina Bigon, Amelia Rosselli, 

Mia Lecomte ......................................................................................... 174 

Michael Palma 

English translation of poems by Giovanni Raboni ............................... 188 

Pasquale Verdicchio 

English translation of poems by Giorgio Caproni ................................ 202 

Geoffrey Brock 

English translation of poems by Guido Gozzano and 

Giovanni Pascoli .................................................................................. 214 

Confronti poetici - Poetic Comparisons 

Edited by Luigi Fontanella 

Featuring Robert Viscusi and Valerio Magrelli, ........................................ 224 

Traduttori a duello - Dueling Translators 

Edited by Gaetano Cipolla 

Guido Gozzano’s “Amori Ancillari” ...................................................... 229 

Classics Revisited 

Joseph Tusiani Translates Ugo Foscolo’s Le Grazie............................... 231 

Book Reviews 

Simonetta Agnello Hornby. The Almond Picker. Translated by Alastair 

McEwen. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005. Pp. x + 315. 

COLCLOUGH SANDERS. 

Lucio Mariani. Echoes of Memory: Selected Poems of Lucio Mariani. Bilingual 

Edition. Translated by Anthony Molino. Middletown (CT): 

Wesleyan University Press, 2003. Pp. 118. GREGORY PELL. 

Dante, Alighieri. Inferno. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, 

intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 2000.FINA 

MODESTO. 

Dante, Alighieri. Purgatorio. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, 

intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 

2003.FINA MODESTO.

La Traduzione del testo poetico 

by Franco Buffoni 

Franco Buffoni lives in Rome. He is a professor of literary criticism 

and comparative literature at the University of Cassino. Some of his poetry 

books are: Suora Carmelitana e altri racconti in versi (Premio Montale, 

Guanda, 1997); Songs of Spring (Premio Mondello, Marcos y Marcos, 1999); 

Il Profilo del Rosa (Premio Betocchi, Mondadori, 2000); Theios (Interlinea, 

2001); The Shadow of Mount Rosa (Gradiva Publications, 2002); Del Maestro 

in bottega (Empiria, 2002); Guerra (Mondadori, 2005). As a translator he 

edited for Bompiani I Poeti Romantici Inglesi (2 Vols., 1990) and for 

Mondadori La trilogia delle Ballate dell’Ottocento inglese (Coleridge, Wilde, 

Kipling, 2005). As a journalist he collaborates with several newspapers and 

radio programs and he is the editor of Testo a fronte (dedicated to the theory 

and the practice of literary translation). 

Il termine “traduttologia” non è ancora uscito dal gergo specialistico 

in Italia, mentre sono d’uso corrente translation studies nel mondo 

di lingua inglese, traductologie in Francia e Uebersetzungswissenschaft 

in Germania. La reticenza ad accettare il termine è la spia in 

Italia di un rifiuto più grave e radicale: quello che si possa concepire 

l’esistenza di una scienza della traduzione. Mentre in Francia se ne parla 

apertamente almeno dal 1963, quando apparve Les problèmes téoriq7ues 

de la traduction di George Mounin. Un testo che divenne ben presto una 

specie di manuale europeo, con i suoi innegabili pregi, ma anche con la 

sua concezione rigorosamente strutturalistica della letteratura. Da questo 

impianto derivava a Mounin la certezza - ribadita più volte nel corso 

dell’opera - che prima di allora nessuna teorizzazione seria fosse mai stata 

tentata nel campo della traduzione. Antoine Berman ne L’épreuve de 

l’étranger 1 invece in seguito (1984) dimostrò come - per esempio - nell’ambito 

del Romanticismo tedesco la questione traduttologica venga costantemente 

e sistematicamente dibattuta. E con argomentazioni ancora oggi vive e attuali. 

Tanto che Gianfranco Folena, il più accreditato avversario italiano di 

Mounin, nella premessa alla ristampa (Einaudi, 1991) di Volgarizzare e 

tradurre (1973) 2 parla esplicitamente di “una bella smentita” a Mounin da 

parte di Berman. 

Ma Berman non avrebbe avuto tale impatto e tale possibilità di ascolto 

se nel 1975 - con After Babel - George Steiner non avesse formalizzato la 

prima grande ribellione internazionale ai dogmatismi della linguistica 

teorica. E dico “internazionale” perché non da meno potrebbero definirsi 

la portata di certi studi - e di certe ribellioni - di Gianfranco Folena, allora 

come oggi purtroppo circolanti solo in Italia. Incidentalmente rilevo anche

8 


che, solo nella seconda edizione di Dopo Babele (Garzanti, 1994) 3 , Steiner 

inserisce Folena in bibliografia; ma lo fa indicando Volgarizzare e tradurre 

come apparso per la prima volta nel 1991, e quindi falsando completamente 

la cronologia delle priorità, avendo Folena trattato nello stesso modo molti 

dei temi di Dopo Babele già due anni prima (1973 vs 1975). Certamente Steiner 

non lo conosceva. 

Nel 1975 George Steiner parlò dunque di necessità - da parte del 

traduttore letterario - di “rivivere l’atto creativo” che aveva informato la 

scrittura dell’”originale”, aggiungendo che la traduzione, prima di essere 

un esercizio formale, è “un’esperienza esistenziale”. Al di là delle 

provocazioni steineriane, potremmo chiederci come, operativamente, la 

traduttologia abbia tentato di contrastare il predominio linguistico-teorico 

nel proprio ambito di studi. 

Gli sforzi si concentrarono dapprima nel tentativo di sfatare il luogo 

comune che tende a configurare la traduzione come un sottoprodotto 

letterario, invitando invece a considerarla come un Überleben, un afterlife 

del testo. Operazione in sé niente affatto originale, se come ricorda anche 

Mounin, quando nel 1548 Thomas Sébillet classificò le traduzioni fra i generi 

letterari non fece che “rispecchiare la tendenza in voga”. Ma ribadire quel 

concetto più di trent’anni fa fu una presa di posizione estremamente 

coraggiosa. E fu proprio un altro strutturalista, di ambito praghese, Jirí 

Levy, che già nel 1963, pubblicando Umeni prekladu (divenuta poi 

patrimonio dell’Europa colta nella versione tedesca del 1969, Die literarische 

Übersetzung. Theorie einer Kunstgattung: La traduzione letteraria. Teoria di 

un genere artistico) riconsiderò il tema prestigiosamente. 

L’opera di Levy si divide in due parti fondamentali 4 : una prima 

teorica, comprendente i capitoli sulla pratica novecentesca del tradurre, 

sulle diverse fasi del lavoro di traduzione, sul problema estetico del 

tradurre, lo stile artistico e “traduttivo”, la traduzione di opere teatrali e, 

infine, la traduzione come problema storico-letterario. La seconda è invece 

imperniata sulla questione verso-prosa, sul ritmo, la rima, l’eufonia e la 

morfologia del verso. E si tratta di una parte che, relativamente alla 

questione specifica delle traduzioni di poesia, resta ancora oggi una delle 

poche trattazioni che affrontino esaurientemente anche questioni tecniche. 

Un altro passo capitale della traduttologia contemporanea viene 

compiuto grazie a Friedmar Apel nel 1983, e proprio attraverso una severa 

critica a Jirí Levy. Nel capitolo iniziale di Literarische Übersetzung 5 Apel 

osserva infatti che “anche quanti considerano la traduzione come arte” (e 

il riferimento è ovviamente al sottotitolo dell’opera levyana) poi finiscono 

ugualmente con l’attenersi “a definizioni normative o ideali”. E per 

avvalorare la propria critica riporta queste due citazioni da Levy: 

a) Lo scopo del lavoro di traduzione è quello di 

mantenere, cogliere e trasmettere l’opera originale (il suo


messaggio); non è mai quello di creare un’opera nuova che non 

abbia un antecedente. Lo scopo della traduzione è riproduttivo. 

b) Quando diciamo che la traduzione è una riproduzione 

e che tradurre è un processo originale e creativo, noi diamo una 

definizione normativa e diciamo come la traduzione debba essere 

fatta. Alla definizione normativa corrisponderebbe la traduzione 

ideale. Quanto più debole è la traduzione, tanto più essa si 

allontana da questa definizione. 

Quindi Apel aggiunge: “La problematica di una simile definizione si 

acuisce in Levy in quanto egli tenta di concepire la traduzione come ‘genere 

artistico’. Il concetto di genere però ha senso solo ogni volta che esso 

presenta la dialettica forma-contenuto, mentre in Levy - come anche nella 

maggior parte delle teorie traduttologiche della linguistica - il messaggio 

appare fondamentalmente come una invariante. Il suo concetto di 

traduzione si espone così alla stessa argomentazione con la quale la critica 

della conoscenza, sull’esempio di forme dell’imitazione, ossia del principio 

di mimesis, dimostra l’impossibilità della riproduzione in senso stretto”. 

Per concludere: “Non stupisce dunque che quegli approcci al problema di 

natura scientifico-letteraria, fondati su una visione storica, definiscano il 

concetto di traduzione in modo più aperto e soprattutto più dinamico, con 

lo svantaggio che i criteri di definizione sono spesso difficilmente 

afferrabili...”. Una posizione perfettamente riassunta nella seguente 

“proposta di definizione” da parte di Apel del lavoro di ricerca sulla 

traduzione letteraria: “La traduzione è una forma che insieme comprende 

e dà corpo all’esperienza di opere in un’altra lingua. Oggetto di questa 

ricerca è l’unicità dialettica di forma e contenuto, come rapporto di volta in 

volta instauratosi fra la singola opera e un dato orizzonte di ricezione (stadio 

della lingua e poetica, tradizione letteraria, situazione storica, sociale, 

collettiva e individuale). Nella nuova configurazione questa costellazione 

diventa sperimentabile come distanza dall’originale”. Con questa ipotesi 

di lavoro, Apel - come osserva Emilio Mattioli nella prefazione alla edizione 

italiana - “mette da parte tutta una serie di luoghi comuni e di questioni 

male impostate che hanno afflitto e affliggono il campo della traduzione, e 

propone la ricerca sulla traduzione in tutta la sua complessità, evitando 

ogni riduttivismo”. Apel ci pare criticabile solo per quanto concerne la 

necessità di contestualizzare maggiormente l’opera levyana. Se infatti egli 

può permettersi di constatare i limiti che lo studio di Levy presenta, ciò va 

a merito anche dello stesso Levy , che nel clima culturale egemonizzato dai 

formalismi degli anni sessanta, seppe indicare la via da percorrere per 

giungere - poi - a criticarlo. 

* 

“Io mi domando”, si chiedeva Céline nella lettera a M. Hindus del 15 

9

10 


maggio 1947, “in che cosa mi paragonino a Henry Miller, che è tradotto?, 

mentre invece tutto sta nell’intimità della lingua! per non parlare della resa 

emotiva dello stile...”. E ancora: “Mi interessano solo gli scrittori che hanno 

uno stile. Ed è raro uno stile, è raro. Di storie, invece, sono piene le strade, 

pieni i commissariati” 6 . 

E lo stile è “intraducibile”, come per Croce è “intraducibile” la poesia. 

Sono posizioni tardo-romantiche che, facendo leva sui presupposti a) della 

unicità e irriproducibilità dell’opera d’arte; b) della indissolubilità di 

contenuto e forma, giungono a negare la traducibilità della poesia e della 

prosa “alta”. Tali concezioni sono l’espressione di un idealismo oggi 

particolarmente inattuale, contro il quale l’estetica del Novecento (e quella 

italiana in prima linea, da Banfi a Anceschi a Formaggio a Mattioli) si è 

battuta, direi, vittoriosamente. 

Il principio fondamentale che crea sintonia tra l’estetica 

neofenomenologica italiana e le posizioni di Friedmar Apel consiste nel 

rifiuto di ogni posizione normativa: non si possono dare regole per la 

traduzione letteraria come non si possono dare regole per l’opera d’arte. 

Ma, mentre il tramonto delle poetiche normative nel campo dell’attività 

creativa artistica è avvenuto da tempo, nel campo della traduzione persiste 

la tendenza a indicare delle regole. (Si consideri a riguardo l’accusa di Apel 

a Levy ). Come osserva Mattioli: “Il genio e la soggettività assoluta sono 

elementi dell’estetica romantica oggi irriproponibili come tali. E un fatto 

rilevato da molti studiosi è che a queste categorie tardo-romantiche 

ricorrano anche i linguisti che formalizzano il discorso sulla traduzione, e 

poi - di fronte alla traduzione letteraria - non sanno far altro che riprendere 

queste vecchie idee”. 

Come tradurre, allora, la poesia? Come “riprodurre” lo stile? Sono le 

domande che a questo punto un traduttologo si sente porre. La risposta 

potrebbe prendere l’avvio dalla constatazione che le dicotomie (fedele/ 

infedele; fedele alla lettera/fedele allo spirito; ut orator/ut interpres; 

“traductions des professeurs”/”traductions des poètes”) - da Cicerone a 

Mounin - inevitabilmente portano a una situazione di impasse, configurando, 

da una parte, l’intraducibilità dello “stile” e dell’”ineffabile” poetico, e 

dall’altra la convinzione che sia trasmissibile soltanto un contenuto. 

Naturalmente il fatto che sia trasmissibile soltanto un contenuto è una pura 

astrazione, ma è dove si giunge partendo sia da presupposti “crociani”, 

sia da presupposti “jacobsoniani”. (Notoriamente, per Jakobson, la 

poesia è intraducibile in quanto il tratto che più la caratterizza è la 

paronomasia; tuttavia la si può “comprendere” adeguatamente, e 

dunque interpretare in traduzione, pensando ai significati lirici dei quali 

è portatrice per il tramite di un’altra lingua). 

Non mi pare che la situazione dicotomica di impasse muti analizzando 

la più recente quérelle francese - nominalmente molto affascinante - tra 

Henri Meschonic e Jean-René Ladmiral, alias tra sourciers (da “languesource”, 

lingua fonte, ma con una inquietante assonanza con l’ambito


stregonesco) e ciblistes (da “langue-cible”, o d’arrivo, coniata sulla sigla 

C.B. che in inglese indica la “citizen’s band”, la frequenza radio riservata 

al pubblico) 7 . In altri termini, tra una tendenza naturalizzante - “targetoriented” 

- che spinge il testo verso il lettore straniero “naturalizzandoglielo” 

nel contesto linguistico e culturale di arrivo, fino a non 

fargli capire che si tratta di un testo tradotto; e una tendenza estraniante - 

“source-oriented” - che trascina il lettore straniero verso il testo, cercando 

costantemente di accendergli spie relative alla fonte, affinché non dimentichi 

mai che quel testo è tradotto. (Per fare un solo esempio, è tradizionalmente 

source-oriented il modo di presentare gli autori stranieri negli Stati Uniti; 

ma è certamente target-oriented il modo in cui Pound tradusse Leopardi o 

Cavalcanti). Secondo questa impostazione, lo scontro tra scuole 

traduttologiche somiglierebbe a quello in atto nel mondo del restauro: farlo 

vedere il più possibile, o nasconderlo il più possibile. 

Se si prescinde dalla simpatia che certe definizioni possono più di 

altre suscitare, credo sia chiaro come - proseguendo con una impostazione 

dicotomica - si aggiungano soltanto nuove coppie - come addomesticamento/straniamento, 

visibilità/invisibilità, violabilità/inviolabilità 

a quelle da secoli esistenti: libertà/fedeltà, tradimento/aderenza, 

scorrevolezza/letteralità, sensus/verbum. Né crediamo che un suggerimento 

per uscire dalla millenaria impasse possa giungere da studiosi pur 

validissimi - come l’americano Lawrence Venuti, autore di The Translator’s 

Invisibility 8 - totalmente schierati sull’uno o sull’altro versante, malgrado 

la grande finezza - in certi casi - delle argomentazioni esposte. (Nel caso di 

Venuti, per esempio, è senz’altro di alto livello il costante riferimento a 

Schleiermacher e alla scuola ermeneutica novecentesca che a lui si ispira). 

“Come riprodurre, allora, lo stile?” è la domanda che poco fa abbiamo 

lasciato in sospeso. Il nocciolo del problema, a nostro avviso, sta proprio 

nel verbo usato per porre la domanda: riprodurre. Perché la traduzione 

letteraria non può ridursi concettualmente a una operazione di 

riproduzione di un testo. Questo può valere al massimo per un testo di 

tipo tecnico, per il quale è - tutto sommato - congruo continuare a parlare 

di decodifica e di ricodifica. L’invito nostro è invece a considerare la 

traduzione letteraria come un processo, che vede muoversi nel tempo e - 

possibilmente - fiorire e rifiorire, non “originale” e “copia”, ma due testi 

forniti entrambi di dignità artistica. Uno studio fondamentale a riguardo è 

l’altro capitale libro di Friedmar Apel: Sprachbewegung. Eine historischpoetologische 

Untersuchung zum Problem des Übersetzens 9 . Il concetto di 

“movimento” del linguaggio nasce proprio dalla necessità di guardare nelle 

profondità della lingua cosiddetta di partenza prima di accingersi a tradurre 

un testo letterario. L’idea è comunemente accettata per la cosiddetta lingua 

di arrivo. Nessuno infatti mette in dubbio la necessità di ritradurre 

costantemente i classici per adeguarli alle trasformazioni che la lingua continua 

a subire. Il testo cosiddetto di partenza, invece, viene solitamente 

considerato come un monumento immobile nel tempo, marmoreo, 

11

12 


inossidabile. Eppure anch’esso è in movimento nel tempo, perché in 

movimento nel tempo sono - semanticamente - le parole di cui è composto; 

in costante mutamento sono le strutture sintattiche e grammaticali, e così 

via. In sostanza si propone di considerare il testo letterario classico o 

moderno da tradurre non come un rigido scoglio immobile nel mare, bensì 

come una piattaforma galleggiante, dove chi traduce opera sul corpo vivo 

dell’opera, ma l’opera stessa è in costante trasformazione o, per l’appunto, 

in movimento. In questa ottica, la dignità estetica della traduzione appare 

come il frutto di un incontro tra pari destinato a far cadere le tradizionali 

coppie dicotomiche, in quanto mirato a togliere ogni rigidità all’atto 

traduttivo, fornendo al suo prodotto una intrinseca dignità autonoma di 

testo. 

Maurice Blanchot nel suo studio del 1971 intitolato Traduire, riflettendo 

su Die Aufgabe des Uebersetzers di Benjamin, già riprende questo principio 

collegandosi alla tradizione humboldtiana che configura un alto grado di 

dinamismo in ciascuna lingua. Egli mette in dubbio pertanto il luogo 

comune della superiorità dell’originale rispetto alla traduzione, proprio 

facendo leva sul principio del movimento del linguaggio nel tempo che - 

coinvolgendo anche il testo “classico” nella lingua di partenza - contribuisce 

a quella che Blanchot definisce “la solenne deriva delle opere letterarie”. 

Una posizione da cui consegue la definizione blanchottiana di traduttore: 

“Il maestro segreto della differenza delle lingue, non per abolirla, ma per 

utilizzarla al fine di risvegliare nella propria, con i cambiamenti violenti o 

lievi che le apporta, una presenza di ciò che, in origine, è differente”. Può 

così già dirsi superata da Blanchot la metafisica posizione benjaminiana 

secondo la quale il traduttore libera la verità del testo facendo emergere la 

lingua pura che sottende tutte le lingue. 

Si potrebbe persino affermare che il concetto di movimento del 

linguaggio nel tempo - che induce a considerare come “storici” 

(sull’esempio dei romantici tedeschi) sia il testo di partenza sia il testo di 

arrivo - nel processo della traduzione letteraria possa avere inizio prima 

ancora della redazione della stesura cosiddetta “definitiva” del cosiddetto 

“originale”, allorché al traduttore è possibile accedere anche all’avantesto 

(cioè a tutti quei documenti da cui il testo “definitivo” prende forma), 

impadronendosi così del percorso di crescita, di germinazione del testo 

nelle sue varie fasi. A riguardo un linguista come Pareyson parla di 

“formatività” del testo; un poeta come Gianni D’Elia di “adesione 

simpatetica, non tanto al testo finito e compiuto, quanto alla miriade di 

cellule emotive che lo hanno reso possibile. Come tentare di ripercorrerne 

la trama germinativa, con una fiducia che nessun linguista ammetterebbe, 

perché essa non precede soltanto il soggetto ma il linguaggio: l’esperienza 

di un sentire che è appunto fiducia in un dono di ‘contagio’ controllato, 

inoculato giorno per giorno, fino a interagire con le ragioni più profonde 

del proprio fare” 10 . 

Il testo, dunque, si muove verso il futuro all’interno delle incrostazioni


della lingua, ma anche verso il passato se si tiene conto degli avantesti. Lo 

dimostra molto bene Lorenzo De Carli nel saggio Proust. Dall’avantesto alla 

traduzione 11 , mettendo a confronto le varie traduzioni italiane della Recherche 

(Raboni, Ginzburg, Mucci, Schacherl, Nessi Somaini, Pinto). Ebbene, 

dall’analisi testuale appare evidente come i traduttori che hanno potuto (e 

voluto) accedere anche all’avantesto (nel caso di Proust, ovviamente, i 

Cahiers), avendo colto il percorso di crescita, di germinazione, subito da 

quel particolare passaggio proustiano, siano poi stati in grado di renderlo 

con maggiore consapevolezza critica ed estetica. Ma si pensi agli ottantamila 

foglietti da cui provengono le quattrocento pagine del Voyage au bout de la 

nuit di Céline, alle Epifanie da cui discende il Portrait di Joyce, ecc. Il tutto, 

concettualmente, nella piena consapevolezza della stratificazione delle 

lingue storiche. 

Malgrado la loro solidità e malgrado circolino da vent’anni 

nell’Europa delle intelligenze sarebbe un errore ritenere che le posizioni 

teoriche anziesposte siano ormai acquisite, visto che Umberto Eco, nel suo 

recentissimo Dire quasi la stessa cosa. Esperienze di traduzione (ed. Bompiani), 

contrappone con sicurezza “il fatto, acclarato, che le traduzioni invecchiano” 

all’inglese di Shakespeare, che “rimane sempre lo stesso” 12 . 

Perché riteniamo inadeguati gli strumenti della linguistica teorica se 

applicati alla traduzione letteraria? Perché essi possono funzionare 

traducendo da un esperanto ad un altro esperanto; appunto, da una lingua 

di partenza a una lingua di arrivo, attraverso un processo di decodificazione 

e quindi di ricodificazione. Mentre per tradurre dalla ex lingua di Chaucer 

e di Shakespeare nella ex lingua di Petrarca e di Tasso occorrono altri 

strumenti ben più sofisticati ed empirici. Un concetto - quest’ultimo - che 

Luciano Bianciardi esemplifica con “architettonico” didatticismo all’inizio 

della Vita agra, allorché descrive il palazzo della biblioteca di Grosseto. 

Che in precedenza era stata casa insegnante dei compagni di Gesù, e prima 

ancora prepositura degli Umiliati, e alle origini Braida del Guercio... 13 

Trasferendo al linguaggio questa descrizione si ottiene l’effetto-diodo, 

come osservando dall’alto una pila accatastata ma trasparente di strati 

fonetici e semantici. 

* 

Operativamente, al fine di sfuggire all’impasse delle dicotomie, è forse 

possibile suggerire una riflessione capace di coniugare cinque concetti, 

aggiungendo a quelli già considerati di avantesto e di movimento del 

linguaggio nel tempo i concetti di poetica, di ritmo e di intertestualità. (Anche 

se la proposta teorica intertestuale, per alcuni aspetti, potrebbe farsi risalire 

al concetto classico di imitatio o di mimesis, che a sua volta oscillava tra 

conformatio e commutatio: e quindi saremmo ancora in ambito dicotomico). 

Il termine intertestualità appare per la prima volta nel 1966 in un 

saggio di Julia Kristeva, poi ripubblicato nel 1969 su “Tel Quel”. Secondo 

la definizione della Kristeva: “Ogni testo si costruisce come un mosaico di 

13

14 


citazioni; ogni testo non è che assorbimento e trasformazione di un altro 

testo”. Una definizione che ha le sue radici nell’idea di “dialogicità” di 

Bachtin 14 e su cui, in seguito, anche Segre si è espresso con molta chiarezza, 

particolarmente nel saggio “Intertestualità e interdiscorsività nel romanzo 

e nella poesia” (in Teatro e romanzo. Due tipi di comunicazione letteraria, 

Einaudi 1984). 

Nell’ottica intertestuale la traduzione di poesia o di prosa “alta” o 

poetica (e nel quinto punto, dedicato al “ritmo”, torneremo su questa 

presunta differenza) non è che assorbimento e trasformazione di un altro 

testo. Forzando il concetto non è che una lunga citazione di un testo intero 

in una lingua straniera. Da questa angolatura ci si sottrae alla impostazione 

tradizionale che assegna alla traduzione il compito impossibile di una 

riproduzione totale, e si pone in modo nuovo sia il compito del traduttore 

sia quello della critica della traduzione. 

La traduzione di poesia è contemporaneamente produzione e 

riproduzione, analisi critica e sintesi poetica, rivolta tanto verso il sistema 

linguistico straniero, quanto verso il proprio. Traduzione poetica, dunque, 

non come palinsesto nel senso genettiano di scrittura sovrapposta (nella 

quale è possibile sceverare il testo sottostante, l’ipotesto), ma come risultato 

di una interazione verbale con un modello straniero recepito criticamente 

e attivamente modificato. 

Riassumendo quanto esposto da Emilio Mattioli negli editoriali dei 

primi numeri del semestrale di teoria e pratica della traduzione letteraria 

“Testo a fronte” (dove per la prima volta sono apparsi molti dei saggi 

contenuti in questo volume), lettura e analisi intertestuale mirano a cogliere 

in ogni traduzione la dinamica del suo costituirsi dall’originale, e il suo 

conflitto con esso. La differenza temporale, spaziale, culturale, linguistica 

viene a delinearsi come distanza poetica che pone necessariamente in 

prospettiva ciò che è estraneo. Nella concezione intertestuale, il rapporto 

originale-copia (che implica una gerarchia di precedenza, di maggiore 

importanza dell’originale rispetto alla copia) acquista un’altra dimensione: 

diviene dialogico, e non è più di rango, ma di tempo. In quanto la 

traduzione poetica viene a configurarsi come genere letterario a sé, dotato 

di una propria autonoma dignità. Come scrive A. Berman in L’épreuve de 

l’étranger, “la traduzione non è né una sotto-letteratura (come l’ha 

considerata il XVI secolo) né una sotto-critica (come l’ha ritenuta il XIX 

secolo). Ma non è nemmeno una linguistica applicata o una poetica 

applicata (come si è creduto nel XX secolo). La traduzione è soggetto e 

oggetto di un sapere proprio. La traduttologia studia questo sapere”. 

È evidente che l’intera operazione intellettuale che andiamo 

proponendo non può non giovarsi della grande tradizione classica e 

umanistica della retorica 15 , nella convinzione che - trasponendo i problemi 

teorici relativi alla traduzione nell’orbita di altri fenomeni letterari - se ne 

faciliti il distacco, o almeno se ne incrini la esclusiva dipendenza dai grandi


formalismi novecenteschi, in particolare dall’ambito strutturalistico e 

linguistico-teorico. 

L’idea che nella comunicazione ci siano due momenti, uno retorico e 

uno ermeneutico, comporta che ogni comunicazione sia traduzione. Con 

questa impostazione siamo all’interno di una concezione “aperta” 

dell’opera letteraria, convinti che nessun testo possa essere invenzione 

assolutamente originale. (L’assoluto monologismo sarebbe equivalente alla 

incomunicabilità) 16 . Se dunque in ogni opera letteraria c’è il riflesso di altre 

opere - sub specie di calchi, prestiti, rifacimenti, citazioni - e quindi è in 

corso un dialogo con parole già dette, non si vede perché questo dialogo 

non possa trovare ulteriore svolgimento nella traduzione. Non si traduce 

infatti da una lingua ad un’altra, ma da un testo a un altro. E la disparità, il 

dislivello inevitabile tra autore e traduttore - che è una forma particolare 

del dislivello sempre esistente tra chi parla o scrive e chi ascolta o legge, 

anche all’interno della stessa lingua - sono la condizione medesima della 

libertà e della conoscenza 17 . È dunque motivo per noi di particolare tristezza 

rilevare come oggi in Italia il primo avversario di questa impostazione 

teorica sia proprio il teorizzatore - quarant’anni fa - dell’”opera aperta”. 

Ma l’autore del Trattato di semiotica, lo si sa, ama i paradossi: vent’anni 

dopo avere indotto al fallimento letterario i suoi compagni di gioventù, 

autori di improbabili “opere aperte”, giunse al successo internazionale con 

l’opera che “più chiusa non si può”: opera che - per altro - chi scrive 

considera il più grande romanzo illuministico del secondo Novecento. 

Con le idee sulla traduzione sostenute da Eco non si esce dalle 

dicotomie e dai dogmatismi si continua ad oscillare tra Croce e Jakobson 

nella convinzione che la poesia sia intraducibile. Cerchiamo un’altra volta 

ancora di impostare in modo diverso la questione volgendoci al concetto 

di “poetica”. Secondo Luciano Anceschi, “la riflessione che gli artisti e i 

poeti esercitano sul loro fare, indicandone i sistemi tecnici, le norme operative, 

le moralità, gli ideali” è la poetica. Nell’ottica della intertestualità, la 

traduzione letteraria è dunque il rapporto tra due poetiche, quella 

dell’autore tradotto e quella del traduttore. Come rileva Mattioli, Peter 

Szondi nel suo studio sul sonetto 105 di Shakespeare tradotto da Paul 

Celan 18 identifica la poetica della traduzione di Celan nel verso “In der 

Bestaendigkeit, da bleibt mein Vers geborgen”, che rende il verso 

shakespeariano “Therefore my verse to constancy confined”. La costanza, 

che è il tema del sonetto di Shakespeare, diventa nella traduzione di Celan 

il fattore costitutivo del verso. Szondi compie quindi un acutissimo rilievo 

di poetica che porta ad una comprensione tutta interna della traduzione. E 

ciò accade con Giorgio Orelli traduttore di Goethe e con Giaime Pintor 

traduttore di Rilke, con Massimo Mila traduttore delle Affinità elettive o 

con Paola Capriolo traduttrice de La Morte a Venezia 19 . In buona sostanza 

con quelle che Henri Meschonnic definisce le “traduzioni-testo” (a esempio 

egli cita S. Gerolamo, Lutero, Pasternak, Ezra Pound, Robert Graves, Paul 

Celan, Baudelaire come traduttori) distinguendole dalle traduzioni-non- 

15

16 


testo destinate a deperire rapidamente. 

Mattioli invita inoltre a rileggere il commento di Valéry alla sua 

traduzione delle Bucoliche 20 per scoprire come il modo in cui il poeta del 

Cimetière marin prospetta il rapporto tra originale e traduzione tolga ogni 

rigidità all’atto traduttivo accantonando ogni idea di copia, di 

rispecchiamento, e quindi lo qualifichi in tutta la sua dignità. E questo 

proprio perché propone un rapporto poietico, un rapporto tra due poetiche, 

fra due momenti costruttivi, fra due processi, non fra due risultati definitivi 

e fermi. Una posizione, questa, ampiamente condivisa anche da Henri 

Meschonnic nel suo Poétique du traduire (1999). Sostiene Mattioli in Studi di 

poetica e retorica 21 : “E’ proprio sull’abbandono di ogni posizione normativa 

che si gioca la possibilità di dare una impostazione nuova ai problemi della 

traduzione e al loro studio. Non ha nessun interesse continuare a discutere 

se si possa o non si possa tradurre, partendo dall’idea di traduzione come 

copia perfetta che per principio non si dà”. Questa svolta 22 è analoga a 

quella avvenuta in campo estetico quando cambiò la domanda 

essenzialistica “che cosa è l’arte?” in quella fenomenologica “come è l’arte?”. 

E così come la domanda fenomenologica relativa all’arte consentì il recupero 

pieno delle poetiche, dei generi letterari, della tecnica artistica, del discorso 

sugli stili ecc., disincagliando la critica dalla alternativa rigida fra poesia e 

non poesia, allo stesso modo la proposta di considerare la traduzione 

letteraria in tutta la sua non riducibile complessità, sottrae il discorso sulla 

traduzione all’impasse delle alternative secche, dicotomiche e/o 

giocherellone 23 . 

Se si possa o non si possa tradurre poesia; se si possa o non si possa, 

o peggio, se sia lecito o meno tentare di “riprodurre” in traduzione lo stile 

di un autore: sono queste le domande che consideriamo assolutamente 

superate. Come considera Mattioli nel saggio introduttivo all’edizione 

italiana dell’opera di Apel: “E’ evidente che la lezione da ricavare non è 

certo quella della negazione dell’apporto della linguistica al problema del 

tradurre, bensì della pretesa di alcuni linguisti di ridurre il problema ad 

una sola dimensione, ad una disciplina soltanto. La nostra è dunque una 

idea aperta della traduzione letteraria, una ripresa in chiave attuale della 

grande riflessione della Fruehromantik sulla traduzione come compito 

senza fine, nella forte consapevolezza della presenza di una molteplicità 

di variabili nel processo traduttivo e della ineliminabilità del tempo che, 

solo, dà alla ricerca sul tradurre complessità, fascino e significato”. 

Quanto al concetto di ritmo, per noi particolarmente attuale - si veda 

il volume Ritmologia. Il ritmo del linguaggio. Poesia e traduzione, apparso nel 

2002 per i tipi di Marcos y Marcos - mi limito in questa sede a ricordare i 

tre fondamentali indirizzi della ricerca: un indirizzo filosofico, un indirizzo 

filologico-linguistico, un indirizzo poetico. 

Nel primo ambito configuriamo i filosofi, che tendenzialmente 

dovrebbero applicarsi alla categoria della ritmicità in senso ampio, cercando 

la funzione che il ritmo ha nel mondo. Nel secondo ambito configuriamo i


filologi, che guardano al ritmo cercando anzitutto di definire che cosa esso 

sia (e qui la auctoritas è quella di Beda il Venerabile: “Il ritmo può sussistere 

di per sé, senza metro; mentre il metro non può sussistere senza ritmo. Il 

metro è un canto costretto da una certa ragione; il ritmo un canto senza 

misure razionali”; una definizione che ritroviamo modernamente espressa 

nel recente Traité du rythme di Meschonnic e Dessons: “Il ritmo non è 

formalista, nel senso che non è una forma vuota, un insieme schematico 

che si tratterebbe di mostrare o no, secondo l’umore. Il ritmo di un testo ne 

è l’elemento fondamentale, perché ritmo è operare la sintesi della sintassi, 

della prosodia e dei diversi movimenti enunciativi del testo”) 24 . Compito 

dei filologi è dunque di accordarsi sul significato, di studiare la parola, e 

infine di condurre l’analisi secondo modalità che contemplano la lingua e 

la storia della lingua. 

Con i poeti, infine, ciò che conta del ritmo è il momento in cui esso si 

fa parola, cioè diventa linguaggio e dunque si realizza attraverso una 

particolare intonazione, non nel senso di scansione metrica misurata, bensì 

nel senso eracliteo di un corpo che si fa lingua e discorso (Meschonnic). 

Poiché il ritmo è soggetto, se un poeta trova il ritmo, trova il soggetto; se 

non lo trova, i versi che sta scrivendo non sono arte. E questo vale tanto per 

la scrittura letteraria “originale” quanto per quella in traduzione. 

Note: 

1 Il cui capitolo essenziale, “L’auberge du lointain”, apparve sul n. 2 di 

“Testo a fronte” e viene ripresentato in questo volume. La traduzione 

completa è apparsa nel 1998 presso le edizioni Quodlibet di Macerata. 

2 Apparso in prima edizione in volume miscellaneo per le Edizioni Lint 

di Trieste nel 1973. 

3 Nella traduzione rivista da Claude Béguin. (Mentre la prima edizione 

era stata pubblicata da Sansoni nel 1984, nella traduzione di Ruggero 

Bianchi). 

4 Di entrambe “Testo a fronte” ha pubblicato i passi essenziali (che in 

questo volume ripresentiamo), rispettivamente nel n. 7 (ottobre 1992) per 

la I parte, e nel n. 8 (marzo 1993) per la II parte. 

5 Tradotto in italiano da Gabriella Rovagnati col titolo e apparso presso 

Guerini e Associati nel 1990 col titolo Il manuale del traduttore letterario nella 

collana I Testi di “Testo a fronte”. 

6 Risposta data da Céline a Louis Pauwels e André Brissaud che nel 

1959 lo intervistarono per la televisione francese. 

7 L’argomento appare in vari numeri di “Testo a fronte”, e in particolare 

nel n. 13 (ottobre 1995). L’opera principale di Jean-René Ladmiral è Traduire: 

théorèmes pour la traduction, Paris, Payot 1979. 

8 Avente come sottotitolo A History of Translation, il volume apparve 

nel 1995 a Londra da Routledge ed è stato tradotto in italiano da Marina 

Guglielmi: L’invisibilità del traduttore, Roma, Armando 1999. 

9 La traduzione italiana, curata da Riccarda Novello con prefazione di 

17

18 


Emilio Mattioli e una nuova premessa dello stesso Apel è apparsa nel 1997 

nella collana “I saggi di Testo a fronte” per i tipi di Marcos y Marcos col 

titolo Il movimento del linguaggio. 

10 Gianni D’Elia nella prefazione alla sua traduzione delle Nourritures 

terrestres di André Gide apparsa da Einaudi nel 1994 nella collana Scrittori 

tradotti da scrittori. 

11 Edito nella collana “I saggi di Testo a fronte, ed. Guerini e Associati, 

1992. 

12 Come osserva Edoardo Zuccato nel saggio intitolato “Testo a fronte” 

in corso di pubblicazione negli Atti del Convegno tenutosi a Urbino 

nell’ottobre 2003 sul tema Editoria e Traduzione, “Eco non poteva scegliere 

un esempio più infelice, vista la disastrosa situazione testuale dell’opera 

shakespeariana, di cui non solo non esistono autografi, ma neppure una 

edizione originale di riferimento, al punto che ci sono opere di cui oggi 

vengono proposte due versioni diverse, entrambe come originali. 

Un’occhiata anche sommaria alla storia delle edizioni del canone 

shakespeariano mostrerebbe a chiunque che l’inglese di Shakespeare non 

è mai rimasto lo stesso”. 

13 Tradurre, comunemente, si dice oggi. Ma nel Trecento dicevasi 

volgarizzare, perché la voce tradurre sapeva troppo di latino, e allora 

scansavansi i latinismi, come poi li cercarono nel Quattrocento, e taluni li 

cercano ancor oggi; sì perché que’ buoni traduttori facevano le cose per 

farle, e trasportando da lingue ignote il pensiero in lingua nota, intendevano 

renderle intelligibili a’ più”. E’ questo il famoso attacco del capitolo VIII 

della Vita agra di Luciano Bianciardi, che così sornionamente si conclude: 

“Ma adesso le più delle traduzioni non si potrebbero, se non per ironia, 

nominare volgarizzamenti, dacché recano da lingua foresta, che per sé è 

chiarissima e popolare, in linguaggio mezzo morto, che non è di popolo 

alcuno; e la loro traduzione avrebbe bisogno d’un nuovo volgarizzamento”. 

Inutile sottolineare che la “lingua foresta” chiarissima e popolare da cui si 

traduce è l’inglese — o meglio ancora l’americano di Henry Miller e Saul 

Bellow; mentre il linguaggio mezzo morto in cui si traduce è l’italiano, non 

appartenente — così come è venuto letterariamente configurandosi - a 

popolo alcuno. 

14 Precursore del concetto di intertestualità (senza mai aver menzionato 

il termine) Bachtin — come è noto — focalizza il concetto di parodia come 

fenomeno dialogico. Osserva F. Stella in “Testimonianze” nn. 384-5, aprilemaggio 

1996, facendo riferimento al celebre saggio di Todorov su Bachtin 

(originale francese 1981, — qualsiasi punto se ne consideri - può leggersi 

tanto verso l’’avanti’ (dai pre-testi al testo), quanto nel senso opposto (dal 

testo ai pre-testi). Nel processo intertestuale si ha a che fare con una 

dinamica effettiva, in cui assumono pari importanza sia le modificazioni 

imposte al testo dalle sue matrici pre-testuali, sia quelle indotte nei pretesti 

dall’inserimento del nuovo arrivato nella rete intertestuale. La 

creazione di ogni nuovo testo modifica l’assetto relazionale dell’intero 

sistema di testi (e discorsi) a cui esso fa riferimento: da questo momento in


avanti, anche i testi preesistenti ne risultano modificati (dunque influenzati), 

se è vero che la loro realtà si esprime nella dimensione dialogica indicata 

da Bachtin. Ogni nuovo testo, con la propria costituzione, determina i propri 

determinanti, legge e modifica i testi passati, pronto ad essere a sua volta 

letto e modificato dai testi a venire. Il testo produce i suoi antecedenti”. Di 

particolare interesse in questo consesso di filologi germanici può essere 

quest’ultima considerazione di Pasero: “Il paradosso per cui il testo 

posteriore modifica il precedente (ovvero: il derivato legge la fonte) non è 

sempre dato in questa sua drastica forma: esso si impone con particolare 

vigore solo quando — all’incirca a partire dalla fine del Medioevo, per 

quanto riguarda la tradizione culturale dell’Occidente — si delinea una 

ideologia del distacco dalla lettura dei testi come auctoritates da citare e 

glossare, e nel contempo si teorizza e si pratica un loro impiego più 

‘creativo’. Tale spostamento d’accenti trova un corrispettivo nel riconoscere 

a tutti i testi (anche ai ‘nuovi’, dunque) il diritto di comportarsi come 

individualità autonome, che entrano con pari chances nell’agone letterario”. 

Dal nostro punto di vista, ovviamente, quando ci si riferisce a “tutti” i testi, 

compresi i “nuovi”, il pensiero corre in primis alle traduzioni-testo 

(relativamente alle quali rimandiamo alla nota 25). 

17 L’idea che nella comunicazione ci siano due momenti, uno retorico e 

uno ermeneutico, comporta che ogni comunicazione sia traduzione. 

18 Da noi pubblicato su “Testo a fronte” n. 2. 

19 A riguardo Henri Meschonnic distingue tra traduzioni-non-testo, 

destinate a deperire rapidamente, e traduzioni-testo - come quelle di S. 

Gerolamo, Lutero, Pasternak, Ezra Pound, Robert Graves, Paul Celan, 

Baudelaire - destinate a restare, per l’appunto, come testi. 

20 Da noi pubblicato su “Testo a fronte” n. 3, ottobre 1991, per le cure di 

Giovanni Lombardo. 

21 Modena, Mucchi, 1983. 

22 Se si possa o non si possa tradurre poesia; se si possa o non si possa, 

o peggio, se sia lecito o meno tentare di “riprodurre” in traduzione lo stile 

di un autore: sono queste le domande che - come comitato direttivo di 

“Testo a fronte” - consideriamo assolutamente superate. 

23 Considera Mattioli nel saggio introduttivo all’edizione italiana di 

Literarische Ubersetzung di Apel: “E’ evidente che la lezione da ricavare non 

è certo quella della negazione dell’apporto della linguistica al problema 

del tradurre, bensì della pretesa di alcuni linguisti di ridurre il problema 

ad una sola dimensione, ad una disciplina soltanto. La nostra è dunque 

una idea aperta della traduzione letteraria, una ripresa in chiave attuale 

della grande riflessione della Fruhromantik sulla traduzione come compito 

senza fine, nella forte consapevolezza della presenza di una molteplicità 

di variabili nel processo traduttivo e della ineliminabilità del tempo che, 

solo, dà alla ricerca sul tradurre complessità, fascino e significato” 

24 A riguardo si vedano anche, nel già citato volume Ritmologia, gli 

interventi di Emilio Mattioli e di chi scrive. Una impostazione teorica che 

trova una sicura fonte in E. Benveniste, Problemi di linguistica generale, trad. 

di M. Vittoria Giuliani, Il Saggiatore, Milano, 1994, p.396. 

19

20 


The Translation of Poetry as an Autonomous 

Literary Genre 

by Franco Buffoni 

“I wonder” asked L. F. Céline in the letter to M. Hindus of May 15 th , 

1947, “ how can they compare me to Henry Miller, who is translated?, 

while everything is a question of the intimacy of the language not to mention 

the emotional output of style…” 

Style, for Céline, was therefore “untranslatable,” just as poetry was 

“untranslatable” for Benedetto Croce. 

These theoretical positions, which play on the assumption of the 

uniqueness and irreproducibility of the work of art, end up denying the 

translatability of poetry and “high” prose. Such conceptions are the expression 

of an idealism that is particularly outdated nowadays, against 

which Italian aesthetics of a neo-phenomenological bent (from Banfi to 

Anceschi to Formaggio to Mattioli) have fought for three decades at least 

(victoriously, I would say). 

It all started with the observation that the dichotomies (faithful/unfaithful; 

faithful to the letter/faithful to the spirit; ut orator/ut interpres; verbum/sensus; 

“traductions des poètes/traductions des professeurs”) – from 

Cicero to Mounin – inevitably lead to a cul de sac, which puts, on the one 

hand, the untranslatability of “style” and of the poetic “ineffable,” and on 

the other hand, the conviction that it is possible to transmit just the content. 

Naturally the fact that it is possible to transmit just the content is a 

pure abstraction, but it is where you get starting from both “idealistic” and 

“formalistic” assumptions. 

I don’t think that the dichotomous situation of impasse changes by 

analysing the academic argument between Meschonnic and Ladmiral, alias 

between sourciers and ciblistes, or between a naturalizing “target-oriented” 

tendency, which would push the text toward the foreign reader “naturalizing” 

it, and an alienating “source-oriented” tendency that would drag 

the foreign reader toward the text. 

According to this kind of thought, the clash between schools of translation 

would resemble the one that exists in the world of art restoration: to 

show it as much as possible, or hide it as much as possible. 

If we set aside the fondness that certain definitions may elicit as opposed 

to others, I believe it is clear that — if we continue with a dichotomous 

layout — we only add new pairs — like domestication/estrangement, 

visibility/invisibility, violability/inviolability to those of previous 

centuries: liberty/faithfulness, betrayal/assent, fluency/literalness. This 

is what happens with The Translator’s Invisibility of Lawrence Venuti despite 

the fact that his constant reference to Schleiermacher and the hermeneutic 

school inspired by him is certainly of a very high level.


“How then, can we reproduce the style?” The heart of the matter, in 

my opinion, is in the verb used to ask the question: reproduce. Because 

literary translation cannot be reduced conceptually to a mere reproduction 

of a text; it should rather be considered as a process, which sees not an 

“original” and a “copy” move through time and possibly bloom and flourish 

again, but two texts equally endowed with artistic dignity. 

The Movement of Language by Friedmar Apel is a fundamental study 

in this regard. The concept of “movement” in language comes from the 

necessity of deeply analysing the so-called language of departure before 

embarking on the translation of a literary text. 

The idea is commonly accepted for the so-called language of arrival. 

No one, in fact, casts any doubts on the need to constantly retranslate the 

classics in order to adapt them to the transformations that language continuously 

undergoes. The so-called departure text, on the other hand, is 

usually viewed as a monument — immobile in time — marmoreal and 

rustproof. And yet, it too is moving in time, because the words which compose 

it are also moving semantically in time, as well as the syntactic and 

grammatical structures and so on. 

Essentially, what is being proposed is to consider the classical or 

modern literary text to be translated not as an immobile rock in the sea, but 

as a floating platform, where the translator works on the live body of the 

text, but the text itself is in constant transformation, or precisely, moving 

in time. In this view, the aesthetic dignity of the translation appears as the 

fruit of a meeting between equals (the author and the translator) fated to 

cause the traditional dichotomous pairs to fall away, since it is aimed at 

removing all stiffness from the act of translation, by giving its product an 

intrinsic autonomous dignity as text. This principle was already anticipated 

by Blanchot through the image of the “solemn drift of literary works.” 

You can go so far as to affirm that the movement of the language in 

time, during this process of literary translation, begins even before the drafting 

of the “definitive” version of the “original,” when it is possible for the 

translator to access the “pre-text” (that is, all those documents from which 

the “definitive” text takes shape). 

In this way, the translator takes possession of the path of growth and 

germination of the text in its various phases. In this regard, a linguist may 

speak of the formativity of the text; while a poet may speak of sympathetic 

adherence, on the part of the translator, not so much to the finished text, 

but to the myriad of emotional cells that made it possible. 

The text, therefore, moves toward the future but also toward the past 

if we take into account the “pre-texts.” Think of the eight thousand sheets 

which gave rise to the four hundred pages of Céline’s Voyage au bout de la 

nuit, or of the Epiphanies from which Joyce’s Portrait descends, or the Cahiers 

upon which La Recherche du temp perdu is formed …All this in the awareness 

of the stratification of historical languages. It is a concept that Luciano 

Bianciardi exemplifies with “architectonic” clarity at the beginning of his 

21

22 


La Vita Agra (Sour Life), when he describes the building that houses the 

library of Grosseto. Previously it had been the teaching house of the Companions 

of Jesus, and before the Convent of the Humbled, and even before 

the Braidense Library… 

By transferring this description to language, you obtain the diode 

effect, which is like seeing from high a heap of piled up but transparent 

phonetic and semantic layers. This is why I consider the translation of poetry 

as an autonomous literary genre, according to a tradition that sees in 

its developement Thomas Sébillet in the 16 th century (Mounin reminds us 

that, according to Sébillet, translation at that time was considered “parmi 

les genres littéraires en vogue”), and Jiri Levy, who in the early Sixties of 

the 20 th century published in Prague Umeni Prekladu, a fundamental essay 

the subtitle of which is quite meaningful: “Theorie einer Kunstgattung”, 

that is to say “theory of a literary genre” .

Traumatic Translation: Levi’s “Ancient Mariner” from 

English to Italian—and Back Again 

by Lina Insana 

Lina Insana is Assistant Professor of Italian at the University of Pittsburgh, 

where she teaches courses on Holocaust Literature, Fascism and Resistance, 

Sicilian Writers, Italian Detective Fiction, Translation Studies, Italian 

American Studies, and Migration and Identity. She has published on 

Italian American children’s literature, gender and Fascist culture, Boccaccio, 

Beppe Fenoglio, and Primo Levi, and is currently completing her manuscript 

on Levi’s use of translation as a metaphor for Holocaust testimony. 

Introduction 

Holocaust survivors, returning home after liberation and the long 

homeward odysseys that followed, soon found themselves prey to 

a new conflict: between the “burning need” to tell of their brutalizing 

experience and a profound confusion over how to go about representing its 

singular and unspeakable events. This crisis of representation stemmed, in 

part, from specific aspects of the Final Solution, which deployed tactics of 

cruel dehumanization, the debasement of significative language, and the 

eradication of all subject hood and agency, not to speak of unheard-of 

physical hardships, slavery, and torture. The result is an unbearable 

proximity between the Lager’s new reality and the limits of our imaginative 

capacities. As Terrence Des Pres has theorized, “what we experience, 

symbolically, in spirit only, survivors must go through, in spirit and in body. 

In extremity, states of mind become objective, metaphors tend to actualize, 

the word becomes flesh” (174). 

When traditional literary figures are no longer appropriate as an expressive 

strategy, what recourse does the survivor-writer have? Levi’s response 

to the incommensurate communicative environments of Auschwitz 

and the world of survival grew out of his belief that effective communication 

was fundamental to the human condition. 1 As such, at the heart of his testimonial 

project was an attempt to convey the reality of the camps by recoding 

its various sign systems for “gli altri,” who had not been there to experience 

it for themselves; in other words, to translate it. The translational metaphor 

for Holocaust testimony is particularly apt in Levi’s case because of his 

consistent attention to language issues in his writing, his focus on the 

Lagerjargon 2 as a constituent element of the univers concentrationnaire, and his 

own considerable translation work. 3 

Across Levi’s testimonial oeuvre, translation acts 4 become textual sites 

of survivor hood, where processes of testimony and aspects of the survivor’s

24 Journal of Italian Translation 

condition are explored in complex and traumatically repetitive ways, mirroring 

the trauma of the experience, itself. Another notable aspect of Levi’s 

translations is that they are often intentionally unfaithful, representing an 

unsettling or even a reversal of the source text. This undermining 

foregrounding of the texts that Levi chooses to appropriate and translate 

within the space of his ostensibly “original” testimonial production should 

not be inscribed within a Bloomian “anxiety of influence” directed toward 

the figures of Dante Alighieri and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Rather, this 

author’s portrayal of translation en abyme figures his attempt to reverse the 

Auschwitz source text and overcome its arrogant and omnipotent “authors.” 

Levi’s practice of manhandling his source texts in the service of a larger 

personal and literary program reveals nothing less than a reassertion of the 

subject hood so diminished in the univers concentrationnaire. If, as Shoshana 

Feldman writes, “History is the ‘original,’ the writings—its translations” 

(40), Levi’s practice is indicative of a preoccupation with not only translating, 

but reversing the source text of the Holocaust event. 

Levi’s use of four verses of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient 

Mariner (1817) is exemplary of this general tendency in his oeuvre. As we 

shall see, Levi’s traumatic return to the text and its protagonist places the 

source text’s preoccupation with the transmission of trauma en abyme, 

foregrounding Levi’s and Coleridge’s common themes of transmission, translation, 

and survivor guilt. Within this context, however, Levi makes changes 

to the text that simultaneously reassert his authorial agency (and thus his 

subject hood) and recast Coleridge’s text as a testimonial utterance unique to 

Levi’s experience. 

My comments in this essay will focus in particular on Levi’s 1984 

poem “Il superstite” (“The Survivor”), a text whose analysis allows us to 

comment not only on the role of translation in Levi’s authorial strategies, but 

also on particular problems that this poem—with its embedded (mis) translation 

of Coleridge—posed for its American translator, Ruth Feldman. Faced 

with an exercise of circular translation of the kind described by Umberto Eco 

in Experiences in Translation (40), 5 Feldman’s decision to return to Coleridge’s 

original verses effaced the fact, and thus the implications, of Levi’s own 

mediation of Coleridge. 

The Ancient Mariner as Holocaust Survivor 

According to Marco Belpoliti (21), Primo Levi was most likely introduced 

to Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in 1964, when Beppe 

Fenoglio’s translation of it was published by Einaudi; we can trace Levi’s 

public references to the poem more or less to this same period. Both in the 

preface to the 1966 theatrical production of Se questo è un uomo (cited in 

Anissimov 471) 6 and in the “Cromo” chapter of Il sistema periodico (1974) 

Levi compares himself affirmatively to the Ancient Mariner. In the fist case, 

the terms of comparison revolve around the duties of the interlocutor (or the

Lina Insana/Primo Levi 

theatrical audience) to come to a conclusion based on the survivor’s “tale,” 

while in “Cromo” Levi’s focus is his urgent need to purify himself, to rid 

himself of the albatross hanging around his own neck through storytelling. 

Though these paraphrastic references to the Ancient Mariner character 

date to 1966, his explicit citation and translation of one specific four-verse 

stanza brought this affinity to its culmination in the last few years of his life, 

inspiring not only the 1984 poem “Il superstite,” but the title of its entire 

collection, Ad ora incerta (1984), and the incipit of his last book, I sommersi e i 

salvati (1986): “Since then, at an uncertain hour,/ That agony returns:/ And 

till my ghastly tale is told,/ This heart within me burns” (vv. 582-85). The 

consistency with which Levi returns to the Coleridge text and its protagonist 

challenges us to reckon with their importance as figures for Levi’s testimonial 

project. Moreover, Levi’s active mediation of his source text demands 

that this reckoning occur on the terrain of translation, both on the level of 

theme (the citing, recoding and traumatic retelling that are central to 

Coleridge’s text), and on the formal level (the specific acts of citation and 

[mis] translation that occur within the textual space of Levi’s poem). 

“Il superstite” 

The first line of the oft-cited Coleridge passage (v. 582) is reproduced 

tale quale, as the first verse of Levi’s poem: “Since then, at an uncertain hour”. 

The second line is Levi’s translation of the first, faithfully done, and represented 

in regular type: “Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta.” This is followed in 

the third verse by a close translation of Coleridge’s next line (v. 583), “That 

agony returns” (“Quella pena ritorna”), and then a significantly altered 

rendering of the next two verses, to which we will soon return. 

Remarkably, despite critical unanimity regarding the role of the Fenoglio 

translation in familiarizing Levi with the poem, Levi’s translation of the 

verses from the “Rime” is clearly original. Fenoglio’s translation of vv. 582- 

85 reads: “Da quel momento, a un’ora imprecisa,/ Quell’agonia mi torna;/ E 

fino a che non ho detta la mia storia/ Di morti, dentro mi brucia il cuore.” 

Levi’s version, instead, reads: “Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta,/ Quella pena 

ritorna,/ E se non trova chi lo ascolti/ Gli brucia in petto il cuore.” Of particular 

note in a casual comparison between the source text and Fenoglio’s 

and Levi’s translation of it is the fact that the former’s addition of “Di morti” 

in verse 585—made, one assumes, to approximate Coleridge’s original 

tetrameter—does not materialize in Levi’s translation, leading us to believe 

that Levi was translating from Coleridge directly and not from Fenoglio’s 

1964 translation. As we shall soon see, Levi’s omission of Fenoglio’s unfaithful 

reference to death provides not only textual proof of his direct relationship 

to the Coleridge source text, but also helps to interrogate ostensibly 

clear distinctions between life and death, “sommersi” and “salvati.” 

Starting with v. 6, Levi’s “Il superstite” then makes a transition from 

the Coleridge source text and his interpretation of it to a more properly “origi- 

25


nal” segment (vv. 6-13) describing the “sommersi” that the poem’s survivor 

“persona” will soon address. By then admonishing the “gente sommersa” 

in verses 14-20, this persona ostensibly places himself in the diametrically 

opposed category of the “salvati,” who must defensively account for their 

survival to both the “sommersi”—the audience to which the quoted segment 

is addressed—and to the poem’s broader audience of outsiders who, privy 

to both sides of the dialogue, are placed in the position of judge. As such, the 

author sets up a seemingly neat distinction between survivors and their 

dead companions, complete with an implied dialogue within the survivor 

persona’s monologue that presents both points of view: “ ‘Indietro, via di 

qui, gente sommersa,/ Andate. Non ho soppiantato nessuno,/ Non ho 

usurpato il pane di nessuno,/ Nessuno è morto in vece mia. Nessuno./ 

Ritornate alla vostra nebbia./ Non è mia colpa se vivo e respiro/ E mangio e 

bevo e dormo e vesto panni’ “ (vvs. 14-20). 

This segment, enclosed entirely in quotation marks, is characterized by 

a repetition of negative clauses containing “Non” and “Nessuno.” Not only 

is this negational structure an example of Freud’s affirming negations, 7 but 

its repetitive cadence constitutes, in microcosmic form, the sort of traumatic 

repetition that Levi’s use of Coleridge’s “Rime” and his testimonial work 

represent on more global levels. 8 It is precisely this combination of repetition 

and negation that aids Levi in portraying the dialogue within a monologue 

between the two parts of a divided survivor self. The affirming negations, in 

this context, have the striking effect of validating the accusations of the 

“sommersi,” even while presenting the “salvati”’s opposing—and seemingly 

dominant—point of view. Furthermore, the rhetorical strategy of redundancy 

suggests that this implicit “dialogue” is a repeating one that the 

surviving subject must enact over and over again. In the recent opinion of 

Giorgio Agamben, Levi’s poem is indicative of his refusal to accept “fino in 

fondo le conseguenze” of individual survivor guilt, and its poetic persona 

representative of one who “lotta tenacemente contro di esso” (83). 

But Levi makes two significant changes to Coleridge’s original in his 

own loose translation (vv. 4-5) that displace him with regard to this neatly 

divided dichotomy of the “drowned” and the “saved.” This transitional 

segment that bridges the two introductory verses of faithful translation and 

the original verses beginning at v. 6 in effect creates a space of many ambiguities: 

between faithful and unfaithful translation, between the giving and the 

receiving of testimony, between survival and death. First, the focus on the 

Mariner’s first-person tale in Coleridge’s v. 584 (“And till my ghastly tale is 

told”) has been shifted in Levi’s rewriting to the search for an active listener: 

“E se non trova chi lo ascolti”. By emphasizing the necessity of finding an 

interlocutor (through the addition of the active verb ascoltare), a witness to 

the survivor’s testimony, Levi establishes an interactive model of narrative 

responsibility. In this model, the living must speak for those who did not 

survive. As Levi will later explain in the “La vergogna” chapter of I sommersi 

e i salvati, “[n]oi toccati dalla sorte abbiamo cercato, con maggiore o minore


sapienza, di raccontare non solo il nostro destino, ma anche quello degli 

altri, dei sommersi, appunto...Parliamo noi in loro vece, per delega” (65). 

Implicit in this model is the fact that the weight of responsibility must be 

distributed among speakers and listeners alike at many different levels, as 

the “salvati” must become witnesses to the atrocities committed against the 

“sommersi” and the survivor’s listener-reader must, in turn, bear witness to 

that which is recounted to him by the survivor. It is not enough merely to tell, 

but the reader-listener after the fact must also be a willing interlocutor and 

witness, mirroring and repeating the narrative testimonial act of the survivor 

to create an infinite chain of witnessing and telling, listening and witnessing. 

Similarly, for Coleridge there is a tendency to “dissolv[e] the distinction 

between the roles of speaker and audience: both here are equally in 

thrall to the tale” (Eilenberg 287-88). For both the Holocaust survivor and the 

protagonist of the “Rime,” each link in the transmission of the tale is simultaneously 

narrator and narratee, yet another example of the manner in which 

the representation en abyme of the transmissive act shines a particularly 

bright meta-narrative light on the process of witnessing. Referring to the 

Coleridge poem, Eilenberg identifies this phenomenon as a thematic “doubling” 

of the protagonist in that “each person who hears the story becomes, 

like the Mariner, the teller of that story” (277). For Eilenberg, these textual 

doubles include the sixteenth-century “mistral who narrates the poem that 

the antiquarian would gloss” (291), as well as the Hermit and Wedding 

Guest who are the Mariner’s most immediate interlocutors. Upon close inspection, 

it becomes clear that Levi’s own poem shares Coleridge’s predilection 

for textual doubles, though not as explicit as those present in the “Rime.” 

Ultimately, the poet and his survivor persona are at once elements and propagators 

of the poem’s doubling mechanism: a poet who quotes Coleridge’s 

original English text, who knows but sets aside a good-faith Italian translation 

of Coleridge (Beppe Fenoglio’s), who puts forth his own translation of 

Coleridge; and a survivor, who, in his vehement denial of any wrongdoing 

against the “gente sommersa,” implicitly cites the charges of his accusers. 

Even the final line of the poem constitutes another layer of this game of 

doubling through citation, as the survivor translates Dante (“e mangia e bee 

e dorme e veste panni” [Inferno 33.141]), once again making revealing changes 

of person and perspective (“E mangio e bevo e dormo e vesto panni” [v. 20]), 

to invoke the double of the traitor Branca D’Oria. 9 

But in keeping with poetry’s role as the space in which this author 

works through his more conflicted responses to survivor hood, Levi’s unfaithful 

translation of the fourth verse also serves to undermine this very 

narrative model whereby interlocutors, and therefore witnesses, are created 

within the textual space of testimony. While Coleridge’s main verb is decidedly 

indicative (“And till my ghastly tale is told”), Levi’s version is constructed 

on the first part of a hypothetical phrase, presenting the possibility 

of an audience in the subjunctive mode—possible, but not certain: “E se non 

trova chi lo ascolti.” Levi’s translation of Coleridge, then, prompts us to ques- 

27


tion his faith in the very narrative-testimonial model that he has constructed. 

The second change in Levi’s reworking of the original poem involves a 

shift from the first person (“And till my ghastly tale is told/ This heart within 

me burns.”) to the third: “E se non trova chi lo ascolti/ Gli brucia in petto il 

cuore.” (vv. 4-6). By displacing the subject position away from the lyric, 

authoritative first person, Levi problematizes his own status as survivor, 

and thus, in effect, his own position in this interactive model of witnessing. 

In addition to the splitting and doubling effects of this move that we have 

already outlined, Levi’s decision to speak of the survivor in third-person 

terms would seem to place him at least one remove from the survivor’s ostensibly 

authoritative position, which Levi begins to question in his later years. 10 

According to his later thought, survivors like Levi must take on the role of 

witness even though that role’s validity is diminished by their very survival: 

“‘[Quello dei sopravvisuti] è stato un discorso ‘per conto di terzi,’ il racconto 

di cose viste da vicino, non sperimentate in proprio. La demolizione condotta 

a termine, l’opera compiuta, non l’ha raccontata nessuno, come nessuno è 

mai tornato a raccontare la sua morte” (I sommersi e i salvati 65). 

This weakened view of the authority of survivor hood is only confirmed 

later on in the poem when Levi overtly quotes the survivor’s defensive 

rebuke of the submerged. By taking the survivor’s words out of the 

poet’s mouth and citing them as the words of an unnamed survivor persona, 

Levi further develops the narrative duality that is set up by his translation of 

Coleridge’s first-person stance to a third-person narrative position. But this 

technique is suggestive of far more than a dantesque poet-pilgrim relationship 

between Levi’s writer and survivor identities. Rather, Levi’s explicit 

quotation of the survivor’s defensive words as if he did not own them amounts 

to a decision to position himself definitively outside of the neat drowned vs. 

saved dichotomy that he himself has created. This rhetorical technique suggests 

a survivor who is neither “sommerso” nor “salvato”; not prey to the 

true depths of the Nazi atrocities, and yet not wishing, in this moment of the 

poem, to accept the survivor’s words, his responsibility, or his guilt. In effect, 

Levi establishes himself as a border figure who stands astride these two 

opposing zones of the moral system of Auschwitz—drowned and saved— 

but recognizes that it is his very identification with both survivor hood and 

death that warrants his occupancy of an entirely different intermediary zone. 

“The Survivor” 

“Il superstite,” with all of its layers of textual and narrative transmission, 

was itself translated into English by Levi’s longtime acquaintance and 

translator Ruth Feldman. 11 First published in 1986 and reprinted in 1988, 12 

the English-language translation of “Il superstite” strikingly reveals the tension 

inherent in the translator’s attempt to faithfully render a number of 

different and often competing source texts: Coleridge’s “Rime,” Levi’s “Il 

superstite,” and, ultimately, the Holocaust, itself. 

The Feldman translation of this poem, entitled “The Survivor,” repre-


sents Levi’s translation of v. 582 (“Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta”) as the first 

verse of the new poem. This is followed by a direct citation of vv. 581-85 of the 

English-language Coleridge poem, tali quali, as verses 2-5, eliding Levi’s 

changes to the Coleridge source text. In both published versions, these verses 

are set apart graphically from the rest of the poem, both in terms of the size of 

their font and by a space between verses 5 (“This heart within me burns”) 

and 6 (“Once more he sees his companions’ faces”); in the 1986 epigraphic 

version this separation is rendered still more striking by the fact that the first 

5 verses are all in italics, implying that as a whole they represent a direct and 

faithful translation (or citation) of some original text, either Coleridge’s or 

Levi’s. 

In both of Feldman’s versions of the poem, the Coleridge citation stands 

in epigraph to the rest of the poetic text, but is not incorporated into it, nor is 

the voice of the Ancient Mariner-cum-survivor ever conflated with the survivor-persona’s 

voice. As a result, the imagined dialogue that moves the second 

part of the poem becomes a very different kind of conversation, one 

where the ownership of the survivor position is not formally problematized 

within the poem’s formal structure. The poet here can simply be said to have 

adopted a “voice” of anxiety vis à vis the survivor’s condition, but without 

linking that persona textually or graphically to the Ancient Mariner character 

who in Levi’s version takes on far more than mere emblematic value for 

the survivor persona in question. With the effacement of Levi’s violence to 

the Coleridge text comes a negation of the complexity of Levi’s relationship 

to the Ancient Mariner character inherent in his explicit and forceful rhetorical 

distancing from that character in the Italian poem. 

Feldman’s return to Coleridge’s original text suggests a refusal to participate 

in an exercise of circular translation, a reticence to acknowledge 

either the translator’s presence in the process of transmission, or the uniqueness 

of the translational act. Her decision to privilege Coleridge’s source text 

also suggests an underlying anxiety about accuracy in the representation, 

transmission, and translation of Holocaust texts, and the Holocaust source 

text in general; Feldman’s profound desire to accurately represent the Holocaust 

signified ultimately manifests itself in the “return” to a pristine, uncorrupted 

source text. Paradoxically, however, readers of Feldman’s Englishlanguage 

translation of Levi’s “Il superstite” are given less than the full 

picture of survivor testimony when they are denied access to Levi’s poetic 

refraction of Coleridge’s text, and his use of it to figure the complexities of 

transmission, translation, and the testimonial process. 

Primo Levi’s translation of this fragment of Coleridge’s “Rime of the 

Ancient Mariner” and its incorporation into his 1984 poem “Il superstite” 

reveal the importance of translation as a textual site of meditation on the 

testimonial process and on the condition of survivor hood. His manhandling 

of the Coleridge fragment establishes Levi’s agency as a testimonial 

and poetic subject, and at the same time allows him to perform a complex 

commentary on his own position of survivor hood between life and death, 

29


testimony and silence. This contrasts sharply with the English-language 

translation of the poem, where the translator’s anxieties about faithfully 

translating the competing source texts at issue—literary and historical alike— 

undermine this very complexity. 

Works Cited 

Agamben, Giorgio. Quel che resta di Auschwitz. Torino: Bollati Boringhieri, 

1998. 

Alighieri, Dante. Inferno. Trans. Charles Singleton. 2 vols: Italian text and 

translation, and commentary. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977. 

Anissimov, Myriam. Primo Levi, ou la tragédie d’un optimiste. Paris: J.C. Lattès, 

1996. 

Belpoliti, Marco. Primo Levi. Milano: Mondadori, 1998. 

Des Pres, Terrence. The Survivor. New York: Oxford University Press, 1976. 

Gilman, Sander. “To Quote Primo Levi: ‘Redest keyn jiddisch, bist nit kejn 

jid’ [‘If you don’t speak Yiddish, you’re not a Jew’].” Prooftexts 9 (1989): 139- 

60. 

Eco, Umberto. Experiences in Translation. Toronto: University of Toronto 

Press, 2001. 

Eilenberg, Susan. “Voice and Ventriloquy in ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’” 

The “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”: Complete, Authoritative Texts of the 

1798 and 1817 Versions with Biographical and Historical Contexts, Critical History, 

and Essays from Contemporary Critical Perspectives. Murfin, Ross C. series 

ed. and introd. Boston: Bedford/St.Martin’s, 1999. 

Feldman, Ruth. Moments of Reprieve. New York: Summit Books, 1986. Trans. 

of Lilít e altri racconti by Primo Levi. Torino: Einaudi, 1986. 

—. Telephone interview. 26 Feb. 2000. 

Feldman, Ruth and Brian Swann, trans. Collected Poems. London; Boston: 

Faber and Faber, 1988. Trans. of Ad ora incerta by Primo Levi. Milano: 

Garzanti, 1984. 

—, trans. Shema. London: Mennard Press, 1976. Trans. of L’osteria di Brema 

by Primo Levi. Milano: Scheiwiller, 1975. 

Felman, Shoshana. The Juridical Unconscious: trials and traumas in the twentieth 

century. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002. 

Fenoglio, Beppe, trans. La ballata del vecchio marinaio. Ed. Filippo Fossati. 

Torino: Stamperia del Borgo Po, 1988. Trans. of “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” 

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1817. 

Levi, Primo. L’altrui mestiere. Torino: Einaudi, 1985. 

—. “Così ho rivissuto il Processo di Kafka.” Interview with Luciano Genta. 

Tuttolibri—La stampa 9 Apr. 1983: 3. Rpt. as “Tradurre Kafka” in Racconti e 

saggi. Torino: La Stampa, 1986. 

—. Lilít e altri racconti. Torino: Einaudi, 1981. 

—. “Una misteriosa sensibilità.” Il tempo. 3 July 1983. 

—, trans. La notte dei Girondini. Milano: Adelphi, [1976], 1997. Trans. of De


Nacht der Girondijnen by Jacob Presser. 1957. 

—. L’osteria di Brema. Milano: Scheiwiller, 1975. 

—, trans. and introd. Il processo. Torino: Einaudi, 1983. Trans. of Der Prozeb 

by Franz Kafka. 

—. Se questo è un uomo, La tregua. Torino: Einaudi, [1958,1963,1989], 1993. 

—, trans. Lo sguardo da lontano. Torino: Einaudi, 1984. Trans. of Le régard 

éloigné by Claude Lévi-Strauss. 

—, trans. Simboli naturali. Torino: Einaudi, 1979. Trans. of Natural Symbols 

by Mary Douglas. 

—. Il sistema periodico. Torino: Einaudi, [1975], 1994. 

—. I sommersi e i salvati. Torino: Einaudi, [1986], 1991. 

—, trans. La via delle maschere. Torino: Einaudi, 1985. Trans. of La vie des 

masques by Claude Lévi-Strauss. 

Rosato, Italo. “Poesia.” Primo Levi. Riga, n. 13. Milano: Marcos y Marcos, 

1997. 

—. “Ad ora incerta.” Autografo. II.5 (1985): 95-9. 

Segre, Cesare. “I romanzi e le poesie.” Opere. Primo Levi. Torino: Einaudi, 

1988. xii-xxxv. 

Thomson, Ian. Primo Levi. London: Hutchinson, 2002. 

Notes 

1. Cf. Levi’s essay “Dello scrivere oscuro” in L’altrui mestiere. 

2. The lingua franca of the univers concentrationnaire, the Lagerjargon was a 

mixture of all of the national and cultural languages represented in the camp. 

It contained elements of the sign systems of both victim and oppressor: on 

one hand, the German, Polish, and Yiddish of the Nazis and their “gray 

zoner” functionaries, and on the other, “bits and pieces of the languages of 

the victims” (Gilman 140). Levi’s interest in the language of the Lager and of 

the Final Solution spans from Se questo è un uomo to the “Comunicare” chapter 

of I sommersi e i salvati. 

3. In addition to various projects commissioned by Edizioni Scientifiche 

Einaudi (notably the four-volume co-translation of Chimica Superiore Organica), 

Levi’s published translation work includes La notte dei Girondini (Milano: 

Adelphi, 1976; trans. of Jacob Presser’s De nacht der Girondijnen), I simboli 

naturali (Torino: Einaudi, 1979; trans. of Mary Douglas’Natural Symbols), Il 

processo (Torino: Einaudi, 1983; trans. of Franz Kafka’s Der Prozeß), Lo sguardo 

da lontano (Torino: Einaudi, 1984; trans. of Claude Lévi-Strauss’ Le régard 

éloigné), La via delle maschere (Torino: Einaudi, 1985; trans. of Claude Lévi- 

Strauss’ La vie des masques), and translations of Heinrich Heine’s poetry 

published in the “Traduzioni” section at the end of Ad ora incerta, a collection 

of Levi’s original poetic work (Torino: Garzanti, 1984). Levi was also the 

author of a number of essays on the topic of translation, in particular three 

separate pieces written in conjunction with his translation of Franz Kafka’s 

Der Prozeb (his introduction to the translation, itself; “Tradurre Kafka;” and 

31


“Una misteriosa sensibilità”) and the essay “Tradurre e essere tradotti.” 

4. I define translation act quite broadly, here, as both self-standing translation 

projects, such as Levi’s translations of Kafka and Presser; and embedded 

gestures of translations, as is the case in the present study and in Levi’s 

translation of the 26 th Canto of Dante’s Inferno in the “Canto di Ulisse” chapter 

of Se questo è un uomo. 

5. “During a seminar on translation, a colleague of mine gave the students 

the English version of The Name of the Rose (namely, the description of the 

church portal) and asked them to translate it into Italian (obviously threatening 

to compare their result with the original). Asked for some advice, I told 

the students that they were not to be disturbed by the idea that there was an 

original (in the same sense in which a translator should not be disturbed by 

the suspicion that there is a Perfect Language, a reine Sprache, somewhere in 

the skies). They had to consider the translation as if it were the original, and 

they had to decide what the purpose of that text was” (emphasis mine). 

6. The preface cited by Anissimov on pp. 471-72 as the source of her citation 

differs significantly from the original Italian. It is unclear from her note 

whether it is taken directly from the preface or has been adapted together 

with another source. 

7. “Può essere a questo punto scontato citare Freud e le sue negazioni che 

affermano: 

‘Lei domanda chi possa essere questa persona del sogno. Non è mia madre’” 

(Rosato, “Poesia” 425). 

8. Italo Rosato (“Ad ora incerta” 96), Marco Belpoliti (Primo Levi 125), and 

Cesare Segre (xxiv) have all noted Levi’s poetics of repetition, the former two 

in terms of “ripetizione e accumulazione” and the latter in terms of “anafore.” 

None, however, have attempted to place Levi’s tendency to repeat phrases 

and words in the context of traumatic repetition, as I hope to do here. 

9. Branca Doria (or d’Oria) (1233-1325) was a Genovese Ghibelline nobleman 

whom Dante places in the division of Cocytus, the realm of the treacherous, 

specifically reserved for murderers of guests and friends; his sin is the 

murder of his father-in-law (Singleton 624). 

10. In the essay “La vergogna” (I sommersi e i salvati), Levi discusses at 

length the feelings of guilt that he and his fellow survivors experienced after 

their liberation from the camps. One of the essay’s main themes is Levi’s 

assertion that the “salvati” who survived to tell about the horror of the Holocaust 

are the minority, and that it is the majority, those who “hanno toccato 

il fondo,” who constitute the norm of the Final Solution’s reality. As such, 

the survivors are not the true witnesses to the horrors of the extermination; 

rather, the “sommersi” are the only ones who would have been able to truly 

testify to the extreme capacity for evil of mankind: “sono loro, i ‘mussulmani,’ 

i sommersi, i testimoni integrali, coloro la cui deposizione avrebbe avuto 

significato generale” (64). 

11. I am grateful to Mrs. Feldman for her generous willingness to discuss 

her translation of this poem with me in our phone conversation of 26 Feb.


2000; unfortunately, however, she was unable to explain her decisions with 

regard to this particular passage. 

12. Brian Swann collaborated with Feldman on the first translation of Levi’s 

collected poetry, Shema (London: Menard Press, 1976, for which the pair 

won the 1977 John Florio Prize) and as such is listed as a co-translator on the 

revised and expanded 1988 publication, Collected poems (London, Boston: 

Faber and Faber, 1988). However, according to Myriam Anissimov’s 1995 

Levi biography, Feldman translated all of the additional poems—including 

the 1984 “Il superstite” —by herself. This assertion is borne out by the fact 

that in Moments of Reprieve, Feldman’s 1986 solo translation of many of Levi’s 

short stories, including those originally printed under Levi’s La stampa rubric 

and in 1981’s Lilít, the same translation of “Il superstite” stands in 

epigraph to the text. 

33

Oil on canvas, detail.

Lost and Found in Translation: 

A Personal Perspective 

by Rina Ferrarelli 

Italians divide their country into three parts, northern, central and 

southern. Some of the northern and southern so-called dialects 

are as different from standard Italian as Portuguese or Spanish, 

and are, like them, separate languages, Italian being a language the immigrants 

had to learn in school. That I had to learn in school. Those of us from 

the North and the South--I’m excluding central Italy because all those regions 

are close to Tuscany which was the source of the language from which 

Italian evolved and their languages may in fact be true dialects--those of us 

from the North and the South had to abandon our mother tongue and learn 

another language, the Italian language, at a very young age. 

At the age of five or six, before we left our countries of birth for a 

foreign country, we were translating from the mother tongue into Italian, 

what I call our father tongue. And with it we translated ourselves from the 

motherland, the folk culture which was either matriarchal or a state between 

the two, into the fatherland, la patria, a national concept and a national 

project. Today, because of the history we have lived through, we do 

not like the connotations of the word fatherland, but that is what patria translates 

into, the root being from pater in Latin. Pater became patre in my vernacular, 

padre in Italian, father in English. Also, the nation is patriarchal in 

its ways. Ethno-linguists might tell us that the countries that use fatherland, 

different as they are among themselves, are probably even more culturally 

different, or were at one time, from countries whose language has them 

say motherland or homeland. 

The Italian language and the culture that was imparted with it were 

used to unify the peninsula and the islands in the twentieth century, and to 

give all the various tribes a common tongue and a common identification. 

It was in fact a kind of naturalization, for in the translation, we lost 

some aspects of our identities and acquired others. The mother tongue had 

an intonation, diction and syntax that set us apart from other Italians, even 

people from the same general area. It not only pinpointed us to a region, 

but to a particular town. We recognized each other through our speech as 

through a habit or dress, a costume. 

I grew up in San Giovanni in Fiore (Province of Cosenza in the region 

of Calabria), and I remember coming home from school every day with 

news of the new tongue I was learning. Guess how we say marmitta (pot) in 

Italian? I would ask my mother, and then quickly answer myself: Péntola! 

Frissura (frying pan)was padella, forgiaru (blacksmith) fabbro ferraio! Tappini 

(slippers) were called pantófole, and table cloth which we called misale was

36 


called tovaglia da tavola. And these differences in vocabulary were not exceptions 

but the rule. I also brought home words of other lives, for which 

we had no equivalents and no experience, such as ananàs (pineapple), banana, 

dátteri (dates). When I went to middle school, where I was taught by 

teachers who had studied Latin and Greek for many years, I discovered 

that some of the words in my vernacular were from Greek--catoia, collura-and 

that some had retained the ancient pronunciation for the oi diphthong 

vasilicoi for básilico. Later, when I read La Divina Commedia, I learned that 

some of the meanings still current in my so-called dialect but no longer so 

in modern Italian were used in Dante’s time: stipare, for instance, for putting 

things away in a stipo (cupboard).. The language has a vocabulary that’s 

different from Italian, a smattering of French and Germanic words, as well 

Italian words whose endings are closer to Latin; in addition, we pronounce 

the first syllable of the word mamma as a nasal schwa, and have a nasal 

tight rendering of other phonemes. 

We don’t trill or roll our rs. We say them against our teeth. Our metaphors 

are different: while in Italian stir-fried vegetables are affogati 

(drowned) in my mother tongue they’re startled; our syntax is the same 

with few exceptions: we use the possessive as a suffix, instead of a separate 

word before the noun, not mio padre (my father), but pátrema. Again, when 

I say my dialect, my vernacular, I mean the spoken, not written tongue, of 

my home town. Not my province, my region, but my hometown. 

Mastering Italian, the living language we had to use at school and 

with strangers, was the biggest challenge of my life between the ages of 

five and fifteen, and the beginning of what would turn out to be a long 

trans-lation, a life-long picaresque journey. As long as I lived in my hometown, 

I was always translating. One language at school, one at home and in 

the neighborhood. We were expected to speak Italian with the people from 

out of town, translating sometimes for them if they did not understand the 

shopkeepers. It was only when I went away to school at the age of ten to 

attend a college prep school—my town did not have one at that time—that 

I switched to Italian for good. 

Still, I enjoyed listening to the poetry recited in the mother tongue. 

I’m thinking of the satirical poems written for carnevale, the verses of exaggerated 

praise improvised for certain new year’s celebrations, as well as 

the serious dialect poetry which was sometimes published in the paper. 

It’s a thrill even today to hear anything literary in that language. An unusual 

occurrence. It’s hard to find poets let alone books. People were discouraged 

and even punished for speaking the mother tongue, or rewarded, 

as I was, for using the Italian language correctly, and they were never asked 

to write in it. The vernacular is by definition unwritten. Even so, some poets 

chose to write in it. Unfortunately, they seldom found an audience outside 

of their towns. What Luigi Bonaffini has done in this country in his 

anthologies of dialect poetry, collections which offer the original mother 

tongues, as well as the Italian versions and the English, is indeed a rare


treat. These books are collectibles. Dialect poetry, until recently, was 

marginalized in the Italian culture. For the reasons I mentioned. Italy was 

perceived to be too fragmented and there was a movement toward union. 

But also for other more practical reasons. When a poet writes in the Italian 

language, his work can be read and understood by every Italian. When his 

work is in his own dialect, not in ours, the rest of us will need notes or a 

translation into Italian. But it’s hard to ignore the thrill, when a work is in 

your own spoken tongue, the pleasure of the familiar, of the ordinary in an 

extraordinary setting. 

The other huge leap in my picaresque journey was switching from 

Italian to English after I emigrated. Total immersion was easier in this setting. 

I lived in a culture and in a household that spoke English—the uncle 

and aunt with whom I lived for the first two years spoke Italian and did to 

me at the beginning, but ran the household and communicated with each 

other and their children in English. And I was fifteen and in school, at St. 

Justin’s High School because my relatives didn’t think much of the public 

high school. And school fills the whole day in this country. After a few 

days or a week of orientation with a girl named Roberta who knew Italian, 

I was on my own. In a fog, a dark wood. Fortunately, Sister Marcella, the 

French teacher, convinced the principal that I’d do better if she tutored me, 

and took me under her wing teaching me English through French. My school 

girl French! But I did not know English and she did not Italian. French was 

the only language we had in common. 

Neither French nor Italian, however, helped me with the pronunciation 

of English vowels, the a in cat, the o in got and i in pit being very difficult. 

In some other cases I couldn’t even hear the difference and, in others, 

words that were supposed to have the same vowel sound—like a grade 

school child I was learning groups of related words-- did not when spoken 

outside the classroom. Not to my ear. At that point, no one mentioned dialectal 

variations.It was hard to lift words and phrases out the common run 

of the spoken language.Anything with been and being, to give one example, 

became slurred, and for a long time, I didn’t know which word had been 

used. 

For the next two or three years, while I was learning English in school 

and first hand in the larger American community, I was also learning the 

unofficial language that some of the older Italians spoke among themselves, 

including my Aunt Mary, my mother’s sister, who was not old, but had 

emigrated from Italy in her twenties and had not gone to school to learn 

English. To understand my Aunt and the older Italians, especially my landlady 

when I was in college, who did not speak English and did not speak 

Italian, the father tongue, I had to learn the Italian-American dialect which 

Ferdinando Alfonsi (Almanacco, 1992) has called Italese, and which is made 

up of English words with Italian suffixes. And with English meanings even 

when the made-up word corresponds to an actual word in the Italian language. 

I learned that parkare means to park; storo store, giobba job, renta 

37

38 


rent, shoppa shop, garbaciu garbage, groceria grocery store--the list could be 

very long—and that carro does not mean cart, as in Italian, but automobile, 

and fornitura does not mean supplies or fittings, but furniture. I never spoke 

this dialect myself, but I needed to know it. My landlady spoke a mixture 

of an Italian vernacular mixed with this Italian American dialect. 

In all of these exchanges, losses and gains. I went to see American 

movies, and they were no longer dubbed. Although this might seem a gain, 

I perceived it as a loss. I could no longer lose myself in a movie. I couldn’t 

understand what people were saying or follow the plot. And I was also 

expected to read American and English books in the original, a long timeconsuming 

process. What an innocent I had been abroad in my own country. 

I had read English works in translation as if Alcott, Swift and 

Shakespeare had written in Italian. I had watched American movies dubbed 

in Italian and had asked no questions, seen no discrepancies. I never noticed 

how the lips moved. Or whether the gestures did not go with the 

words. What if cowboys spoke in long musical sentences instead of monosyllables? 

I had never heard a cowboy speak English, neither in real life nor 

in a movie. Didn’t know if he spoke a dialect, nor if there were dialects. 

How was I supposed to know that certain taciturn, reticent types went 

with certain landscapes? When I came to the States and told my new friends 

about this wonderful western I had seen, which starred Alan Ladd against 

the background of gorgeous mountain peaks, and they said, Shane, I did 

not recognize the title. I wasn’t sure at first that I was getting through, but 

even before I mentioned the Italian title--it had been translated into Il 

Cavaliere della Valle Solitaria (The Horseman/ Knight of the Solitary Valley), 

a title they found amusing because of its length-- I could see from the way 

their eyes sparkled, the way they talked, that the film had been as moving 

and attractive in English as it had been in Italian. In this case too, I had not 

been much aware of the translation, neither of the movie nor of the title. 

Still, the amazing thing is that the story, and in the case of Shane, the nobility 

of the character and the strong theme came across despite the differences. 

I had the same experience discussing the movie Julius Caesar, which I 

had seen in Italian. The famous speeches and the key scenes had all come 

across. The mediums in this famously well-acted and produced movie had 

been the drama, the pictures, the force of the personalities brought to the 

screen by the actors, with the language, even in Italian, acquiring authority 

from them, aside from what the translator had been able to do, which I was 

not in a position to judge. I was then the person for which translation is 

meant. Perhaps this is a commonplace which we sometimes forget. We 

translate for those who don’t know the language. 

I am not now that ideal reader/viewer of Shakespeare in Italian. Some 

excellent translations of Shakespeare in the romance languages don’t sound 

anything like Shakespeare to me. But, then, how could they? Still, they bor-


der on the absurd. And I’m saying this after translating hundreds of Italian 

poems into English and feeling that I was doing a fairly good job. English 

has great synthetic power, and Shakespeare is master of syntactic concision, 

a great inventor of verbs; while the forte of Italian is the strong phrase, 

the musical phrase. 

When I was growing up I never considered translation as one version 

of the original. I had no idea what the differences between the two might 

be, the different approaches and complementary results, or that different 

versions might be needed for different purposes. Despite a spoken vernacular 

that deviated in major ways from Italian, which was in fact another 

language; despite the study of Latin and French, I took translations 

into Italian for granted just as the natives of any place take their language 

and mores for granted --as the only way something is said and done. No 

matter what the language, one’s way of seeing the world through words 

becomes the way it is. Translation, in this frame of reference, is seen as the 

same piece of writing with the very same words but in a different language. 

I did not entertain the idea that translators have to interpret what 

they read, and may interpret the same passage differently, or that if a word 

is ambiguous in one language, the same word might not be in another language. 

Carta can be both paper and map in Italian, but has to be one or the 

other in English; sueño is both sleep and dream in Spanish, but has to be 

one or the other in English. It’s impossible to ignore the context, but even 

that does not solve all the conundrums. It takes a conscious effort to realize 

that every piece of literature is another way of seeing, another way of doing, 

of being, not only of a people, but of a particular person living at a 

particular time and place-- every experience being filtered through the individual 

consciousness and sensibility of the author-- and that authors have 

affected in major ways, if they’re Dante, Cervantes, Shakespeare, the language 

they have chosen or inherited. 

Dante chose to write his epic-length poem in the spoken tongue rather 

than in Latin, the literary language. And he consciously forged a national 

language out of his own Tuscan dialect. A language all writers had to subsequently 

learn, regardless of their mother tongue. Alessandro Manzoni, 

who is given credit for developing the historical novel in the nineteenth 

century, and for enriching the language of prose, was a northern Italian 

who started with the language he had learned in school and then, he said, 

went to Tuscany to rinse it in the waters of the Arno. 

Translators not only have ways of reading (first level of interpretation); 

they have ways of re-creating through their choices (second level of 

interpretation) character and literary persona, diction and syntax, rhythm 

and sound, tone. Sometimes they have to invent what their own language 

does not have to come out with an equivalent. The translation is always the 

product of a symbiotic relationship, for the translator’s interpretation of 

the original and her sense of her own language, of the language of literature 

always play a part. 

39

40 


Still, most of us even today ask no questions, or, with a little knowledge, 

swing to the opposite position and assume the worst, and are quick 

to cry, Traduttore traditore (translator traitor), unaware that in every translation 

there are losses and gains, and that, broadly speaking, translation is 

all there is. The original and the translation are both translations, and as 

such, approximations. Authors translate what they see and feel, the experience 

of life into the experience of words, structures made of words, choosing 

out of huge vocabularies, and they may be more or less successful, 

more or less satisfied. What the authors think they have accomplished, how 

much they’ve brought across, can often be different from what readers think. 

Regardless of how it was, how many versions this version went through, it 

is now fixed and the words are all a reader has. The reader who is also a 

translator lets the words take him beyond the words, as close to the experience 

that inhabits the words and that the words conjure as he’s capable of 

going. He has to try to imagine what the author saw or felt, and it is only 

when he has a view, that he can re-create the physical and emotional landscapes. 

A translator has access to the original. For most of us, the approximation 

that we call translation is all there is. Without it, we wouldn’t have 

the Bible, The Iliad and Odyssey, The Aeneid, The Metamorphoses, The Divine 

Comedy, Shakespeare’s plays, The Gilgamesh, The Tao, The Bhagavad Gita, the 

great Russian novels, etc. In fact, even with a second and a third language, 

we would know very little of the world’s great literature. 

Many of the books I read as a child were in translation. And in many 

cases, the name of the translator wasn’t even in the book-- the exception 

being Cesare Vico Lodovici, who translated Shakespeare’s plays--as if one 

translator would make the same choices as any other, given an excellent 

knowledge of both languages! Not only hadn’t the readers given much 

thought to translation, even the people who should’ve known better had 

not given much thought to the art. And in Italy, a great many prose writers 

and poets have also been gifted translators. Sometimes, they too took for 

granted what they did, and so did their editors and publishers. And if they 

didn’t, they didn’t leave us their thoughts about it. In modern times, the list 

of Italian poet/translators includes two Nobel prize winners, Quasimodo 

and Montale; as well as Pavese and Sereni, to mention only four. 

When I started reading English Literature in college with barely a 

year of English—through some translation error, I started college at 16-- all 

of it was equally difficult for me. I had no bias in favor of modern or contemporary 

works as the American students did, and I made no distinction 

between the English and American dialect. Likewise, as a child I read Little 

Women and Gulliver’s Travels in translation and, unlike my children, had no 

trouble with the language. They had to contend with archaic versions of 

English, while I read contemporary Italian translations. The strangeness I 

had encountered had to do with content, with elliptical political and social 

references rather than with terms and phrases that had become obsolete. 

Translation into the language of my time had smoothed the way, and had


given me an experience similar to that of the original readers at the time of 

Swift and Alcott. 

The picaresque journey that is translation has continued throughout 

my life. Not only because learning involves translation; I have been professionally 

involved with translation for many years, in my work, and as a 

poet. When I was still in college, I was asked by the poet Sam Hazo, who 

was one of my English professors at Duquesne University, to translate a 

few poems of Quasimodo. I did, and that started me on my way, publishing 

them in Choice, a poetry journal edited by John Logan. But that was the 

beginning and the end for many years. Life intervened. I had no time write 

or translate when my kids were little. But when I started working, still 

part-time and at a research job in anthropology with a flexible schedule, 

my languages came into play again. I read and translated from ethnographies, 

some of whom were in French, Italian and Spanish. It wasn’t until I 

was through with this project that I started literary translation again. I have 

since rendered into English hundreds of individual poems, and I have collected 

some of my translations of modern Italian poets in three books: the 

poesie-racconti of Giorgio Chiesura, who spent two years in various German 

internment camps during WWII; the lyrics of Leonardo Sinisgalli; and 

most recently the work of Bartolo Cattafi, a Sicilian poet, forthcoming from 

Chelsea Editions. 

I always translated from Italian into English. For the past year, though, 

I’ve undertaken the arduous task of translating my own poetry into Italian. 

And for reason that I’m trying to fathom, it’s proving to be much more 

difficult, much harder and time consuming than translating into English. 

After doing so much translating of poetry, some of it nationally recognized, 

I’m beginning to feel how impossible the task is, how preposterous at times. 

Utterly necessary—I have to remind myself over and over that I’m doing it 

for people who don’t know English, some of them close friends—and utterly 

baffling. 

I don’t know for sure why I feel so differently about translating into 

Italian. It’s true that I have not been back in Italy for several years, and that 

the language that was fresh in my ear has now become faint. Not that the 

language of poetry has much to do with the spoken tongue. Still, the point 

is valid. Also true that I always write in English, think in English, and have 

done so for decades, and that I seldom have much chance to speak Italian. 

The most significant reason, perhaps, might have to do with the fact that 

I’m translating my own poems, work that I feel is finished, that I have abandoned 

and left behind. Thus, the challenge of reading, digging, understanding, 

of discovering another persona, of hearing another voice is missing, 

and this, which should make things easier, make them go faster, slows everything 

down instead. I’m not terribly interested in going over old poems, 

in reworking them in another language, even Italian. No, I’m not, not especially. 

But I am doing it. And through it, I’m coming full circle. I’m reversing 

the process. Writing in English about my childhood in southern Italy, I 

41

42 


had to find ways to say things which did not exist in this culture, I had to 

interpret my experiences and present them so they could be understood. 

I’m now exploring the Italian language with a maturity which I did not 

have in my teens, availing myself, when applicable, of my knowledge of 

the mother tongue, and also interpreting—for language even without setting 

is a bearer of culture—the immigrant’s American experience for the 

other side.

Translating by the Numbers 

by John DuVal 

I 

was raised in the faith and discipline of the New Criticism, scrutinizing, 

dissecting, and reassembling that exquisite monument, the 

poem itself. A frequent implication of the New Criticism was, 

“There’s only one way to say something and that’s how the great poet said 

it.” Thus if Keats wrote, “When I have fears that I may cease to be,” he wrote 

to be because to be was the perfect expression, far better than to exist or to live, 

and may cease to be was better than may die. It was our job as students to 

explain why to be was best, and woe to the smart aleck who claimed it was 

best because it rhymed with charact’ry. 

This approach was useful because it taught us to learn from the masters, 

how they packed the maximum meaning into every word despite the 

requirements of meter or rhyme. It was also useful in that we learned to 

cherish the words of the great craftspeople of our language. Where it failed, 

I believe, is in not paying due respect to the language itself and the infinite 

choices it offers of saying almost the same thing, with infinite slight and 

delightful variations and always a hint that a phrase could be better phrased. 

For us translators the New Critical approach is still useful in that it 

encourages us to study each word and each phrase of an original to learn 

what the original writer has done to make it so wonderfully what it is. The 

problem is that it directs us straight to the Slough of Despond, where we stay, 

sunk and moping unless Faith in the language we are translating into pulls 

us out. We will not find in English the phrase that G.G. Belli, for instance, 

wrote in Romanesco, the dialect of the people of Rome, but given how slowly 

our minds work and how vast our language is, we can always discover 

another phrase like it, and then another, and if we keep looking, we may find 

a better one than the ones we found before. 

I had thought the following translation of a poem by Trilussa, another 

Romanesco poet, was finally and after much struggle finished when I had 

this down on paper: 

To Mimi 

Do you remember our first rendezvous 

behind the Convent House, alone 

together in the cloister? We carved 

each other’s name into the ancient stone 

I wrote, Fourteen May, 

Nineteen hundred. Here Carlo kissed Mimi. 

Twenty years. And yesterday 

as I reread the names and the date,

44 


I found myself regretting 

the blessed, painful time that slipped away. 

I saw you once more, just as you had been, 

wearing a pretty lilac dress. You’d pinned 

roses in your hair. 

“Everything fades,” I said. “Nothing can stay. 

The words I chipped from marble with a knife 

still glitter in the noonday sun, 

but not enough to summon back to life 

a thing that’s gone.” 

I stood in sorrow there beside the wall, 

when suddenly I saw another date 

and other names: “Rosa and Paul, 

August twenty-eight 

seventeen hundred twenty-three. 

Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul, 

he’s worse off than me.” 

Six months earlier than that version, I had thought the translation was 

finished, and I had been wrong then. I had translated the Carlo and Mimi of 

Trilussa’s Romanesco into Charley and Mary: 

Fui io che scrissi: “Qui 

Carlo baciò Mimi. 

Quindici maggio millenovecento.” 

Più de vent’anni! Pensa! Eppure, jeri.... 

I wrote, Twelve February, 

nineteen hundred. 

Here Charley kissed Mary. 

I think it might have been the chance of rhyming Mary whimsically 

with a Romanesco word in the original, jeri (yesterday), which first inclined 

me toward the English names. Also I was fascinated by how, in this poem 

about the passage of time, the poet had handled words that marked off time: 

months and years, dates. There was a whole hendecasyllabic line for one 

date, Quindici maggio millenovecento (15 May 1900) rhyming interestingly 

with convento, and ventotto agosto (28 August) rhyming with posto and 

millesettecentoventitré (1723) rhyming with me. In English it would have been 

easy to rhyme May (maggio) with yesterday, but I wanted a cleverer time 

rhyme, one that reflected Trilussa’s flair for words: February/Mary. What 

difference did the month make when everybody knows that given the right 

weather in Rome, the noonday sun can glitter as brightly in February as in 

May?

John Du Val 

But with the name Charley I was missing something. Trilussa had been 

Trilussa since he was eighteen. He even signed his name Tri. But he was born 

Carlo Alberto Salustri. Carlo. For a poet who described his poetry and his 

personality as a series of masks, this mention of his almost-forgotten (well, 

forgotten by me anyway!) first name was a moment of delicious intimacy in 

a volume of translations where it would not appear elsewhere. 

Also, as the months went by, it dawned on me that February is not May, 

no more than age is youth or disillusion hope. January wasn’t May either. 

Carlo, Mimi, and the month of May too were all written back into the poem. 

While I was at it, I changed Rosa, who had been Rose in the English, back to 

her original name, but Paul, whose name in Romanesco was Pasquale, stayed 

Paul to rhyme with the wall on which he had carved his name. Now, I thought 

the translation was finished, and I submitted it, just as it appears at the 

beginning of this article, in a volume of translations from Trilussa for the 

University of Arkansas Press. 

One of the outside readers for the University of Arkansas Press, however, 

going over the manuscript before its publication, did not think the 

translation of the last line was finished: “‘He’s worse off than me’ is a grammatical 

error; than is a conjunction not a preposition; me should be I, as in 

“‘He’s worse off than I am.’” 

I knew that. This is one of those few instances in English where what 

everybody says is an error and what is correct is pedantic. 

“You’re right, John” replied Miller Williams, the editor of the Press and 

the poet and translator who had introduced Trilussa to me. “But,” he added 

gently, “your error comes at the end of the poem, where it’s so obvious.... 

Look, you don’t have to rhyme the end of the poem with three. Paul could 

have been in love with Rosa in 1724 or 1725 or even in 1726. What difference 

does it make?” 

Of course. I could translate by the numbers. Vistas of alternate endings 

opened before me. To be systematic, I began with 1721. 

seventeen hundred twenty-one. 

Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul, 

he’s done worse than I’ve done.” 

There. I had scored with my first shot. The grammar was correct without 

being pompous, the rhyme was perfect, and the line meant pretty much 

the same as the original: 

“...li ventotto agosto 

der millesettecentoventitré.” 

Allora ho detto:--Povero Pasquale, 

sta un po’ peggio de me. 

I read the English to myself aloud. Maybe I hadn’t scored. Something 

45

46 


was wrong. The present perfect tense seemed to imply that if only Paul pulled 

himself together, and did something, he might still come out all right. Paul 

was a dead person; I was making him sound like a failure in the business 

world. 

I changed the tense. 

...”Poor Paul, 

he’s doing worse than I’ve done.” 

No. The present progressive tense inspires us to ask, “Just what is poor 

Paul doing down there?” Decomposing? The problem was more than the 

tense; it was also the too active rhyming verb, done. 

And do would not do when I got to 1722. Nor would too, being a homonym 

rather than a rhyme (“I’m bad off; well, he is too!”) as well as for other 

reasons. You might do. Carlo could address his fellow lover across the centuries 

instead of merely meditating on his fate. 

seventeen hundred twenty-two. 

Then I whispered to the stone, “Poor Paul, 

at least I’m better off than you.” 

Almost, but no. This was more comic than the Romanesco, but not as 

kind. In the original, the emotion goes outward; self pity blossoms into sympathy. 

By ending in you rather than me, Carlo seems to be taking not only 

consolation, but satisfaction in knowing that someone is worse off than he 

is. The you sounds almost taunting, whereas “He’s worse off than I am,” 

shakes the speaker out of his self pity. Translating a little closer to the original 

might help: 

...”Poor Paul, 

I’m still a little better off than you.” 

A little for un po’ had not worked well rhythmically with worse off, but it 

did work with better off, and it tempers the sense of sneering, if it were only a 

little more sympathetic.... 

But there were more numbers. I might try three again, varying the last 

line: 


Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, 

it’s worse on him than me.” 

Here the problem is that it in the last line has no clear antecedent. We 

understand that Paul’s loss is worse on him than my loss is on me, but then 

it has to stand for two different antecedents: Paul’s loss and my loss, an 

ambiguity which fuzzes up the poem at the crucial ending. 

Four: 

seventeen hundred twenty-four.

John Du Val 

Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul! 

What am I feeling sorry for myself for?” 

There are a number of technical problems with the four solution: a) the 

last line is unmetrical and too long; b) the poem now ends with a homonym 

again rather than a rhyme; c) the two for’s in the last line clunk 

unharmoniously together; d) the sentence ends with a preposition, which, 

not ordinarily a problem, gets excessive emphasis at the end of the poem. For 

some reason I was fond of this solution anyway. Maybe the technical flaws 

gave it a kind of humor in accord with the sardonic Romanesco, but nobody 

that I showed it to liked it. 

Five: 

seventeen hundred twenty-five. 


he’s got it worse than I’ve.” 

The less said about that the better. 

Six: 

seventeen hundred twenty-six. 


he’s in an even worse fix. 

I don’t think that makes Paul sound like a cat, but it’s still unpleasantly 

comical to picture Paul’s condition as one which, if he were only clever 

enough, he might be able to get out of. 

Seven: 

seventeen hundred twenty-seven. 


he’s worse off than I am, even.” 

This is not bad. The even makes perfect sense: I’m bad off, but he’s even 

worse. But at the end of the sentence, when the sentence could have ended 

perfectly well without it, even sounds as if the translator stuck it there simply 

for the rhyme, which he did. 

Eight: 

seventeen hundred twenty-eight. 


his is an even worse fate.” 

Here there is an infidelity to reality not in the original: Paul’s fate is not 

worse than Carlo’s, because they have the same fate, death. Paul’s just happens 

to be sooner. Perhaps 

He’s even in a worse state.” 

47

48 


There is no infidelity to reality in this alternative, but the line is too 

funereal, as in “laid out in state.” 

Nine: 

seventeen hundred twenty-nine. 


his case is worse than mine.” 

Case is too clinical. Other abstract words, such as predicament or situation 

or (of course) state either bring on other associations in conflict with the 

original or are too vague. 

Ten: 

seventeen hundred ten. 


he’s worse off than I’ve been.” 

No. It is late in the poem to be introducing an Arkansas accent, rhyming 

been with ten. Also, Carlo’s concern is with how he feels now, standing by 

the wall, not with how he has felt in the past. 

seventeen hundred eleven . . . 

Same as seven. 

Twelve: 

seventeen hundred twelve. 

And then I whispered to the stone, “Poor Paul, 

and I was feeling sorry for myself!” 

This is a little too far from the literal for my comfort. Other than that, I 

don’t know why I don’t like it, but I don’t. 

Thirteen: 

seventeen hundred thirteen. 


and I thought I was hurting!” 

Here the language becomes a little too with-it, too contemporary. Also, 

it evokes the metaphysical question of whether Paul, having died, is now 

experiencing Purgatory or worse, a question that has no place in this poem. 

I wrote more, with rhymes for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.... There must be 

better endings, but mine get worse. You don’t want to hear them. After considering 

every alternate I could devise and laying them all out on little scraps 

of paper on my bed and after all I have said and all I have claimed about my 

precious English language, despite my fondness for the seventeen hundred 

twenty-four solution and despite the grammatical problem which precipi-

John Du Val 

tated this discussion, I liked my first choice best. I decided that it might be the 

context, rather than the line, that needed changing, because Trilussa’s 

Romanesco, though by no stretch of the imagination ignorant sounding, is 

conversational, and I felt that he would, if he had been writing in English, 

have written the kind of grammatical error that people condemn only in 

writing, never in conversation. But did my language sound conversational 

enough throughout the poem? I went back through the translation and 

changed the barely eloquent line seventeen, “but not enough to summon 

back to life,” to “but not enough: they don’t bring back to life....” And I changed 

the self-consciously elegiac, “I stood in sorrow there beside the wall,” to, “I 

stood there, feeling bad beside the wall,” a perfectly correct sentence in English, 

but colloquial enough even to make some readers suppose that the 

incorrect “feeling badly” would be more dignified. 

Finally, before the anthology Tales of Trilussa went to press, I went 

back through all the poems, making tiny adjustments toward a more conversational 

English in the hopes that readers would not fault the English version 

of “A Mimi” for a technicality, and on page 54 I printed, 



he’s worse off than me.” 

49

“Paso ardientte”, oil on canvas.

Traduzione da altre lingue 

nel dialetto molisano 

di Giose Rimanelli 

Uno dei maggiori traduttori nonché critico contemporaneo 

dei vari dialetti italiani in lingua Inglese, Luigi Bonaffini, in 

occasione dell’uscita del primo numero di una nuova rivista 

di traduzioni da lui diretta, Journal of Italian Translation gentilmente 

m’invita a collaborare con un qualcosa in linea con l’etica linguistica del 

Journal, ricordandomi quanto segue: 

“Dato che in Gioco d’amore Amore del gioco 1 hai tradotto poesie dal 

provenzale ed altre lingue nel tuo dialetto, ho pensato che potresti parlare 

di questo tuo libro e della problematica di tradurre in dialetto testi che 

appartengono sia alla tradizione romanza sia alla letteratura 

contemporanea. Potresti anche citare l’altro molisano che si è cimentato 

in tal senso, cioè Beppe Jovine che ha tradotto Montale. Lui dice che in 

dialetto si può esprimere tutto, ma è chiaro che il problema principale è 

quello di rendere un testo scritto in lingue sofisticate come il provenzale e 

l’inglese, che appartengono a tradizioni letterarie molto ricche, in un 

linguaggio molto più povero e con scarsi riferimenti culturali.” 

Bonaffini è un principe nell’arte della traduzione e sua lessicografia, 2 

mentr’io mi considero in quell’arte un dilettante, e le ragioni o cause sono 

due: Bonaffini conosce la profonda semantica dialettica-orale dei dialetti 

italiani (e culturalmente degli antichi, devo credere), mentr’io - da 

narratorein più lingue e poeta - mi considero solo un curioso delle lingue 

in genere, essendo il mio metodo non esattamente quello del “traduttore” 

ma del novello studente il quale - come appunto accade in Gioco d’amore 

Amore del gioco - traduce col vocabolario in mano dopo aver controllato le 

grammatiche delle lingue in corrispondenza con quelle che lui già conosce. 

Si tratta di un “gioco” infatti, come appunto il titolo del mio libro dichiara, 

che sempre comporta tuttavia un gran rischio: sballare concetto e ritmo 

della determinata lirica del tale autore, inventandone una propria con 

una certa vis comica o, alla Cicerone, obbedendo alla Virtù come guida, a 

braccetto con la Fortuna. 

A parte il Provenzale, che fu mia curiosa necessità adolescenziale di 

studio al di là della noia, cercai anche di annusare latino e greco in un 

Istituto di Frati Minori Francescani nei miei anni puberi; e ripeto che cercai 

di studiarli soprattutto come diversivo alla mia quasi “naturale” noia 

d’ogni cosa; vivevo infatti come in una bottiglia d’acqua con solo la testa 

fuori, respirando aria, quindi parole, idee di gente lontana in tempi lontani 

che, poi mi accorsi, mi stavano accanto più vivi dei miei collegiali 

compagnucci. Mi accorsi infatti che, mentre sfuggivo un certo ordine di


educazione monastica trovavo libertà, cioé sollievo e rifugio su 

grammatiche e vocabolari, attratto anche (sebbene non “specificamente”) 

da grammatiche di tedesco e inglese, mentre quelle di francese e spagnolo 

erano le ufficiali, sanzionate dal curriculum, quindi da praticare come 

studio obbligato. 

Ma io ero innamorato del Provenzale. Da ragazzo, in quel collegio 

di Frati Minori, inconsciamente appresi (per istinto all’inizio) che vi sono 

due tipi di amore: quello umano e quello divino. Il punto interrogativo 

era comunque questo: è possibile unirli eliminando il dualismo? Rabbrividii 

un tantino quando, crescendo, riflettei che “dualismo” indica sia 

“contrasto” che “copula.” E’ possibile che stiano bene insieme? Me ne 

convinse più tardi, verso gli anni quaranta, un libro di Mario Casella sul 

trovatore da me più amato, Jaufre Rudel, che appunto incorporò nella sua 

lirica i “termini” dell’umano e del divino. E anche a quel tempo riflettei, 

sebbene azzardosamente, che il concetto di amore, umano e divino, poteva 

anche ridursi - nella mente più che nella coscienza - a un gioco: e questo, 

più tardi negli anni, non poté infine non incorporare anche il filosofico 

concetto di Eros e Thanatos, da me già percepito (sebbene non inteso) 

nella mia prima e quasi infantile lettura di Jaufre. 

Da quell’Istituto francescano me ne andai al quinto anno - io ne 

contavo 15 - decidendo contro il noviziato e il sacerdozio. Scelsi male, 

comunque: uscendo nel mondo di fuori mi trovai improvvisamente di 

fronte alla guerra, la follia del destino, la salvezza miracolosa a diciannove 

anni e l’immediata scrittura da parte mia del confessionale libro di guerra 

Tiro al piccione, pubblicato solo anni più tardi. 

Vi è sempre un 2 nella vita, un binario per il treno infatti, che conduce 

o condurrebbe da qualche parte, mentre con il numero 3 potremmo 

finalmente giungere alla salvezza: il sacrificio della meditazione, la 

liberazione da noi stessi e persino l’accettazione della morte di noi stessi. 

Io sono passato attraverso questi cicli, e ne scrissi. E però il numero 2 per 

me resta come catalista verso la vera vita: creatività. Il libro Gioco d’amore 

Amore del gioco vuole esplorare la sottile malizia cerebrale della poesia su 

latitudine internazionale per quanto riguarda il soggetto fragile-labile 

chiamato amore, sul quale tuttavia vive, sopravvive e genera la copula 

umana Lui e Lei... 

Le lingue di queste poesie sono state esplorate, controllate e 

comparate prima di essere state tradotte... nel mio dialetto molisano, e 

dal dialetto quindi ritradotte nella lingua ufficiale italiana. Si è trattato di 

un esperimento quasi impossibile: il ricco delle varie lingue ridotto al 

povero del mio dialetto, per infine accorgermi che tanto povero non lo è 

poi. Ho riaperto a caso Gioco d’amore Amore del gioco mentre scrivevo queste 

righe, e fuori son venute pagine 96-97, latino/dialetto, per subito realizzare 

che il mio dialetto, pur linguisticamente ristretto, a volte ha la possibilità 

di coesistere quasi letteralmente con altre lingue, come - ad esempio - in 

questo difficile tedesco di Paul Celan, Irisch:

Giose Rimanelli 

Gib mir das Wegrecht 

über die Kornstiege zu deinem Schlaf, 

das Wegrecht 

über den Schlafphad, 

das Recht, dab ich Torf stechen kann 

am Herzhang, 

morgen. 

Dàmme vije libbere 

ngòpp’i scale de rèndìneje dénd’u 

suónne tije, 

vije libbere 

p’a vijèrèlle d’u suónne, 

a libbertà de tèglià u càrevóne 

nu mmiézze d’a’mmèrze 

demàne 3 

Ricordo che qualcuno, giustamente lodando Luigi Bonaffini, lo 

paragonò a “quel monaco del monastero medievale impegnato a salvare i 

dialetti della nostra lingua.” 28 Ed io ricordo Bonaffini che in un suo 

intervento sulla poesia e l’arte del tradurre venne fuori con una frase 

memorabile, come a volte sono le autobiografie, questa: “Quando gli oggetti 

sono spariti, ci rimangono le parole, e queste devono essere sufficienti per 

esprimere lo spirito di ciò che si è perso.” E le parole sono il dialetto dei 

nostri primi passi nella vita. Così anche commenta un nostro magnifico 

dialettologo, Franco Brevini, certamente alludendo ai poeti espatriati dalla 

lingua ufficiale e, come in un esilio, tornati alla mammella materna, il 

dialetto. 

Sia quel che sia, Bonaffini e Rimanelli sono degli espatriati 

nell’America dei padri emigrati, per i quali il legame più forte con la loro 

infanzia, e la terra da cui provengono - il Molise - è appunto il “parlato” 

del loro primo balbettare, oggi sostanza e sostegno del loro discorso, il 

dialetto appunto! 

Note 

1. Giose Rimanelli. Gioco d’amore amore del gioco. Poesia provenzale in 

dialetto molisano e lingua. (Cosmo Iannone Editore, Isernia 2002). 

2. La similitudine allegorica mi risporta al traduttore-esegeta. 

3. Irlandese. Dammi via l;ibera / sulle scale di granone dentro il tuo 

sonno, / via libera / per il viottolo del sonno. / La libertà di tagliare il 

carbone / sul cuore del pendio, / domani. 

4. Vedi anche Annalisa Buonocore. Dialettali e Neo dialettali in Inglese. 

Prefazione di Cosma Siani. (Edizioni Cofine, Roma, 2003). 

53

Quadrato magico.

Traduzioni/Translations

In Answer to a Translator’s Last Six Questions 

(Raffaello Baldini 1924-2005) 

by Adria Bernardi 

Adria Bernardi’s novel, Openwork, will be published in fall 2006 

by Southern Methodist Univerity Press. She is the author of In the Gathering 

Woods, a collection of stories, which was awarded the Drue Heinz Prize, 

and a novel, The Day Laid on the Altar, which was awarded the Bakeless 

Fiction Prize. She has translated Gianni Celati’s Adventures in Africa, the 

poetry of Tonino Guerra, Abandoned Places, and a theatrical monologue by 

Raffaello Baldini, Page Proof. She teaches at the Warren Wilson MFA Program 

for Writers. 

Born in 1924 in Santarcangelo di Romagna, Raffaello Baldini published 

six poetry collections, all written in the romagnolo dialect of Italian: 

E’ solitèri (Galeati, 1976), La náiva (Einaudi, 1982), Furistír (Einaudi, 1988), 

Ad nòta (Mondadori, 1995), as well as La nàiva, Furistír, Ciacri (Einaudi, 

2000). Intercity, was published by Einaudi in 2003. His collection Furistír 

was awarded the Viareggio Prize. Baldini wrote three theatrical monologues: 

Carta canta, Zitti tutti! and In fondo a destra. He died in Milan in 

March of 2005 

In the poem “Water,” what does concredendo mean? 

It means only “credendo.” Believing. There are no further allegorical, 

liturgical or philosophical significances to this con-credendo, with prefix? 

It’s not an old word, dialect word, with multiple meanings, meanings on 

multiple levels? No. 

In the poem, “Water,” do the friends, with whom the narrator attends 

the spectacle in the theater, remain in their seats? Correct. They do 

not accompany him up onto the stage to confront the huckster-performer 

wearing the shabby jacket? Correct. 

After fleeing the lower levels of the theater that has flooded with water, 

the narrator climbs flight-of-stairs after flight-of-stairs, opens door after 

door, and meets a card-reader with cards all laid out on a table; is this 

card-reader a man or a woman? I think it’s probably a man. 

What does the dialect term o roviè mean? in your poem, “Candles.” It 

just means ho cominciato — I started. That’s it? That’s it. 

Un bel piatto? The translator wants to get this exactly right. He exhales. 

How can I explain it? He was in great pain. Each word cost him. 

Not a small plate. Not a huge plate. A plate substantial enough to hold a 

candle when you’re coming upstairs from some dark place. 

About the phrase, È qualcosa di vivo—something living, something

58 


that’s alive, a living thing? Is this an evocation of a particular line of poetry? 

No. 

The verb tenses must be changed: 

“He lives in Milan, where he has resided since 1955.” 

“He has been supportive and encouraging of this translation.” 

“He has been generous of his time.” 

“All of his six poetry collections and his three theatrical monologues 

are written in the dialect of the town of his birth, Santarcangelo di 

Romagna.” 

“His work has been awarded the Viareggio Prize,the first time this 

prestigious prize was awarded to a work written in a dialect. His most 

recent collection was awarded the Campana Prize.” 

“His poems are intense internal monologues in which generally only 

one of the interlocutors gets to speak.” 

“His themes are reflected in some of these titles: Solitude, Outsider, 

Small Talk. Each poem moves towards and resists Death.” 

Few of his poems are free from parenthetical asides, digression, non 

sequitur. His narrators also wander into anacoluthon, that is to say ending 

a sentence with a different structure from that with which it began. His 

poems employ the rhetorical techniques that form the backbone of argument: 

indignatio 

memopsis 

oiktros, 

erotesis 

orcos 

threnos 

ara 

decsis 

diasymus 

aposiopesis 

apostrophe 

In the end his spine 

caused great pain, 

a tall, thin man. 

The rhetorical techniques of argument are defined in this way: 

indignatio, impassioned speech or loud, angry speaking 

memopsis, complaining against injuries and pleading for help

Adria Bernardi 

oiktros, evoking pity or forgiveness 

erotesis, rhetorical question implying strong affirmation or denial 

orcos, oath 

threnos, lamentation 

ara, curse or imprecation 

decsis, vehement supplication of gods or men 

diasymus, disparagement of opponent’s arguments 

aposiopesis, stopping suddenly in midcourse, leaving a statement 

unfinished 

apostrophe, breaking off discourse to address directly some present or 

absent person or thing 

Dove sei? (Where are you?) 

an oratorio in four tempos for soloist, chorus and piano. 

The translator read it late one night, 

intending to phone the next day to ask 

if it was possible to get a copy of the music. 

There was a message on the answering machine. 

The translator was feeding paper 

into a printer, catching yet more errors. 

Mumbling and imprecations. 

Cartridge out of ink. Empty paper tray. 

A computer talking back: Printing Error. 

White stacks on floor, 

packages prepared for release 

to known addressees 

to reach the unknown interlocutor. 

The window was open in Milan. 

motorbikes sputtering, 

a tram creaking and rolling past on rails, 

movement away from the receiver, 

and footsteps echoing away, 

then returning, pages rustling. 

Here it is, he said. 

59

Sefirà e il f. vita


E’ sènt 

Ció, mè a i craid, io ci credo, in un qualcosa, 

e a n mu n vargògn, mo non pretendo mica, 

mè, la zénta, par mè, i à da fè ognéun 

come si sente, sgònd la su coscienza, 

a n sémm piò témp d’na volta, mè a déggh sno, 

quant a sint zért dischéurs fat a 1’arvérsa, 

mo ‘s’ut dischéut, è un sentimento quello, 

ta n’e’ cnòss, lasa stè, pórta rispèt, 

ch’è anche un mistero, s’ ta m’e’ dmand mu mè 

quèll ch’a sint, a n’e’ so, 

mè quant a so tla cisa, u n gn’éintra i prit, 

csa vól déi, è la nostra religione, 

mo a n so bigòt, mè, a i vagh, 

te ta n mu n cridaré, si sèt dè fa, 

un dopmezdè, a paséva, ò détt: a m férum, 

tla Colegèta, e dréinta un frèsch, Pepino 

l’era dri ch’e’ spazéva, mè d’impí, 

da zétt, at cla penòmbra, 

e 1í il pensiero, a 1 so ch’è in ogni luogo, 

mo però in chiesa, e tè dàila si prit, 

zért ch’i sbàia ènca lòu, 

sono esseri umani come noi, 

parchè, néun a n sbaiémm? che quèst l'è un mònd 

ch’a duvrésmi ès fradéll, volerci bene 

uno con l’altro, invíci, 

non vedi l’ingiustizia, 1’egoéisum, 

la cativéria, ch’a n sémm mai cuntént, 

che mè dal vólti a i péns, s’ t’éss rasòun tè 

ch’e’ finéss tótt aquè, cumè, mo ‘lòura 

i à d’avài rasòun sémpra i prepotent? 

rubé, mazè, basta sno no fès zcruv, 

se al di sopra di noi non c’è nessuno, 

mo tè la nòta ta n guèrd mai d’insò? 

tótt’ cal stèli, migliéun, 

questi mondi infiniti, andémma, zò, 

un essere supremo u i à da ès, 

che li ha creati, a n so sno me ch’a i craid, 

u i n’è tint, profeséur, grandi scienziati, 

ta n sé piò tè ch’ nè lòu? mo fa la próva, 

sta s’una mena verta, sta ‘lè di an, 

sémpra verta, csa crèssal? du quaiéun, 

gnént piò gnént e’ dà gnént, ci vuole un Dio, 

che basta un sóffi, ed è nata la vita,

Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 

The Saint 

So. I believe, I believe in it, in a something, 

and I’m not ashamed, but I’m not at all claiming, 

I, people, as far as I’m concerned, each one has got to do 

however one experiences it, according to one’s conscience, 

we’re not living in the old days anymore, I’m just saying 

when I hear certain discussions, arguing otherwise, 

what’s there to discuss, it’s merely one opinion, 

I don’t agree, then let it rest, have respect, 

that it is a mystery as well, if you ask me 

how I feel about it, I don’t know, 

but when I’m in church, the priests have got nothing to do with it, 

how can I put it? it is our shared religion, 

but I’m not some pious bigot, I go there, 

you’re not going to believe me but six days ago, 

one afternoon, passing by, I say: I’m going to stop, 

in the Collegiata, and inside it was so cool, Peppino 

was in there sweeping, I was standing, 

silent, in that half-light, 

and the thought came to me there, I know it is present in every place, 

but in church, and you, you really have it in for the priests, 

of course even they make mistakes, 

they are human just like us, 

why? you think we never make mistakes? this is a world 

where we should all be brothers, love one another, 

as one’s self, but 

don’t you see the injustice, the egotism, 

the cruelty, we are never content, 

which makes me think sometimes, 

if you’re right 

that it all ends here, how can that be, so then 

the ones with power always win? 

robbing, killing, it’s bad enough they never get caught, 

if up above us there is no one, 

haven’t you ever looked up there? 

all those stars, millions, 

arrived, crying, it’s her mother, 

you can imagine, and the two of us, in the hallway, 

waiting, how long will it be? what are they doing to her in there? 

to my wife? by this time it was morning, 

My Lord! Mother of God! in these moments 

I don’t know how those who don’t believe get through it, 

it is a need, to address someone, 

that you are in his hands, he can help you out, 

63


e a sémm aquè ch’à bazilémm, che mè 

‘ta bón, va là, u i n’è óna tótt i dè, 

u m’è vnéu la finènza ir, i è stè ’lè 

a scartablè dagli òuri, 

i à fat un gran verbèl, par do fatéuri, 

e dis ch’u i amanchéva ènca dal bòlli, 

va a zcòrr sa lòu, 

tanimódi qualquèl i à da truvè, 

u s buscarà du bòch, mo t’avdiré-che, 

e irisàira un nervòus, 

ma chèsa, da par me, no, la Jolanda 

a la ò manda in muntagna, 

sla Silvana, a Madonna di Campiglio, 

la s’à da divaghè, dop quell ch’ la à pas, 

amo cumè, quatr’òuri sòtta i férr, 

che cla sàira, mo gnént, émmi magnè, 

spaghétt in biènch, 

puràzi, du tri sgómbar marinéd, 

émm guèrs ènch’ la televisiòun, pu a lèt, 

e a una zért’òura a sint: «Carlo, a stagh mèl», 

«T n’é digeréi ?», «L’è dal curtlèdi, aquè», 

«T’é bsògn d’andè de córp?», ció, ‘s’ut ch’a géss, 

agli óngg la stéva bén, può zais la luce 

e ò capí tótt, ò ciamè Giunchi, via 

te bsdèl, e un’òura dop la antréva zà 

tla sèla operatória, ch’ l’è rivàt’ 

la Silvana, t’un piènt, li la su mà, 

t si mat, e alè nun déu, ‘t che curidéur, 

a spitè, quant u i vó? csa i fai adlà 

ma la mi mòi: l’era bèla matéina, 

Madòna! Signuréin! at chi mumént. 

mè a n’e’ so cmè ch’i fa quéi ch’i n’i craid, 

è un bisogno, rivolgersi a qualcuno, 

che sei nelle sue mani, u t pò ‘iuté, 

parchè Alesandri, brèv e sol che brèv, 

mo al su paróli, quant l’è scap, l’à détt: 

«Questo è stato un miracolo, che se 

tardava tre minuti», e mè alè ò tach 

a piànz, a réid, una nòta cmè quèlla, 

s’a n so s-ciòp, mo ò capéi tènt’ ad cal robi, 

che questa vita, in fondo, e’ basta gnént, 

e néun ch’a s cridémm d’ès, 

tótt’ la nòsta imbiziòun, mo da fè chè? 

siamo tacati a un filo,


because Alessandri, I can’t say enough good things about him, 

but his words, when he came out, he said: 

“This is a miracle, if it had been 

three minutes later,” and I started crying, right there, and laughing, 

if it hadn’t burst, but I understood a lot after those things, 

that this mortal life, when it’s all said and done, nothing’s ever 

enough, 

and we, whatever it is we believe in, 

all our ambitions, for what? 

we are holding on by a thread. 

because in the hospital I saw Nandi, I didn’t recognize him, 

he’d gone down to have X-rays taken, we talked and then 

saying goodbye he squeezed my hand, 

without looking at me: “But fifty’s 

a little early,” and he went away with the nurse, 

I didn’t know how to answer him, and then during the night, 

those words, I thought about them, 

because he, yeah, a real wheeler-dealer, true, but everyone 

likes money, let’s be honest, plus with deals, 

if you don’t do it someone else will, 

he’d bought out Cecchi months ago, 

and now even Armanda, alone, 

a woman, we were talking the other day 

about Paolino Campidelli, he goes strictly by the books, 

and he ends up in that living hell, in that case instead, 

but this is not the time, with that boy, 

who he bragged about, think about that, then, try to understand, 

it’s that they have too much, but it’s not all their fault either, 

his mother, all he had to do was ask her, 

and his head, or was it someone he associated with, 

one year? it must be two by now, 

and he doesn’t write, nothing, 

they don’t hear a single thing, 

it’s as if he’s dead, 

and I know him well, Paolino, when I needed some help, 

he always worked hard, he never screwed 

anyone, why then is he castigated 

in this way? I don’t know, but even yesterday evening, 

that girl, who I’d passed 

just five minutes before, 

they went right up on the sidewalk, killed instantly, 

what wrong could she have done? 

I know, they’re questions, 

but I see certain things, 

which is a sin, I know, but if there is a God, 

65


che te bsdèl ò vést Nandi, a n l’ò ‘rcnunséu, 

l’andéva zò a fè i raggi, émm zcòurs, e pu 

te salutém u m’à tnú strètt’ la mèna, 

senza guardèm: «Però a zinquèntun’an 

l’è un pó prèst», e l’è ‘ndè véa sl’infermír, 

che mè a n gn’ò savú ‘rspònd, e dop la nòta, 

cal paróli, a i ò péns, 

parchè léu, sè, afarésta, mo i baócch 

i i pis ma tótt, andémma, pu i aféri 

s’ ta n’i fé tè u i fa un èlt. 

ch’ l’éva còmpar da Cecchi si méis fa, 

e adès ènca l’Armanda, da par li, 

‘na dona, ch’a zcurémmi l’altredè 

ad Palín Campidèli, léu strétt, 

e pu alazò a l’inféran, alè invíci, 

mo adès u n’è e’ mumént, sa che burdèl, 

ch’u s stiméva, fighéurt, pu, va a capéi, 

l’è ch’i à trop, u n’è gnénca còulpa sóvva, 

la su mà, léu bastéva ch’e’ dmandéss, 

e tla su testa, o l’è stè qualch’ cumpàgn, 

un an? i è bèla déu, 

e u n scréiv, gnént, u n s sa gnént, è come morto, 

ch’a 1 cnòss bén, mè, Palín, quant ò vú bsògn, 

l’à sémpra lavurè, u n’a mai freghè 

niseun, e parchè ‘lòura castighél 

at sté modi? a n’e’ so, mo ènca irisàira, 

cla burdèla, ch’a séra pas d’alè 

zéinch minéut préima, i la è ‘ndèda a tó sò 

se marciapí, dis an, morta se còulp, 

che mèl pòla avài fat? a l so, l’è dmandi, 

mo mè vdai zérti robi, 

che è peccato, lo so, mo se c’è un Dio, 

però ènch s’u n gn’è, al mi mèssi, al cumagnòun, 

mo no sno mè, tótt quéi ch’i va tla cisa, 

tótt’ cal candàili zàisi, 

tótt’ al cisi, quant u i n’è mai te mònd, 

bèli, grandi, par gnént? che mè a San Pitar, 

m’arcórd, u m’è vnú la chèrna pléina, 

no, una fede ci vuole, 

cs’èll ch’a sémm, di animèli? a sémm di brécch? 

émm e’ zarvèl, druvémmal, 

ci sarà una ragione, un fundamént, 

che adès a n gn’arivémm, mo però un giorno 

u s capirà iniquèl,


which even if there isn’t, all of my masses, communions, 

but it’s not just me, all those who go to church, 

all those lit candles, 

all the churches, how many of them are there in this world? 

beautiful, enormous buildings, for nothing? I, at St. Peter’s, 

I remember, I got goose bumps, 

no, you need a faith, 

what are we, animals? are we donkeys? 

we each have a brain, we make use of it, 

there’s got to be a reason, a basis, 

which we don’t get right now, 

but one day 

everything will be understood, 

there’s got to be a purpose, because if not, 

if it doesn’t matter, 

if this world is just an Instant Lottery, 

where if your number comes up you don’t even know 

if you’ve won or if you’ve lost 

these are discussions, these are, 

which the inside my head, afterwards, is roiling, I can’t stand it, 

but I think about this every so often, 

you have to do it, today 

people just don’t want to think about anything, 

just having fun, 

and they make fun of you, a girl on the train, 

last year, with her friends, I’d said: We are all smaller, 

because everyone does whatever he feels like doing, that the world 

isn’t right and from here it will only get worse, 

and she said, “From where?” they all laughed, what did I say, 

“We’re not going to wait our turns in line, there’s too many of us,” 

and I wanted to answer her right back, but I kept quiet, 

then I got off, these kids, I don’t understand, 

they think in a certain way, 

but sometimes in Rimini, on the street, 

I’m standing there for a minute, there are a lot of them, I mean lots, 

where are they all going? pfft! what are they all doing? 

and in summer, at the beach, in the Piazza Tripoli, 

talking all different languages, what are they saying? 

then the thoughts, which sometimes 

I stay there and watch them for a half-hour, another half-hour, 

and at night I dream of ants, 

the pavement, covered, even the stairs, they’re black, 

some that fly, they’re walking over, they crunch, 

they form little mounds around me, 

and I say: standing here, for them, 

67


u i à da ès un vérs, parchè se no, 

s’l’è tótt cumpàgn, 

se aquè sté mònd l’è sno una loteréa, 

che s’e’ vén e’ tu nómar ta n sé gnénca 

se t’é véint, se t’é pérs... 

l’è zchéurs, mè, quést, 

che la testa, a m’imbròi, dop, a n gn’aréss, 

però a i faz d’ogni tènt, bsògna fèi, òz 

la zénta invíci i n vó pensè ma gnént, 

sno divertéis, 

e i t tó ènca in zéir, una ragaza in treno, 

an, si su améigh, mè a géva: a s sémm ardótt, 

tótt i fa quèll ch’u i pèr, e dop e’ mònd 

u n pò andè bén, e adlà e’ sarà ènca pézz, 

e li: «Di là?», i ridéva tótt, cs’òi détt? 

«Non ci stanno più dietro, siamo troppi», 

e mè alè a i vléva arspònd, pu a so stè zétt, 

dop a so smòunt, sti zóvan, a n’e’ so, 

i ragiòuna t’un módi, 

però dal vólti, a Rémin, par la strèda, 

ch’a m’aférm un mumént, i è tint, dabón, 

dò ch’i va? boh, csa fai? 

e d’instèda, a maréina, in piazza Tripoli, 

ch’i zcòrr at tótt’ al lèngui, csa girài? 

pu i pensír, che dal vólti 

a stagh alè a guardèi par dal mèz’ òuri, 

e la nòta a m’insógni tótt’ furméighi, 

e’ sulèr bróst, ènca i scaléin, i è nir, 

u i n’è ch’al vòula, a i caméin sòura, al scrécca, 

u m s fa i patéun, e a déggh: mè què par 1òu 

a so e’ Signòur, dò ch’a pas l’è la guèra, 

a pòs fè tótt, fiumèna, taremòt, 

sémpra tl’insógni, e u m ciapa una paéura, 

a m svégg ad bot, a vagh ma la finestra, 

i lómm ch’u i è, la zénta, sl’autostrèda 

i n s férma mai, e mè aquè spèsa i véidar, 

a pi néud, sal mudàndi, 

e a pràigh, ò tróv un sènt te calendèri, 

ch’a n faz e’ nóm, mo a n l’ò mai sintí déi, 

quèll che ‘lè, a so sichéur, a 1 cnòss sno mè, 

la Jolanda la sbròuntla: «Mo l’è al quatar, 

csa fét?», e a n’i dmand gnént, 

a n vi nisuna grèzia, tanimódi 

quèll ch’e’ pò fè léu u 1 fa, mo u n m’arimpórta, 

ènca s’u n pò fè gnént, mè a so ch’ l’è ‘lè,


I am the Lord, wherever I am is war, 

I can do anything, make rivers overflow, earthquakes, 

still in the dream, I get afraid, 

I wake up wide awake, I walk to the window, 

lights out there, people, on that highway, 

they never stop, and I’m here facing the window, 

bare feet, in my underwear, 

and I pray, I find a saint on the calendar, 

I don’t want to say his name, but he’s one I’ve never heard talked about, 

I’m sure I’m the only one who knows that one, 

Jolanda’s complaining, “It’s four in the morning, 

What are you doing?” and I don’t ask him for anything, 

I don’t want any grace, it’s enough 

that he’ll do whatever he can, but it doesn’t matter, 

even if he can’t do anything, I know that he’s there, 

that I pray and that he hears me. 

Water 

I, it was my buddies, you go, you go, 

for laughs, and I walked up, there were six or seven of us, 

he’d set up chairs, and seeing him 

up close, he was slight, with this shabby jacket, 

and, man, was he was frenetic, 

jabbering away, in five minutes 

I was already dazed, he talked a mile a minute, 

there I was, head hanging down, 

where have I ended up? he picked Mirko first: 

“Observe all the butterflies! here is the net, now catch them!” 

and Mirko, intent, with that butterfly net, is running, he’s leaping up, 

as if there were moths, then he stopped him, 

he was pointing like a bloodhound, people were saying: “Come on, 

it’s right there,” he, flick, swoosh, and that guy: “You have caught it,” 

he slapped him on the back: “Congratulations!” 

next he picked Dato and Carlín di Faiòun, 

he positioned them in front of him: “Brrr, it’s freezing!” 

they started to shiver, they were stomping their feet, 

they blew into their hands, “And this snow 

is wicked!” they turned up their collars, 

both of them standing, they opened an umbrella, Dato 

pointed it down low into the wind, 

Carlín right there behind him, hunched over, his cap jammed 

down to his ears, and I sat there, 

with my arms crossed, what is this garbage? 

69


che mè a pràigh e che léu u m sta da sintéi. 

Aqua 

Mè, l’è stè chi burdéll, va tè, va tè, 

par réid, e a so ‘ndè sò, a sérmi si sèt, 

léu u s’à dè dal scaràni, e a vdail alè 

da davséin, l’era znin, s’na sèrga léisa, 

mo 1'éva la tarèntla, 

e s’una parlantéina, in zéinch minéut 

u m’éva zà invurnéi, ‘na machinètta, 

mè a stéva a testa basa, 

dò ch’a so capitè? 1'à tach da Mirko: 

«Quante farfalle! ecco il retino, prendile!», 

e Mirko, séri, s’ ché ridéin, córr, sèlta, 

cm’u i fóss dal pavaiòti, pu u s’è férum, 

e’ puntéva cmè un brach, la zénta: «Dài, 

ch’ la è ‘1è», léu, tac, ‘na bota, e cl’èlt: «L’hai presa», 

u i à batéu s’na spala, «Complimenti!», 

l’è ‘ndè da Dato e da Carlin ‘d Faiòun, 

u s’i è pustè davènti: «Brrr! che gelo!», 

lòu i à tach a bublé, i batéva i pi, 

i s sufiéva tal dàidi, «E questa neve! 

una tormenta!», i s’è tiràt sò e’ bèvar, 

tutt du d’impí, i à vèrt 1’umbrèla, Dato 

u la puntéva basa còuntra e’ vént, 

Carlín di dri, gubéun, se brètt calchèd 

fina agli urècci, e mè disdài alè, 

brazi incrusèdi, mo cs’èll ch’ l’è sta roba? 

mè a so vnéu concredend ch’e’ foss di zugh 

d’abellità, si fazulétt, sal chèrti, 

ch’i t taia la gravata, robi acsè, 

da divertéis, ch’i s chèva la bumbètta 

e e’ vòula véa ‘n pizòun, mo fè e’ zimbèl, 

no, no, a n’i stagh, ò un esercéizi, mè, 

‘na clientela, ò una riputaziòun, 

e’ zcòrr s’un èlt: «Ti piace 

la Guzzi California?», a n’e’ cnòss quèll, 

«Eccola qui, è la tua, la vuoi provare ?», 

e st’ pataca e’ partéss, brrrum! brrrrum! 

a caval d’na scaràna, 

mè a n’e’ so, mo i n s n’incórz ? i n sint la zénta ? 

che Dato 1'è impieghèd ma la Pruvéinza, 

e Carlín, ènca léu, l’à mòi e fiùl,


I came here believing it was going to be games 

of skill, with handkerchiefs, cards, 

that they’d cut your tie in two, stuff like that, 

entertainment, a top hat 

and out flies a dove, 

but to make people laughing-stocks, 

no, no, this I won’t stand for, I have a business, I, 

have a clientele, I have a reputation, 

he’s talking to someone else: “Would you like 

to have a Guzzi? the California model?” I don’t know that 

particular model, “There it is, it’s yours, would you like to take it 

for a ride?” 

and this idiot takes off, vroom, vroom, 

straddling a chair, don’t these people get it? do people just not listen? 

Dato, he’s got a staff position for the Province, 

and Carlín, even him, he’s got a wife and kids, 

how could he have pulled this off? did he trick them? 

what could he have said to them? you will not thwart me, you will 

do as I command, 

or maybe he promised them money? but he’s coming this way, oh no, 

he looks at me out of the corner of his eye every so often, 

it would be quite a feat to put me to sleep, 

or what if I fake it? 

whatever he wants, for awhile, it would be hilarious, 

then, this would be the best part: “That’s enough now, I’m bored, 

I’m going to get a cup of coffee, see you guys later,” 

now that would really thwart him, then afterwards 

people would run him out of town, poor guy, they’d chase him all 

the way to Cesena, 

no, no way, I’m telling you no, you’re not glomming on me, 

that’s that, but then what if it has consequences for him? 

I go ahead and just let him say it: “This fellow is not an appropriate 

subject,” 

then I go back to my seat and that’s all she wrote, 

meanwhile my friend over there on the Guzzi is not slowing down, 

he’s leaning into all the curves, he’s going to end up falling, 

it’s been going on for a quite some time now, 

no, that’s it, he’s stopped, if I could just say something to him, 

for his own good, so he could come back to his senses, 

but there’s no way to do it, I wave to him, no response, 

doesn’t he understand? is he afraid? come here, 

you might have gotten into an accident, he’s gone over to someone 

else now: 

“You have a great gift,” 

that fat guy, the redhead, who works at the methane gas plant, 

71


cm’àl fat? u i à intraplè? 

csa i avràl détt? nu m’arviné, fé mód, 

o u i à prumèss di bócch ? però aquè u n vén, 

u m guèrda d’ogni tènt sla còuda dl’òc, 

la sarà gnara indurmantèm mu mè, 

o magari fè féinta, 

tótt quèll ch’e’ vó, pr’un pó, u i sarébb da réid, 

pu te piò bèl, «Adès basta, a m so stóff, 

a vagh a tó un cafè, a s’avdémm, burdéll», 

che ta l’arvéin dabón, la zénta dop 

i i da dri, me puràz, fina Ceséina, 

no, gnént, a i déggh ad no, sa mè la n taca, 

e basta, ch’ pu l’è robi ch’al suzéd, 

u 1 pò déi: «Questo qui non è il sogetto», 

mè a tòuran te mi pòst e bonanòta, 

e quèll dla Guzzi u n mòla, 

e’ pènd tal curvi, e va finéi ch’e’ casca, 

sno che què la vén lònga, 

no, ècco, u 1 férma, s’a i putéss dí quèl, 

ènca par 1éu, ch’u s pòsa regolè, 

mo u n gn’è mèzi, a i faz ségn, e léu cmè gnént, 

u n capéss? l’à paéura? vén aquè, 

ch’u t végna un azidént, l’è ‘ndè da un èlt: 

«Lei ha avuto un gran dono», 

che gròs, gag, che lavòura me metano, 

u s’i è fisé: «Ci farà questo onore? 

È qui con noi un artista di grido», 

u s’è sintí rógg: «Italo, sei grande!», 

e Italo l’è stè sò, l’à fat ad sè 

sla testa, l’è vnú ‘vènti, 

l’à tach a ócc céus «Una furtiva lacrima», 

u n déva invéll, la zénta: «Bravo! bravo!», 

i n l’à las gnénch’ finéi, i vléva e’ bis: 

«Che gelida manina! », « No! », da un pèlch 

d’ilt i à dè sò: «Fin che la barca va!», 

«Che gelida manina! », «O sole mio!», 

«Fin che la barca va!», «Mamma!», un caséin, 

u n s capéva piò gnént, 

éun sla pila, tla sèla, cmè un curtèl, 

da d’in èlt u i à ‘rspòst un’èlta pila, 

dal saètti te schéur, 

e sémpra piò cagnèra, 

alòura Gufredín l’à zais al luci, 

mo 1'è stè pézz, te luzòun i s’è méss 

a bat i pi: «Vogliamo i soldi indietro!»,


he’s zeroed in on him: “Will you grant us this honor? 

We have here among us an artist of first order” 

he shouted, “Italo, you are magnificent!” 

and Italo stood up, he nodded yes, 

he walked to the front, 

he closed his eyes, “Una furtive lacrima,” 

he didn’t hit a single note, people were shouting, Bravo! Bravissimo! 

they didn’t even let him finish, they wanted an encore: 

“Che gelida manina!” “No!” from another row 

others were yelling out: “Fin che la barca va!” “Mamma!” It was a 

zoo, 

you couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying, 

one guy had flashlight, in the hall, slashing it around like a knife, 

someone else answered with another flashlight, 

making lightening bolts in the dark, 

there was even more of a ruckus, 

so Goffredino turned on the lights, 

but that made it worse, in the balcony they started 

stomping their feet: “We want our money back!” 

it was chaos, the light bulbs were flickering, 

some of the hotheads down there were coming to blows, 

some of the old people got up and scurried out, their heads bent over, 

coats draped over their arms, 

we were completely silent up on the stage, watching, 

he was watching too, then he strutted out: 

“All eyes on me!” with that smirk, “Everyone stop! 

Cease! This is an order!” and at that exact moment 

a crash onstage and all this spattering, 

what’s going on? they’d thrown a bag of water, 

then another, and another, my pals, I said: 

Hey! what do you think you’re doing throwing it here? 

oh but they thought it was just fine, 

water, bags, great fun, 

they were horsing around, they started lifting the chairs 

over their heads, for protection, the legs turned up, 

another bag, the redhead pointed a finger: 

“Giorgio! I saw you!” whistles from above: 

“Referee! Are you blind? Do you need glasses?” then everything 

pelted down, 

pieces of carob, apple cores, banana peels, orange peels, a can of Fanta, 

a barrage, which if you were to get hit, and this? you filthy pigs, 

it’s not water, and where is he? oh, there he was, 

his ears all slick and shiny from his hair cream, 

sweating, with his crooked bowtie, 

“It’s really coming down now, it’s time to make a break for it,” 

73


un purbiòun, e’ treméva al lampadéini, 

di scalmanèd ad sòtta i s’atachéva, 

qualch’ anzièn u s’alzéva e véa cuvéun 

se capòt sottabraz, 

néun tótt zétt se pelcsènic a guardè, 

e’ guardéva ènca léu, pu u s’è indrizé: 

«A me gli occhi!», s’na zurma, «Fermi tutti! 

fermi, vi dico!», e própia at che mumént 

una bota se pèlch e tènt ‘d chi squézz, 

cs’èll stè? i éva tiràt un sachètt d’aqua, 

pu un èlt, un èlt, i mi cumpàgn, mè ò détt: 

«Ció, aquè cm’a la mitémmi?», mo lòu sè, 

aqua, sachétt, l’era un divertiment, 

i zughéva, al scaràni, i s li era mèssi, 

par arparès, gambi d’insò, sla testa, 

un èlt sachètt, e’ gag l’à punté un daid: 

«Giorgio, a t’ò vést», da d’in èlt di gran fés-ci: 

«Arbitro, occhiali! », pu l’è vnú zò e’ mònd, 

pézz ‘d carobla, tursóll, bózzi ‘d banana, 

ad melarènza, un busilòt dla Fanta, 

pin, ch’ s’i t ciapa, mo quèsta, brutti porci, 

u n’è aqua, e duv’èll léu? l’era alè, 

u i luséva agli urècci ad brilantina, 

sudéd, se nòtal tórt, 

«Aquè u s’è smòs ‘na vèggia ch’ l’è mèi còisla», 

a i ò détt, léu u m’à guèrs: «Se ce la fai», 

«S’a gli à faz mè? mo mè chi vut ch’ m’aférma?» 

«Non parlo della gente», «E ‘lòura?», «L’acqua», 

«Sté pacéugh?», «Cresce», «Mo sèt òt sachétt», 

«È un’altra cosa», «Come un’altra cosa?» 

e te zcòrr a m so mòs, orca, a sguazéva, 

mo quèsta addò ch’ la vén? ch’i apa las vért 

un rubinètt, aquè, ad sta baraònda, 

mo là spèsa u i sarà pò qualcadéun, 

u i vó póch, «Non si ferma», 

«Marà farmèla invíci, fai un rógg», 

«È tardi», e ò sintí un giàz, éva i pi a bagn, 

a so mòunt s’na scaràna, csa suzédal? 

che un mumént fa, mo èl dóbbi, Gufredín 

dò ch’ l’è? u n s n’è incórt? u n vaid? 

u i n’era bèla quatar dàida, spórca, 

pina ad cichi, ad ziréin, 

e mè ch’ò d’andé chèsa, cmè ch’a faz? 

pu quèst, ‘s’ut rubinètt, 

u s’è ròtt un cundótt, l’è un canòun d’aqua,


I said to him, he was looking at me: “If you can.” 

“If I can? me, who’s going to stop me?” 

“I’m not talking about the people,” “What then?” “The water,” 

“This mess?” “It is getting bigger,” “Just seven or eight bags,” 

“There’s something else,” “What do you mean, something else?” 

and while we were talking I got drenched, what the hell? I was soaked, 

a faucet? here, in all this mayhem? 

there’s got to be someone behind this, 

it wouldn’t take much, “It is not stopping,” “But it’s got to be stopped, 

give them a yell,” “It’s late,” I felt ice-cold, my feet were wet, 

I jumped up on a chair, what’s going on? 

because a minute ago, it could be, Goffredino? 

where is he? does he not realize? doesn’t he see? 

there’s already three inches, it’s filthy, 

it’s full of cigarette butts, matchsticks, 

and I, I need to get back home, what am I going to do? 

now this, it’s not a faucet, 

the water-main has burst, it’s a flood, 

someone, come on now, go notify the police, 

because if it’s not cut off, and be quick, it’s really gushing, 

it’s already above the transoms, 

you can see the lights reflecting down into it, I can see myself, 

where are the others? my pals, and him, 

they’re not here anymore, how did they get out? and the pandemonium 

out ahead, it’s all collapsing, no, it’s the cover 

of the prompt box which has given, 

the water has made another route, 

it’s receding, listen to how it’s rumbling below, 

it’s gone down, there on the wall 

you can see the watermark, 

or is it? it’s still too soon, it was all the way up to the knees, 

but it must be going down, see how much it’s gone down already, 

but in case it hasn’t, be on the lookout for a landmark, some plaster 

peeling, 

that one, that one I saw earlier in the evening, 

it looked like a leaf on a stem, 

where is it? was it there then? I don’t see it anymore, 

oh no, instead of going down, wait, what’s all that stuff 

coming this way? a loaf of bread? 

completely saturated? bloated, it’s enough to turn your stomach, 

and here, on the seat of the chair, is a puddle, 

the other chairs are moving, 

going in every direction, knocking against each other, 

what’s going on down there? 

a crash of windows breaking, a roar, 

75


qualcadéun, zò, ch’e’ vaga a visé al guèrdi, 

s’ ta n la stagn, e fè prèst, quèsta la córr, 

la è zà mòunta sòura mi cavéi, 

u s’i vaid dréinta i 1ómm, a m vèggh par mè, 

mo e ch’ilt duv’èi? i mi cumpàgn, e léu, 

i n gn’è piò, dò ch’i è pas? e sté malàn 

alè ‘vènti, e’ casca tótt, no, l’à zdéu 

e’ cvérc dla béusa de sugeridòur, 

l’aqua, u s’i è vért un pas, 

la va zò, sint ad sòtta cmè ch’ la arbòmba, 

aquasò adès u s sgòmbra, alè te méur 

u s’avdirà la réiga de bagnèd, 

o no? 1'è prèst ancòura, u i n’era un znòc, 

però la chin calè, quèll ch’ va mai zò, 

se no basta tní d’òc un sègn, un scòurgh, 

quèll alè, ch’a l’ò vést ad préima sàira, 

u m pareva una foia se gambòz, 

dò ch’ l’è? l’era alè dès, a n’e’ vèggh piò, 

ció, mo invíci ‘d calé, spétta, cs’èll ch’ l’è 

cla roba ch’ vén avènti? una pagnòta, 

tótt’ imbumbèda, gòunfia, la fa séns, 

e sla pivira aquè u i è la piscòlla, 

agli èlt scaràni al s móv, 

al va d’in quà e d’in là, al sbat tra ‘d 1òu, 

e alazò in fònd cs’èll stè? 

un scatramàz ad véidar rótt, un sciòun, 

aquè u n s pò spitè piò, sno che dú s val? 

basta, quèll ch’ vén e’ vén, 

che tavuléin, ò slòngh ‘na gamba, dài, 

s’a i putéss arivé, se pi ò tòcch l’òural 

de mèrum, a so stè pr’un pó a cavàl 

tra la scaràna e e’ tavuléin, s’a sguéll 

a m sbrènch, ò fat la blènza, a m so dè e’ slènz, 

ò dvanè un pó sal brazi, a m so indrizé, 

aglia ò fata, ‘ta bón, e un batimèní, 

ch’a m so ènca spavantè, a n mu n l’aspitéva, 

mo sta festa ma chéi? 

mu mè? pu a i ò vést, tótt, 

la zénta mai ch’u i era, i dént a d’ór, 

no, i réid, ta n sint? l’era una sbacarèda, 

i s batéva sal còsci, i s déva ad gòmat, 

i s pighéva, u s’i avdéva tremè al spali, 

i s’asughéva al lègrimi se braz, 

mo pu di sgréss, di céul, al dòni al stéva 

testa d’indrí, u i ridéva ènca al culèni,


you can’t wait here any longer, but where can you go? 

enough, whatever’s going to happen will happen, 

that little table, I’ve extended my arm, come on, come on, 

if I can reach it, I’m touching the marble ledge 

with my feet, I’ve been here for awhile straddling 

between a table and chair, if I slip 

I’m done for, I’m balancing, then this impulse, 

I’ve tilted my arms a little, I’ve righted myself, 

I’ve done it, steady, and then there’s clapping, 

which scared the living daylights out of me, I wasn’t expecting that, 

who’s the applause for anyway? 

for me? then I saw them, everyone, 

tons of people, someone with gold teeth, 

no, they’re laughing, can’t you hear? bursts of laughter, 

slapping their thighs, elbowing each other, 

they were doubled over, you could see their shoulders quaking, 

wiping off tears with an arm, 

but then, there were shrieks and catcalls, women 

with their heads thrown back, even the necklaces were convulsing 

with laughter, 

some were all splayed out, completely disheveled, 

they started coughing, they were choking with laughter, 

a little boy standing in the aisle 

was watching me, they are laughing at me, 

I got dizzy, too much of a din, 

it was all flickering, I raised my hand: 

be quiet, someone yelled out: “Silence in the hall!” 

someone else: “Speak up,” what’s going on with them? 

“Speech!” are they all insane? “We’re all waiting Four Eyes!” 

I don’t dare say a word, plus, what can I tell them? 

“You’re the Boss, you tell us,” all right, be quiet then, “Here, folks, 

whoever can, 

you should get up and go home,” you could hear snickering, 

“It’s nothing to laugh about, you don’t believe me? look, 

no, look at me, up here, at me, don’t you see me?” 

from one row they heckled: “Projector! He’s all out of focus!” 

it was worse than before, now they were hoarse, 

with flushed faces, and over there? 

what’s that rumbling? 

it’s like it’s boiling, plus it’s risen, it’s a gush, 

it was the hole, it had filled up below, 

it was spouting up again, 

and then something broke, this isn’t happening, it was 

like when they open the sluice at the millstream, 

it went down, but a river rises, screams, 

77


d’ilt i era a gambi vérti, tott sbudléd, 

u i avnéva da tòs, i s’afughéva, 

un burdèl u m guardéva 

d’impí te curidéur, i réid sa mè, 

u m ziréva la testa, tropa boba, 

avdéva imbarbaièd, o ‘lzè una mèna: 

sté zétt, éun l’à rugéu: «Silenzio in sala!», 

un èlt: «Hai la parola», cs’ài capéi? 

«Discorso! », mo i è mat ? «Quattr’occhi, dài ». 

ch’a n m’aréisgh, pu csa i dégghi? «Capo, alòura?», 

va bén, sté zétt: «Aquè, burdéll, chi ch’ pò », 

a n’éva e’ spéud, «Quèst l’è un zavài ch’ l’è mèi 

tó sò e ‘ndè chèsa», u s’è sintú sgrigné, 

«La n’è da réid, a n mu n cridéi? guardé 

mo guardém, aquasò, mu mè, a n m’avdéi?», 

da un pèlch i m’à ‘rspòst: Quadro!», la è stè fata, 

pézz ch’ nè préima, i era ormai tótt runchèd, 

dal fazi lóstri, e alè cs’èll ch’e’ sbarbòtla? 

cmè ch’ la buléss, pu la à dè sò, mo un zèt, 

l’era la beusa, sòtta u s’era impéi, 

u la arbutéva fura, 

e pu la à ròtt, u n s’è capéi, l’è stè 

cmè quante mi muléin i éirva e’ butàz, 

la andéva zò, mo una fiumèna, rógg, 

u n s’avdéva piò gnént, 

un nibiòun, a vampèdi, da srè i ócc, 

la m piuvéva madòs, e ad sòtta l’era 

la fèin de mònd, 1’aqúa, u sintéva sbat 

ti méur, u m’arivéva i squézz tla faza, 

ò vést ‘na córda, a l’ò ingranfèda, sò, 

a m so tróv spèsa al quéinti, 

u i era un’asa, cmè un caminamént, 

avènti pò, fina una pórta ad fèr, 

ò vért, un curidéur se tapàid ròss, 

mo quést l’è i pèlch, ò vést scrétt «II Ordine», 

sò pr’al schèli, «III Ordine», un mumént, 

che pèlch sla pórta vérta, fam avdài, 

a so éintar, ò guèrs ad sòtta, mama, 

zénta, pultròuni, gnént, l’era tótt’aqua 

sòura u i baléva plézzi, guènt, capéll, 

e la crèss sémpra, i préim pèlch i è zà a bagn, 

l’è sòtta ènca i sgónd pèlch, èlt che guardè, 

aquè bsògna ‘ndè sò,


you couldn’t see a thing anymore, 

a dense fog, in gusts, it forced you to close your eyes, 

I was in a downpour, and below, it was 

the end of the world, water, you could hear it slapping 

against the walls, my face was being sloshed, 

I saw a rope, I grabbed it, up we go, 

I found myself behind the wing, 

there was a board, like over a war trench, 

careful now, all the way to an iron door, 

I pulled it open, a hallway with red carpet, 

but these are the different tiers, I saw “Level II” written, 

some stairs, up, “Level III,” wait a second, 

that tier with the open door, let’s have a look, 

I went in, I looked down, oh mother, 

people, seats, it was all water, 

on the surface, there were furs, 

gloves, hats, 

and it’s still rising, the first tiers are already submerged, 

the second tiers are under too, but why am I standing here watching, 

you need to get up higher, 

come on now, this is the upper balcony, this is the snack bar, 

I jumped up onto the counter, I got through, 

then stuff everywhere, jam-packed, a storage area, huge boxes, 

crates, sacks, empty bottles, 

if I come down wrong on my foot, ouch, my head! 

what did I hit it on? is it bleeding? on this iron pipe, 

I worked my way behind it, careful, it’s the handrail 

of another staircase, water, below, listen to 

it rumbling, I ran as fast as I could, 

I took it two stairs at a time, 

a door, I grabbed the door handle, 

it gave, it opened, and all the lights were blazing, 

it’s town hall, the meeting chambers, 

there wasn’t a soul, 

I passed through it, into the engineering department, 

from there into the archives, another staircase, this one’s stone, 

narrower, Jesus, look at these pendulums, 

it’s the town clock, they’re nothing but bricks attached to a piece of 

wire, 

and what is happening down below? 

it looks like a storm at sea, over there is an opening, 

three steps, a tiny gate, 

what’s all this stuff flying around, pigeons? 

I was underneath the roof tiles, where’s that music coming from? 

be careful walking, it’s all just laths, 

79


forza, quèst l’è e’ luzòun, quèst l’è e’ bufè, 

a so sèlt se bancòun, a so pas ‘dlà, 

l’era pin ‘d roba, un magazéin, scatléun, 

casi, sach, bòci svéiti, 

s’a vagh zò mèl s’un pi, ahi, la mi testa! 

dò ch’ò batéu? u m vén e’ sangh? sté fèr, 

a i so ‘ndè dri, ‘ta bón, l’è e’ tinimèn 

d’un’èlta schèla, l’aqua, sòtta, sint 

cmè ch’ la gargòia, andéva ad scaranèda, 

du scaléin a la vólta, 

una porta, a m so ciap ma la manéglia, 

la à zdéu, l’è vért, e tótt’ al luci zàisi, 

mo l’è e’ Cuméun, la sèla de cunséi, 

u n gn’era un’anma, 

ò travarsè, a so ‘ndè tl’uféizi tecnich, 

da ‘lè tl’archéivi, un’èlta schèla, ad sas, 

piò strètta, orca, vè i péndal, l’è l’arlózz, 

ch’ pu l’era di madéun lighéd s’na spranga, 

e sòtta csa suzédal? e’ pareva 

cumè un mèr in burasca, alè che béus, 

tri scaléin, un rastèl, 

e’ svulaza dla roba, l’è pizéun? 

a sera sòtta i cópp, mo dò ch’i sòuna? 

aténti a caminé, l’è tótt sturúl, 

se t sgar t vé ad sòtta, e u s sint sémpra sunè, 

sté budèl, u s’i va cuvéun, e què? 

dò ch’a so scap? mo quèst 

l’è e’ pèlch dl’órgan ‘d San Ròch, ècco chi ch’ sòuna, 

l’è du burdéll, i zuga, éun e’ pacéuga 

si tast, purséa, cl’èlt me mèng u m’à vést, 

u s’è férum, i tast i à batú ciòch, 

ad sòtta ò sintí frézz, ‘na pozza ad zira, 

la éva zà cvért i altèr, qualche candàila 

la era ancòura zàisa, 

sla fiamba ch’ la baléva, 

pu u s’è smórt tótt, però alè u m pèr, cla pórta, 

u s va se campanéil, a m’i so bótt, 

sno che i scaléin, lègn vèc, un scricadézz, 

alt, férma, quèst e’ zéd, e’ zóccla ènch’ quést, 

gnént, l’è tótt fraid, ta n vaid alasò ch’ sbrènch? 

e cagli asi spandléun, óna la déndla, 

la casca, plòff, adès a turnè indrí, 

pianin, acsè, ‘d curtèl, tachèd me méur, 

e quèst? che préima a n 1'éva mégga vést 

sté purtunzéin, l’è vért, ‘n’andit, ‘na cambra,


if I stumble, I fall down below, and you can still hear the music playing, 

this narrow chute, if you crawl on all fours, and here? 

where has it belched me out? 

this is the organ loft at San Rocco, that’s what’s playing, 

two kids, they’re playing around, one of them is 

banging on the keyboard, helter-skelter, the other, at the bellows, 

has seen me, 

it stopped, they keys were playing by themselves, 

from below I heard a hissing, a stink of wax, 

it had already covered the altars, a few candles 

were still lit, 

with flames that were flickering, 

then it all went out, 

but over there, it looks like, maybe, that door, 

leads up into the bell tower, I ran to it, 

it’s just that these stairs, the wood’s old, they’re creaking, 

stop, wait, this one’s giving, this other one’s vibrating too, 

it’s nothing, no good, it’s rotten, don’t you see that fissure up there? 

and those hanging boards that are swaying, 

it’s falling, boom, so now go back the way you came, 

slowly, that’s right, it’s angled, the wall’s slanted, 

what’s this? I hadn’t seen it at first, 

this hatch, it’s open, a passageway, a room, 

I held my breath, that’s Father Gaetano, 

at the back of the room, in an armchair, his mouth open, 

without his dentures, he was snoring, forward I go, 

on tiptoes, a step, 

the laundry room, hanging sheets, 

pillowcases, towels, shirts, tablecloths, 

you could get lost here, isn’t that a staircase over there, 

a spiral staircase, come on now, carefully, 

so you don’t slip, what is this smell? it’s like 

carbolic acid, a tincture of some sort, and all these beds, 

in a row, white, where have I ended up? the hospital? 

and this sawdust on the floor, to keep it dry? 

right, keep it dry, can’t you see 

there’s already more than an inch? “Sshh! be quiet!” 

“But sawdust isn’t going to do any good, “ “Quiet, 

because he’s dozed off, just go wherever you need to go,” 

“Give it to me straight now, is this a place where I’d be better off 

not being? 

“And he’s got a strangulated hernia,” “I’ve warned you, 

do what you want,” and there, what’s that, 

what’s beyond that glass door? I felt around, 

another staircase, a beam, two beams, a door, 

81


a tnéva e’ fiè, mo quèll l’è don Gaitèn, 

d’indrí s’un scaranòun, a bòcca vérta, 

senza dantira, e’ surnicéva, avènti 

in pèunta ‘d pi, ‘na schèla, 

e’ cambaròun da stènd i pan, lanzúl, 

fudrètti, sugamèn, caméisi, tvai, 

aquè ’un u s pérd, mo alazò u n’è una schèla? 

a luméga, sò, pièn, 

da no sguilé, cs’èll ch’ l'è st’udòur? cm’e’ fóss 

acid fènich, tintéura, e tótt chi létt, 

in féila, biènch, dò ch’a so vnéu? te bsdèl? 

e sté sgadézz ma tèra, pr’asughé? 

sè, t’é vòia, a n’avdéi 

ch’u i n’è zà piò ‘d do dàida? «Ssst! sté zétt! », 

«Mo se sgadézz u n s’i fa gnént», «Sté zétt, 

ch’u s’è supéi, andé dò ch’i d’andè», 

«Dém rèta, quèst 1'è un pòst ch’ l’è mèi no stèi», 

«Mo s’un’ergna struzèda», «Mè a v 1'ò détt, 

fé vuílt», e alè, ch’a vègga, 

csa i èll dlà ‘d cla vedrèda? a m’e’ sintéva, 

un’èlta schèla, un rèm, du rèm, ‘na pórta, 

la è sno custèda, u n gn’è niseun? ò vést 

e’ 1ómm sòtta una bóssla, ò busé, «Avènti, 

vní ‘vènti, a v faz ‘na stàisa?», 

la déva dréinta m’un maz ‘d chèrti, «A n pòs», 

«Zincmella frènch», «U n’è pr’i bócch, ò préssia», 

«Duv’iv d’andè?», «D’in èlt, dò ch’ 1'è una schèla?», 

«Drétt me vòst nès, arví cla pórta», «Adio, 

mo vò, ènca vò, nu sté spitè, scapé, 

u i è zà un pacéugh aquè», «Eh, a 1 so purtròp, 

1'è una chèsa, mè, quèsta, quant e’ pióv 

a chin mètt dimpartótt dal caldarètti», 

e la zénta i capéss sémpra a 1’arvérsa, 

‘s’ut caldarètti, mo ta n la sint sòtta, 

aquè sòtta, ta n sint cmè un animèli 

ch’e’ lènsa? gnént, va 1à, ‘s’ut zcòrr, piotòst 

adès aquè, quèst 1'è 1'éultum pianètt, 

e sté purtòun 1'è srèd, però adlà i zcòrr, 

l’è scap un camarir, a m so infilé, 

i éva fini ‘d magnè, mo una tavlèda, 

i bacaiéva, un fómm, i n m’à gnénch vést, 

ò imbòcch un curidéur, 

sta pórta u i è la cèva dréinta, vdémma, 

a i ò inzècch ènch’ stavolta, un souraschèla, 

e alasò u i è un batóss, a m’i so ciap,


it’s ajar, isn’t there anyone here? I saw 

the light under a doorbell, I rang,” Come in, 

come in, should I lay them out for you? 

she was shuffling a deck of cards, “I can’t,” 

“Just five thousand lire,” “It’s not the money, I’m in a hurry,” 

“Where do you have to go?” “Up higher, where’s a staircase?” 

“Follow your nose, open that door,” “Goodbye, 

and you, you too, don’t stay here waiting, come away, 

it’s already a morass,” “Ah. You don’t have to tell me, 

this is a house, and I, this is, and when it rains, 

I have to put bowls all over the place,” 

and people are always getting things half-assed backwards, 

what good are basins and bowls? can’t you hear it down below, 

right down here, don’t you hear how it sounds like an animal 

gasping? no response, fine then, what’s the point of talking, in any 

case, 

this is the final landing, 

and this huge door is shut, but there’s talking behind it, 

a waiter came out, he slipped past me, 

they’d finished eating, it was quite a group, 

they were squabbling, a cloud of smoke, they didn’t even see me, 

I made my way to a hallway, 

and this door? there’s a key inside, let’s see, 

I could have guessed it, stairs, 

and up there, a trapdoor, I grabbed it, 

I braced myself against the wall, I hefted myself up, 

and this? it’s like walking inside a cloud, 

it’s filled with tufts of wool, it’s Pia’s house, 

Pia the mattress-maker, and that curl over there 

is a railing, at least my vision’s still sharp, above 

it’s all horsehair, quiet now, who’s moaning? 

“Are you hurt?” there’s two of them, “What do you want?” “Is it 

Nando?” 

“No, please excuse me, I was just passing through,” 

“Get the hell out of here,” she had covered her face 

with her hands, and now where? 

stay calm, beyond that net is a door, 

with a bolt that’s all rusted, this is a bitch, 

come on, up and down, up and down, that’s right, to get it to budge, 

all it needs, come on, up and down, and pull, 

that’s it, it gave, hurry, come on, unbelievable! 

I tripped, I came close to falling, it’s pitch dark, 

and I’m not finding the switch, here it is, right here, 

but this stone feels like tufa, and hanging from it, up high there, 

is a rabbit stuffed with straw, 

83


pi còuntra e’ méur, a m so tiràt sò ‘d pais, 

e aquè? l’era cmè caminé t’na nóvla, 

tótta lèna scàrmiéda; l’è la chèsa 

dla Pia di mataràz, e alè che rézz 

l’è una ringhira, ò un òc ormai, ad sòura 

1'è tótta créina, zétt, chi ch’ s’alaménta? 

«A stè mèl ?», mo i è in déu, «Csa vut ?», «L’è Nando ?», 

«No, ‘i da scusé, a paséva da què», 

«Tót de caz!», li la s’era cvért’ la faza 

sal mèni, e adès dù s val? 

‘ta bón, adlà ‘d cla ràida, l’è una pórta, 

s’un carnàz tótt ruznéid, quèst l’è una bés-cia, 

dài pò, sò e zò, sò e zò, acsè, da smóval, 

u i vó, mo e’ vén, sémpra sò e zò e tirè, 

ècco, l’è vnéu, andémma, dài, ‘zidénti! 

ò inzampighé, che un èlt pó a casch, l’è un schéur, 

e a n tróv e’ scròch dla luce, ècco, l’è què, 

mo quèst ‘l’è tóff, e tachèda sò ‘lè 

una pèla ad cunéi sla paia dréinta, 

una canèla ad gòmma m’un ciód, bòci, 

fiasch, lègna, telaràgn, l’è una cantéina, 

o ch’a zavèri? no, l’è bòtti, quèlli, 

ch’a m so s-cènt bèla al gambi, 

schèli e schèli, ò s-ciupè par avní réss, 

che s’ la s’inféila aquè 

l’è la mórta de sòrgh, mo cmè ch’ò fat? 

csèll ch’u m suzéd? 

porca boia, u n m’avrà mégga indurmént 

ènca mu mè? no, mo va là, che préima 

ò batú ‘na zuchéda, sint che gnòch, 

èlt che indurmént, spétta, no, ècco, a i so, 

gnént, a véngh da la basa, 

ènca al chèsi, i palàz, l’è di scaléin, 

ch’u i aréiva un burdèl, 

mo quant u s’à e’ nervòus, 

ch’u n s ragiòuna, ‘ta bon, 

a so pas un spaghètt, e sò mal schèli 

dop a ridéva da par mè, mè déggh 

ch’a sarò pò un pataca, mo adès basta, 

basta, la è pasa, a so quasò d’in èlt, 

quant u s pò guardè ad sòtta, lasa pò, 

ènca s’u i è póch d’avdài, mo u s téira e’ fiè, 

sno che la n déura, sint, l’aria la è griva, 

i calzéun i s’ataca, 

e’ casca d’ogni tènt un calzinàz,


a rubber hose on a nail, bottles, wine flasks, wood, spider webs, 

it’s a wine cellar, 

or am I delirious? no, there are wine barrels, 

my legs are killing me, 

stairs and more stairs, I’m going to collapse trying to get to the end, 

because if the water gets down here, 

I’ll drown like a rat, how did I get here? 

what is happening to me? 

Damn, could he have hypnotized me too? 

no, forget it, first 

I banged my head, can you feel that lump? 

you can just forget about sleep, wait, no, here, there’s 

nothing, I’m coming up from the plains, 

even the houses, the villas, they’re steps, 

a little boy is coming this way, 

when you’re a nervous wreck, 

and not thinking straight, stay calm now, 

I just had a good scare, and coming up the stairs later 

I was all alone laughing, I mean, 

what an imbecile, but enough of that now, 

enough, it’s passed, I’m way up here, 

when you can see down below, or even if not, 

even if there’s not much to see, at least you can take a deep breath, 

but it doesn’t last, feel it, it’s humid, 

my pants are sticking, every so often a piece of plaster falls, 

there it is, look at that mark on the pavement, 

down below there, it’s getting bigger, it’s here already, 

you can’t get away from it, you can’t escape, 

but you can get used to it, plus there’s not any choice, 

on your haunches and climbing, 

even when there’s nowhere else to go, when there’s nothing left to 

say, 

it seems like you’re trapped, then, if you look closely, 

in the back, there’s a staircase, 

how many times has this happened to me, and you run up them 

in a frenzy, 

after awhile you’re there all over again, here is the wall, 

here too, it’s all wall, but this time, 

you stay there, looking down, but no, it’s never going to end, 

there could even be a hidden door, 

like right now, you’ve got to pay attention to every little nook and 

cranny, 

the slightest creaking, matches would really be a help now, 

but they’re not lighting, the tips are all soggy, wait a second, 

let me see, this skinny hanging cord, 

85


l’è li, vèrda cla macia se sulèr, 

alè ad sòtta, ch’ la s slèrga, la è zà què, 

ta n’i scap, ta n t sgavàgn, 

mo u s’i fa l’òs, pu u i è póch da capè, 

pi te chéul e andè sò, 

ènch’ quant u n s va piò invéll, ch’u n s pò mai déi, 

u t pèr d’ès intraplèd, pu a guardè bén, 

in fònd u i è una schèla, 

quant vólti u m’è suzèst, e t vé sò ‘d féuga, 

dop un pó ta i si dl’èlt, aquè l’è méur, 

ènca què, l’‘e tótt méur, stavólta mò, 

t sté ’lé, a ócc bas, invíci no, mai zéd, 

u i putrébb ès ’na pórta mascarèda, 

cmè ‘dès, bsògna stè ‘ténti ènch’ m’un ciaplètt, 

m’un scròch i furminènt, ch’i m farébb bén, 

mo i n zènd, al cróccli al s’è spaplèdi, spétta, 

fam avdài, sta curdléina 

u n sarà una marlètta? ció, la s’éirva 

dabón, l’è tótt scaléin, a vagh ch’a vòul, 

a rógg, a chènt, ch’a so stunèd, pazinzia, 

u n sint niseun, e alà u i è un’èlta schèla, 

ch’a i so zà pas da què, o no? i póst ormai, 

tanimódi l’è chèsi, 

i è tótt cumpàgn, 1'è cumè fè e’ zéir dl’óca, 

mo me, basta tní bota, 

fintènt che li la è sòtta, orca, ò vést bén? 

bèla, puzèda alè, cmè una putèna, 

u n m’era ‘ncòura capitè, i la à lasa 

di muradéur, la fa rinséida, quèsta, 

la dòndla, e quasò in zéima cìapès bén, 

a scavèlch la finèstra, 

‘na sèla, avènti, un’èlta schèla, ad mèrum, 

se tinimèn d’utòun, u s va da sgnéur, 

pu un’èlta, a n finéss mai, e tè csa vut? 

nu scróllti aquè, mòl fràid, u m’a dluvié, 

u i amanchéva un chèn, córr, dài, va véa, 

va te caséin, che invíci mè a m’arpòuns, 

bsògna fè tapa, d’ogni tènt, cumè, 

a n’ò méggh’ piò vint’an, ècco, a so pòst, 

mè u m basta zéinch minéut, 

mo quant’èll ch’a vagh sò? adès a tach, 

sémpra acsè, s’a m’aférum, dop pr’un pó, 

la testa, un mulinèl, u i sarà pò 

da qualche pèrta e’ sótt, 

ch’a n gn’apa d’arivé? mo sótt dabón,


wouldn’t this be a latch, hey, it opens, 

it sure does, it’s a tiny staircase, I’m taking off, 

I’m yelling, singing, me, even though I’m tone deaf, patience, 

no one’s making any noise, and there’s another staircase over there, 

didn’t I already pass through here already? or not? places, at any 

rate, 

so many of them are the same, they’re all alike, it’s a wild goosechase, 

but I’m, banging my head was bad enough, 

as long as it’s down below, Jesus, did I see right? 

beautiful, all spread out like a whore, 

I hadn’t understood yet, the stone masons 

had left it there, it means I can do it, 

it’s swaying, and up here at the top, hold tight now, 

I climb through the window, 

a meeting room, keep going, another staircase, it’s marble, 

with brass railings, it’s easy street, 

then another, they just keep going on and on, and you, what do 

you want? 

don’t you shake all over me, it’s complete drenched, you got me wet, 

the only thing missing was the dog, go, go on, scat, 

you can go to hell, but I’m going to rest, 

you’ve got to catch your breath every once in awhile, 

I’m not twenty anymore, all right then, much better, 

all I need is five minutes, 

just how steep is this? I’m starting now, 

it’s always like this, if I stop, after awhile, 

my head starts spinning like a top, there’s got to be 

some place, somewhere, that’s dry, 

you think you’re ever going to get there? 

but it’s dry, I’m telling you, 

dry as a walnut, 

with dust like that fluff under the bed, 

on those curled-up notecards 

on the dresser mirror, and then even there, 

are you so sure that the water’s not going to come? 

I don’t know, they’re all good questions, who can reply? 

but there is one in particular, and that question, if we meet, 

not him, he doesn’t control a thing, with all his chitchat, 

he’s a pawn, no, it’s the ones who are above him, 

the ones who really run things, the ones you could have the talk with, 

two words for you: why me? 

because when you think about it, 

this is a big deal, it’s way too big, 

I’m here, it seems to me, I was selected at random, 

87


sótt cmè una néusa, 

sla pòrbia ch’ la fa i rózzal sòtta e’ lèt, 

sal cartuléini a rézz 

mi véidar dla cardenza, e pu ènca ’lè 

sichéur che 1’aqua la n’arivarà? 

a n’e’ so, l’è tótt’ dmandi, chi ch’ pò ‘rspònd? 

mo u i n’è óna, mè quèlla, s’a incuntréss, 

no léu, ch’u n cmanda gnént, tótt’ la su ciacra, 

1'è una pedéina, no, quéi ch’i i è sòura, 

quéi ch’i cmanda dabón, putèi fè un zcòurs, 

do paróli: parchè própia mu mè? 

che quant a i péns, 

quèst’ 1'è una roba gròsa, tropa gròsa, 

mè què, sgònd mè, a so vnù ciapèd par chès, 

l’è un quiproquò, 

che s’a i déggh e’ mi nóm, a so sichéur, 

i starà alè a guardèm: e tu chi sei? 

1'è quèll ch’a v vléva déi, chi ch’a so mè? 

a n so gnént, mè, zò, a còunt cmè e’ do ‘d bastòun, 

ch’a patéss ènch’ d’otite, pu a i vèggh póch, 

e sa sti ucèl, ch’i mè casch, ò una lénta 

tótta cripèda, quèll ch’a gí vuílt 

l’è un èlt, chi sa, magari u m s’asarméa, 

mo a n so mè, e adès farmé, 

ch’ò una vòia ‘d butém stuglèd ma tèra, 

e stè ‘lè quant u m pèr, a n dmand ‘na masa, 

e dop, s’u s pò, qualche scaléin d’inzò, 

vérs chèsa, che ènca ‘lè mè u m basta póch, 

la partéida ma la televisiòun, 

‘na gita d’ogni tènt, a vrébb avdài 

al Dolomiti, ch’a n’i so mai stè, 

dal nòti andè a luméghi, s’ l’à piuvéu, 

ch’a m pis, e quèst e quèll, e avènti a zcòrr, 

da par mè, e u n suzéd gnént, 

ch’i n’apa da capéi, i m’avdirà pò, 

o ch’i n guèrda, dò ch’i è? ma chéi ch’a 1 déggh 

che mè què, quèst l’è un sbai, a n gn’éintar gnént! 

Ciacri 

O insugné mèl stanòta, dal gran béssi, 

mo cmè tótt fé e’ cafè? vè ach pisarèla, 

l’è tótt’ al vólti acsè, ma tè u t vó óna 

ch’ la t vénga dri dò t pas, mo èl dóbbi, zò, 

ta n’apa da imparè, ch’ t si bèla vèc,


it’s a quid pro quo, 

which if I were to tell them my name, I’m sure, 

they’d be up there looking down at me: 

and you, who are you? 

that’s what I wanted to say to you, who am I? 

I’m nothing, I’m, let’s be honest, I’m worth less than the two of clubs, 

the otitis makes my ears buzz, I can’t see well, 

even with these glasses, they fell off, one of the lenses 

is cracked, the one you’re talking about 

is not me, who knows, maybe it looks like me, 

but it’s not me, and now you’ve stopped, 

now when all I want to do is throw myself on the ground, 

and stay here as long as I want, I’m not asking much, 

and later, if possible, a few stairs down, 

toward direction of home, even there, I wouldn’t need much, 

a game on t.v. 

a little trip every once in awhile, I’d like to see 

the Dolomites, I’ve never been there, 

to go out a few nights collecting snails, if it had rained, 

because I like the taste of them, a little bit of this and that, and to 

keep talking, 

by myself, with nothing happening, 

but there’s no way they understand, they see me all right, 

or aren’t they looking, where are they? who am I going to tell 

that I’m here, that this is all a mistake 

which has npothing to do with me. 

Small Talk 

I had bad dreams all night, all these snakes, 

how did you make this coffee? look at this, spills, 

every time it’s like this, with you 

you’ve got to have someone 

there with you every second, is it possible 

you’re never going to learn, you’re already old, 

and don’t walk on it, we need a rag here, 

leave it alone, I’ll do it, with my bones aching, 

listen, do you hear it, it’s eight already, I’m going out to do some 

shopping. 

my gosh, the sirocco, I feel it too, 

my bones are aching, 

Clara, is it true 

that your brother has bought, 

that he wants to go live at Poggio? has he gone crazy? 

89


e nu caméini sòura, aquè u i vó e’ straz, 

lasa ’lè, ch’a faz mè, ch’ò un mèl tagli òsi, 

sint, l’è zà agli òt, a vagh a fè un pó ’d spàisa, 

orca che curinaza, a l so ènca mè 

ch’u m dól agli òsi, 

Clara, ció, dabón 

che e’ tu fradèl l’à còumpar, 

ch’e’ vó ’ndè stè me Pózz? mo l’è dvént mat? 

csa val a fè me Pózz? 

che mè a n’i starébb gnénca sa che grèpp, 

e la su mòi, la tu cugnèda, cs’èll? 

la è vlú ’ndè li? alòura l’è un èlt zcòurs, 

ció, s’u i pis alasò, l’è par la nòna? 

la mama ad léu, a l so, la sta ’lasò, 

ò capí tótt, sa tri burdéll, la nòna 

l’è un bèl apòz, cumè, 

zért ch’ènca lòu però l’è un cambiament, 

mo i è zóvan, pu, sè, zò, ch’u s sta bén 

ènca mé Pózz, d’in èlt, aria piò féina, 

a m férum da Nazario, 

mo ènca tè fat avdài, a s’incuntrémm 

sémpra par chès, 

Caterina, dú vét? 

t’é una préssia, te bsdèl? chéi t’é te bsdèl? 

Giani? ch’a si parént, un pó a la lònga, 

a si fiúl ad cuséin, o no? cum stal? 

che mè, sgònd mè, quèll’ l’è una malatea, 

léu, l’è du an, da quant ch’ mórt’ la Jole, 

l’à fat un cambiamént, u n’è piò léu, 

tla butàiga u n gn’è mai, 

l’è sémpra te cafè, pasti, luvéri, 

biciaréin, che acsè, zà ch’ l’è ’nca un òm griv, 

acsè e’ vó dèi mazès, 

amo tè t déi quèll ch’a déggh mè, l’è li, 

l’è la su mòi, la Franca, ch’ la à sbaiè, 

li ma Giani la n l’à mai capéi, léu 

l’è un pó sgustòus, sè, u n’i va mai bén gnént, 

mo u n’è catéiv, bsògna savàil ciapè, 

t n’i pò dè sémpra còuntra, 

ta n pò sémpra ragnè, dop, dài e dài, 

e’ vén fura una Jole, 

ch’ènca ’lè, zò, la Franca la à sbaiè, 

tótt chi spatéran, 

ò capéi, sè, sfughès, mo zérti robi


what’s he going to do up at Poggio? 

I wouldn’t go up there either, up on that cliff, 

and his wife, she’s your cousin, or what? 

she wanted to go up there? 

well then that’s a different story, 

if she likes it up there, it’s because of the grandmother? 

his mother, I know, she lives up there, 

I understand completely, with three kids, a grandmother, 

now that’s something you can count on, why wouldn’t it be? 

but, certainly, even for them, it’s still a big change, 

but they’re young, then, yes, it’s true, you do feel good up there, 

even at Poggio, 

up there, the air’s better, 

I’m going to Nazario’s, 

you too, drop by and see me, 

they only time we see each other is by accident, 

Caterina, where are you going? 

you’re in such a hurry, to the hospital, who do you have in the 

hospital? 

Gianni? you’re related, a little distant, 

you’re children of cousins, or no? how is he? 

which I think, in my opinion that is a sickness, 

he, it’s been two years, since Yole died, 

there was a big change, he’s not himself anymore, 

he’s never in the shop, 

he’s always at the cafe, sweets, it’s gluttony, 

shots, which with that, he’s a heavy man to start with, 

he’s going to kill himself like that, 

but you’re saying what’ I’m saying, it’s her, 

it’s his wife, Franca, who was at fault, 

she, with Gianni, she never understood him he’s 

a little prickly, yes, nothing’s ever right 

but he’s not mean, you have to know how to take him, 

you can’t always be contradicting him, 

you can’t always argue, 

then afterwards, little by little, 

a Yole shows up, 

which even there, then, Franca was wrong, 

all the scenes, 

I understand, yes, letting off steam, but certain things, 

you can’t go around town saying, 

he hadn’t even moved out, yes, 

he did that for the boy, yes, but however in any case 

they’re together, you, now, stay another second, 

how can I say it, to stop trying, 

91


ta n li pò ’ndè dí in piaza, 

ch’u n’era gnénca scap da chèsa, sè, 

u l’à fat pr’e’ burdèl, mo però intent 

a sté insén, e tè ’lòura sta un pó bóna, 

cm’òi da déi? nu l ziménta, 

se t rógg l’è pézz, dop u la ciapa ad péunta, 

mo la Franca zért robi la n gn’aréiva, 

no, t’é rasòun, l’è zchéurs, quést, l’è fadeiga, 

bsògna pruvè, da ’d fura a sémm brèv tótt, 

mo quant t si ’lè, che t vaid e’ tu maréid, 

mè a so rivàta, a s’avdémm, Caterina, 

ta la é frèsca, Nazario, la sunzézza? 

tri budéll, no, fa quatar, 

e un pó ’d grasúl, che ma Pèval i i pis, 

ir ta m’é dè una chèrna ch’ la n s magnéva, 

ò capéi da fè e’ bród, mo l’era stòppa, 

ch’ ta l sé ’nca tè, zò, nu fa la cumédia, 

csa i éintral e’ castrè? 

e’ castrè l’era bón, a t’ò détt gnént? 

mo la chèrna, Pèval u s’è incaplè, 

u la vó tèndra léu, cm’a t l’òi da déi? 

cumè, viziéd, ta m tó ’nca in zéir? 

e tè? 

Bina, mo dò t si stè ch’ l’è un témp ch’a n t vèggh, 

ah, t’é viazè? duvò? pu bén, che mè, 

quèll che là u n s móv e gnénca, 

che invíci u m pisarébb, mè, d’ogni tènt, 

andè in zéir, vdai dal robi, mo léu sè, 

e adès du vét? mè invíci ò da pasè 

da l’Elda a tó i spinàz, 

u i è ’nca al rósli? 

mèz chéll, ch’agli è ’nca tropi, ècco, acsè, basta, 

dò ch’ ta l’é mèss ma Nino? l’è te lèt? 

sla févra? un’influenza? amo la è fura, 

la è te lèt ènch’ la Flavia, la à un mamòun, 

li pu la fómma ènca, ch’ a i e’ déggh sémpra, mè, u t fa mèl fumé, 

l’è un vlén, sè, mo va a zcòrr sa li, che or’èll? 

l’è al dis, dabón? ch’a n n’ò mélla da fè, 

Elda, a s’vdémm, 

oh, la Dolores, spétta, 

Dolores, ò una roba da dmandèt, 

t’é préssia? l’è un minéut, 

tè ta l’é cnunsú bén Misirúl, no? 

che irisàira émm ragnè, se mi maréid,


if you scream and yell it’s worse, then they’re pointing fingers at you, 

but Franca, certain things, she just never figured out, 

no, you’re right, it’s all just talk, all this, it wears you out, 

you do the best you can, from the outside, we all look good 

but when it’s you, seeing your husband, 

here I am now, I’ll be seeing you, Caterina, 

do you have any that’s fresh, Nazario? sausage? 

three good long pieces, no, make it four, 

and a little of the crackling, which Paolo likes, 

yesterday you gave me a piece of meat that was inedible, 

I used it to make broth, I’m telling you it was tough, 

you know it too, come one, don’t put me on, 

what’s steer meat got to do with it? 

the steer meat was good, I didn’t tell you? 

but the meat, Paolo got mad, 

he likes it tender, he, how can I explain it to you? 

what do you mean he’s spoiled? are you pulling my leg? 

and what about you? 

Bina, and where have you been, I haven’t seen you in ages? 

oh, a trip? where? how nice, and me, 

mine won’t budge, 

but now I’d like to, I’d like, every once in awhile 

to take a trip, see some things but him, sure, 

and where are you going now? I’ve got to go to Elda’s 

to get some spinach, 

do you have some greens too? 

a half kilo, which is even too much, there, that’s good, 

where did you leave Nino? he’s in bed? 

with a fever? the flu? oh well, it’s going around, 

Flavia’s sick in bed too, she’s got a bad cold, 

on top of it, she smokes, 

which I’m always telling her, I do, smoking’s not good for you, 

it’s poison, sure, try talking to her, what time is it? 

it’s ten? really? I’ll see you 

oh there’s Dolores, wait, 

Dolores, I’ve got one thing to ask you, 

are you in a hurry, it’ll take just a second, 

you knew Missiroli well, right? 

because last night we were arguing, with my husband, 

he says, he is so stubborn, 

he says that he came from Verucchio, which I don’t know where 

he gets these things, he was from Bellaria, wasn’t he? 

see, see there, that I’m right, I was sure of it, 

I remember, your mother, worked twenty years in his shop, 

but Paolo when he digs his heels in, I know, it’s late, 

93


léu dis, mo l’é un tistòun, 

dis ch’ l’avnéva da Vrócc, che mè a n’e’ so 

’ddò òch’u li téira fura zérti robi, 

l’era ’d Belaria, o no? 

vitt, ch’ò rasòun? mo mè a séra sichéura, 

a m’arcórd, la tu mà 

la à lavurè vint’an tla su butàiga, 

mo Pèval quant e’ péunta, a l so, l’è tèrd, 

émm préssia tótt, saléutmi la tu mà, 

che mè a déggh sémpra ch’a vi vní a truvèla, 

pu a la armand, a la armand, e’ pasa i dè, 

mo préima o dop a véngh, 

e quèst l’è Giorgio, 

t saré cuntént? ò vést la tu Milena 

in divéisa, ció, la fa una fighéura, 

la va ’nca se mutòur? la guéida li? 

t’é capéi, mè a n guéid gnénca la carióla, 

però, la n’era mèstra la tu fióla? 

ah, u n’i pieséva da fè scóla, e alòura, 

ch’ la farà ènca carira, òz u n gn’è piò 

nisun impediment, òz una dòna, 

ta n li vaid? al fa tótt, ènca e’ suldè, 

la va par lòu, Giorgio, u n gn’è gnént da fè, 

saléutmi la Graziella, 

e adès aquè 

ch’a n mu n zcórda, e’ sèl gròs, e’ zóccar, l’óli, 

’na savunètta, ch’u i n’è ormai ’na scaia, 

’na bósta ad boratalco, 

ècco, l’Idrolitina, ch’a m zcurdéva, 

e a ví tó ’nca de mél, ò un pó ’d rampàzna, 

che se lat chèld e’ s-ciòi, 

e pu avrébb da pasè da la Lucia, 

ch’ la sta alazò a l’inféran, spétta, mo 

u n’è li, la Lucia, quèlla che là? 

ch’a stéva pr’avnì zò da tè, e alòura 

cla sutèna t la é fata? no? a l savéva, 

tè t prumètt, tè t prumètt, u n gn’è sà stofa? 

dabón? ch’ l’è una piò bèla fantaséa, 

e alòura u n’i vén gnént? 

orca, zà, t’é rasòun, ’na bèlza, bló 

o un maròun schéur, andémm insén da Miro, 

ènca adès, ta n pò ’dès? 

admatéina, Lucia, a s’avdémm ’dmatéina,


we’re all in a hurry, say hello to your mother for me, 

which I’m always saying I’m going to stop by and visit, 

then I put it off, put it off, days go by, 

but sooner or later I’m coming, 

and here’s Giorgio, 

you’ll be happy to know that I saw your Milena 

in her uniform, oh my gosh, she cuts quite a figure, 

does she even ride the motorbike? she drives? 

you understand I wouldn’t even know how to steer a wheelbarrow, 

but wasn’t she a teacher, your daughter? 

ah, she didn’t like school, oh well, 

which would be a nice career, today there aren’t any 

obstacles, today a woman, 

don’t you see them? they do everything, even the military, 

they do what they want, Giorgio, what can you do about it? 

say hello to Graziella for me, 

and now, here, 

so I don’t forget, some coarse salt, sugar, oil, 

a bar of soap, the other one’s just a sliver at this point, 

a packet of talcum powder, 

here, fizz tablets, which I’d forgotten all about, 

and I want to get some honey, too, I’m a little hoarse, 

which if you put it in some hot milk, 

and then I should go and see Lucia 

who lives so far down there it’s the end of the earth, wait now, 

isn’t that Lucia, the one over there? 

I was just about do go down to see you, and so 

have you finished the skirt? no? I knew it, 

you promised, you promised, wasn’t there enough material? 

really? it’s such a pretty pattern, 

and now nothing can be done with it, 

goodness, you’re right, a flounce, either blue 

or a dark brown, let’s go together to Miro’s, 

how about now? you can’t go now? 

tomorrow then, Lucia, I’ll see you tomorrow, 

bread, no, there’s yesterday’s 

which we throw away and people are dying of hunger, 

it’s a crime, I’m ashamed, I am, but him, sure, 

if he doesn’t have fresh bread, all right, fine, 

a roll, for that pain-in-the-neck, bread’s good, 

even the next day bread’s good, why wouldn’t it be, 

the flavor comes out more, 

95


e e’pèn, gnént, u i è quèll d’ir, 

ch’a n butémm véa, e u i è chi ch’ mór ad fèma, 

l’è un delétt, a m vargògn, mè, mo léu, sè, 

s’u n’à e’ pèn frèsch, va bén, zò, una rusètta 

ma che nuiòus, ch’ l’è bón ènca e’ dè dop 

e’ pèn, cumè, pu e’ fa ’nca piò rinséida, 

t’é parcè tè? admèn e’ fa la nàiva, 

alòura addò ch’ l’avnéva Misirúl? 

che irisàira ta m’é magnè la faza, 

da Belaria, la m l’à détt la Dolores, 

mo pu i l sa tótt, sno tè ta n’e’ savévi, 

e t vlévi avài rasòun, quant ta t’i mètt, 

t si piò intipatich, 

ò incòuntar Giorgio in piaza, 

no, Giorgio ad Magalòt, che sa cla fióla, 

e’ pareva che, brèva, la piò brèva 

tla scóla, chi sa dò ch’ la arivarà, 

e adès la fa la guèrdia, bèla roba, 

la à studié, la à studié 

par fè al contravenziòun, ch’ la sta piò mèl 

sa cla divéisa, una ragaza, zò, 

mo va là, a fè la guèrdia, 

pu che brètt sla visira, tótt calchèd, 

ch’ la à sno i cavéll ad bèl, 

(cs’èll ch’a magnémm?) 

u i è n’cóura un gòzzal ’d bród, sa sté pèn déur 

a faz una stuvèda, 

e du budéll ’d sunzézza, 

ch’ la è sémpra bóna la stuvèda, sint, 

ò ragnè sa Nazario, mo sté bród 

l’è specièl, vé che stèli, 

un budèl, lè ènca trop, mè, e quést che què 

l’è du grasúl, però nu magni tótt, 

i t fa mèl, tótt, lasni un pó par stasàira, 

basta, zò, che dop ta n’i digeréss, 

a n t’i tóggh piò, a zéur, a n t’i tóggh piò, 

che quant t sté mèl u n s chèmpa, 

t la vó una pàira? no? ch’ la t lèva dréinta, 

a t la sbózz mè, una fètta, 

sint che roba, un butír, 

u t’è scap l’òura? 

va là che ta n pérd gnént, tè ta n t vaid mégga, 

sa cla televisiòun t si cmè un arlózz, 

che ta m fé vní un nervòus, cambia, ta n t stóff?


you set the table? pigs do have wings, 

so where did Missiroli come from, 

last night you just about bit my head off, 

from Bellaria, Dolores told me, 

but then everybody knows it, it’s only you that didn’t know, 

and you just had to be right, when you dig in, 

you are truly unpleasant, 

I ran into Giorgio uptown, 

no, Giorgio Magalotti, who with that daughter, 

it seemed like, she did so very well, she was the best 

in school, who knows how far she’ll go? 

and now she’s a meter maid, nice, huh? 

she studied, she studied, 

to hand out parking tickets, and she looks awful 

in that uniform, a girl, come on now, 

get off it, a traffic officer, 

then that cap with the visor, it’s all shoved up inside there, 

the only nice feature she has is her hair, 

what should we eat? 

there’s still a few drops of broth, which with the stale bread, 

I’ll make some zuppa di pane, 

and two pieces of sausage, 

who says zuppa di pane isn’t good? listen, 

I complained to Nazario, oh this broth, 

turned out especially good, 

just look at those beautiful little tear drops floating inside, 

one piece of sausage is evev too much for me, 

and here I’ll give you a couple of pieces of crackling, but don’t eat 

it all, 

it doesn’t sit well, all of it, leave a little for tonight, 

that’s enough, come on, then afterwards you won’t digest it, 

I’m not going to get it for you anymore, I swear it, I’m not going to 

buy it again, 

because when you feel bad it’s unbearable, 

do you want a pear? no, it’ll clean you out, 

I’ll peel it for you, a slice, 

just taste this, it’s butter, 

why don’t you go out now? 

you won’t miss out on anything, you don’t even seem yourself 

anymore, 

with that television set you’re like a clock, 

it makes me jumpy, with all that switching, aren’t you tired of it? 

when it’s that time, he turns it on, 

there could be an earthquake, but he’d still turn it on, 

I myself would throw it out the window, 

97


léu quant l’è cl’òura e’ zénd, 

e’ pò vní e’ taremòt, mo léu e’ zénd, 

ch’a te butarébb vèa da la finestra, 

mè, che telecomando, 

par stè sintéi, ch’ l’è tótti ciacri, zò, 

i n chèva un ragn da un béus, sémpra al stèss’ robi, 

e u n a pò dí gnént, bsògna stè zétt, cumè, 

l’à da zcòrr chi pataca, lasa andè, 

va là, t fé un schiv sa cla televisiòun, 

sémpra tachèd alè, mo va un pó in piaza, 

va te cafè, va a fè una pasegèda, 

a n stagh mai zétta? 

l’è lòu ch’i n sta mai zétt, basta, va là, 

guèrda quèll t vu, mè a vagh adlà a stiré, 

sè, cs’èll ch’a stéir, aquè, vèrda che roba, 

ch’i era nóv, sti calzétt, mo cmè ch’us fa? 

di béus ch’u i pasa un braz, aquè t’é vòia, 

quést i è da buté véa, sémpra acsè, léu, 

se una roba la i pis u n la smètt piò, 

ènca sta sèrga, vè, ’s’ut rinacè, 

quèsta la è ’ndèda, i gómat, èlt che sléis, 

u s vaid la fódra, u s’inamoura, léu, 

t’na sèrga, sémpra quèlla, sémpra quèlla, 

l’ardéus un straz, e dop, t si mat, la zénta, 

vè cmè ch’ la l manda, u m fa fè dal fighéuri, 

ch’ènca la zénta, s’i badéss par lòu, 

no, quèsta, via, a glia bótt tla mundèzza, 

u s mitrà quèlla ’d vléut, ch’e’ sta ènca mèi, 

mo u n n’à tènti, l’à piò vistí ch’ nè mè, 

e avènti pò, vè che muntagna ad roba, 

che stiré a n’ò mai vú ’na gran pasiòun, 

u m pis piò i férr, mè, lavurè si férr, 

a i ò fat un maiòun, an, ch’u s stiméva, 

un péunt ad vàird, 

e adès fura a daquè, 

che s’a n’i stagh dri mè mal robi, léu, 

Emma, t guèrd e’ mi órt? u t pis? vén dréinta, 

fa e’ zéir, a t véngh arvéi, ta t pórt a chèsa 

tri quatar pumidór, che in insalèda, 

s’ ta i fé stasàira, ta m giré, 

a i mitémm 

at sté sachètt, no, ch’i n’è trópp, ta n vaid 

quant u i n’è? chi è ch’i i magna? 

e a n gn’ò mégga dè gnént, mè u i è dal vólti,


I would, that remote control, 

just sitting there listening to it, it’s all chatter, come on now, 

it’s just a big waste of time, always the same stuff, 

and you can’t say a word, they should be the ones shutting up, 

shouldn’t they? 

those jerks, they’ve just got to talk, well let them, 

come on, you’re, with that television, 

always glued to it, go on and go uptown, 

go to the cafe, go take a walk, 

I never shut up? 

it’s them that never shut up, enough, come on now, 

watch all you want, I’m going in the other room to iron, 

sure, and just what am I ironing? here, look at all this stuff, 

which these were brand new, these pants, what am I supposed to do? 

holes you could put a hand through, you’ve got to be kidding, here 

these should be thrown away, it’s always like this, he, 

if he has a certain thing, you can’t tear it away from him, 

this suit coat too, look, what’s the use of mending it, 

this one’s shot, the elbows, never mind worn out, 

you can see the lining, he falls in love, he does, 

with a jacket, always that one, always that one, 

he’s worn it down to a rag, which then people, 

look at how she sends him out, he’s making me look bad, 

which people too, if they would just mind their own business, 

no, this one’s gone, I’m throwing it away, 

you could put on some of that velour, which would even work 

better, 

but he’s got so many, he’s got more clothes than I do, 

well just keep at it, look at this mountain of stuff, 

I’ve never had a big love for ironing, 

I like knitting better, for me, knitting, 

I made him a pullover, last year, which he was proud of, 

he showed it off, 

and now the watering outside, 

which if I don’t keep on top of things, he, 

Emma, come look at my garden? do you like it? come on in, 

come take a look, I’ll come and open it, you can take home 

three or four tomatoes, which in a salad, 

if you use them tonight, will you tell me, 

I’ll put them 

in this bag, no, it’s not too much, can’t you see 

how many there are? who’s going to eat them all? 

and it’s not that I haven’t fed him any, I, sometimes, 

in the afternoon, a tomato with bread, 

99


e’ dopmezdè, un pumidór se pèn, 

pr’imbrènda, a n’e’ lèv gnénca, s’un pó ’d sèl, 

e alòura déim, che tè ta i sté tachèda 

ma la Giordana, mè ò sintéi dal ciacri, 

ènca tè? ch’a so ’rvènza, 

fóss stè la Dora, fóss stè la Marina, 

che lòu dabón, l’è mèi stè zétt, va là, 

un dè a la ò vésta piànz ma la Giordana: 

“Ò do surèli che”, la s vargugnéva, 

e adès e’ scapa fura, 

che mè a n’aréiv a cràidi, gnénca tè? 

amo, cumè, la è sémpra stè a e’ su pòst, 

u n s’è putéu dí gnént, mai, la su mà 

la s stiméva, t si mat, la su Giordana, 

e tótt t’un bot, mo l’è quèll ch’a déggh mè, 

u i è tènt ad chi pastrócc òz, cmè ch’u s fa 

’rvanzè in cinta? e sa chéi? li la n dí gnént, 

dis ch’ la n dí gnént, mo u i è chi ch’ déi, e’ pèr, 

ta l’é sintí ’nca tè? sa Walter Lucchi, 

ch’a n’e’ so, mè, ènca li, s’un òm spusèd, 

ch’ la è inteligenta, inteligenta ad chè? 

t’é e’ zarvèl, ta n’e’ dróv? e dis che l’Elsa 

la sa zà tótt, Walter l’è du tri dè 

ch’u n s vaid, l’è fura, ènca ’lè dès cundèla, 

do famèi arvinédi, 

mo tè stasàira ta t fé un’insalèda, 

t’é tólt e’ squaquaròun? l’è la su mórta, 

mo pu ta i pò magnè sa quèll ch’u t pèr, 

i à un parfómm, sint che roba, 

mè invíci a faz agli óvi sfritulèdi 

si spinàz, l’è al si, a i vagh a mètt sò ’dès, 

mo grezia ad chè, par du tri pumidór? 

u i n’è ch’a n’i stémm dri, 

a s’avdémm, e saléutmi la Mariula, 

una surèla acsè la m vrébb mu mè, 

la à al mèno d’ór, e st’èlta vólta, arcórdti, 

quant t pas da què, u i è féigh, vè quant u n n’à, 

fra dis quéngg dè i è fat, 

cumè, l’è prèst, l’è al sèt e mèz sunèdi, 

quant t vu magnè? zò, sbréigti, ch’al s’agiàza, 

agli è s-ciavéidi? e mètti e’ s‘el, ma tè 

u t pis salèd, ch’u n va mégga tènt bén, 

a n so sno mè ch’a l déggh, u l dí i dutéur,


for a snack, I don’t even wash it, with a little salt, 

and so tell me, which you’re near 

Giordana, I heard some talk, you too, I was talking to, 

it could have been Dora, it could have been Marina, 

which they really, it’s better to say nothing, 

but come on, one day, I saw her crying to Giordana, 

“I have two sisters who. . .” she was ashamed, 

and now it comes out, which I just couldn’t believe, you either, 

and well, she always did what was expected, 

you couldn’t have said a bad word, never, her mother 

used to brag, are you crazy, her Giordana, 

then out of the blue, that’s what I’m saying, 

there’s so many of these kinds of messes these days, how did she 

end up 

pregnant? and with who? she’s not saying a word, 

they say she’s not talking, buy there are some who are saying, 

that’s what it seems like, 

you heard it too? with Walter Lucchi, 

which I don’t know, I, even her, with a married man, 

who’s intelligent, so intelligent that, 

you’ve got a brain? why don’t you use it? and they say that Elsa 

already knows everything, it’s been two or three days 

that no one’s seen Walter, he’s away, even there, suiting himself, 

two families ruined, 

so, you’re going to make a salad tonight, does it give you the runs? 

it kills him, but you can eat whatever you want to, 

they have such a perfume, smell it, 

no, I’m going to make scrambled eggs, 

with spinach, it’s six, I’m going in now to get things started, thank 

you for what? for two or three tomatoes? 

it’s been awhile since we’ve talked, 

I’ll see you and say hello to Mariola for me, 

I’d love to have a sister like her too, 

she can do anything with her hands, and the next time, remember, 

when you come by here, there’s figs, look how loaded it is, 

in a week-and-a-half or two they’ll be ripe, 

what do you mean it’s early, it’s ringing seven-thirty, 

when do you want to eat? come on now, hurry up, it’s getting cold, 

is it too bland? put in some salt, you 

like it salty, which isn’t good for you, 

it’s not me saying it, it’s the doctors saying it, 

too much salt is bad for you, 

101


troppo sale fa male, 

bsògna magnè s-ciavéid, 

ch’ l’è pu s-ciavéid par tè, par mè e’ va bén, 

t’é sémpra da sbruntlè-tè, 

mo magna cal do óvi, e sta un pó zétt, 

che invíci mè stasàira a la ví vdai 

un pó ’d televisiòun, u i è Millesogni, 

dis ch’u s véinz dis migliéun 

s’i t cèma me telefan, sè, ò capéi, 

mo tè ’nca s’i ciaméss, tè ta n’arspònd, 

ta n’arspònd mai, u m tòcca córr mu mè, 

ècco, a i sémm, i ravéa, quèsta che què 

la i i è ad tótt i brudétt, la zcòrr t’un módi, 

u n s capéss gnént, la pzézza, e st’èlt ancòura, 

ch’ l’è piò ghignòus, e ma la zénta, u i pis, 

i n capéss mégga gnént, la zénta, e adès, 

mo cs’èll ch’i fa? mè a déggh-che, 

cs’èll ch’i va a strulghè mai, mo fé dal robi, 

ch’i ciapa tènt ’d chi bócch, e tè, salàm, 

tótti i an, tè ta n sté bén s’ ta n vé a paghè 

l’abonament, ch’i s dà, vè quèll ch’i s dà, 

vè che roba, e i va ’vènti, no, no, basta, 

a m so zà stóffa, mo va là, che or’èll? 

l’è al nóv e mèz? dabón, zà al nóv e mèz? 

ció, ta l sé cs’èll ch’a t déggh? a vagh a lèt.


you’ve always got to complain about something, you, 

now eat those eggs, and be quiet a second 

tonight I’d like to see some television 

for a change, A Thousand Dreams is on, 

they say someone is going to win ten million 

if they call you on the phone, yes, I understand, 

but even if they called, you wouldn’t pick it up, 

you never answer, you make me run and get it, 

here, here we are, they’re starting, this one here, 

there’s all possible ways, the way she talks, 

you can’t understand anything, she mumbles, 

and this one, he’s even worse, 

he’s always sneering, and people like him, 

people don’t understand anything, and now, 

what are they doing? I say that, 

what are they racking their brains about? you do stuff, 

they win all this money, and you, you numskull, 

every year you’re not happy until you march down 

and pay, everything-on-the-up-and-up, 

the television fee, which then they give us, look what they give us, 

look at all that stuff, and they just keeping going on and on, no, no, 

that’s enough, 

I’m already sick and tired of it, come on now, what time is it? 

nine-thirty? really? nine-thirty already? 

well, you know what I have to say to you? I’m going to bed. 

103

A New Annotated Translation of Carlo Emilio Gadda’s 

Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana 

by Roberto De Lucca 

Roberto de Lucca has been working as a translator since 1988. He is 

currently on the faculty at Bennington College, where he teaches Italian 

literature. He also works as a writer of Italian films for DVD release. 

Carlo Emilio Gadda (1893-1973) is considered today to be the 

giant among Italy’s modern prose writers: in the words the 

critic Andrea Cortellessa he has assumed the status of “the 

prototype of the writer: challenge to emulation, reservoir of quotation, monument 

of worth.” Critical consensus during the last decade of the century 

regarding the many-sided qualities of this extraordinary writer-figure seems 

to have secured him a firm place as the major Italian prose writer of our time, 

as well as one of the major twentieth-century European writers, next to other 

names (Joyce, Kafka, Proust, etc.) which have reached entrenched canonical 

status. 

This widespread judgment is not so much due to the novelty of Gadda’s 

themes, nor to his experimentation with the conventions of prose narration, 

nor, in the last analysis, despite the great importance of this facet of his work, 

to his linguistic originality. Gadda’s importance largely consists in the power 

of a prose which achieves, as Emilio Manzotti has written, “a rare density of 

expression, a “white-hot” quality that inscribes itself on our memory with 

aphoristic conciseness.” 

In spite of this, the reception of Gadda’s work in English-speaking 

countries has not been a success, and he remains relatively unknown here 

even within the academy. The main reason is translation. Aside from a few 

short pieces buried in the back issues of reviews, only two of Gadda’s works 

have appeared in English: That Awful Mess on Via Merulana, William Weaver’s 

1965 version of Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana (which appeared in 

Italy in 1957), and, in 1968, Acquainted with Grief (Weaver’s title for the 1963 

La cognizione del dolore). 

The English in the 1965 translation of the novel regularly tends towards 

the very linguistic medietas Gadda takes every possible step to avoid. 

The version offered here remedies the extremely heavy losses of formal features 

which make reading the Weaver translation an experience so distant 

from that of reading Gadda’s original Italian. It also offers extensive commentary 

in the form of linear notes. 

The importance of the linguistic elaboration, indisputable in Gadda, 

are of primary concern to the translator. Much effort is being made in the 

present version to preserve the diatypes (lexical variety) of the original, where 

possible.

Given the impossibility of translating into another language the aura 

parlativa peculiar to an environment, the translator must, however, try to 

conserve, in some way, the heterogeneity of registers that the introduction of 

colloquialisms and dialects represents. The dialects in the novel are never 

adopted for mere naturalistic verisimilitude, but blended into a more general 

“macaronism” which affects the narration at the minimal and maximal levels 

of syntax, morphology and vocabulary. 

Current scholarship has resulted in a nearly complete re-interpretation 

and re-evaluation of Gadda’s masterpiece. The publication, from 1988- 

93, of Gadda’s complete works in a reliable edition makes it possible, for the 

first time, to verify intertextual references throughout. This new translation 

is a small part of the renewed understanding of this great literary work. 

Synopsis 

In Fascist Rome (the novel takes place in 1927), the young police inspector 

Francesco Ingravallo (called don Ciccio for short), a detective-philosopher 

from the southern Italian region of Molise, is called on to investigate 

a jewel theft that has taken place in an apartment building at 219, Via 

Merulana. In the building lives a couple, Remo and Liliana Balducci, friends 

of Ingravallo: the wife, whom Ingravallo admires for her sweetness, and 

with whom he is perhaps secretly in love, is of a family whose wealth has 

been built in large measure on speculation during the First World War. During 

a lunch with the couple, don Ciccio guesses that Liliana’s obvious melancholy 

has been caused by her sterility, a calamity she attempts to soothe by 

temporarily “adopting” several girls from the Roman provinces, mostly servants 

that she showers with gifts and other blandishments. Three days after 

the robbery, whose investigation is so far inconclusive, Ingravallo is shocked 

by the news that Signora Balducci has been found murdered in her home. He 

rushes to the scene and takes part in the preliminary inquiry, wondering 

whether there is any link between the two crimes. Liliana’s cousin, the young 

and handsome Giuliano Valdarena, is present at the murder scene having 

discovered her corpse. Suspicion falls on him as the murderer with money as 

motive; Liliana’s husband Remo is away on a business trip and cannot be 

apprised of the murder. As chapter four opens, he returns and learns of his 

wife’s death. Liliana’s cousin, Giuliano Valdarena, is under arrest at a Roman 

prison, but no one seems convinced of his guilt. Liliana’s family awaits 

some news of the family jewels, left in her keeping; and the Fascist authorities 

are pressing the police for an arrest - even for an official scapegoat. The 

interrogation of Balducci is interrupted by Liliana’s priest, Don Lorenzo 

Corpi, with the news that Liliana Balducci had entrusted her last will and 

testament to him. Dottor Fumi (Ingravallo’s Neapolitan superior) reads the 

will, and Ingravallo indulges in some of the speculation for which he is 

famous among his colleagues. 

Gadda’s heavy use of dialects, technical language, parody, and literary 

archaisms make for a dense linguistic mix.

106 


Chapter Five 

Chapter five of the Pasticciaccio precedes a division in the novel: beginning 

with chapter six, in fact, the action veers away from Rome, only to 

return there, briefly, just before the famous close in chapter ten. It also abounds 

(indirectly, via remembered citations from others) in speech from the murdered 

Liliana Balducci – an anomaly in a novel where the Signora is central, 

though largely silent. 

The chapter also contains vestiges of the famous “interrogatorio del 

Balducci” which comprised chapter four of the version that appeared in 

“Letteratura” in 1946, and nearly completely suppressed by Gadda. 

The excerpt here ends just as the narrator reports briefly on Liliana’s 

funeral. 


Capitolo 5 

Ma le deposizioni del Ceccherelli, del suo «giovine di negozio», certo 

Gallone, un ber vecchietto asciutto asciutto co l’occhiali a stanga, e di un 

lavorante, certo Amaldi, o Amaldini, furono pienamente favorevoli a 

Giuliano. Il Ceccherelli, appoggiato dai due, confermò in ogni particolare 

l’incarico ricevuto più de due mesi prima dalla povera signora, le varie fasi 

dell’approntamento del ciondolo: «è p’un mio parente che sposa, me 

raccomanno a lei». La signora gli aveva fatto vede un anello d’oro a la 

cavaliera, massiccio, oro giallo, con un diaspro sanguigno, bellissimo, recante 

le cifre GV a glittico, e in carattere gotico per modo de dì: «il diaspro pe la 

catena, lo vorrei che s’accompagnasse con questo.» Gli aveva lasciato l’anello. 

Lui aveva preso l’impronta in cera: prima della cifra, poi de tutta la pietra, 

che sporgeva dal castone. Liliana Balducci era poi tornata in bottega altre 

due volte, aveva scelto la pietra fra cinque che le erano state mostrate dopo 

che le avevano provvedute apposta dalla Digerini e Coccini, la ditta fornitrice, 

ch’era tanti anni che lo serviva: permodoché non aveva sollevato obiezioni 

ad un prestito. Del pari pienamente confermato risultò che l’opale, bellissimo, 

benché co quel tanto de jella addosso che cianno tutti l’opali, lo doveva 

rilevare il Ceccherelli, e lo aveva rilevato di fatto dietro conguaglio, nonostante 

quell’RV, ch’era inciso leggero, «che però io, poi, sa, con rispetto parlanno, sì 

che me ne buggero de tutte ste superstizzione de la gente: che pare d’esse in 

der medioevo, quasi quasi! io, in coscienza, tiro a fa l’affari mia: più puliti 

che posso. In quarant’anni che ciò er negozio, me creda, dottó, nun ho avuto 

a dì p’una spilla! E poi, a bon conto, l’ho subbito schiaffato in der cassettino 

ch’ ‘o tengo apposta pe questo, subbito subbito appena l’ho cavato fora dar 

castone suo, a forza de pinze, senza manco toccallo co le dita, se po dì: le 

pinze, ho fatto un sarto dar barbiere de faccia pe disinfettalle coll’alcole: e

Roberto De Lucca/ Carlo Emilio Gadda 


Chapter 5 

The excerpt here ends just as the narrator reports briefly on Liliana’s funeral. 

107 

But Ceccherelli and his “shop boy”, a certain Gallone, skinny old gent 

with specs, and an assistant, one Amaldi or Amaldini, deposed wholly on 

Giuliano’s side. Ceccherelli, backed by the other two, corroborated down to 

the last detail both the order received by the poor Signora, more than two 

months before, and the sundry phases of the readying of the fob: “It’s for 

family getting married, so I’m counting on you.” She’d shown him a gold 

signet ring, solid yellow gold, with a bloodstone jasper, very fine, engraved 

with the initials G.V., in gothic letters, sort of: “I’d like the jasper on the chain 

to match this one here.” She’d left him the ring. He’d made a wax impression: 

first of the monogram, then of the whole stone, which protruded from 

its setting. Liliana Balducci had then come back to the store twice, picking 

the gem from five that had been shown her, stock furnished specially by 

Digerini and Coccini, the suppliers he’d dealt with for ages, so they’d provided 

them on loan without batting an eyelash. It was likewise fully confirmed 

that Ceccherelli had been asked to remove the opal, gorgeous, despite 

that jinx it hauled around with it like all opals have, and that he’d accepted 

it in fact as part payment despite that R.V., not deeply engraved: “But let me 

tell you something, I don’t give a crap about folks’ superstitions, excuse my 

French here… You’d almost think we’re back in the dark ages, almost! In all 

honesty, I just focus on doing my job, as above board as possible. In forty 

years I’ve had this shop, take it from me, officer, I haven’t logged one complaint! 

Not a pin! Anyway just to be on the safe side, I chucked it right in this 

special drawer here I got for that stuff, just right as soon as I got it pried out of 

the setting with the pliers, without even laying a pinky on it, like. The pliers 

I ran over to the barber to have disinfected with alcohol: the doohickey I just 

chucked it in that drawer there, last one on the way to the can… Alfredo, you 

know the one I mean, Peppì, you too… a bunch of those coral good luck 

charms heaped in there, so if that old opal got it in his head to lay some curse 

on the shop… What, put a curse on it? Yeah, right: like to see him try, with all

108 


lui, er sor coso, l’ho schiaffato in der cassetto quello là in fonno isolato p’annà 

ar cesso, tu Arfredo ce ‘o sai, e tu pure Peppì: che ce stanno insieme tanti de 

queli corni de corallo che si gnente gnente je pijasse la fantasia de volemme 

jettà la bottega... a me, jettamme? sì, stai fino: vorebbe vede, povero fiio! E 

come un cappone in mezzo a tanti galli!... ma co la punta bona, ]e lo dico io.» 

L’anello je l’aveva ridato a la signora dopo un par de giorni, «Sli 

m’aricordo bene, quanno ripassò a bottega pe vede li diaspri». Il ciondolo 

doveva consegnarlo a Giuliano in persona. Sarebbe passato lui a ritirallo, 

portando con sé la catena: «quella, sì»: la riconosceva perfettamente. «Quella 

catena, aveva detto Liliana, «sa? lei sor Ceccherelli la conosce bene, s’aricorda? 

Quella che me l’ha stimata dumila lire?... Quella j’ho da regalà. E l’anello del 

nonno, cor brillante, s’ ‘o ricorda? che me l’ha stimato novemila e cinque?» 

Ingravallo gli mostrò pure l’anello. «E questo, nun c’è dubbio: un brillante de 

dodici grani dodici emmezzo a dì poco. Un’acqua magnifica.» Lo prese, lo 

rigirò, lo guardò: lo sollevò contro luce: «Tante volte me l’aveva detto, il 

nonno: aricordate, Liliana, che deve restà in famija! Sai a chi vojo dì! » La 

frase der nonno suo, una formula sacra a momenti, pe lei; se vedeva: be’, 

l’aveva ripetuta du volte, in bottega: «nun è vero?»: presente il Gallone, 

presente il Giuseppe Amaldi; che confermarono col capo. All’Amaldi Liliana 

stessa aveva voluto spiegaje lei ogni cosa: e com ereno le du lettere intrecciate 

che doveva incidere, com’era che voleva incapsulato il diaspro: un po’ 

sporgente dalla legatura ovale: il Ceccherelli secondò con l’unghia del 

mignolo il fermo contorno della pietra verde, montata a sigillo, vale a dire in 

lieve aggetto sul castone: e con una laminetta d’oro sul rovescio, a celare la 

faccia grezza, a richiudere. 

Oltre agli orefici, che furono ascoltati de mattina, bisogna di che la 

famiglia Valdarena e addentellati, e cioè la nonna de Giuliano, il Balducci 

medesimo, le du zie de li Banchi Vecchi e zi’ Carlo, e zi’ Elvira, e Ii parenti un 

po’ tutti, staveno ad annaspa da tre giorni chi de qua chi de là pe trovà er filo 

de la salvazione e tirallo fora, lui Giuliano, da li pasticci in cui s’aritrovava, 

povero fijo, senz’avé né colpa né peccato. Una parola. Ma dopo le tre 

deposizioni a discarico de li tre orefici, ch’ereno già bone, je venne subito 

dietro quella più bona ancora del cassiere—capo de la banca: der Banco de 

Santo Spirito. Dar cartellino del conto (ai libretti de risparmio) risultò che il 

prelievo de diecimila, Liliana l’aveva fatto là, propio il 23 gennaio: due giorni 

prima del regalo: che quello glie l’aveva fatto il 25, a casa, quann’era andato 

a trovalli, e aveva trovato solo lei. Il cassiere—capo ragionier Del Bo conosceva 

Liliana: l’aveva contentata lui, quella volta: era lui a lo sportello, nummero 

otto, pieno di paterni sorrisi. A momenti mezzogiorno. Sì, sì: ricordava 

perfettamente: all’atto dello snocciolarle sul vetro i dieci fogli — dieci 

bricocoloni zozzi, lenticchiosi, de quelli co la lebbra, che so’ stati ner portafojo 

a fisarmonica d’un pecoraro de Passo Fortuna o sur banco fracico de vino 

dell’oste de li Castelli — lei invece j’aveva detto, co quela voce così morbida, 

e quel’occhioni fonni fonni: «Mbè la prego, sor Cavalli, veda un po’ si me li 

po dà belli novi si ce l’ha: lei ce lo sa che me piaceno un po’ puliti... », perché


109 

those lucky pieces in there, poor sap! Like a capon in the middle of a bunch 

of roosters!… but still with some sharp beak on him, I’ll tell you!” 

The ring he’d given back to the Signora after a couple days, “If I remember 

rightly, it was when she came by the store to look at the jasperstones.” He 

was supposed to hand the fob over to Giuliano in person, coming by himself 

to get it, bring the chain: “Yep, that one”: he recognized it perfectly. “That 

chain, you know the one?” Liliana had said, “You know that chain, Mister 

Ceccherelli, you remember? The one you estimated at two thousand lire? I 

want to give that one away as a present. And grandfather’s ring, with the 

gem, remember? The one you figured was worth nine and a half thousand?” 

Ingravallo showed him the ring as well. “It’s this one, all right: three carats 

and a little left over. A magnificent water.” He took it, turned it, studied it: 

held it up against the light: “All the time he said to me, grandpa said: remember, 

Liliana, that has to stay in the family! You know to whom I mean!” Her 

grandfather’s word, a holy formula almost for her: that was plain: anyway, 

she’d repeated it twice, in the shop: “Ain’t I right?”, he asked in the presence 

of Gallone and Giuseppe Amaldi, who acknowledged with their heads. 

Liliana herself had insisted on explaining everything to Amaldi: how the 

two letters that he was supposed to engrave were linked together, how she 

wanted the jasperstone to be set: bulging a little from the oval setting: 

Ceccherelli traced with the nail of his little finger the clean contour of the 

stone, green, seal mounted, that is to say slightly overhanging the setting, 

and backed with a thin gold plate, in order to hide and encase the uncut face. 

Apart from the jewelers, who were heard in the morning, the Valdarena 

family and consorts, that is Giuliano’s grandmother, Balducci himself, the 

pair of aunts from Banchi Vecchi, unca Carlo, auntie Elvira and just about 

the whole of the relatives, had been thrashing about for the last three days 

every which way to get a hold on the lifeline and pull him out, Giuliano, from 

the fix he’d got himself into, poor guy, though he was as innocent as a baby. 

Easier said than done. But after those three depositions in his defense by the 

three jewelers, that were middling enough, there was the one, better still, by 

the head teller of the bank: the Banco di Santo Spirito. According to the bank 

balance (on the savings account passbooks), it turned out that Liliana had 

withdrawn the ten thousand lire there, just on January 23: two days before 

the gift: the one she’d given on the twenty-fifth, at home, when he’d dropped 

by to visit them, and had found just her. Del Bo, the head teller, knew Liliana: 

he’d served her that day: at window eight, beaming paternally. Round about 

noon. Oh yes, he remembered it like yesterday: as he was shelling out the ten 

bills onto the counter – ten big crumby leaves, the leprous kind that’ve been 

lying in the pants wallet of a goatherd from Passo Fortuna or on a winesplotched 

bar of some tavern keeper in the Castelli – she’d said, with that 

velvety voice of hers, and those big, deep eyes: “Please, Sor Cavalli, see if you 

can’t give me some nice new ones, if you have any: you know I like them sort 

of clean…”: because she called him Cavalli instead of Del Bo. “Like this?” 

he’d asked, one hand already stashing away the rags, the other hand pinch-

110 


lo chiamava Cavalli, in luogo di Del Bo. « Così? » le aveva detto lui riponendo 

i sudici che aveva già in mano: e glie ne mostrava una mazzetta fresca, per 

aria, come contro luce, presi p’un angolo, che je pencolava dai due diti: 

«Lustri lustri, guardi!... so’ arrivati propio jeri da la Banca d’Italia: appena 

sputati fora dar torchio. IJn odorino bono, senta un po’. L’antro jeri mattina 

ereno ancora a Piazza Verdi. Che? ha paura de li bacilli? Ha raggione!... Una 

bella signora come lei. » 

«No, sor Cavalli, è che devo fa un regalo» aveva detto Liliana. «Sposi?» 

«Sì, sposi» «Dieci fogli da mille è sempre un bel regalo: pure pe li sposi.» «Un 

cugino: che è come un fratello. Sapesse! je feci quasi da madre, quann’era pupo.» 

Proprio così aveva detto: lo ricordava perfettamente: lo poteva giurare sul 

vangelo. «Auguri agli sposi: e a lei pure, signora.» Si ereno stretti la mano. 

Domenica 20, nella mattinata, ulteriori indicazioni del Balducci ai due 

funzionari: poi al dottor Fumi, solo, allorché don Ciccio, verso la mezza, fu 

tirato a «occuparsi d’altro», preferì «uscire un momento.» In verità, «d’altre 

pratiche» non ne mancava, sul tavolo. Ché, anzi, il tavolo ne rigurgitava agli 

scaffali, e questi agli archivi: e gente che saliva e che scegneva, e che aspettava 

de fora: e chi fumava, chi buttava la sigheretta, chi scatarrava su li muri. 

Tutto greve e fumoso, il gentile clima del Cacco, in un odorino sincretico un 

po’ come de caserma o de loggione der teatro Jovinelli: tra d’ascelle e de 

piedi, e d’altri effluvi ed olezzi più o meno marzolini, ch’era una delizia 

annasalli. Di «pratiche» ce n’era da gavazzarci, da nuotarci dentro: e gente 

in anticamera! Madonna! più che ai piedi de la gran torre de Babele. Furono 

accenni (e meglio che accenni) «di carattere intimo» quelli espediti dal 

Balducci: parte spontaneamente, si direbbe a scivolo, abbandonatosi il 

cacciatore—viaggiatore a quella tale specie di logorrea cui si danno vinte 

certe anime in pena, o un po’ ripentite magari de’ trascorsi loro, non appena 

sopravvenga la fase di addolcimento, come il livido suole sopravvenire alla 

botta: di cicatrizzazione post—traumatica: allorché sentono che li raggiunge 

intanto il perdono, e di Cristo e degli uomini: parte, invece, tiratigli col più 

soave spago di bocca da una civile dialessi, da un appassionato perorare, da 

un vivido volger d’occhi, da una traente maieutica e dalla caritatevole 

papaverina—eroina e della parlata e del gesto, del Golfo e del Vòmero: con 

azione blanda a un tempo e suasiva, tatràc! da cavadenti di tipo amabile. Ed 

ecco il dente. Liliana, ormai, s’era fitta in capo che dar marito... non le 

verrebbero pupi: lo giudicava un buon marito, certo, sotto tutti gli aspetti»: 

ma d’un bebè in viaggio, che! neanche il presagio. In dieci anni de matrimonio, 

a momenti, che, che! manco l’inspirazzione: e aveva sposato a ventuno. 

I medici aveveno parlato chiaro: o lei, o lui. O tutt’e due. Lei? p’esclude che la 

colpa fosse sua avrebbe dovuto provà con un artro. Glie lo aveva detto anche 

il professor D’Andrea. Per modo che da quelle delusioni continuate, da quei 

dieci anni, o quasi, dove aveveno messo così tormentate radici il dolore, 

l’umiliazione, la disperazione, il pianto, da quegli anni inutili della sua 

bellezza datavano pure quei sospiri, quei mah! quelle lunghe guardate a


111 

ing a fresh wad with two fingers, holding it up against the light, like: “Shiny 

new, look!… Just yesterday they got here from the Banca d’Italia: just off the 

press. Nice little smell, just take a whiff. Fresh from the Mint. What, you’re 

nervous about germs? You’re right!… Pretty lady like you.” 

“No, Sor Cavalli, it’s just that I’m giving a present”, Liliana had answered. 

“Newlyweds?” “Yes, newlyweds.” “Ten grand’s always nice to get: 

especially for a pair of newlyweds.” “A cousin: who’s like a brother. Just 

think! I practically played the part of mother when he was a baby.” She’d 

said it just like that: he remembered perfectly: he could swear on the Bible. 

“My best wishes to the happy couple: and to you too, Signora.” They’d 

shaken hands. 

Sunday the 20th, in the morning, more background given by Balducci 

to the two officers, then to dottor Fumi alone, when don Ciccio, toward half 

past noon, was prompted to “handle another file”. He preferred to “step out 

for a moment”. There was indeed no shortage of “other files” on his table. 

The table, in fact, overflowed onto the shelves, and from there to the cabinets: 

with people climbing up and stomping down as well as loitering outside: 

this one smoking, that one flicking away a butt, another hawking phlegm on 

the walls. All smoky and stifling, the charming Cacco atmosphere, in a syncretic 

little fragrance sort of like a barracks or the upper gallery of the Teatro 

Jovinelli: ‘tween armpits and feet, and still other perfumes more or less like 

March cheese, that to get a whiff of was sure bliss. “Files” there were enough 

to wallow in, to scull around inside: and folks, then, in the hall! Christ! Beat 

the tower of Babel on a shopping day. Balducci got some hints (and better 

than hints) of an “intimate nature” off his chest: partly impromptu, spilling 

out as the sales-and-huntsman surrendered to that sort of logorrhea certain 

pained or perhaps repentant souls succumb to, as soon as the healing phase 

sets in, as a bruise succeeds a blow: the phase of post-trauma scar formation 

when they feel both heaven and mankind have extended pardon; partly, 

instead, drawn from him with the mildest mouth-twine by affable dialektike, 

ardent discourse, mobile fervor of eyes, maieutic ingenuity and the charitable 

anaesthesia of Parthenopean speech and gesture: with the action at 

once gentle and persuasive, gotcha! of a kindly toothpuller. And here’s the 

molar. Liliana, by now, had got it into her head that from her husband… that 

she wasn’t getting any kids out of him. She considered him a good husband, 

of course, “any way you look at it”, but there wasn’t, you know, the slightest 

hint of a little bundle on the way. In ten years of marriage, almost, not even a 

token: and she’d wed at twenty-one. The doctors had laid it on the line: either 

her or him. Or both. Her? To prove it wasn’t her fault, she would have had to 

try with another guy. Even Doctor D’Andrea had told her that. So that out of 

those ongoing disappointments, those ten years, or nearly, where the pain, 

the humiliation, desperation and tears had put down roots; from those useless 

years of her beauty those sighs dated, those ahs, those long glances at 

every woman, not to mention the ones with a baby in the oven!… What the

112 


ogni donna, a quelle piene, poi!... chi dice ma, cuore contento non ha... ai 

bambini, a le belle serve tutte fronzute de sélleri e de spinaci, in della 

sporta, quanno veniveno da piazza Vittorio, la mattina: o cor 

mappamondo in aria, inchinate a soffià er naso a un pupetto, o a toccallo, 

si s’è bagnato fuori ora: ch’è propio allora che je se vede er mejo, a la 

serva, tutta la salute, tutte le cosce, de dietro: dar momento ch’è de moda 

che cianno la mutanne corte corte, si pure ce l’hanno. Guardava le 

ragazze, ricambiava d’un lampo, come una profonda malinconica nota, 

le guardate ardite dei giovani: una carezza, o una benevola franchia, 

mentalmente largite ai futuri largitori della vita: a qualunque le paresse 

portare in sé la certezza, la verità germile, gheriglio del segreto divenire. 

Era il limpido assenso di un’anima fraterna: a chi delineava il disegno 

della vita. Ma precipitavano gli anni, l’uno dopo l’altro, dalla loro buia 

stalla, nel nulla. Da quegli anni, operando la coercizione del costume, il 

primo palesarsi indi il graduale esasperarsi d’un delirio di solitudine: 

«raro int’ ‘a femmena», interloquì pianamente iI dottor Fumi: «int’ ‘a 

femmena romana, poi...»: «semo de compagnia, noi romani, » consentì 

Balducci: e quel bisogno, tutt’al contrario, di appoggiarsi con l’animo 

all’altrui fisica immagine, e alla vivida genesia delle genti e dei poveri: 

quella mania... di regalar lenzuoli doppi alle serve, de faje la dote pe 

forza, d’incoraggià ar matrlmonio chi nun aspettava de mejo: quela fantasia 

de volé piagne, poi, e de soffiasse er naso, che je pijava pe giornate 

sane, povera Lillana, si davero se sposaveno: come je fosse venuta 

l’invidia, a cose fatte. Un’invidia che je rosicava er fegato: come si 

l’avessino fatto pe fa dispetto a lei, de sposà, pe poi dije: «Vedi un po’: de 

quattro mesi c’è già er pupo! Er maschietto nostro de quattro chili: un 

chilo ar mese. » Bastava, certe matine, che un’amica je facesse: «Vedessi 

che baulle cià Clementina! », pe fasse venì l’occhi rossi. «Una vorta me 

fece una mezza scena a me, suo marito, p’una ragazza de Soriano ar 

Cimìno: una contadina ch’era venuta a Roma co la viterbese, a portamme 

li confetti. “Quela zozzona manco la vojo vede!” strillava. La sposa, 

povera pupa, arrivò co lo sposo, preceduti da na panza come na 

mongolfiera a San Giovanni, a li fochi. Diceveno: avemo portato li confetti. 

Se sa, ereno un po’ imbarazzati. Je feci, ridenno: se vede che tira aria 

bona sur Cimìno: lei arrossì, abbassò gli occhi sul ventre, come 

l’Annunziata quanno che l’angelo se mette a spiegaje tutta la faccenda: 

poi però prese coraggio a risponne: embè, che ce volete fa, sor Balducci? 

Semo giovini. Avemo preso li passi avanti... Quanno la cratura sarà venuta 

ar monno, chi se n’aricorda più? si c’era er prete o si nun c’era er prete, á 

benedicce? Mo stia tranquillo, che semo benedetti tutt’e tre. » Gli anni! 

come una rosa che sfiori: i petali, uno dopo l’altro... nel nulla. 

Fu a questo punto, co na faccia color cenere, che Ingravallo domandò 

licenza: pe motivi di servizio. Ragguagli e rapporti di subalterni, parole 

e carta scritta: disposizioni da dare: telefono. Il dottor Fumi lo seguì con 

l’occhio, mentre quello si diresse verso l’uscio a capo chino, curve le


113 

heart thinks, the tongue speaks… at the babies, at the pretty maids all verdant 

with chard and spinach, in baskets, coming from Piazza Vittorio in the 

morning: or with their fannies in the air, bent over to mop some kid’s nose, or 

poke around, see if he’s wet himself, off schedule: since it’s right then you get 

a load of her goldmine, that is the maid’s, the whole works, all the thigh from 

behind: now that it’s the style to wear such skimpy underpants, if they’re 

even wearing. She looked at the girls; returned, in a flash as by deep-felt, 

despondent signal, the bold glances of young men: a caress or benevolent 

franchise mentally bequeathed future bequeathers of life: to whoever might 

bear within him the certainty, the seminal truth, the kernel of secret becoming. 

The pure assent of a fraternal soul: to those who traced the pattern of life. 

But out of the dark manger the years stampeded, one after the other, into 

nothingness. From those years, the constraints of morality, at work, the initial 

manifestations and hence the gradual deterioration into a delirium of 

solitude (“rare, in a woman”, dottor Fumi put in gently: “In a Roman woman, 

then…”: “We’re chummy, we Romans”, Balducci acquiesced): and that entirely 

contrasting need to depend spiritually on the other’s physical image; 

upon the vigorous breeding of peoples, of the poor. That mania… for forking 

out double bed-sheets to the maids, insisting on putting up dowries, pushing 

folks who asked for nothing better to tie the knot: and then the whim, that 

took hold of her for days on end, to want to bawl and blow her nose, poor 

Liliana, if they actually went ahead and did it: as if pricked by jealousy after 

the fact. Ate her heart out: like they’d up and married to spite her, just to be 

able to say: lookee here, four months only and already a kid’s on the way! 

Our eight pound kiddo, two pounds a month. “Some mornings all it took 

was some girlfriend saying: You should see the spare tire Clementine’s got 

on her!”, to give her the sniffles. “Once she almost threw a fit with me, her 

husband, over some girl from Soriano nel Cimino: country girl’d come down 

to Rome by train to bring me a piece of the wedding cake. “I don’t even 

wanna lay eyes on that dirty bitch!” she was screaming. The bride, poor kid, 

comes in with her guy, preceded by a belly like a hot air balloon at the 

fireworks at San Giovanni. They said: we brought you the wedding cake. 

Naturally they were a little embarrassed. I say to them, laughing: I see you’re 

enjoying the fresh air up there, at Cimìno: she blushes, glances down at her 

belly, like the Virgin Mary when that angel lays it on the line at the Annunciation: 

but then she gains her spunk back and says: well, what do you want, 

Mr. Balducci? We’re young. So we jumped the gun a little… When the kid 

comes into the world who’s gonna still remember? if the priest was around 

or wasn’t around, to give his blessing? Not to worry, ‘cause now we’re all 

three blessed.” The years! like a wasting rose, its petals falling one by one 

into nothingness. 

It was at this point, his face ashen, that Ingravallo begged leave to 

shove off: duty calling. Reports and memoranda from subordinates, voiced 

or in writing: orders to impart: telephone. Dottor Fumi followed him from out 

of the corner of his eye as he moved toward the exit, his head bowed and

114 


spalle, in un’attitudine che sembrò stanca ed assorta: lo vide levar di 

tasca un pacchetto macedonia, e una sigheretta dal pacchetto, l’ultima, 

sommerso da chissà quali affanni: l’uscio si richiuse. 

Don Ciccio, tutta quela storia, gli pareva d’avella saputa già da un 

pezzo. Le impressioni e i ricordi che il cugino e il marito di Liliana andavano 

estraendo, in una specie di tormentoso recupero, dal di lei tempo così 

atrocemente dissolto, gli confermavano Ciò che egli aveva già intuito per 

proprio conto, sebbene in modo vago, incerto. 

Pure quell’idea di voler morire, se non le arrivava il bambino: un po’ se 

l’era «immaginata», don Ciccio, o credeva? pe la conoscenza de la signora 

Liliana: un po’ era venuta a galla dalle ammissioni del cugino e, ora, dal 

parlare del marito: fatto loquace dalla disgrazia, e dal sentirsi al centro 

dell’attenzione e della compassione generale (cacciatore, era! je pareva de 

tornà co la lepre, fucile a spalla, stivaloni infangati e cani stracchi) e bisognoso 

de sfogasse, dopo la botta: e discettante a piede libero su la delicatezza 

dell’animo femminile e, in genere, su quella gran sensitività della donna: che 

in loro, povere creature! è una cosa diffusa. Il «diffusa» l’aveva letto a Milano, 

sur Secolo, in un articolo di Maroccus... er dottore der Secolo: finissimo! 

La postuma cartella clinica de Liliana venne poi integrata dalla pietà 

delle amiche e delle beneficate: orfanelle che piagneveno, moniche der Sacro 

Core che nun piagneveno, perch’ereno sicure ch’era già in Paradiso, a 

quell’ora, lo poteveno giurà: e zi’ Marletta e zi’ Elvira in gramaglie, e un paro 

d’altre zIe, de li Banch1 Vecchi, pure piuttosto nere pure loro: e conoscenze 

diverse, ivi computando la contessa Teresa (la Menecacci) e donna Manuela 

Pettacchioni, oltre a quarche altra gentile casigliana der ducentodicinnove: 

le due terne antagoniste: l’Elodia, la Enea Cucco, la Giulietta Frisoni (scala 

B), da una parte, e da quell’artra la Cammarota, la Bottafavi e l’Alda Pernetti 

(scala A), che ciaveva pure er fratello, che contava per altre sei. Femmine 

tutte, a sensibbilità diffusa, dunque: benché de quela sorta che Liliana... se le 

teneva a la larga. Una diffusa e delicata ovaricità, propio così, je permeava a 

tutte lo stelo dell’anima: come antiche essenze, nella terra e nei prativi della 

Marsica, lo stelo d’un fiore: premute lungamente a poi esplodere in der soave 

profumo d’ ‘a corolla; che la su’ corolla de loro, viceversa, era er naso, che se 

lo poteveno soffià quanto je pareva. Femmine tutte, e nel ricordo e nella 

speranza, e nel pallore duro o ostinato della reticenza e nella porpora del 

non—confiteor: che il dottor Fumi elicitò in quei giorni a una memore analisi, 

col tatto e col garbo che lo distinsero lungo tutta una operosa carriera (e 

l’hanno fatto oggi, meritato premio! sottoprefetto de Lucunaro adnuente 

Gaspero: cioè no, mejo ancora! de Firlocca, un sitarello delizioso, dove ha 

tutto l’agio di far valere tutte le sue qualità) e co chella calda voce... quella che 

lo dava subbito presente, prima ancora der campanello (stanza numero 

quattro), agli orecchi d’ogni brigadiere e d’ogni ladro, non appena mettesse 

piede in ufficio .


115 

shoulders sagging, with a bearing that seemed tired, absorbed. He saw him 

pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, engrossed in unknown cares. The 

door closed behind him. 

Don Ciccio sensed he’d already known it for a while, that whole story. 

What he’d already vaguely grasped on his own was confirmed for him by 

the impressions and recollections that Liliana’s cousin and husband, in a 

sort of recuperative agony, were in the process of dragging out of her so 

atrociously voided days. Even that notion of wanting to die if no kid came: a 

bit of it had been his “imagination,” (or perhaps belief, through his acquaintance 

with Signora Liliana); a bit had surfaced from the cousin’s disclosures. 

And now from the talk of the husband, made garrulous by hardship, by his 

sense of being at the center of attention and collective commiseration (A 

hunter, he was! Saw himself tramping in with a bagged hare, shouldering 

his gun, muddied boots, panting hounds), needing to get it off his chest after 

the blow: and holding forth, untrammeled, on the delicacy of the female 

spirit and that extreme sensitiveness of women in general: which in them, 

poor things, is widespread. That widespread he’d picked up in Il Secolo, an 

article in the Milan paper by Maroccus… the medical correspondent for Il 

Secolo: a brain! 

Liliana’s posthumous case history was then rounded out by the compassion 

of her female friends and beneficiaries: crying orphans, Sacred Heart 

nuns, dry-eyed because they’d cross their hearts she was already in heaven, 

and auntie Elvira in weeds, plus a couple of other aunts from Banchi Vecchi, 

pretty black also: and miscellaneous acquaintances, figuring in the countess 

Teresa (Bigazzi) and milady Manuela Pettachioni, plus some other gentle 

women tenants at two hundred nineteen: the two rival triads made up of the 

Elodia woman, Enea Cucco and Giulietta Frisoni (B stairs), on one side, and 

from that other the Cammarota woman, Mrs. Buttafavi and Alda Pernetti 

(stairway A), whose brother counted for an extra six. Females all, demonstrating 

that widespread sensitiveness, in consequence: though of that sort 

which Liliana… kept at arm’s length. A widespread and delicate ovarianism, 

that’s the word, impregnated, in all of them, the soul’s stem, like ancient 

essences in the earth and fallow fields of the Marsica might the stem of a 

flower: pressed at length until they burst in the perfume of the corolla; but 

their corolla consisting of the nose, that they could blow to their hearts’ 

content. Females all, both in memory and hope, and in the hard, stubborn 

pallor of their reticence and the purple of the non-confiteor which dottor 

Fumi, those days, was soliciting them to recall in detail, with the courtesy 

and tact which set him apart during the whole of a long and busy career (the 

just reward of which, today, is his nomination to the position of sub-prefect 

of Lucunaro, adnuente Gasparo: no, sorry, better still, of Firlocca, delightful 

little spot where his manifold qualities find more than ample range) and 

with that warm voice… which announced him, right off the bat, even before 

the buzzer (room number four), to the ears of every corporal or criminal, as 

soon as he’d set foot in the office.

“Dentro il silenzio c’è troppo rumore”, oil on canvas.

English Translationsof Poems by Giorgio Roberti 

by John DuVal and Louise Rozier 

The Academy of American Poets granted John DuVal the 1992 Harold 

Morton Landon Translation Award for his translation of Cesare Pascarella’s 

The Discovery of America. He received a 1999-2000 NEA for his translation 

of a play by Adam le Bossu. His latest book of translations is From 

Adam to Adam: Seven Old French Plays, with Raymond Eichmann and 

published by Pegasus Press, which will republish an expanded edition of 

their Fabliaux Fair and Foul at the end of this year. He directs the Program 

in Literary Translation at the University of Arkansas. 

Louise Rozier directs the Italian Program at the University of Arkansas. 

Her translation of Fortunato Pasqualino’s Il giorno che fui Gesù 

(The Little Jesus of Sicily), published by the University of Arkansas Press 

in 1999, was awarded the 1996 PEN Renato Poggioli Translation Award. 

She is the author of the monograph Il mito e l’allegoria nella narrativa di 

Paola Masino, published by the Edwin Mellen Press in 2004. 

Giorgio Roberti Poet, essayist, translator, editor, founder and president 

for thirty years of the Centro Romanesco Trilussa, Giorgio Roberti 

energetically promoted Romanesco language, culture and poetry. Among 

many awards, his ‘na zeppa a l’occhio (A Stick in the Eye) won the Premio 

Nazionale di Poesia “Roma” and the Premio Internazionale per la Satira, 

and his Antiche farmacie romane won the Premio Internazionale di 

saggistaca. His 1974 translation into Romanesco of Er Vangelo seconno S. 

Marco has been much praised and often reprinted. After his death in November, 

2002, a special issue of the magazine Romanità was dedicated to 

him. 

Note on translation 

G.G. Belli, writing sonnets in Romanesco in the early nineteenth century, 

gave an example for Italian poets with his sonnets that showed how 

dialect could convey the energy of conversation more effectively than standard 

language. We translators of dialect into English in the United States 

do not have dialects to convey that energy precisely, so we try to make our 

verse sound like people talking. This would seem impossible for A Stick in 

the Eye, a story over twenty-seven centuries old, but Roberti helps with his 

deft details and his sudden shifts of style, and makes translating his poem 

a pleasure, though difficult.

GIORGIO ROBERTI 

Sonnets from ‘na zeppa al’occhio 

XXXVI 

L’offerta der vino 

Ulisse allora ritentò un approccio 

co un quartarolo in mano, ormai deciso 

a nisconne le fregne in un soriso. 

Dice:--Mó ch’ai magnato ce vò un goccio... 

Senti che marvasia de paradiso 

che t’avevo portata dentro ar còccio... 

E quello, ingarbujato, poro boccio, 

pe’ tre vorte arzò er gommito sur viso. 

Poi disse: “Er vino mio sarà gajardo 

perché ogni vaga d’uva è un palloncino 

tale e quale a ‘na palla de bijardo, 

ma ringrazzianno Bacco e a falla breve, 

si da le parti vostre c’è ‘sto vino 

quella è ‘na Grecia Magna... perchè beve! 

XXXVII 

La sborgna der cicròpe 

E siccome la coppa era un vascone 

come quello der Moro in Agonale, 

ce se prese una sborgna, uno sborgnone 

che nisuna osteria n’ha visto uguale. 

Poi guardò Ulisse e fece: --E naturale 

che devo ripagà la bòna azzione. 

Come te chiami? Nottola senz’ale? 

Gnappetta? Tappo? Càccola? Cojone? 

--Io so’ Nessuno... e pò giurallo ognuno! 

---Okei, pe’ ricambià quer che m’hai dato 

me te pappo urtimo, Nessuno!--

GIORGIO ROBERTI 

Sonnets from A Stick in the Eye (‘na zeppa a l’occhio) 

Situation: the Cyclops has Ulysses and his men trapped in his cave 

and has already gobbled down six of them. 

XXXVI 

The Gift of Wine 

Ulysses approached him when the snack was done, 

grinning hard to hide a twitch of fear, 

cradling a jug above his hip bone: “Here! 

Here’s a drop to wash your breakfast down. 

Here, taste. It’s from the paradisal stock 

we brought here for you. That’s why the jug’s so big.” 

A little confused, the poor brute took a swig... 

another swig..., and swallowed the whole crock, 

then said, “My wines were pretty strong I thought, 

because each grape is bigger than a billiard ball, 

but let’s praise Bacchus for the stuff you brought, 

sailing over the wine dark sea. You call 

your country Greater Greece, because you dine 

on greater grease I guess--and stronger wine!” 

XXXVII 

The Cyclops Blind Drunk 

And since the crock was really more a tub, 

an “Agonale Basin with the Moore,” 

he got so stinking drunk, a tavern, pub, 

or barroom never saw the like before, 

then, looking at Ulysses, said, “Hey you, 

one good deed deserves another. Tell 

me what your name is. Pigmy? Corky Screw? 

Mouse Pill? Mosquito? Tommy Tinkerbell?” 

--”I’m No One. Anyone will swear I am.” 

--”Okay, then for your gift of wine, you’ve won 

first prize: you’ll be the last I eat, No One.”

120 


--Grazzie, gigante da le spalle tozze, 

ma dimme: sei zitello o sei sposato? 

--Io pe’ la scapolanza vado a nozze!-- 

XXXVIII 

Er cicròpe s’abbiocca 

E detto questo prese la rincorza 

verso un branco de pecore lì appresso, 

ma fece un giravorta su sé stesso 

uguale a un picchio quanno perde forza. 

E mentre sbarellava come un fesso 

sentiva ne lo stommaco una morza 

de cacio, vino, stracci e ciccia borza, 

assieme co ‘na voja d’annà ar cesso. 

Poi, tutt’un bòtto, pòro babbalèo, 

cascò de peso tale e quale a un toro 

che scapicolli giù dar Colosseo. 

Eppoi senza ritegno nè decoro 

mentre finiva in braccio de Morfeo 

se vommitava... li mortacci loro! 

XXXIX 

Er sorteggio der quartetto de... punta 

Sùbbito Ulisse riattizzò sur fòco 

la punta de quer palo..., e, appena pronta, 

disse: -- Regazzi, fate un po’ de conta 

pe’ decide tra voi chi fa ‘sto gioco!-- 

Ma quelli incominciorno, a poco a poco, 

a chièdeje l’esonero e, pe’ gionta, 

chi prometteva svànziche all’impronta, 

chi vantava amicizzie in arto loco... 

Tanto che quanno fu a la concrusione, 

com’è come nun è vennero fòra 

li quattro stronzi senza protezzione.

John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti 121 

--”Thanks, Mr. Shoulders-like-a-battering-ram. 

But are you single? Do you have a wife?” 

--”Who, me? I’m hitched. Hitched to the single life.” 

XXXVIII 

The Cyclops Lies Down 

Having said that, the Cyclops turned around 

and headed unsteadily over toward a huddle 

of ewes and lambs nearby, then spun a little 

the way a top wobbles when it slows down, 

and halfway through another off-balance lurch 

across the cave, his stomach felt the press 

of sheep cheese, rich wine, fat meat, and a mess 

of chewed up clothing, with a sudden urge 

to run to the bathroom. Then the poor fool fell, 

fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut 

in the Colosseum at a festival. 

Down now, without good timing or decor, 

drifting off in Morpheus’s boat, 

he vomited their dead friends on the floor. 

XXXIX 

The Chosen Four 

Ulysses grabbed the pole and in the flame 

twirled the sharp point. “Okay, boys, 

he said, “we’re going to have to make a choice: 

which of you is staying in this game?” 

But one by one his soldiers got loquacious. 

They wanted out. Some promised they were able 

to slip him a little gift beneath the table; 

and others talked about friends in high places. 

Like it or like it not, when all talk ended, 

all that the lottery threw up were four 

pathetic bastards no one ever protected.

122 


E Ulisse, ner vedesseli in ginocchio, 

strillò: -- Forza, perdio, nun vedo l’ora 

de cecallo, così ce perde... d’occhio!-- 

XL 

L’accecamento der gigante 

Schizzofatto li quattro der drappello 

mirato all’occhio diedero l’affono, 

mentre Ulisse, incazzato e furibbonno, 

girava er palo come un carosello. 

Sùbbito quer vurcano moribbonno 

sputò brandelli d’occhio dar cervello 

e fece un urlo che sembrò un appello 

da fà aggriccià la pelle a tutto er monno. 

E mentre Lui strillava la natura 

diventava rugosa e penzierosa: 

s’increspava de monti la pianura. 

Tanto che a quer mutà de giografia 

più d’una stella fissa, luminosa, 

se trasformò in cometa e scappò via. 

XLI 

Ariveno li cuggini der gigante 

L’artri cicròpi, già piazzati a séde, 

pe’ fasse ‘na scopetta e ‘no spuntino, 

se chiesero: “Che avrà nostro cuggino?” 

E detto fatto je l’annorno a chiède. 

“A Polifé, che fai? Che te succede? 

Chi te fa piagne come un regazzino? 

Com’è che tenghi chiuso er portoncino 

e fai der tutto pe’nun fatte vède?” 

E Lui: “E’ Nessuno che me fa der male... 

Nessuno che me leva, sarvognuno, 

tutto er punto de vista personale...” 

“Ma nun ciavrài li vermi o l’orecchioni?” 

“V’ho detto ch’è... Nessuno!” “Si è nessuno 

sta zitto e nun ce rompe li cojoni!”


There they knelt. “Now I can’t wait to bust 

his eye out, men,” he yelled, “so make sure 

this will be the last he sees of us!” 

XL 

The Giant Blinded 

The four flag bearers aimed, charged, planted, ground 

the long shaft deep into the cyclops’ socket. 

Furious, frantic, fast, Ulysses struck it 

deeper and turned it like a merry-go-round. 

At once that moribund volcano hurled 

forth great eye fragments and little wads of jell 

out of his monster brain. He yelled a yell 

enough to raise goose pimples on the world. 

As he was screaming, Mother Nature frowned, 

wrinkling her great face, and started to stir 

and raised up mountains from the level ground. 

Beholding earth beneath them relandscaped, 

many a luminous, uneasy star 

turned into a comet and escaped. 

XLI 

The Giant’s Cousins Arrive 

The other cyclopes had come to town 

to snack and have a card game. One said, “Wasn’t 

that Poliphemo?”--”Yeah! What’s with our cousin?”-- 

And they ran to find out what was going on. 

--”Hey, Poliphemo! Hey! Are you all right? 

Who’s got you crying like a little kid? 

Why have you pulled your cave door shut and hid 

yourself away from us and out of sight?” 

And him: “No One has caused me all this pain. 

No One, god damn it! Goddamn No One’s taken 

all of my personal point of view away.” 

--”What is it, cousin, worms? Ear ache? Migraine?” 

“I already told you: No One!” --”No one? Then, hey, 

shut the fuck up and quit your belly aching.”

124 


XLII 

Li cicròpi soccoritori se ne vanno scocciati 

E mentre quelli, ormai pe’ le campagne, 

se n’annavano via de gran cariera, 

Ulisse fece ar mostro: -- Aspetta e spera..., 

nun ciài nemmanco l’oculo pe’ piagne! 

--E’ vero, l’occhio è ‘na caverna nera 

e ancora sento er palo che lo sfragne, 

le lacrime però nun sò taccagne 

e ne tengo, perdio, ‘n’acquasantiera! 

Ma tu che ciài l’occhietti sopra ar viso 

e guardi er celo, sai chi sò le stelle? 

Sò Cicròpi che stanno in Paradiso! 

E le stelle me dicheno: “Pastore, 

coraggio! Pe’ guidà le pecorelle 

nun te serveno l’occhi, abbasta er còre!”--


XLII 

The Helpful Cyclopes Clump Off 

Now that the giant’s neighbors and relations 

were hurrying back to the farm yards where they lived, 

Ulysses said to the monster, “Hope and have patience! 

You don’t even have an eye for crying with.” 

--”It’s true. The eye I had is a black cave, 

and I still feel the stick that burst it open, 

but I can’t stop tears, and tears, by God, I have-enough 

to fill a holy water fountain. 

But you, who have a face that’s got two eyes, 

and see the sky, do you know what stars are? 

They’re cyclopes who’ve gone to Paradise. 

Those stars are saying to me, ‘Shepherd, keep 

your courage up, because for herding sheep 

eyes don’t matter: all you need is heart.’” 

Roberti’s note to Sonnet XXXVII: “The Agonale Basin with the Moor is 

the basin of the Fountain of the Moor in Piazza Navona, completed by 

Bernini, who designed the statue of the Ethiopian in the center of the fountain.”

Toroide, oil on canvas.

English Translations of Poems by Cesare Fagiani 

by Gil Fagiani 

Gil Fagiani co-hosts the monthly open reading of the Italian American 

Writers’ Association at the Cornelia Street Café. He has published two poetry 

chapbooks: “Crossing 116th Street: A Blanquito in El Barrio,” by Skidrow 

Penthouse, and “Rooks,” by Rain Mountain Press. In 2005, he won an “Honorable 

Mention” for both the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, and the 

Bordighera Prize. Gil’s translations include the poetry of three North African 

immigrants living in Italy due to be published in a Bilingual Anthology 

of Italian Migrant Poetry edited by Luigi Bonaffini and Mia Lecomte. 

Born in Lanciano, Cesare Fagiani (1901-1965) was considered one of 

Abruzzo’s leading poets from the 1930s to the 1960s. His poetry has been 

included in numerous anthologies and published in local, regional and 

national magazines and newspapers. In 1951, he won first prize along with 

Alfredo Luciani, at the first Modesto Della Porta Convention of Abruzzese 

Poetry. His principal works include: Luna nove (New Moon), 1949, Stamme 

e sentì (Stay With Me and Listen), 1954, Fenestre aperte (Open Windows), 

1966, and Teatro abruzzese di Cesare Fagiani, (Cesare Fagiani’s Abruzzese 

Theater), 1961. 

Note on translation 

The dialect I have translated is referred to by local people as Lancianese, 

that is the language of Lanciano, a city of 30,000 inhabitants in Abruzzo. 

Although people familiar with Abruzzese dialects in general have proved 

helpful, at times I needed to consult with people who grew up in Lanciano in 

order to obtain the full flavor of a particular word or expression. A second 

challenge stemmed from the fact that many of the poems I’ve worked on were 

written more than 70 years ago. Lancianese, like all languages, has evolved 

over time. Some words and expressions are now extinct. Therefore, for the 

sake of accuracy, I’ve had to seek out and consult with people fluent in 

Lancianese who are in their 70s and 80s. In this regard, I’ve had the good 

fortune to be given a rare Abruzzese dictionary, Vocabulario abruzzese, by 

Nicola De Archangelo, published in 1930, by one of the daughters of the poet 

I translated.

128 


La gente 

-- A monte nen ci i’: ci sta lu foche! 

A destre nen yutà’: ci sta lu vente! 

A manche truve l’acque che t’affoche! 

Soltante arrete va o puramente 

statte ‘nchiuvate proprie addò ti truve! -- 

Cuscì la gente dice se ti smuve. 

Ma tu ne le sentì’ che la campane: 

sinte lu core, ride e va luntane! 

Amore e cante 

Amore, ti facesse ‘na canzone, 

une di quille a foche martellate, 

turnite gna si deve e rimpastate 

di note arillucinte di passione. 

P’ avè’ chiù tempe a fa’ ‘na cosa bbone 

ci jasse, ‘n cuscïenze, carciarate, 

nen ci durmesse pe’ ‘na ‘nter’ annate 

pecchè la notte chiù sa dà’ lu tone! 

E queste nom pecchè i’ stenghe in vene 

di farme, come tante, lu bbelline 

ma sole pe’ cantarte a vocia piene 

nu mutivette nove, proprie fine, 

pe’ dire ca pecchè ti vojje bbene 

‘stu core è diventate cantarine. 

Discurse d’amore 

Quande credeme ca nïente chiù 

ci sta da dire pe’ che la jurnate 

allore... parle i’ ca parle tu... 

n’ atru discorse è pronte ‘ntavulate. 

E che diceme? Cose ariccuntate, 

ditte e riditte sole tra di nû 

duvente, pecchè sème ‘nnammurate, 

cose che vale chiù di lu Perù.

Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani 

People 

-- Keep away from the mountain: there’s fire! 

Don’t turn to the right: there’s wind over there! 

Over towards the left there’s water, you’ll drown! 

Only go backwards or even better 

stay nailed to the spot where you find yourself! -- 

So say the people if you try to move. 

But it’s best not to listen to those bells: 

listen to your heart, laugh and travel far! 

Love and song 

My love, I would compose for you a song 

one of those hammered and forged in fire, 

polished the way it should be and blended 

with notes that are shiny and passionate. 

To find time to make something beautiful 

maybe I would even go to prison, 

and wouldn’t sleep for an entire year 

because night time brings on such a somber tone! 

And I’d do this not out of vanity 

like so many others do, my darling 

but just to sing to you in a full voice 

a sweet little melody, spanking new, 

to say that because of my love for you 

this heart of mine has become a songsmith. 

Love Talk 

Whenever we believe there’s nothing more 

that could possibly be said for the day 

then first ... I speak and afterwards you speak ... 

and we’re ready to shoot the breeze some more. 

And what do we say? Things already told 

said and resaid just between me and you 

becomes for us, because we are in love, 

things that have greater value than Perù. 

129

130 


Chiù l’accuntème e chiù ve’ lu vulìe 

di dirle pecchè sempre cagne tone 

e si fa bbelle ogne fessarìe, 

pecchè, quande ci sta la passïone, 

pure ‘na chiacchiarelle che si sie 

è pe’ lu core come ‘na canzone! 

La vita mé 

La vita mé: nu ciele annuvelate, 

nu vente ‘ngustïose, nu garbine, 

‘na ruvenella d’acque cuncrïate 

pi tirà ‘nnenze sempre tra le spine! 

Nu ciele che te’ spesse nu cavute 

che certe vote fa da fenestrelle: 

di jorne, a nu serene di vellute; 

di notte, a ‘na sguardate di ‘na stelle. 

Nu vente che, a vote, se s’appose 

mi lande tra le pide la pampujje; 

di bbone che ci truve?... Di ‘na rose 

‘na fronna solamente ci - ariccujje! 

‘Na ruvanelle che, pur’ esse a vote, 

lande la macchie de la pecuntrìe 

e va, senza ‘mbrattarse ‘nche la lote, 

cantenne sole esse pé la vie. 

Lu cante 

A chi nen cante chiù si fa sciapite 

lu sense de la vite. 

A chi chiù cante pijje chiù sapore 

la voce de lu core. 

Cuncette 

I 

Cuncè, troppe fucante è ssa suttane 

che fa sciò - llà - sciò - n qua quande camine!


The more we tell them the more we desire 

to tell them because every foolishness 

improves the sound and becomes beautiful 

because a little chat already known 

is like a familiar song to the heart! 

My Life 

My life: cloudy sky, 

an annoying wind, a Southern wind, 

a brooklet of water gathering 

to go ahead always among the thorns! 

A sky that often has a hole 

that at certain times makes like a small window: 

at daytime, a velvet serenity; 

at nighttime, a glance of a star. 

A wind that, sometimes, if it stops 

leaves the dry leaves by my feet; 

What do you find that is good? Of a rose 

the only thing that you can pick up is a leaf! 

A brooklet, even that at times, 

leaves the stains of melancholy 

and goes, without getting dirty with mud, 

singing all by itself along the way. 

The Song 

To those who no longer sing, the spirit of life 

is tasteless 

To those who sing more, the voice of the heart 

gets more flavor 

Concetta 

I 

Concetta, your petticoat is too hot 

swinging every which way as you walk! 

131

132 


N’ avaste le papambre di ‘stu grane 

a mette’ foche all’arie ‘sta mmatine? 

Cuncette, nche ssu passe vacce piane: 

mi te’ ffà’ troppe vènte ssa pedane! 

Cuncette, scì bbendette, pecchè schèppe? 

Quanta dispitte ti pô fa nu streppe 

e quante foche vive chiù s’ accampe 

dentr’ a ‘stu core che già te’ la lampe! 

E vie!... Fa chiù piane gna camine 

se no le pieghe ‘n te ricasche bbone! 

Le trijje si scampane, Cuncettine, 

nen tirà’ ‘nnenze gne ‘na sciambricone! 

Mi sfronne le papambre bbone bbone 

ssu passe che nen vo’ capì’ rraggione! 

Pe’ ssu passe le morre fanne a truzze, 

si scòtele e ti jèttene la ruzze. 

La ruzze di... ‘stu core e di... ssu grane 

po’ fa perdì’ lu pregge a ssa suttane! 

Bande e campane! 

Ecche Lanciane: 

sopra tre còlle 

tra sole e stelle 

nche la Maielle 

quase vicine 

e nu strapizze 

all’ atru pizze 

fatte di mare. 

Ecche ‘sta care 

Lanciana mé 

proprie addò sta. 

II 

Lanciane


Aren’t the poppies in this field enough 

to set the air on fire this morning? 

Concetta, step more softly as you go: 

your hem is stirring up the air too much! 

Concetta, my God, why are you running? 

A thorn bush could cause you so much trouble 

and how much more intense the fire grows 

inside my heart that’s already in flames! 

Go ahead! ... Take it easy as you walk 

or the folds of your dress will not fall right! 

The needlework will vanish, Concetta, 

don’t carry on as if you are tipsy! 

You’re trampling on all these lovely poppies 

and you don’t want to listen to reason! 

You’re making the ears of wheat strike each other, 

they’re being shaken up and resent it. 

The resentment ... of my heart and ... these ears 

makes your petticoat lose all its worth! 

II 

Lanciano 

Bands and bells! 

This is Lanciano: 

on top of three hills 

in between the sun and stars 

with the Maiella 

almost near 

and a drop 

to the other side 

made of sea. 

Here is 

my dear Lanciano 

exactly the way it is. 

133

134 

Bomme e campane! 

Ecche Lanciane: 

orte e ciardine, 

chiese e funtane, 

genta frentane, 

cante e camine, 

core a la mane, 

cipolle e pane 

ma... coccia ‘n terre!... 

Pure la guerre!... 

Ne j’ tuccà’ 

la libbertà 


Neve 

Tutt’arruffate e nche chell’ucchietille 

annacquanite, chelu passerette 

sott’a chela nenguente, puvirette, 

guardè’ lu ciele e ci jettè’ nu strille. 

Cerchè pietà a li Sente e a l’Angelille 

pe’ nen fa’ nengue almene a chelu tette? 

Pure nu San Franscesche, scià bbendette, 

da che sta ‘n ciele chiù nen pense a cille! 

Zampogne 

Cale la neve e sente nu scapiste; 

è proprie esse: è lu scupinare 

che, quand’ ere quatrale, appena viste 

pe’ me ere ‘na feste senza pare! 

Ma coma va? Se un - è la scupine 

e un - è la canzone che si cante 

pecchè, pecchè se l’anne chiù camine 

chiù che la feste luce entr’ a lu piante?

Fireworks and bells! 

This is Lanciano: 

gardens and parks, 

churches and fountains, 

Frentane people, 

songs and walks 

heart in their hand, 

onions and bread 

but...head to the ground!... 

Even the war! 

Don’t touch 

their liberty! 


Snow 

All ruffled and with those tiny eyes 

soaked through and through, that wee bitty sparrow 

under that snowfall, wretched little thing, 

looked up at the sky and gave out a cry. 

He looked for pity from saints and angels 

at least to keep the snow off of the roof? 

Even a Saint Francis, blessed be, 

since he’s in heaven thinks no more of birds. 

Bagpipes 

Snow falls and I hear the sound of footsteps; 

it is really him, it is the piper 

that, when I was a kid, just seeing him 

for me was a good time beyond compare! 

But how goes it, if one -- is the bagpipe 

and the other one -- is the song one sings 

why, why, do the oncoming years go by 

more than the festival shines through my tears? 

135

English Translations of Poems by Davide Rondoni 

by Gregory Pell 

Gregory Pell teaches Italian language, literature and cinema at Hofstra 

University (NY). He has published articles on Luzi, Montale, Tobino, and 

film. His translation focuses on Paolo Ruffilli and Davide Rondoni. Recently, 

he has published a book on cinematic and holographic images in Eugenio 

Montale’s poetry. 

Poet, essayist, playwright, translator and editor, Davide Rondoni is 

one of contemporary Italy’s most active and diversified writers. His contribution 

to literature includes his recent founding of the Centro di Poesia 

Contemporanea (Università di Bologna) and his continuous participation 

in the journal clanDestino, of which he is founder and director. In these capacities, 

Rondoni has his finger on the pulse of Italian poetry. Spanning 20 

years, Rondoni’s own poetic activity, which reflects such influences as 

Rimbaud, Luzi, Testori, Bigongiari and Caproni, has most recently culminated 

in the works Avrebbe amato chiunque (2003) and Il veleno, l’arte (2004). 

Rondoni’s awards are numerous and his poetry is recognized in translation 

in such countries as France, Spain, the United States and Russia. 

The difficulty in translating Rondoni’s poetry is not the result of 

an elaborate or opulent use of language; nor is it necessarily a 

result of a reliance on impenetrable slang or idiom. Rather the 

difficulty can be attributed to his capturing the immediacy of the contexts 

around him in a language that is exceedingly organic and expressed through 

a rhythm that causes the poetry to seem meditated or uttered under the poet’s 

breath. Three problems present themselves. First, as a translator, I feel humbled 

and unnecessary: his poetic language seems so simple that I am almost 

tempted to overjustify my role by implying things in my rendition that were 

not implied in the original. Second, in this lyric unpretentiousness, culturallinguistic 

differences arise. Rondoni employs the banality of a key term like 

“autogrill” (in one of his most well-known poems, “Bartolomeo”) which 

cannot be rendered in English in one word: ‘rest area’, ‘service area’, and 

‘highway reststop’ are too clumsy to be poetic. One could say the same thing 

for the use of “benzinai” in the same poem: “filling station attendants,” “gas 

station attendants”, or “gas attendants” take away from the terseness and 

the musicality. I chose the latter, for it was the shortest version I could find to 

emulate the syllabation, without overlooking the suggestiveness of gasoline 

found in “benzinai.” Third, there remains the task of capturing the vagaries 

and contingencies of intonation: Rondoni’s is a poetry that must – perhaps 

more so than others – be spoken aloud, as it follows broken rhythm and 

unfixed, uneven lineation reminiscent of Luzi’s poetry, which is, likewise,

Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni 

137 

full of deliberate horizontal tabulations. Rondoni’s poetry, then, is deceptively 

plain, so my role is to take the ordinary Italian and marry it to a corresponding 

syntax, replete with Rondoni’s deliberate lack of punctuation, in 

an English version. Rondoni’s primary insistence on the tabulation of verses 

and the positioning of certain types of words at the end of each verse demands 

it. Yet, how does one translate a poetry that sounds like the manifestation 

of a man’s contemplations, or his remarks about life as it happens 

around him? How does one reproduce the cadences that follow a rhythm 

found somewhere between thought and dialogue? How does one translate a 

word that simultaneously exists as the beginning of a new thought as much 

as it exists as a continuation of a previous thought? At best, one can listen to 

Rondoni intone his own verses; but even if solutions presented themselves 

in such a reading, I would have to betray the written verse and that could 

violate the very primacy of Rondoni’s original, albeit unusual, choices for 

his verse delineations.

138 


New York (Avrebbe amato chiunque) 

Central Park, fine autunno, alberi 

di seta elettrica e color sangue 

nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono 

si aprono 

poi piano che si spengono, 

che sta venendo, aria 

che si oscura. 

I. 

ombra 

E inizia a splendere la corona 

ghiacciata dei grattacieli 

sulla folla più cupa nelle strade. 

Io chiedo a Oonagh: perché tieni i capelli così, 

grigi a trent’anni. 

Ma lei ballando muove la cenere della testa 

e gli occhi celesti impensabili 

fa un cerchio magico 

a Manhattan, fa di sé un incendio 

e apre braccia, remi, ali 

nell’oceano delle voci della sera. 

Senti che grida di barche invisibili. 

Nella baia nera. 

II. 

Cosa succede in questa poesia? 

succede 

che ti vedo aprire 

il frigorifero e in quel bagliore 

sul viso ecco i ventagli luminosi, il tempo 

e ti vedo un po’ bevuta 

e disperata in modo fantastico 

lanciare dalle gallerie della casa 

dove dormono le tue bambine 

il richiamo che dirama nella nebbia:


New York 

Central Park, autumn’s end, trees 

of electric silk and blood hues 

in the sky’s cold blue that rise up 

proffer themselves 

then slowly they relent, 

in its becoming, air 

as it dims. 

I. 

shadow 

And it starts, the frosty crown 

of the skyscrapers, 

to glisten on the more somber throng in the streets. 

I ask Oonagh: why do you keep your hair like that, 

grey at thirty. 

But dancing she moves her head’s cinders 

and those inconceivable azure eyes 

she forms a magic circle 

in Manhattan, she sets herself ablaze 

and opens arms, oars, wings 

into the ocean that is the evening’s voices. 

You hear the shouts from invisible boats. 

In the dark bay. 

What is it that happens in this poem? 

it happens 

that I see you open 

the refrigerator and in that flash 

on your face suddenly luminous fans, time 

II. 

and I see you a bit tipsy 

and wonderfully desperate 

cast from the balconies of the house 

where your little girls sleep 

your cry that emanates in the fog: 

139

140 


«sono solo una donna che passa le voci 

di bocca in bocca, solo 

una traduttrice con le sue figlie, 

lasciate l’ira che rade 

le parole dal viso, lasciate o ci farete tutti 

morire» 

e mentre tace il buio di alti cristalli di banche 

e l’ombra in grandi moschee, in uffici deserti 

viene la risposta da un punto invisibile del porto 

o da che battello, da che vagone 

che trema nella sera su una pianura d’Europa 

o da un uomo solo al volante, 

sirene lunghe che si cercano, 

le voci di chi non si vede 

in questo viaggio di sete, di appunti 

strappati su biglietti, 

di riconoscenza... 

Bartolomeo (Il bar del tempo) 

Quando anche tu ti fermerai in questo grande 

autogrill e il viso stancovedrai rapido 

sui vetri, sull’alluminio del banco, 

sarà una sera come questa 

che nel vento rompe la luce 

e le nubi del giorno, sarà 

un grande momento: 

lo sapremo io e te soli. 

Ripartirai 

con un lieve turbamento, quasi 

un ricordo e i silenzi delle scansie di oggetti, 

dei benzinai, dei loro berretti, 

sentirai alle tue spalle leggero 

divenire un canto. 

La felicità del tempo è dirti sì, 

ci sei, una forza segreta 

uno sgomento ti fa, non la mia 

giovinezza che cede, non l’età


“I’m just a woman who passes voices 

from one mouth to another, just 

a translator with her daughters, 

let go of the ire that cancels 

words from your face, let go or you’ll cause us 

to die” 

and while the darkness of tall-paned banks hushes 

and the shadow in imposing mosques, in empty offices 

the reply comes from an invisible point in the harbor 

or from some barge, from some rail car 

shaking through the night over a European plain 

or from a man alone at the wheel, 

drawn out sirens 

[seeking each other, 

the voices of the unseen 

on this journey of thirst, of notes 

scattered over tickets, 

of gratitude... 

Bartolomeo (Il bar del tempo) 

And when you too will pause in this vast 

highway rest-area and see your face 

flash onto the glass of the metal counter, 

it will be an evening like this one 

where the wind breaks up the day’s light 

and passing clouds, it will be 

a wondrous moment: 

only you and I will get it. 

You’ll take your leave again 

with slight agitation, almost 

a memory and the silence of display shelves, 

of gas attendants, their caps, 

all will be turned lightly to song 

behind you. 

The joy of time’s passing is telling you: yes, 

you’re really there, a secret force, 

a consternation creates you, 

141

142 


matura, non il mio invecchiamento - 

la nostra vera somiglianza 

è là dove non si vede. 

Mio figlio, mio viaggiatore, 

sarà il tuo inferno, la tua virtù 

questo udito da cane o da angelo 

che sente al’unisono il giro dei pianeti 

e la pastiglia cadere nel bicchiere 

due piani sotto, dove due vecchi 

si accudiscono. 

Sarà questo amore strepitoso 

tuo padre, quello vero. 

Fermati ancora in questo autogrill, 

dal buio mi piacerà rivederti… 

A Giuseppe Ungaretti, visto di notte alla televisione leggere «I fiumi» (Il 

bar del tempo) 

Non ho fiumi io, 

non ho mai vissuto sporgendo 

il volto sull’acqua 

che quieta o vorticosa 

taglia la città, nobilita o nel gorgo 

ruba via tutti i pensieri. 

Non ho avuto 

gradoni di pietra su cui disteso perdere sotto il sole 

il lume della mente, addormentando. 

Ho avuto viali, 

strade larghe, rumorose, il getto alto 

di tangenziali, 

braccia aperte di povera madre 

vene da cui entra in città 

ogni genere di roba. 

Ho avuto viali d’alberi 

o rapide vertigini tra l’acciaio di pareti 

e vetro oscuro. 

Il caos 

li rende identici, sotto la pioggia


not my waning youth, not the mature 

years, not my growing old – 

our resemblance lies 

in the unseen. 

My son, my traveler, 

your hell, your virtue 

might be your dog-like or 

angel-like hearing 

that detects the turning of the planets 

and a pill falling into a cup 

two floors below, 

where two seniors citizens 

attend to each other. 

This roaring love will be 

your father, your real one. 

Stop off for a spell in this highway rest-area, 

from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again... 

To G. Ungaretti seen at night on the TV reading “I fiumi” (Il bar del 

tempo) 

Myself, I have no rivers, 

I’ve never lived leaning 

my face over the still 

or turbulent water that carves 

the city, ennobling us or stealing 

our thoughts in an eddy. 

I’ve never had 

terraced rocks, outstretched over which 

to dampen my mind’s wick, 

dozing under the sun. 

I had avenues, 

wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories 

of by-passes, 

the open arms of a poor mother 

veins through which all sorts of things 

come into the city. 

I had tree-lined avenues 

or swift bouts of vertigo between steel walls 

and tinted glass. 

Chaos 

renders them indistinguishable, under the rain 

143

144 


sono l’inferno, 

sono frenetici. 

Ma la notte, quando cade 

la notte 

si ridisegnano, 

viali nuovi 

d’ombra e di solitudine, 

quando li illumina il lento 

collo dei lampioni e lo spegnersi 

delle ultime réclame. 

Si muovono allora leggermente, 

ramificano, forse rotea un poco 

tutta la città; 

qualcuno finisce 

in faccia a un castello, a una 

cattedrale, altri smuoiono 

sotto i fari arancio di un nodo autostradale - 

i viali la notte respirano 

con le foglie dei platani, larghe, nere, 

le grate dei metró e l’aria nenia 

che dorme sui bambini. 

Tirano il fiato quando va 

il passeggero dell’ultimo tram - 

I viali mi danno 

una vita speciale, 

che non è pianto e allegria 

non è, ma una ventosità, 

un andare 

ancora andare 

che viene da chissà che mari, 

da quali valli, da grandi fiumi. 

Cosa c’era là fuori (Avrebbe amato chiunque) 

Cosa c’era là fuori, 

che vuoto 

o che cielo in quel vuoto, 

il fuoco 

tirava giú tutto 

che notte 

e rompeva


they are hell, 

they are frenetic. 

But during the night, 

when night does come, 

they recast themselves, 

new avenues 

shadowy, lonely avenues, 

when tall streetlamps illuminate them 

and the latest adverts fade out. 

Then they move delicately, 

branching, perhaps the whole city 

turns on itself; 

some end at a castle, others 

at a cathedral, others dissolve beneath 

the orange lights of a highway junction – 

the avenues breath in the night with their wide black 

plane-trees, their subway gates and sad, singsong lullaby 

sleeping over the children. 

They draw a breath as the last 

trolley passenger takes his leave – 

The avenues offer me 

a special life, 

one that’s neither tears nor joy 

but a breeziness, 

a sense of moving 

on and on 

that comes from who knows what seas 

or valleys, from great rivers. 

What’s outside there? (Avrebbe amato chiunque) 

What’s outside, there 

what nothingness 

or what a sky in that nothingness, 

what a night 

the fire 

pulled down everything 

destroyed everything 

stealing your breath. 

What was there where you 

145

146 

togliendovi il fiato. 


Cosa c’era dove hai lanciato 

il tuo bambino 

il vuoto 

del quarto piano, o che vento, che fiato 

che oro, che affido di vita nel buio 

per salvar lui 

via 

via, in un respiro. 

E mentre lui cadeva 

tu bruciavi maternamente. 

Ma le tue braccia alla finestra 

prima di tornare al carbone e alla memoria 

furono comete, 

ponti di Brooklyn d’amore 

nella notte in periferia di Milano. 

E io te le ho prese, 

signora, lascia le braccia 

a questo ballo lontano, 

alla musica che io e te 

da due sponde nell’ombra per sempre sentiamo. 

Pietà di Michelangelo, vagone (Avrebbe amato chiunque) 

Quando si torna da Roma gallerie 

si devono passare, 

molti bui, lampi, strane 

fratture della luce. 

E i silenzi del corpo in questi treni veloci 

È difficile riconoscere il proprio volto 

nel lampo che lo fotografa sul vetro, 

gli occhi al magnesio degli anni. 

Il tizio che per tutto il viaggio 

fissa la borsa chiusa di fronte a sé, 

la ragazza coi capelli colorati 

e il labbro forato 

che vuole raccontare la sua vita ad un estraneo.


[hurled 

your baby 

the nothingness 

of the fourth floor, oh what wind, what breath 

what gold, trust in life itself in the dark 

but to save him 

away 

away from there, in a gasp. 

you burned maternally. 

And as he fell 

But your arms on the windowsill 

before turning back to carbon and in a recollection 

were comets, 

Brooklyn bridges of love 

in the night outside of Milan. 

And I have taken them 

[from you, 

lady, leave those arms 

to this faraway dance, 

to the music that I and you 

from two shores in the shadows eternally share. 

Michelangelo’s Pietà, train car (Avrebbe amato chiunque) 

Upon returning from Rome, tunnels 

must be traveled, 

many dark, flashes, odd 

fractures of light. 

And the body’s silences in these fast trains 

It’s hard to recognize one’s own face 

in the flash that photographs it onto the glass, 

magnesium eyes from over the years. 

The guy who for the whole trip 

stares at the sealed bag in front of him, 

the girl with the dyed hair 

and a pierced lip 

who wants to tell her life story to a stranger. 

147

148 

E l’altro, brutto, gonfio 

di medicinali, il cappello 

tirato sulla calvizie, piange 


Leggo nella rivista delle Ferrovie: 

anni della Pietà di Michelangelo – 

e vedo quell’abbandono senza posa 

bianche, la madre così 

ragazza, il corpo di Dio che dorme 

in quell’assorto bianco. 

Materia 

che non crede a se stessa – 

come questi viaggiatori, 

nel sonno che ingigantisce 

i vagoni nella sera. 

o forse ha pianto. 

1498, cinquecento 

le lunghe braccia


And the other, ugly one, swollen 

with medications, hat 

pulled over his bald spot, crying 

or maybe he’s just cried. 

I read in the Railway magazine: 

years of Michelangelo’s Pietà – 

and see that incessant abandon 

arms, a mother herself 

still a girl, God’s boy sleeping 

in that rapt whiteness. 

Matter 

that does not believe in its own being – 

like these travelers, 

in a slumber that amplifies 

the train cars in the evening. 

1498, five hundred 

the long, white 

149

English Translations of Poems by 

Raffaele Carrieri and Italian Translation of Poems by the 

Translator 

di Rina Ferrarelli 

Rina Ferrarelli taught English and translation theory at the University 

of Pittsburgh for many years. She has published a chapbook and a 

book of original poetry, Dreamsearch (malafemmina, 1992) and Home is a 

Foreign Country (Eadmer, 1996) respectively, and two collections of translation, 

Light Without Motion (Owl Creek Press, 1989), poesie-racconti of 

Giorgio Chiesura, which received the Italo Calvino Prize from the Columbia 

University Translation Center; and I Saw the Muses (Guernica, 1997), 

lyrics from the Italian of Leonardo Sinisgalli, which was mentioned as one 

of five “outstanding” finalists in the Landon Translation Prize. She was 

also awarded an NEA in translation. Winter Fragments: Selected Poems of 

Bartolo Cattafi is being published in the spring by Chelsea Editions. 

Raffaele Carrieri (1905-1984) was born in Taranto, and lived a vagabond 

life in his teens and early twenties. He quit school at 14 and sailed to 

Albania, from where he went first to Montenegro and then to Fiume to 

fight with D’Annunzio. He was only 15 when he was wounded, a serious 

injury to his left hand. He went back to Taranto, but after a brief stay, he 

sailed again around the Mediterranean visiting various ports including 

those along the coast of Africa. He worked at many jobs to support himself, 

and on his return to Italy, worked as tax collector for two years. It 

was during these two years that he started writing poetry, the poems that 

were collected in Lamento del gabelliere (1945). In 1923 he went to Paris 

where he lived for several years among the poets and painters of the time, 

and where he started writing articles about his travels. He settled for good 

in Milan 1930, and worked as art critic. In addition to several books of 

poetry, some of which won awards, including the Premio Viareggio, he 

wrote many books of art criticism, and biographies and studies of poets, 

sculptors and painters. Some of his other collections are La civetta (1949), 

Il trovatore (1953), Canzoniere amoroso (1958), La giornata è finita (1963), Io 

sono cicala (1967) and Le ombre dispettose (1974) among others. 

Translating Carrieri 

In the poems that I translated Carrieri uses many of his briefly inhabited 

identities as masks, creating a multiplicity of selves: not only a

Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri 

doppio, sometimes like an ancestral other he’s inherited, but a soldier, street 

vendor, ditch digger, ragpicker, rope maker, tax collector, emigrant. At 

times, he even identifies with the inanimate. The adolescent search for 

identity is given body, substance, voice. And all the personae have something 

in common but are also different. 

In translating his work, the challenge was in creating a voice that 

sounded like the Carrieri in my head: restless, homeless, lonely, in danger. 

A man who often looks over his shoulder, and narrowly escapes; 

who comes face to face with death and is seriously wounded, his wounded, 

damaged hand giving him yet another identity. But also a weary man of 

no age, or even old, who expects nothing, wants nothing. The challenge 

was to create this voice, but also to preserve the variation in tone from 

poem to poem, the simplicity or complexity of narrative, the muted music. 

It was important to keep the poems’ slim, hungry look. Their short 

takes and sharp images. Their impatient, hurried runs. I decided against 

“cerulean,” the cognate of “céruli” because its four syllables are too long 

for the line, and it’s not a word sdrúcciola as the original. Also, the shade 

and connotations are slightly different in English. I kept the focus on the 

one poignant image— “The bowl of milk/Filling with darkness”; “ . . . the 

shoes/That watched like dogs,” or scattered it through the verses, preserving 

the unpredictable quality of his collages. In poems such as these, 

there is no room to move. Like the poet, I put my trust in the image. 

151

152 

Si era in due a morire 

Alla fine di una sera 

Io e l’alpino del Friuli. 

Ognuno di noi lo sapeva 

Ch’era l’ultima sera. 

Vedevo sul comodino 

La ciotola di latte 

Riempirsi di tenebra 

E questo ancora vedere 

E distinguere il bianco 

Dal nero mi dava piacere. 

L’occhio e la ciotola 

Erano gli anelli 

Di una stessa catena. 

Il giorno che seguì 

Sopravvissi all’alpino. 

Altro non ricordo 

Di quella sera. 


Raffaele Carrieri 

Si era in due 

Piccola morte 

So questo, era un soldato 

Con un paio di scarpe nuove 

Che accanto gli stavano 

A vegliarlo giorno e notte. 

Aveva una fucilata nel petto 

E ogni volta che tossiva guardava 

Con ceruli occhi le scarpe 

Che vegliavano come cani 

La branda dell’infermeria. 

Morì alle cinque del mattino 

Dicendo queste sole parole: 

“Mettetemi amici le scarpe 

È venuta l’ora d’andarmene.” 

Morì alle cinque del mattino 

Con gli occhi rivolti alle scarpe.


Raffaele Carrieri 

Two of Us 

Two of us were dying 

At the end of one evening 

The alpine soldier and I. 

Each of us knew 

It was the last evening. 

I saw on the night table 

The bowl of milk 

Filling with darkness 

And I was pleased 

I could still see 

And distinguish 

White from black. 

My eye and the bowl 

Were links 

In the same chain. 

The day after 

I survived the other. 

That’s all I remember 

From that evening. 

Small Death 

I know this: he was a soldier 

With a new pair of shoes 

Which kept vigil near him 

Day and night. 

He was shot in the chest 

And every time he coughed 

He turned his sky-blue eyes 

To look at the shoes 

That watched like dogs 

The infirmary cot. 

He died at five in the morning 

Saying only these words: 

“Friends, put my shoes on 

It’s time for me to go.” 

He died at five in the morning 

Eyes turned toward his shoes. 

153

154 

In ogni 

Luogo 

T’ho 

Sentito 

Passare 

E tornare 

Come 

Passa 

E torna 

Il vento. 

Non ho niente 

Proprio niente 

Che sia mio. 

Dalla camicia 

Al berretto 

Non ho più 

Niente di mio. 

Degli occhi 

Ho fatto tranello 

All’inverno. 

Ho asservito 

All’astuzia 

L’orecchio. 

Dall’udito 

Al mantello 

Non ho più 

Niente di mio. 

Anche le mani 

Hanno cessato 

Di essere mie. 

Le mie mani 

Sono di questo 

Sparuto fucile 

Che all’oscuro 

Mi somiglia. 

A ogni fine di giornata 

Quando il cielo muore 


Morte 

Non ho niente 

Fine di giornata

Death 

In every Place 

I have 

Felt you 

Passing 

And returning 

Like 

The wind 

Passes 

And returns. 

I have nothing 

Truly nothing 

That’s mine. 

From shirt 

To hat 

I no longer 

Have anything 


Out of my eyes 

I’ve made a snare 

For winter. 

I’ve put my ears 

At the service 

Of cunning. 

From my hearing 

to my cloak 

I no longer 

Have anything 


Even my hands 

Have ceased to be mine. 

They belong 

to this bony gun 

which in the dark 

resembles me. 

At every day’s end 

When the sky dies 


Death 

I Have Nothing 

Day’s End 

155

156 

Con la gola tagliata 

Come la gallina nera 

Resto solo sul prato 

Con gli odori della sera 

E il sacco di cenciaiolo 

Dove raccolgo la cenere 

Delle mie ore terrene. 


Attesa di Niente 

La luce non mi è stata compagna 

Sulla terra né l’acqua sorella. 

L’affabile acqua piovana 

Che materna addormenta 

Il vecchio gabelliere 

E la giovane rana. 

Avrei voluto chiudere il cielo 

Come una semplice porta 

Per restare una giornata 

Acquattato nell’erba 

In attesa di niente


Its throat severed 

Like the black hen’s 

I linger in the meadow 

Alone with the evening smells 

And the rag picker’s sack 

where I gather the ashes 

Of my earthly hours. 

Waiting for Nothing 

Light has not been my friend 

On the earth nor water my sister. 

The amiable rain water 

That like a mother puts to sleep 

The old tax collector 

And the young frog. 

I would have liked to close the sky 

Like a simple door 

To remain all day 

Hidden in the grass 

Waiting for nothing. 

157


Poems in English by Rina Ferrarelli translated into Italian 

Dreamsearch 

I was back in that other 

country again last night 

those narrow streets 

familiar and strange. 

I walked on the worn stone 

in the shadow of houses 

looking for a door 

looking for a face 

and again 

I woke up too soon. 

And it’s been thirty years now 

I’ve mothered three children 

made a warm home for them 

and that little orphan girl. 

Back to the Source 

Granite and river stone 

worn by walking, 

wide sloping steps with short rises 

the steep descent 

but not 

the straight path of a torrent 

sharp turns 

and small wide bends 

where walls jut out 

alleys come in 

I always go up in my dreams 

upstream back to the source. 

Someone’s often missing 

from family pictures, 

Inside the Frame

Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli 159 

Cercando nel sogno 

Mi ritrovai in quell’altro 

mondo durante la notte 

quei vicoli stretti 

intimi e strani. 

Camminavo sulle pietre consunte 

nell’ombra delle case 

cercando una porta 

cercando un volto 

e di nuovo 

mi svegliai troppo presto. 

E sono già passati trent’anni, 

ho dato alla luce tre figli, 

ho fatto un nido morbido e caldo 

per loro e quella piccola orfanella. 

Ritorno alla fonte 

Pietre del fiume pezzi di granito 

logorati dai piedi 

ampi ripiani spioventi piccoli gradini 

l’erta discesa 

ma non 

la diritta via d’un torrente 

curve improvvise 

e anse piccole ed ampie 

dove i muri sporgono 

i viottoli rientrano 

nei sogni vado sempre in su 

contro corrente ritorno alla fonte. 

Manca sempre qualcuno 

in quelle foto di famiglia 

Dentro il Quadro


someone you can find, 

sometimes, if you look 

at the clothes she made 

or bought, the colors that go 

with your eyes, your hair 

slicked with a wet comb 

or braided with ribbons. 

At your features, your expression. 

She wanted you to smile 

off the frame, inside the frame 

and sometimes you did. 

Divestiture 

She unpinned the folds 

of white linen 

eloquent of place, 

loosened the loops 

and braided knots, 

and combed her hair 

into a bun. 

She untied her apron, 

took off one by one 

the pleated skirts, 

the black jacket 

with wide velvet cuffs, 

the padded camisole, 

the long shirt 

articulate with lace. 

Then stepped into a dress 

skimpier than a slip, 

and naked, 

exposed like that, 

my grandmother 

came to America. 

Linens 

Plain weaves, twills and herringbones, 

woven at home linen on linen, linen 

on cotton. Some are still uncut—a band 

of warp threads separating one napkin, 

one towel from the other—but most are decorated 

with needlepoint lace. My mother’s older sister 

had the broad back and strong constitution

qualcuno che a volte si trova 

nei vestiti che ha fatto 

o comprato, nei colori 

che vanno cogli occhi 

i capelli, lisciati 

col pettine bagnato, 

o intrecciati coi nastri. 

Nei tuoi lineamenti, 

la tua espressione. 

Voleva vederti sorridere 

fuori, dentro il quadro 

e a volte l’hai fatto. 


Divestiture 

Tolse lo spillo d’u rituortu, 

candido lino 

eloquente del luogo, 

sfece lacci e nodi intrecciati 

e raccolse i capelli sulla nuca. 

Snodò il grembiule, 

si tolse una dopo l’altra 

le gonne fitte di pieghe, 

la giacca nera 

coi larghi risvolti di velluto, 

il corpetto imbottito, 

e la lunga camicia 

articolata di merletto. 

Poi si mise un vestito 

succinto come ‘na suttana, 

e spogliata, esposta così, 

mia nonna 

partì per l’America 

I Panni di Lino 

Intrecci semplici, incrociati, a spine di pesce, 

tessuti a casa lino su lino, lino su cotone. 

Alcuni non sono stati tagliati, e una striscia 

d’ordito separa tovaglie e tovaglioli. 

Gli altri sono tutti ricamati ad intaglio. 

La sorella maggiore di mia madre, di fibra 

forte e spalle larghe, stava intere giornate 

piegata sul telaio, e mandava i pedali su e giù, 

facendo scorrere a braccia tese, da una sponda


to bend for hours, working the pedals, arms 

stretching to send the shuttle scuttling through. 

My mother, the more delicate one, the one 

who wanted to get away, sat where the light 

fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads 

her sister had worked into a tight fabric, 

restructured the space with floss, white on white 

openwork borders, arabesqued windows. 

Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving 

were meant to survive soaking in hot water 

and ashes, milling on the rocks. I machine 

wash them and when the weather is good, 

hang them outside, the way women still do over there, 

stretching them into shape while damp. Most 

are holding up well; a few show signs of wear, 

but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk 

for so many years that weakened the fabric. 

The Bridge 

Progress has finally come 

to the forgotten South. 

A new superstrada 

wide and straight as none before 

bypasses the shelf of road 

the sharp-angled bridge. 

The cross by the roadside 

reminds the few of us who remember 

fewer all the time 

of the men who died there 

hitting the rocks of the stream 

when their truck went off the road. 

Seven men who knew how to do without 

how to turn in a small place 

taking nothing for granted. 

The bridge is crumbling 

purple flowers grow out of the wall. 

The river keeps on going 

as it did then 

the rocks are mute—


all’altra la navetta. Mia madre, ch’era la più 

delicata, quella che sognava d’altri posti, altre 

vite, se ne stava dove la luce le cascava sulle mani, 

e tirando i fili, tessuti stretti stretti dalla sorella, 

strutturava lo spazio colla seta, bianco su bianco, 

orli traforati, piccole finestre rabescate. 

Ruvidi o fini, i panni che conservavo erano fatti 

per superare le prove del ranno e delle pietre. 

Io il bucato lo faccio nella lavatrice, e quando 

il tempo è bello, metto tutto fuori ad asciugare, 

come fanno le donne al mio paese, tirando 

e stirando con le mani, modellando la tela 

mentre è umida. Per lo più si son mantenute belle 

queste cose. Le poche logore, non lo sono 

per l’uso. È stato il chiuso della cassa— 

per tenerle intatte—che ha indebolito il tessuto. 

Il Ponte 

È finalmente arrivato il progresso 

al sud dimenticato. 

Una nuova superstrada 

ampia e diritta 

come non ce n’erano mai 

ha tagliato la mensola di via 

le curve strette del ponte. 

La croce al lato della strada 

ricorda ai pochi 

che ancora si rammentano, 

ogni giorno più pochi, 

gli uomini che morirono 

sbattendo contro le pietre del fiume 

quando il camion sbandò dal ponte. 

Sette uomini che sapevano far senza, 

che si muovevano 

nello stesso piccolo spazio 

senza prendere niente per scontato. 

Il ponte si sta sgretolando, 

fiori viola spuntano dal muro. 

Il fiume continua il suo cammino 

come ha fatto quella volta

deep within their heart 

the crack of bone 

the shocked cry of pain. 


Broomflowers 

Chrome yellow against green stems 

in bunches on the reddish dirt 

even-spaced rows 

like a pattern on a quilt. 

Is this new or have I forgotten 

as I forgot the nightingale 

singing in the trees below the wall— 

what did I know then about nightingales— 

the row of stones holding the tiles down 

at the edge of the roof? 

I’ve missed the Corpus Christi procession 

the creweled bedspreads hanging 

on the balcony rails, gaudy 

against the old walls, the petals 

twirling in the air like confetti 

a carpet on the street 

more dazzling than the gold monstrance 

the white and gold canopy. 

On the breeze a whiff of their scent, 

delicate pleasing. 

The sun is down now, the sky 

turning indigo, but their yellow endures 

on the slope below the parapet. 

Inside 

rough bouquets in earthenware jars. 

And the little girl who picked them for me 

is saying to her mother, sotto voce, 

«She comes from America, 

and she likes broomflowers?»

e le pietre sono mute— 

in fondo al loro cuore 

lo schianto delle ossa 

il grido sorpreso di dolore. 


Le ginestre 

Luccicano gialle contro i fusti verdi 

a mazzi sulla terra rossiccia 

file diritte e uguali 

come i disegni delle coperte nostrane. 

È stato sempre così o mi sono dimenticata 

come ho dimenticato l’usignolo 

che cantava negli alberi sotto il muro— 

che cosa ne sapevo allora d’usignoli— 

la fila di pietre sulle tegole rosse 

all’orlo del tetto? 

Non c’ero per la festa di Corpus Christi, 

non ho visto le coperte ricamate 

che pendevano da finestre e ringhiere 

i colori sgargianti 

contro i vecchi muri, i petali 

che giravano nell’ aria come coriandoli, 

un tappeto sulla via 

più vistoso dell’ostenstorio dorato 

del baldacchino in bianco e giallo. 

Il vento me ne porta l’odore, 

delicato e piacevole. 

Il sole è dietro i monti, il cielo 

è diventato viola, ma il giallo brilla ancora 

al di là del parapetto. 

Dentro casa 

mazzi alla buona in vasi di terracotta. 

E la ragazzina che li ha raccolti 

dice alla mamma, sottovoce, 

«viene dall’America, 

e le piacciono le ginestre?»

“Folgori di tempesta”, mixed techniques on canvas.

Italian Translation of Poems by W. S. Merwin 

by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai 

Adeodato Piazza Nicolai, nato a Vigo di Cadore (BL) nel 1944 ed 

emigrato negli Stati Uniti nel 1959, è poeta, saggista e traduttore. Laureatosi 

nel 1969 dal Wabash College, ha ottenuto il Master of Arts dall’Università 

di Chicago nel 1986. Ha lavorato per 30 anni presso la Inland Steel Company 

di Chicago. Autore di quattro volumi di poesia, il prossimo sarà 

L’apocalisse e altre stagioni. Sta traducendo vari poeti dall’italiano all’inglese 

e viceversa. Di prossima pubblicazione l’antologia Nove poetesse 

afroamericane. Ha insegnato letteratura italiana e “Creative Writing” 

all’Università di Purdue Calumet, Indiana. Tuttora vive in Italia, dove si 

occupa di poesia, traduzioni e di “workshops” sul ladino del Centro 

Cadore. 

W. S. Merwin è nato a New York City nel 1927 e cresciuto a Union 

City, New Jersey, come pure a Scranton, Pennsylvania. Dal 1949 al 1951 

ha lavorato come tutore in Francia, Portogallo e Majorca. Da allora ha 

vissuto in vari luoghi del mondo, il più recente a Maui nelle Hawaii, dove 

fa il coltivatore di rare piante di palma. Ha pubblicato più di 46 opere di 

poesia, prosa e traduzioni. Ha ricevuto una Fellowship dall’Accademia 

dei Poeti Americani (di cui ora è cancelliere), il Premio Pulitzer per la 

poesia come pure il Premio Bollingen. Recentemente è stato onorato dalle 

Hawaii con il Governor’s Award per la Letteratura, il Premio Tanning 

come maestro di poesia, il Premio Lila Wallace--Reader’s Digest e il Premio 

Ruth Lilly per la poesia.

Da: Flower & Hand – 1977-1983 

(The Compass Flower, 1977) 

The Heart 

In the first chamber of the heart 

all the gloves are hanging by two 

the hands are bare as they come through the door 

the bell rope is moving without them 

they move forward cupped as though 

holding water 

there is a bird a thing in their palms 

in this chamber there is no color 

In the second chamber of the heart 

all the blindfolds are hanging but one 

the eyes are open as they come in 

they see the bell rope moving 

without hands 

they see the bathing bird 

being carried forward 

bathing 

through the colored chamber 

In the third chamber of the heart 

all the sounds are hanging but one 

the ears hear nothing as they come through the door 

the bell rope is moving like a breath 

without hands 

a bird is being carried forward 

bathing 

in total silence 

In the last chamber of the heart 

all the words are hanging 

but one 

the blood is naked as it steps through the door 

with its eyes open 

and a bathing bird in its hands 

and with its bare feet on the sill 

moving as through water 

to the one stroke of the bell

Da Fiore e mano – 1977-1983 

(Il fiore bussola, 1977) 

Il cuore 

Nella prima camera del cuore 

tutti i guanti sono appesi in coppia 

le mani sono nude mentre entrano dalla porta 

la corda del campanello si muove senza di loro 

mentre avanzano unite come una coppa 

che porta l’acqua 

c’è un uccello una cosa nelle palme 

in questa camera non c’è colore 

Nella seconda camera del cuore 

tutte le bende rimangono appese eccetto una 

gli occhi sono aperti mentre entrano 

vedono la corda del campanello che si muove 

senza le mani 

vedono un uccello al bagno 

portato in avanti 

attraverso la camera colorata 

Nella terza camera del cuore 

tutti i suoni sono appesi eccetto uno 

le orecchie non sentono mentre entrano dalla porta 

la corda del campanello si sposta come un respiro 

senza mani 

un uccello viene portato in avanti 

mentre fa il bagno 

nel silenzio totale 

Nell’ultima camera del cuore 

tutte le parole sono appese 

eccetto una 

il sangue è nudo mentre entra dalla porta 

con gli occhi aperti 

e un uccello al bagno nelle sue mani 

e con i suoi piedi nudi sul davanzale 

muovendosi nell’acqua 

a battito unico del campanello 

qualcuno suona senza le mani.

170 


someone is ringing without hands 

The Snow 

You with no fear of dying 

how you dreaded winter 

the cataract forming on the green wheated hill 

ice on sundial and steps and calendar 

it is snowing 

after you were unborn it was my turn 

to carry you in a world before me 

trying to imagine you 

I am your parent at the beginning of winter 

you are my child 

we are one body 

one blood 

one red line melting the snow 

unbroken line in falling snow 

Apples 

Waking besides a pile of unsorted keys 

in an empty room 

the sun is high 

what a long jagged string of broken bird song 

they must have made as they gathered there 

by the ears deaf with sleep 

and the hands empty as waves 

I remember the birds now 

but where are the locks 

when I touch the pile 

my hand sounds like a wave on a single beach 

I hear someone stirring 

in the ruins of a glass mountain 

after decades 

those keys are so cold that they melt at my touch 

all but one 

to the door of a cold morning 

the colors of apples

Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon 

La neve 

Tu senza paura di morire 

come temevi l’inverno 

la cataratta che si formava sulla verde collina di frumento 

ghiaccio sulla clessidra e gradini e calendario 

sta nevicando 

dopo che non eri nato venne il mio turno 

di portarti in un mondo che mi precedeva 

cercando d’immaginarti 

sono il tuo genitore all’inizio dell’inverno 

tu sei il mio bambino 

siamo un solo corpo 

un solo sangue 

una riga rossa che scioglie la neve 

righa indivisa sulla neve che cade. 

Mele 

Vegliando presso un mucchio di chiavi diverse 

in una stanza vuota 

il sole è al massimo 

che lunga coda puntuta di note interrotte di uccello 

avranno fatto mentre si ammucchiavano là 

vicino alle orecchie sorde dal sonno 

e le mani vuote come onde 

ora ricordo gli uccelli 

ma dove sono le serrature 

quando tocco quel mucchio 

la mano sembra un’onda sull’unica spiaggia 

sento qualcuno che si sveglia 

fra i ruderi di una montagna di vetro 

dopo decine di anni 

quelle chiavi sono così fredde che si disfanno al tatto 

tutte eccetto una 

appartenente alla porta di un freddo mattino 

i colori delle mele. 

171

172 

In a dead tree 

there is the ghost of a horse 

no horse 

was ever seen near the tree 

but the tree was born 

of a mare 

it rolled with long legs 

in rustling meadows 

it pricked it ears 

it reared and tossed its head 

and suddenly stood still 

beginning to remember 

as its leaves fell 


The Horse 

Alcuni critici hanno scritto: 

“La voce di Merwin, sinuosa e infinitamente flessibile, ha creato un nuovo 

tipo di verso narrativo: la tragica storia delle Hawaii, sofferta da una famiglia, 

raccontata come da un nativo, con una semplicità immediata e uno sciolto 

realismo di saga.” 

-- Ted Hughes 

“Un elettrizzante racconto storico -- compatto e raffinato e pieno di valori 

dimenticati. Merwin crea una forte narrativa poetica con grande intimità e 

umanità. 

-- Michael Ondaatje 

“Merwin è sempre stato un poeta contemplativo, attirato dalla lezione 

del mondo naturale e il rigore di una visione incontaminata. È anche un 

poeta romantico, eroico nella sua ricerca del profondo e intenso, dalla forza 

e potenzialità della coscienza. Ma soprattutto rimane un poeta che ci 

sorprende, che continuamente sorpassa le frontiere di una facile 

ammirazione.” 

-- J. D. McClatchy, The New Yorker


Il cavallo 

In un albero morto 

c’è lo spirito di un cavallo 

nessun cavallo 

fu mai visto vicino a quell’albero 

ma l’albero era nato 

da una cavalla 

scorazzava sulle lunghe gambe 

attraverso pianure ondeggianti 

rizzava le orecchie 

s’impennava e scrollava la testa 

e d’improvviso restò immobile 

incominciando a ricordare 

meltre le sue foglie cadevano. 

173

Traduzioni da AUTOBIOGRAFIE NON VISSUTE 

di Mia Lecomte 

Mia Lecomte è nata a Milano nel 1966 e vive a Roma. Ha pubblicato: il 

saggio Animali parlanti. Le parole degli animali nella letteratura del Cinquecento 

e del Seicento (Firenze 1995); i libri per bambini La fiaba infinita e La fiaba 

impossibile (Torino 1987), Tiritiritère (Bergamo 2001); il volume fotografico 

Luoghi poetici (Firenze 1996), realizzato con il fotografo Sebastian Cortés, di 

cui è autrice e curatrice di testi ed apparato critico; e le raccolte poetiche 

Poesie (Napoli 1991), Geometrie reversibili (Salerno1996, Premio Città di Ostia 

1997, segnalato Premio Internazionale E. Montale 1997), Litania del perduto 

(Prato 2002, testo a fronte in inglese. Con incisioni dell’artista canadese 

Erica Shuttleworth), Autobiografie non vissute (Lecce 2004). Per l’ed. “Zone” 

di Roma dirige la collana Cittadini della poesia, dedicata alla poesia della 

migrazione in italiano. E’ redattrice del semestrale di poesia comparata 

ASemicerchio@, del quadrimestrale di poesia internazionale “Pagine”, delle 

riviste di letteratura on-line “Kùmà”, “El Ghibli” e “Sagarana”, presso la cui 

scuola di scrittura, a Lucca, svolge un laboratorio di poesia all’interno del 

Master annuale. 

Vita è quello che rimane 

quando si è perduto tutto. 

È il cane a tre zampe 

tutte e tre dritte e forti 

e una quarta strappata dall’inguine, 

è la quarta zampa del cane 

che nessun altro cane ha voluto 

e non smette di piangere l’inguine 

e tutte e tre quelle altre, dritte e forti. 

Vita, quando si è perduto tutto 

e ovvia è la taglia sull’incolpevole 

della pietra scagliata, il cieco 

che senza quell’unica gamba 

la gamba strappata dall’inguine 

malgrado le altre, tutte e tre dritte e forti 

non può più far tornare il suo cane. 

°°° °°° 

L’anima della tua anima 

è un inutile involucro vuoto 

la matrioska intermedia già sterile 

una cellula di scaglie coriacee


Life is what is left 

when all has been lost. 

It is the dog with three legs 

all three straight and strong 

and the fourth one ripped from its belly, 

it’s the dog’s fourth leg 

that no other dog wanted 

and the belly doesn’t stop groaning, 

and the other three straight and strong. 

Life, when all has been lost 

and the blame falls on the one who 

did not throw the rock, the blind man 

who without that singular limb 

the leg ripped from the belly 

in spite of the others, all three straight and strong 

cannot make his own dog return. 

°° 

The soul of your soul 

is an empty useless envelope 

the inner matrioska already dried up 

a cell with horny scales 

175

176 


che non può penetrare la voce – 

non c’è polpa senza spina 

in terra o sulla croce, 

ancora gattoni caparbio 

alla periferia di te stesso, 

il dente è più guasto 

nella bocca rifatta di fresco – 

parole che qualcuno ha voluto 

il suono della loro sconfitta 

attraversano l’anima vacua 

di quell’anima che dicono tua 

e non lasciano traccia di sé. 

°°° 

Congedo 

Spartiamoci ora l’eternità comune. 

Eco a caduta dal passato 

balena in incaglio sul futuro, 

viatico forse a una qualunque vita 

l’andare in pace, intanto 

alla fine del rito.


the voice is unable to penetrate – 

there’s no pulp without thorn 

on earth or on the cross, 

you still stalk stubbornly 

around your outer self, 

the tooth is more rotten 

in the restructured mouth – 

words that someone wanted 

to be the sound of their rout 

traversing the hollow spaces 

of that soul they say is your own 

without leaving any trace. 

°°° 

Leave-taking 

Let’s share now one common eternity. 

Echo falling from the past 

whale beached upon the future, 

maybe remedy to an everyday life 

such conditional going in peace 

at the end of the rite. 

177

Amelia Rosselli 

Amelia Rosselli - figlia di Carlo, l’esule antifascista fondatore del 

movimento “Giustizia e Libertà”, poi assassinato da emissari del regime - 

è nata a Parigi nel 1930. Qui é vissuta sino all’occupazione tedesca, che 

l’ha costretta a fuggire in Inghilterra e poi negli Stati Uniti. Ha più tardi (nel 

1950) fatto ritorno in Italia, stabilendosi a Roma, dove ha vissuto fino alla 

morte (si è suicidata nel 1996). Musicista, traduttrice, scrittrice in italiano, 

inglese e francese, ha pubblicato racconti e soprattutto poesie: Variazioni 

belliche (1964), Serie ospedaliera (1969), Documento 1966-1973 

(1976), Impromptu (1981), Sleep (1992, in inglese). 

Da “DOCUMENTO” (1966-1973) 

* 

È una suoneria costante; un micidiale compromettersi 

una didascalia infruttuosa, e un vento di traverso 

mentre battendo le ciglia sentenziavo una 

saggezza imbrogliata. 

Conto di farla finita con le forme, i loro 

bisbigliamenti, i loro contenuti contenenti 

tutta la urgente scatola della mia anima la 

quale indifferente al problema farebbe meglio 

a contenersi. Giocattoli sono le strade e 

infermiere sono le abitudini distrutte da 

un malessere generale. 

La gola della montagna si offrì pulita al 

mio desiderio di continuare la menzogna indecifrabile 

come le sigarette che fumo. 

* 

La passione mi divorò giustamente 

la passione mi divise fortemente 

la passione mi ricondusse saggiamente 

io saggiamente mi ricondussi 

alla passione saggistica, principiante


It’s a constant alarm clock; a lethal compromising 

a fruitless caption, and a cross wind 

while batting my eyelids I formulated a 

tangled wisdom 

I plan to do away with forms, their 

whispers, their contents containing 

entirely the strangling box of my soul that 

indifferent to the problem would do well 

to contain itself. Toys are streets and 

nurses are habits destroyed by 

a general sickness. 

The gully of the mountain cleanly offered itself to 

my wish to continue my undecipherable lie 

like the cigarettes I smoke 

* 

Passion justly devoured me 

passion powerfully divided me 

passion wisely brought me back 

I wisely brought myself back 

to the passion with words, a beginner 

in the dark wood of a boring 

obligation, and the burning passion 

to sit at the table with the great ones 

179

180 


nell’oscuro bosco d’un noioso 

dovere, e la passione che bruciava 

nel sedere a tavola con i grandi 

senza passione o volendola dimenticare 

io che bruciavo di passione 

estinta la passione nel bruciare 

io che bruciavo di dolore nel 

vedere la passione così estinta. 

Estinguere la passione bramosa! 

Distinguere la passione dal 

vero bramare la passione estinta 

estinguere tutto ciò che rima 

con è: estinguere me, la passione 

la passione fortemente bruciante 

che si estinse da sé: 

Estinguere la passione del sé! 

estinguere il verso che rima 

da sé: estinguere perfino me 

estinguere tutte le rime in 

“e”: forse vinse la passione 

estinguendo la rima in “e”.


without passion or wanting to forget it 

I who burned with passion 

the passion extinguished in the burning 

I who burned with pain at 

seeing passion thus extinguished. 

To extinguish covetous passion! 

To distinguish passion from the 

true yearning for extinguished passion 

extinguish everything that is 

extinguish everything that rhymes 

with is: extinguish myself, the passion 

the passion burning so fiercely 

that it put itself out: 

Extinguish the passion for self! 

extinguish the verse that rhymes 

with itself: even extinguishing me 

extinguish all the rhymes in 

“e”: maybe passion won out 

by extinguishing the rhyme in “e”. 

181

Luigina Bigon 

Luigina Bigon was born in Padua, where she currently lives. For most 

of her life she has dedicated her energies and talent to the artistic ornamentation 

of high fashion women’s shoes. Her creations are exhibited in the 

Small Egyptian Room of the Villa Foscarini-Rossi Museum in Stra, Venice. 

She is also profoundly interested in poetry and has published three volumes: 

Bartering for Dreams (Clessidra, 1989, English translation by Adeodato 

Piazza Nicolai), Blacklight (Maseratense, 1995) and Searching for O (Panda, 

2001). She originated and edited the poetry series “…in Verse”, publishing 

the following titles: Walking…in Verse (Panda, 1996), Gelato…in Verse (Media- 

diffusion, 1997) and Eyeglasses…in Verse (Panda, 1998). Founder, in 

1989, of the poetry group UCAI of Padua (Union of Catholic Italian Artists), 

she was its president until 2004. On occasion of the 40 th anniversary of the 

Vajont tragedy, she edited the commemorative volume Vajont. Padua and Its 

Artists (Imprimenda, 2003, translated into English by Adeodato Piazza 

Nicolai). 

I corpi allungati 

Salgono le voci al Dio piangente 

lamento, anime e lance 

sotto la gola, inchiodano 

corazze e morsi 

nel violetto senza pace. 

Calano le brume sui colli 

preghiere, 

gocce d’acqua sulle pietre. 

Si alza il velo della memoria, 

un flusso trascende l’accento 

posto a confine tra la materia 

e lo spirito. Voce solitaria 

la parola del mondo 

mi grida dentro, quasi urla. 

Altre genti popolano l’eco 

di un profondo umano 

che si nutre del tempo 

e del luogo, senza misura. 

Vestiti di nero, i corpi allungati 

quasi si perdono nei volti esangui 

di una civiltà che si consuma nello sguardo 

di chi implora giustizia 

non più nell’ora della morte 

ma del perdono.


The Long Bodies 

Voices lift up to the plangent God 

lament, souls and lances 

beneath the throat, nailing 

breastplates and clamps 

in the violet without peace. 

The mists wrap around the hills 

prayers, 

drops of water on the stones. 

Memory’s veil opens up, 

the tide transcends the marker 

placed to divide matter 

from spirit. A lonely voice 

the word of the world 

that rips me within, almost yells. 

Others populate the echo 

of human depth 

feeding itself on the time 

and the place, without end. 

Dressed in black the long bodies 

are almost lost in the drawn faces 

of a people consumed by the look 

of one who is begging for justice 

no longer in the hour of death 

but of forgiveness. 

183

184 


Paragrafo assurdo 

Vado da ombra ad ombra 

per non scottarmi. Grottesco 

come stare seduti sul ramo 

di un albero a parlare da soli. 

Tutto è talmente lontano 

forse mai appartenuto al mondo 

(attraverso quale fessura 

dovrà passare il cammello?) 

La realtà sfila sonnambula 

sopra un paese irreale, 

insetti dappertutto - bugie in fiore 

con panorama in prospettiva 

nevai ascetici, linfa superstite. 

Non so se vale la pena 

fingere che tutto sia ideale. 

Paragrafo assurdo: 

non buttare via la pura finzione. 

Agosto sta volando 

come una foglia 

sopra le cime degli alberi 

e c’è chi soffia sotto 

per farla volare. 

Forse esclude la ragione 

ma il campo si allarga 

ovunque ci sia una 

misura di grandezza, 

e mentre ci si illude 

si perdono le radici. 

E quel filo d’argento 

che lega le anime 

al mondo sparisce 

scolorando nell’aria. 

Vorresti il tuo albero 

quercia di luce 

con le radici 

strette nella terra. 

Quercia o foglia


Absurd Paragraph 

I move from shadow to shadow 

in order not to burn. Grotesque 

like being seated on a tree’s 

branch to talk to the self. 

It is so incredibly distant 

maybe never a part of this world 

(across what fissure will 

the camel come to pass?) 

Reality unravels sleepwalking 

across a surreal landscape, 

bugs everywhere – blossoming lies 

with an overview in perspective 

ascetic glaciers, surviving lymph. 

I’m not so sure if it is worth 

making believe it is all ideal. 

An absurd paragraph: 

don’t throw away the pure fiction. 

August flies off 

like a leaf 

across the tree tops 

with someone who blows 

beneath it to make it fly. 

Maybe reason doesn’t hold 

but the field is expanding 

wherever there is | one 

measure of greatness, 

and as we delude ourselves 

we lose our roots. 

That silvery filament 

binding spirits 

to the earth | fades away 

into thin air. 

You would like your tree 

as an oak made of light 

with roots 

dug deep into the ground. 

Oak Tree or Leaf 

185

186 


Scia di zolfo 

Dì di sì, dì che credi. 

Insistente il falsetto si fa stridulo 

sapendo di mentire (io tu e gli altri). 

Proclami una promessa: 

è solo schermo privo di consistenza 

nemmeno un velo. 

Mattone su mattone costruisci 

il castello invisibile 

con le tante serrature a manico. 

Nemmeno una nuvola. 

La voce crepitante di malizie 

lascia una scia di zolfo 

(zoccoli sullo sterrato 

dopo la pioggia, nell’aria odore 

di terra e di escrementi). 

A cosa credere se tutto è fumo 

e appartiene a longitudini vaghe 

a costruzioni inverosimili 

come i gorghi delle burrasche? 

Non rimane che un feticcio di polvere. 

Vortice di specchi 

Non è lamento di lupo 

a graffiare la porta, 

né strazio di colomba 

a volare sopra l’incudine 

spezzato. Voragine di corvo 

strapiomba il sereno 

ma non spezza le radici. 

Il gesto sonoro segna 

soltanto una melodia malata. 

Lo sconcerto non spaventa 

l’asino, il raglio non ha senso 

anche se di notte la luna 

gli illumina il pelo. 

Alla fine cosa può accadere. 

Nulla. È soltanto un vortice 

di specchi che scortica l’aria.


Trace of Sulphur 

Say yes, say you believe. 

The half-lie scratches insistently aware 

of its falsehood (me you and the others). 

You pronounce the promise: 

it’s just a screen devoid of substance 

not even a veil. 

Brick on brick you build 

the invisible castle 

filled with handles and latches. 

Not even one cloud. 

a voice creaking with malice 

leaves only traces of sulphur 

(hooves on the earth 

after the rain, an aroma of 

humus and shit in the air). 

What to believe in if all is smoke 

that pertains to pale longitudes 

to implausible structures 

like eddies in the storms? 

A fetish of dust hangs behind. 

A Vortex of Mirrors 

It’s not a wolf’s howling 

that claws at the door, 

nor the dove’s mourning 

flying across the shattered 

anvil. A raven’s dive 

collapses the calm but 

won’t demolish the roots. 

The musical touch signals 

no more than a sickened note 

dissonance that does not frighten 

the donkey, its bray makes no sense 

even if nightly the moon 

lights up its pelt. 

In the end what can happen? 

Nothing. It’s only a vortex 

of mirrors flaying the air. 

187

English Translations of Poems by Giovanni Raboni 

by Michael Palma 

Michael Palma has published The Egg Shape, Antibodies, and A Fortune 

in Gold (poetry); translations of Guido Gozzano, Diego Valeri, and other 

modern and contemporary Italian poets; and a fully rhymed version of Dante’s 

Inferno. His translation of Giovanni Raboni will be published this year by 

Chelsea Editions. 

Giovanni Raboni, born in Milan in 1932, worked as an editor and 

critic. His many volumes of poetry are gathered in Tutte le poesie (1951-1998), 

which was followed by a final collection, Barlumi di storia, in 2002. He also 

published translations of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal and Proust’s A la 

recherche du temps perdu, among many others. He died in September 2004.

Giovanni Raboni 

The more I have read, thought about, and translated the poetry of 

Giovanni Raboni, the more convinced have I become that he is 

one of the great poets, and perhaps the single greatest Italian 

poet, of our time. This judgment was confirmed by Mondadori’s decision to 

include him in its Meridiani series of standard Italian writers while he was 

still alive, a fact about which he seemed a bit shy but justifiably quite proud, 

when I met with him for the second (and last) time in Milan in February 

2004—although, sadly, he did not live to see its realization. 

W. H. Auden, the English-language writer that in some ways Raboni 

most resembles, famously set out five criteria for a major poet, which can be 

summarized here as copiousness, “wide range in subject matter and treatment,” 

“originality of vision and style,” mastery of technique, and development. 

Raboni, I believe, more than fulfills all of these expectations, and it is 

this depth and variety in his work that I have tried to communicate, both in 

the book-length selection I am preparing and in the cross-section of that 

manuscript presented here. 

From the terse lyrics of his earliest phase to the experiments with widely 

varying line lengths and mixtures of colloquial and arcane diction, from the 

scores of sonnets written in his forties and fifties (a trend toward formalism 

that reversed the movement of so many of his American contemporaries) to 

the reminiscent poems of his last collection (itself reminiscent of Lowell’s 

Day by Day), his work is a rich blend of constancy and change. In keeping 

pace with it, I have tried also to keep pace with the smaller effects on which 

the larger ones often depend—not just the hendecasyllabic undercarriage 

and the rhymes (where they occur), but also the parallelisms, the alliteration, 

the abrupt tonal shifts, the restless enjambment that characterizes so many 

of the sonnets, and so on. 

Technique, of course, is merely a means to an end, and it is the ends 

that I have tried most to reflect—the striking and often quirky angle of insight 

peculiar to his vision (and now and then simply peculiar); the passionate 

moral, social, and political concern; the preoccupation, at times almost an 

obsession, with illness and death; the tenderness of late love. These are the 

things that impress us most forcefully and remain with us most deeply as we 

watch Raboni bear witness to the private pains and joys of his life and to the 

public shames and outrages of his times.

190 


Risanamento 

Di tutto questo 

non c’è più niente (o forse qualcosa 

s’indovina, c’è ancora qualche strada 

acciottolata a mezzo, un’osteria). 

Qui, diceva mio padre, conveniva 

venirci col coltello... Eh sì, il Naviglio 

è a due passi, la nebbia era più forte 

prima che lo coprissero... Ma quello 

che hanno fatto, distruggere le case, 

distruggere quartieri, qui e altrove, 

a cosa serve? Il male non era 

lì dentro, nelle scale, nei cortili, 

nei ballatoi, lì semmai c’era umido 

da prendersi un malanno. Se mio padre 

fosse vivo, chiederei anche a lui: ti sembra 

che serva? è il modo? A me sembra che il male 

non è mai nelle cose, gli direi. 

Lezioni di economia politica 

Cosa vuoi che ti dica. Più tardi 

può darsi che la maschera si tagli e tu riesca 

a vederli con gli occhi i veri, 

i santi moti del tuo cuore... tardi 

per assecondarli, magari: ma allora, 

a diciotto, diciannove e nessuno 

che ci dicesse sul muso « stronzi », il nostro modo 

di rivoltarci era quello, il conformismo, 

la pacatezza, il freddo disgusto 

per le intemperanze giovanili; 

aver schifo della rivoluzione... 

Uno come lui, capisci, era per forza il nostro uomo 

con i suoi colletti rotondi e duri, la spilla, 

le scarpe da vampiro. E ti ricordi, 

non ne perdevamo una: issati 

sui vecchi banchi (dalle porte-finestre il giardino 

delle Reali Fanciulle o come diavolo 

si chiamavano), immobili, cascando 

di sonno, d’incertezza e insieme 

impalati d’orgoglio, mi sforzavo 

d’essere alla sua altezza, come lui

Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni 

Recovery 

Of all this 

there’s nothing left anymore (or maybe something 

if I had to guess, there’s still a street or two 

with cobblestones down the middle, and a bar). 

Down here, my father said, you were well advised 

to carry a knife with you... Ah yes, the Canal 

is just a few steps away, the fog was thicker 

back then, before they covered it... But what 

they’ve gone and done, destroying all the houses, 

destroying neighborhoods, here and other places, 

what good does it do? The sickness wasn’t there 

inside them, in the stairways, in the courtyards, 

in the galleries, if anything it was 

the dampness that could hurt you. If my father 

were alive today, I’d ask him: Does it seem 

good to you? Is this the way? It seems to me 

that the sickness is never in things, I’d say to him. 

Lessons of Political Economy 

What do you want me to tell you? Later on 

the mask may be cut away in the end and you’ll be able 

to see with your own eyes the natural, 

the hallowed motions of your heart... too late 

to follow them, in all likelihood; but then 

when we were eighteen, nineteen, with no one 

to call us “little shits” right to our faces, our way 

of rebelling was like that, conformity, 

restraint, a cold disgust 

for all the excesses of youth; 

a cultivated disdain for revolution... 

It goes without saying, you understand, that someone 

like him was our man, with his hard round collars, 

his tie-pin, his bloodsucker’s shoes. And you recall, 

we didn’t miss one of them: sitting up 

at those high old desks (through the French windows 

the garden of the Royal Princesses or whatever 

the hell they called it), immobile, falling asleep 

and into uncertainty but all the same 

stiff with pride, and I made every effort 

to be at his altitude, to be clearheaded 

191

192 


lucido e spassionato – di capire 

com’è giusto applicare anche ai salari, alle teste 

degli operai 

la legge della domanda e dell’offerta. 

Bambino morto di fatica ecc. 

La porta chiusa alle spalle, nel buio, d’età 

fra cinque e sei anni sopportando 

una crescita d’occhi, improvvisamente, 

nella schiena e – il plafone ribàltasi in piancito 

e qui, e qui, sul pianerottolo (la porta 

da dentro chiusa alle spalle) cosa resta da fare 

se non cercare scampo con la testa cioè 

incastrarla, tra ferro e ferro, sul vuoto delle scale 

scabrosamente non riuscendo più a liberarla, 

minuziosamente arrestando 

i battiti del cuore 

per infarto: tipico dei grandi; questo è uno dei modi. 

Adesso che me l’hai detto vedo 

com’è finito il bambino: 

un medio grumo di sangue sul pavimento 

del bagno. E tu che se per caso 

svenivi, se non c’era nessuno 

potevi morire dissanguata. Del quale 

comportamento, suggerisci sentimentale, 

bisognerebbe ringraziarlo, nessun 

gentile o bestiale medicastro avendoci messo mano 

per raschiarlo volontariamente (per nostra volontà) 

via. 

Anche così, rifletto, si produce 

un santino, l’immagine buona, propiziatoria 

da appendere dall’altra parte del letto in simmetria 

con quelle da trattare con gli spilli... 

3 

Ha fatto troppo l’amore, dopo, sembra 

che t’abbia detto; sembra 

1 

2


and dispassionate like him—to understand 

why it was proper procedure to apply even to wages, to 

the heads 

of the laborers, the law of supply and demand. 

Little Boy Dead of Exhaustion Etc. 

1 

The door closed behind him, in the darkness, 

somewhere 

between five and six years old enduring 

an increase of eyes, out of nowhere, 

in his back and—the ceiling rolling over on the floor 

and here, and here, out on the landing (the door 

closed behind him from inside) what else is there to do 

but look for a way out with his head, that is to say, 

jammed between rail and rail, on the emptiness of the 

stairs 

struggling and failing to work it free again, 

scrupulously stopping 

the beating of his heart 

with an infarction: just like the grownups; it’s one of 

their ways. 

Now that you’ve told me about him I can see 

how the little boy came to die: 

a medium-sized blood clot on the bottom 

of the tub. And you, if by some chance you were 

to faint, if no one else was there 

then you might bleed to death. For which 

behavior, you sentimentally suggest, 

he really should be thanked, no amiable 

or brutal quack having lifted a single finger there 

to willingly (according to our will) scrape it away. 

That’s how, I imagine, they go about 

producing a holy card, a lovely, propitiatory image 

to hang from the other side of the bed in symmetry 

with all the ones already pinned up there... 

3 

She made too much love, later on, it seems 

she said to you; it seems 

2 

193

194 


che in questo modo i bambini si fanno – questo 

lo sanno tutti – ma alle volte succede di disfarli. Con 

l’amore, vedi? (non a me: è da sola che cerchi 

d’imbrogliarti), 

con l’amore, non con l’indifferenza, il fastidio, 

non con la voglia di mandarlo via... 

Bambino, leggendo, morto di fatica 

nella Svizzera francese o forse sbaglio a ricordare, 

in Piemonte – nei pressi 

(non all’ombra, assolutamente) di 

un cespuglio 

o addirittura di una pietra, 

questo volevo dire: che la grande madre 

per avergli nascosto l’animale (e lui, a rintracciarlo, 

in giro 

ventiquattr’ore su ventiquattro, in giro come un matto, 

alla fine 

morto di fatica o per il troppo caldo o assiderato, 

alla fine 

impossibilitato a distinguere) 

non credeva di fare nessun male. 

Quando dorme se lo chiami 

muove un orecchio solo. 

Succhia latte nei sogni 

dalla sua mamma morta. 

Morde biscotti. Adora 

i fondi di caffè. 

Con le zampe assapora 

scialli e maglioni. 

Dorme sui fogli. Usa 

un libro per cuscino. 

4 

Personcina


this is the way that babies are made—this 

everybody knows—but sometimes it happens they’re 

unmade. With 

love, do you see? (not to me: you’re looking to get 

mixed up all by yourself), 

with love, not with indifference, irritation, 

not with the wish to make him go away. 

A little boy (reading) dead of exhaustion 

in French Switzerland, or maybe I misremember, in 

Piedmont—in the vicinity 

(not in the shadow, absolutely) of 

a thicket 

or else, to get right down to it, of a rock, 

this is what I wanted to say: that his grownup mother 

in having hidden the animal from him (and he, in 

tracking it down, going round 

midnight upon midnight, going round like a lunatic, in 

the end 

dead of exhaustion or overheated or frozen, in the end 

it was impossible to tell) 

didn’t think that she was doing any harm. 

Call him while he’s sleeping 

and he only flicks an ear. 

He suckles in his dreams 

at his dead mamma’s breast. 

4 

Little Person 

He gnaws biscuits. He adores 

the taste of coffee grounds. 

He savors with his paws 

shawls and thick pullovers. 

He sleeps on leaves. He uses 

a book for a head cushion. 

195

196 


Sta bene sopratutto 

in fondo agli armadi, nelle scatole... 

Con occhi più verdi, tremando 

spia il viavai dei piccioni. 

Si lecca i baffi puntando 

la mosca che volerà. 

Gli addii 

Ogni tanto mi sforzo 

di ricordarli: il ladro di verdura, 

il matto, la servante au grand coeur, 

il medico ecc. Strano gioco, 

ho paura, e assai poco redditizio. 

Tanto tempo è passato! e io 

che mi gratto la testa e sto seduto 

al tavolo di pietra del mulino 

aspettando il sereno, non 

sento di quelle spente dolcezze più 

che un rauco, degradato miagolio. 

* 

Invecchiando il corpo vorrebbe un’anima 

diversa, ma come si fa? non serve 

prendere calmanti, stordire i nervi 

e la mente, il problema è proprio l’anima, 

l’anima che non vuole pace, l’anima 

insaziabile, ostinata che ferve 

per sempre più comicamente impervi 

labirinti o abissi e si sa che l’anima 

non solo è immortale ma immortalmente 

immatura. Così, temo, non resta 

che rassegnarsi, finché non s’arresta 

la fontanella del respiro niente 

può cambiare, non è di questo fuoco 

spegnersi come gli altri a poco a poco. 

Andarsene, tornare, due pensieri 

dolci fino alla morte in tre parole 

sole, FERROVIE NORD MILANO, ieri 

*


He’s at his best inside 

the bottoms of cupboards, in boxes... 

He quivers, green eyes marking 

the to and fro of pigeons. 

He licks his whiskers stalking 

the fly that’ll fly away. 

The Farewells 

Every once in a while 

I try to recall them all, the vegetable thief, 

the madman, and la servante au grand coeur, 

the physican, etc. A curious game, 

I’m afraid, and one with little enough reward. 

How much time has gone by! and I 

who scratch my head and go on sitting here 

at the stone table of the mill 

waiting for the sky to clear, 

all that I still hear now of those dead joys 

is the noise of a degraded, shrill meow. 

* 

The aging body wants a different soul 

but what can be done for it? It hardly serves 

to swallow sedatives, to numb the nerves 

and brain, the problem really is the soul, 

the soul that wants no peace, the stubborn soul 

insatiable in its burning swoops and swerves 

through ever more laughably difficult drops and curves 

in chasms or labyrinths, and we know the soul 

is not just immortal but immortally 

immature. I’m afraid it isn’t going to quit 

simply because you’re ready to submit, 

till the stream of breath dries up it’ll never be 

any different, for as long as this flame’s still lit 

it doesn’t die out like others bit by bit. 

* 

To go away, to come back home again, 

two thoughts that will be sweet till death in three 

distinct words, RAILWAYS NORTH MILAN, back then 

197

198 


limpidamente stampate nel sole 

del mattino, ora oscillanti sui poveri 

trampoli del ricordo. Non ci vuole 

molto per capire che i passeggeri 

sanno poco o niente di cìò che duole 

nella nostra memoria, che per loro 

Auschwitz è un nome come tanti, un suono 

senza storia. Li sento, più leggeri 

dell’aria, sfiorarmi, fendere il buono 

dell’aria, oh non esuli, frontalieri 

dell’aria in viaggio fra la nebbia e l’oro. 

* 

Mio male, mio bene, così vicini 

ormai che tante volte vi confondo, 

che risse facevate quando il mondo 

era pieno di luce e i teatrini 

del cuore non scritturavano ombre 

ma angeli e demoni in carne e ossa 

e da tutte le parti, nella fossa 

di chi rammenta, nelle quinte ingombre 

di macerie, nei cessi, nel foyer 

annerito dagli incendi ferveva 

l’incauta vita... Certo, si solleva 

ancora il sipario, ogni sera c’è 

spettacolo – ma senza vincitori 

né vinti, senza sangue, senza fiori. 

L’autunno ha a volte luci così terse 

e, sugli alberi, rossi di così 

atroce dolcezza che il cuore si 

spezzerebbe vedendoli. In diverse 

più innocue incombenze dunque si finge 

assorbito e lascia che siano gli occhi 

a incantarsene, a impregnarsene, sciocchi 

e intrepidi come sono... Poi stinge 

*


in the morning sun imprinted limpidly 

and these days wobbling by upon the poor 

stilts of recall. It doesn’t take much to see 

that all the passengers know little or 

nothing of things that ache in our memory, 

that Auschwitz is just a name to them, just one 

like any other, a sound that doesn’t hold 

any history. I feel them, lighter than 

the air, as they graze me, split the goodness of 

the air, not exiles but commuters of 

the air in transit between fog and gold. 

* 

My good, my evil, by now so close together 

that I confuse you sometimes, I who might 

have angered you when the world was filled with light 

and the little theaters of the heart would never 

hire shadows for the roles but filled every one 

with angels and demons of flesh and bone, from all 

sides, in the ditch of the one who may recall, 

in the toilets, in the wings that were overrun 

with debris, and in the foyer that was so 

flame-blackened, life was reckless and it blazed... 

Yes, it is true the curtain is still raised, 

and every evening there is still a show— 

but now there are no winners in our plays, 

no losers, and no blood, and no bouquets. 

* 

At times in autumn there are lights so clear 

and, on the trees, reds of such horribly 

outrageous sweetness that your heart would be 

shattered to see them. And while you appear 

preoccupied by a variety 

of more innocuous tasks, you still permit 

your eyes to charm and warm themselves in it, 

brave and foolish as they are... Then gradually 

199

200 


a poco a poco o forse trascolora 

come fa, salendo, la luna, quel 

tetro fulgore, scrudelisce nel 

pulviscolo del tempo, e solo allora 

uno ha il coraggio di dire quant’era 

bello – più bello della primavera. 

Mai avuto, io, il doppio dei tuoi anni. 

Ma cosa dico? certo che li ho avuti, 

solo che tu non c’eri, eri, vediamo, 

a Padova, o forse Venezia, intenta 

a qualche tua storia d’irresistibile 

ventiduenne – e in fondo cosa importa 

in base a quale calcolo o magia 

la ragazza che eri è diventata 

l’incresciosamente giovane donna 

che sarai finché vivo e io per non perderti 

un malato da vent’anni s’ingegna 

di non morire? Non lasciarmi né ora 

né prima, mi sembra a volte di dire 

non so con che cuore, e a chi delle due. 

L’hanno picchiato a sangue, non a morte 

il figlio mezzo scimunito 

della fiorista del paese 

che girava fischiando «Giovinezza» 

due, al massimo tre giorni 

prima del 25 aprile. 

Era fascista? Certo – come quelli 

che l’hanno preso a pugni 

erano uno di Masnago, gli altri 

di Induno: per esserci nati. 

Mai più saremmo stati, lì da noi, 

così atrocemente innocenti. 

* 

*


it all begins to fade, but then again 

perhaps it’s changing color, as the moon 

rising in its somber splendor soon 

is warmed in time’s fine dust, and only then 

do you dare to say how beautiful a thing 

it really was—more beautiful than spring. 

There was never a time when I was twice your age. 

What am I saying? Of course there was such a time, 

only you weren’t here, you were, let’s see, 

in Padua, maybe Venice, intent on some 

of your history as an irresistible 

twenty-two-year-old—and really in the end 

what does it matter what calculus or charm 

transformed the young girl that you were into 

the regrettably young woman that you’ll be 

for as long as I’m alive, a sick man who 

to keep from losing you has managed now 

for twenty years not to die. Don’t leave me now, 

don’t leave me first, I sometimes seem to hear, 

but which heart speaks, and to which one of us? 

They beat him bloody, though not to death 

the halfwit son of the woman 

who owned the local flower shop 

because he went around whistling “Giovinezza” 

two, no more than three 

days before April 25. 

Was he a Fascist? Of course he was—the way 

that those who pounded him 

were one of them from Masnago and the rest 

from Induno: by being born there. 

Never would those of us who were from those parts 

be so atrociously innocent again. 

* 

* 

201

English Translations of Poems by Giorgio Caproni 

by Pasquale Verdicchio 

Pasquale Verdicchio has translated the work of Pier Paolo Pasolini, 

Antonio Porta, Alda Merini and Giorgio Caproni (The Wall of the Earth), 

among others. He is a poet and essayist whose interests range from contemporary 

poetry to photography, to cinema and music. He teaches at the University 

of California, San Diego. 

Giorgio Caproni (1912-1990) Born in Livorno, Caproni is usually considered 

to be a Ligurian poet given the fact of his family’s move to Genova 

when he was young. Most of his life was however spent in Rome, where he 

was a teacher. His works, carefully exploration into the sparcity of language 

and expression, generally have dealt with human relations resultant from 

war, deracination, existential and spiritual conflict. His poetry has been 

recognized with major prizes in Italy: Stanze della funicolare (Viareggio Prize), 

Il muro della terra (Premio Gatto), Il Franco cacciatore (Premio Montale e Premio 

Feltrinelli). His literary activity included translation from the French of the 

works of Proust, Baudelaire, Celine, de Maupasant, Genete and Apollinaire. 

Caproni’s first translated collection in English, the Wall of the Earth, appeared 

in 1991 through Guernica Editions. The poems here presented are selected 

from Caproni’s posthumous work Res amissa (Mondadori, 1991), edited and 

introduced by Giorgio Agamben. 

From 

RES AMISSA 

by 

GIORGIO CAPRONI 

translated by 

Pasquale Verdiccho


Non ne trovo traccia 

…… 

Venne da me apposta 

(di questo sono certo) 

per farmene dono. 

…… 

Non ne trovo più traccia. 

…… 

Res amissa 

Rivedo nell’abbandono 

del giorno l’esile faccia 

biancoflautata… 

La manica 

in trina… 

La grazia, 

Così dolce e allemanica 

nel porgere… 

…… 

…… 

Un vento 

d’urto – un’aria 

quasi silicea agghiaccia 

ora la stanza… 

(È lama 

di coltello? 

Tormento 

oltre il vetro ed il legno 

-serrato – dell’imposta?) 

…… 

…… 

Non ne scorgo più segno. 

Più traccia. 

…… 

…… 

Chiedo 

alla morgana…

Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni 

I can find no trace of it. 

...... 

He came to me deliberately 

(of this I am certain) 

to make a gift of it. 

...... 

I can no longer find trace of it. 

...... 

Res amissa 

I see again in the leaving 

day the thin face 

whitefluted . . . 

The sleeve 

in lace . . . 

The grace, 

so gentle and germanic 

in its offering . . . 

...... 

...... 

A wind 

of impact - an air 

almost siliceous chills 

now the room . . . 

of a knife? 

(Is it the blade 

Torment 

beyond the glass and wood 

- closed - of the shutter?) 

...... 

...... 

I can no longer find sign of it. 

No trace. 

...... 

...... 

the morgana . . . 

I ask 

205


Rivedo 

esile l’esile faccia 

flautoscomparsa… 

Schiude 

- remota – l’albeggiante bocca, 

ma non parla. 

(Non può 

- niente può – dar risposta 

…… 

…… 

Non spero più di trovarla. 

…… 

L’ho troppo gelosemente 

(irrecuperabilmente) riposta. 

I cardini della luce… 

Dell’ombra… 

Li conosco. 

I cardini 

Conosco le cretacee porte 

che danno sul mare. Sul bosco. 

Ma i cardini della nascita? 

I cardini della morte?…

thin the slim face 

flutedisappeared . . . 


I see again 

Parts 

- remote - the dawning mouth, 

but does not speak. 

- nothing can - anwer.) 

...... 

...... 

I no longer hope to find her. 

...... 

I have too jealously 

(irrecoverably) hidden her. 

The reasons for light . . . 

For shadow . . . 

(She cannot 

Reasons 

I know them. 

I know the cretaceous doors 

that lead to the sea. The woods. 

But the reasons for birth? 

The reasons for death? . . . 

207


Così, stentoreamente, 

gridava, richiuso, il demente. 

(Era, la sua ragione eversa, 

la sola Cosa non persa?) 

L’ignaro 

S’illuse, recuperato 

l’oggetto accuratamente perso, 

d’aver fatto un acquisto. 

Fu gioia d’un momento. 

turbato. 

Quasi 

come chi si sia a un tratto visto 

spogliato d’una rendita. 

(Lui, 

ignaro che ogni ritrovamento 

- sempre – è una perdita.) 

………. un’ ombra 

che stringe la mano d’ombra 

a un’altra ombra… 

E rimase 

Il patto 

(In ombra…) 

Due ombre che senza lasciare ombra 

d’ombra, nell’ombra


So, straining, 

shouted, shut in, the madman. 

(Was, his ruined reason, 

the only Thing not lost?) 

Unaware 

He was under the illusion, 

having found the accurately lost object again, 

of having gained something. 

It was a momentary joy. 

troubled. 

And he was left 

Almost 

like someone who suddenly finds himself 

stripped of an income. 

(He, 

unaware that anything found again 

is - always - a loss.) 

.................. a shadow 

that shakes the hand of shadow 

of another shadow . . . 

The Agreement 

(In shadow. . .) 

Two shadows that without leaving a shadow 

of a shadow, in the shadows 

209


fermano un patto… 

(D’ombra…) 

Ma I duri corpi viventi?… 

Le due compatte masse 

tese – quasi acciaiescenti?… 

Dove le due persone 

proiettanti?… 

…… 

(È dunque 

- il luogo d’ogni congiunzione – 

perpetua parallasse?…) 

Quelle impalpabili voci 

quasi trasparenti… 

di tutti quegli occhi neri 

- inesistenti? – d’acqua 

e d’ossidiana… 

- sempre più lontana – 

da sé, la mente 

ne ha perso il nome… 

dissolti?… 

- afoni - corrieri 

di note spente… 

Invenzioni 

L’azzurro 

Lontana 

Angeli 

Incorporei


come to an agreement . . . 

But the hard living bodies? . . . 

The two compact masses 

taut - almost steelescent? . . . 

Where the two projecting 

people?. . . 

...... 

(Of shadow . . .) 

(It is therefore 

- the place of every conjunction - 

perpetual parallax? . . .) 

Those impalpable voices 

almost transparent . . . 

of all those black eyes 

- non existent? - of water 

and obsidian . . . 

- always more distant - 

from itself, the mind 

has lost the name of it . . . 

dissipated? . . . 

- aphonic - couriers 

of extinguished notes . . . 

Inventions 

The blue 

Distant 

Angels 

Incorporeal 

211


Presumibilmente 

soltanto vuote figurazioni 

di suoni senza più suono… 

senza accensioni… 

Lumi 

Invenzioni…


only empty figurations 

of sound without sound . . . 

without switches . . . 

Presumably 

Lamps 

Inventions . . . 

213

English Translations of Poems by Guido Gozzano and 

Giovanni Pascoli 

by Geoffrey Brock 

Geoffrey Brock is the author of Weighing Light, and his poems and 

translations have appeared in magazines including Poetry, Paris Review, 

and The New Yorker. His translation of Cesare Pavese’s Disaffections was 

named one of the “Best Books of 2003” by the Los Angeles Times and received 

both the PEN Center USA Translation Award and the MLA’s Lois Roth 

Translation Award. He’s also the translator of books by Roberto Calasso 

and Umberto Eco. A former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the recipient of 

recent fellowships from the NEA and the Guggenheim Foundation, he teaches 

creative writing and translation at the University of Arkansas. His website is 

www.geoffreybrock.com. 

Guido Gozzano was born in Turin in 1883 and died there in 1916, 

after a long battle with tuberculosis. He was a poet of substantial accomplishment 

and enormous promise, easily the best of the so-called “Crepuscular” 

poets. That label, coined by a critic as a slight, suggests a particular 

attitude toward the past, as if the long day of Italian culture were winding 

down and nothing remained but dim and fading traces, twilight pieces. In a 

land that had produced Rome and the Renaissance, Dante and Leopardi, 

such an attitude was perhaps inevitable and was, in any case, pervasive; it 

was precisely this sort of passatismo against which the futuristi would shortly 

rebel. But Gozzano’s poetry also contains the seeds of something much more 

modern. Like Eliot, he had read his Laforgue, and his monologue “Totò 

Merúmeni,” one of the centerpieces of his second and most important volume, 

I colloqui (1911), anticipates by several years elements of Eliot’s 

“Prufrock.” It is tantalizing (and, of course, fruitless) to imagine what the 

landscape of Italian poetry in the first half of the last century might have 

looked like had Gozzano not died nel mezzo del cammin. 

The poem presented here first appeared in a journal in 1913 and was 

not collected during Gozzano’s brief lifetime. Though not typical of his bestknown 

work, it is profoundly beguiling. The “unfound isle,” with its “blessed 

shore” (Purg. XXXI 97) and “sacred forest” (Purg. XXVIII 2), alludes to the 

earthly paradise described in the final cantos of Purgatorio. (The final line 

also suggests parallels with another famous journey: it is lifted from Pascoli’s 

long poem about Ulysses, L’ultimo viaggio.) If the Purgatorio seems today the 

most modern and human of Dante’s canticles, it is partly because it is the 

only one that, as W.S. Merwin has remarked, takes place “on the earth, as our 

lives do.” For Dante, of course, purgatory is something to transcend, whereas 

Gozzano, in this poem, seems to deny the possibility of such transcendence. 

His paradise remains unattainable, a “vain semblance,” and his sailors

thus remain condemned to their purgatory—which is to say, to this world: 

unlike Dante, and like us. 

Giovanni Pascoli was born in 1855 in San Mauro di Romagna (a town 

later renamed San Mauro Pascoli in his honor) and died in Bologna, where 

he had followed Carducci as professor of Italian literature, in 1912. His 

personal life was famously full of tragedy: his father was shot to death when 

he was 11, his mother and oldest sister died the following year, and two of 

his brothers were dead by the time he was 20. In 1891 he published his first 

collection of poems in Italian and also won the first of thirteen gold medals 

for his Latin poetry from the Royal Dutch Academy. At his best, his quiet, 

plain-spoken style provides what Joseph Cary calls “a rough antithesis or 

even antidote” to the grandeur, or grandiosity, of Carducci and D’Annunzio 

(the other two members of the great triad that shadows the threshold of 

twentieth-century Italian poetry). He is known for his poetics of the 

“fanciullino,” his term for the innocent, non-rational intuition possessed by 

children and poets and associated with lyricism and creativity, and for his 

focus on “piccole cose,” small, humble objects, which constitute the essence 

of Pascoli’s world and which are named with a precision new to Italian 

poetry. Where Leopardi, a notoriously inexact naturalist, refers generically 

to “the songs of birds,” Pascoli names the exact species and sometimes, like 

Audubon, even transcribes its call phonetically. The title of his first book, 

Myricae, is neatly emblematic of this aspect of his poetics: taken from a reference 

by Virgil to “humilesque myricae” (humble tamarisks), it emphasizes 

the humble object, properly named. Subsequent books include Poemetti (Shorter 

poems, 1897), Canti di Castelvecchio (Songs from Castelvecchio, 1903), Poemi 

conviviali (Convivial Poems, 1904), and several others. 

“La cavalla storna” may be Pascoli’s most famous poem, which is not 

to say his best. Though the poem is built around a central mystery—the 

identity of his father’s murderer—the poem itself is not, I think, as mysterious 

as his best poems are. It is not without fascination, but part of its fascination 

surely lies in our knowledge that it is based on actual events. It may 

overstate the case to say that it stands in relation to his oeuvre as “O Captain! 

My Captain!” does to Whitman’s (Pascoli’s is a better poem), but they have 

much in common: both are about father figures who were shot to death in the 

mid-1860s, both moistened the eyes of generations of schoolchildren, and, if 

we read them generously, both are indeed moving, in their fashion. But both 

also suffer from melodrama that verges on mawkishness. Translation can’t 

remedy such faults; it can only avoid exacerbating them while trying to do 

justice to the virtues. In Pascoli’s case (unlike Whitman’s), the poem’s form 

and tone are virtues: the finely balanced, end-stopped heroic couplets and 

the gothic air have the effect of distancing the poem’s events, of making them 

seem the stuff of ancient legend rather than autobiography. It was such 

qualities that I tried hardest to convey.

Guido Gozzano 

La più bella 

Ma bella più di tutte l’Isola Non-Trovata: 

quella che il Re di Spagna s’ebbe da suo cugino 

il Re di Portogallo con firma sugellata 

e bulla del Pontefice in gotico latino. 

L’Infante fece vela pel regno favoloso, 

vide le fortunate: Iunonia, Gorgo, Hera 

e il Mare di Sargasso e il Mare Tenebroso 

quell’isola cercando... Ma l’isola non c’era. 

Invano le galee panciute a vele tonde, 

le caravelle invano armarono la prora: 

con pace del Pontefice l’isola si nasconde, 

e Portogallo e Spagna la cercano tuttora. 

II. 

L’isola esiste. Appare talora di lontano 

tra Teneriffe e Palma, soffusa di mistero: 

«...l’Isola Non-Trovata!» Il buon Canarïano 

dal Picco alto di Teyde l’addita al forestiero. 

La segnano le carte antiche dei corsari. 

...Hifola da-trovarfi? ...Hifola pellegrina?... 

È l’isola fatata che scivola sui mari; 

talora i naviganti la vedono vicina... 

Radono con le prore quella beata riva: 

tra fiori mai veduti svettano palme somme, 

odora la divina foresta spessa e viva, 

lacrima il cardamomo, trasudano le gomme... 

S’annuncia col profumo, come una cortigiana, 

l’Isola Non-Trovata... Ma, se il pilota avanza, 

rapida si dilegua come parvenza vana, 

si tinge dell’azzurro color di lontananza... 

I.

Guido Gozzano 

The Loveliest 

But loveliest of all, the Unfound Isle: 

the King of Spain received it from his cousin, 

the King of Portugal, with a royal seal 

and the Pope’s bull, scrawled in a Gothic Latin. 

Seeking the fabled place, the Infante passed 

the Fortunate Isles—Junonia, Gorgo, Hera, 

sailed the Sea of Darkness and the Sargasso, 

eye to his glass... The island was not there. 

In vain the sails of the stout galleys swelled, 

in vain they fitted out their caravels: 

with the Pope’s peace, the island hid itself; 

Spain seeks it still, and Portugal as well. 

II. 

The isle exists. Occasionally it appears 

between La Palma and Tenerife, beguiling. 

On Teide’s peak, the kind Canaryman steers 

the foreigner’s gaze: “There, the Unfound Isle!” 

It’s marked on the parchment maps of privateers: 

Wandering ifle? or Ifland to-be-found? 

It’s the enchanted isle that rides the waters, 

and sometimes sailors see it close at hand: 

Their vessels glide along its blessed shore; 

the dense green sacred forest scents the air; 

over the nameless flowers, huge palms soar; 

cardamom weeps, the rubber trees perspire... 

The Unfound Isle, announced by fragrances, 

like courtesans... And like vain semblances, 

when pilots sail too near it vanishes, 

turning that shade of blue that distance is. 

I.


La cavalla storna 

Nella Torre il silenzio era già alto. 

Sussurravano i pioppi del Rio Salto. 

I cavalli normanni alle lor poste 

frangean la biada con rumor di croste. 

Là in fondo la cavalla era, selvaggia, 

nata tra i pini su la salsa spiaggia; 

che nelle froge avea del mar gli spruzzi 

ancora, e gli urli negli orecchi aguzzi. 

Con su la greppia un gomito, da essa 

era mia madre; e le dicea sommessa: 

«O cavallina, cavallina storna, 

che portavi colui che non ritorna; 

tu capivi il suo cenno ed il suo detto! 

Egli ha lasciato un figlio giovinetto; 

il primo d’otto tra miei figli e figlie; 

e la sua mano non toccò mai briglie. 

Tu che ti senti ai fianchi l’uragano, 

tu dài retta alla sua piccola mano. 

Tu ch’hai nel cuore la marina brulla, 

tu dài retta alla sua voce fanciulla». 

La cavalla volgea la scarna testa 

verso mia madre, che dicea più mesta: 



lo so, lo so, che tu l’amavi forte! 

Con lui c’eri tu sola e la sua morte. 

O nata in selve tra l’ondate e il vento,


The Dapple Gray Mare 

The Villa lay beneath the quiet’s cover. 

The poplars whispered by the Salto River. 

The Norman horses, each in its stall, fed 

on fodder, crunching it like crusty bread. 

Beyond them stood the wild mare, who was foaled 

upon a piney coast, salt-licked and cold; 

her nostrils carried still that tang of shore, 

and still her cocked ears heard the ocean roar. 

A woman leaned beside the horse’s head; 

she was my mother. This is what she said: 

O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, 

who bore the man who won’t return away— 

you understood his touch, his words, his mind! 

The man has left a little boy behind 

(first born of eight) who never handled reins. 

And though your flanks are spurred by hurricanes, 

heed his small hand. And heed his childlike speech, 

though in your heart there lies a barren beach. 

The gray mare turned her bony head to see 

my mother as she spoke so mournfully: 



I know, of course: I know you loved him, too! 

He would have died alone there, but for you. 

After the bit between your teeth went slack,

220 


tu tenesti nel cuore il tuo spavento; 

sentendo lasso nella bocca il morso, 

nel cuor veloce tu premesti il corso: 

adagio seguitasti la tua via, 

perché facesse in pace l’agonia...» 

La scarna lunga testa era daccanto 

al dolce viso di mia madre in pianto. 



oh! due parole egli dové pur dire! 

E tu capisci, ma non sai ridire. 

Tu con le briglie sciolte tra le zampe, 

con dentro gli occhi il fuoco delle vampe, 

con negli orecchi l’eco degli scoppi, 

seguitasti la via tra gli alti pioppi: 

lo riportavi tra il morir del sole, 

perché udissimo noi le sue parole». 

Stava attenta la lunga testa fiera. 

Mia madre l’abbracciò su la criniera. 


portavi a casa sua chi non ritorna! 

a me, chi non ritornerà più mai! 

Tu fosti buona... Ma parlar non sai! 

Tu non sai, poverina; altri non osa. 

Oh! ma tu devi dirmi una una cosa! 

Tu l’hai veduto l’uomo che l’uccise: 

esso t’è qui nelle pupille fise. 

Chi fu? Chi è? Ti voglio dire un nome. 

E tu fa cenno. Dio t’insegni, come».

Geoffrey Brock/Guido Gozzano/Giovanni Pascoli 

your heart raced, but you trotted gently back; 

born beneath pines, between the waves and wind, 

you mastered fear so peace might be his end. 

The gray mare’s bony muzzle brushed the side 

of my sweet mother’s visage as she cried. 



whose last few words you know, but can’t repeat! 

You brought him back, reins trailing at your feet. 

The shot in your ears, in your eyes the flame, 

along the whispering poplar road, you came. 

You bore him through the dying of the day 

so we might hear some last word he might say. 

The mare’s long head was listening. In her pain, 

My mother threw her arms around that mane. 


you bore him home, the man who went away, 

who never can come home! Good though you be, 

you cannot (others dare not) speak to me. 

But oh, there’s one — just one! — thing you must tell: 

You saw the killer, yes, you know him well— 

who is it? I will say a man’s name now. 

Give me some signal. God will show you how. 

The horses were no longer champing meal; 

asleep, they dreamed the rolling of the wheel. 

They did not stamp their hooves upon the hay: 

asleep, they dreamed the whiteness of the way. 

221

222 


Ora, i cavalli non frangean la biada: 

dormian sognando il bianco della strada. 

La paglia non battean con l’unghie vuote: 

dormian sognando il rullo delle ruote. 

Mia madre alzò nel gran silenzio un dito: 

disse un nome... Sonò alto un nitrito.

Geoffrey Brock/Guido Gozzano/Giovanni Pascoli 

My mother raised her hand toward the hushed sky 

and spoke a name. The gray mare’s neigh rose high. 

223

Confronti Poetici/ 

Poetic Comparisons 

Section Edited by Luigi Fontanella 

The purpose of this “rubrica” is to feature two poets, an American or 

Italian-American and an Italian, who in the opinion of the Editor share 

affinities or embody different approaches to poetry. The editor will select 

one poem for each poet and provide both the English and the Italian translation 

thus acting as a bridge between them. In this manner two poets, 

whose approach to poetry may be quite different, will be conversing through 

the translator. 

Luigi Fontanella is Professor of Italian at Stony Brook University. 

His most recent books are Azul (Archinto, 2001); La parola transfuga (Cadmo, 

2003); I racconti di Murano di Italo Svevo (Empiria, 2004); Pasolini rilegge 

Pasolini (Archinto, 2005). He is the editor of Gradiva, and the president of 

IPA (Italian Poetry in America). 

Valerio Magrelli’s most recent books are Didascalie per la lettura di un 

giornale (Einaudi, 1999), and Nel condominio di carne (Einaudi, 2003). In 

2002 he was awarded the Feltrinelli Prize for Italian poetry. Magrelli is 

Professor of French Literature at the University of Cassino. 

Robert Viscusi is Professor of English and American Literature at 

Cuny- Brooklyn College, where he has directed the Wolfe Institute for the 

Humanities since 1982. His most recent books are the novel Astoria (Guernica 

1995, winner of the American Book Award in 1996, a collection of poems: A 

New Geography of Time (Guernica, 2004), and Buried Caesars and Other Secrets 

of Italian American Writing (Suny Press, 2006).

226 


ROBERT VISCUSI (from A New Geography of Time, Guernica, 2004, p. 

53) 

Goons and Lagoons 

Gangsters in gondolas glide down the streets of Las Vegas. 

What does it matter that this is a desert? 

The water is a form of liquidity. 

The gangsters are my leaders insofar as I am an Italian in America. 

Desert lakes glitter with pumped cash. 

Don’t tell me I am not special, because I have been to Italy. 

In the Biblioteca San Marco I have read manuscript codices. 

The water climbs the marble stairs in the entrance halls. 

Seaweed hangs from every stone you can see of the library’s 

foundation. 

Albert Anastasia was murdered in a barber’s chair at the Sheraton. 

He had a brother who was a priest at Saint Lucy’s in the Bronx. 

Father Anastasia didn’t speak English too well. 

We used to go to the Bronx just to make our confessions. 

The Cadillacs would silently turn the corner of Allerton Avenue. 

Gangsters in cherrywood coffins would slide into the church. 

The Island of San Michele in the lagoon is the cemetery. 

That water eats everything. 

After a few decades the graves are empty. 

Venetians one after another have lain in the same graves. 

In America it is the cities we bury. 

The money eats them the way water eats corpses. 

VALERIO MAGRELLI (inedito, 2005) 

Guarda questa bambina 

che sta imparando a leggere: 

tende le labbra, si concentra, 

tira su una parola dopo l’altra, 

pesca, e la voce fa da canna, 

fila, si flette, strappa 

guizzanti queste lettere 

ora alte nell’aria 

luccicanti 

al sole della pronuncia.

Robert Viscusi/Valerio Magrelli 

Gonzi e Gondole 

Scivolano gangster in gondola per le strade di Las Vegas. 

Che importa se questo è un deserto? 

L’acqua è una forma di liquidità. 

I gangster sono i miei leader solo perché io sono un italiano in 

America. 

I laghi del deserto luccicano di denarocontante pompato. 

Non dirmi che io non sono speciale, perché sono stato in Italia. 

Alla Biblioteca San Marco ho letto codici e manoscritti. 

L’acqua s’arrampica sulle scale di marmo degli ingressi. 

Alghe appese a ogni pietra delle fondamenta della biblioteca. 

Albert Anastasia fu assassinato su una sedia da barbiere allo 

Sheraton. 

Aveva un fratello prete alla chiesa di Santa Lucia nel Bronx. 

Un prete che non parlava bene l’inglese. 

Noi andavamo nel Bronx solo per confessarci. 

Le cadillac giravano silenziose all’angolo di Allerton Avenue. 

Gangster incapsulati in bare di ciliegio entravano ed uscivano da 

quella chiesa. 

Nell’isola di San Michele, in piena laguna, c’è il cimitero. 

L’acqua divora ogni cosa. 

Dopo appena qualche decennio le tombe si svuotano. 

Veneziani, uno dopo l’altro, sono andati ad occupare quelle stesse 

tombe. 

In America noi seppelliamo le città. 

Il denaro le divora così come l’acqua divora i cadaveri. 

VALERIO MAGRELLI (unpublished, 2005) 

Look at this child 

who is learning how to read: 

she stretches out her mouth, concentrates, 

pulls up word after word, 

fishing or them, and her voice acts like a rod, 

it spins, bends, tears out 

these darting letters 

finally high in the air 

glittering 

in the sun of pronunciation. 

227

Oil on canvas.

Traduttori a duello/ Dueling Translators 

Section Editred by Gaetano Cipolla 

It has been said that a text of poetry or prose, translated by ten equally 

knowledgeable translators, will result in ten different texts. In theory, the 

different versions should convey what is known as the kernel meaning, 

that is, the basic message contained in the original text. This section of Italian 

Journal of Translation will test this theory by asking our readers to translate 

a text chosen by the editors, using whatever style or approach they 

consider best. The submissions will then be printed with the original text. 

We will try to publish as many entries as possible, space allowing. For this 

issue, I selected the following poem by Guido Gozzano. Send your version 

of this poem and write a paragraph describing your approach.You may 

submit additional poems or short prose texts that in your estimation pose 

challenging problems. Sendyour submissions to me or Luigi Bonaffini. 

Elogio degli amori ancillari 

I 

Allor che che viene con novelle sue, 

ghermir mi piace l’agile fantesca 

che secretaria antica è fra noi due. 

M’accende il riso della bocca fresca, 

l’attesa vana, il motto arguto, l’ora, 

e il profumo d’istoria boccaccesca… 

Ella m’irride, si dibatte, implora, 

invoca il nome della sua padrona: 

“Ah! Che vergogna! Povera Signora! 

Ah! Povera Signora!...” E s’abbandona. 

II 

Gaie figure di decamerone, 

le cameriste dan senza tormento, 

più sana voluttà che le padrone. 

Non la scaltrezza del martirio lento, 

non da morbosità polsi riarsi, 

e non il tedioso sentimento 

che fa le notti lunghe e i sonni scarsi, 

non dopo voluttà l’anima triste: 

ma un più sereno e maschio sollazzarsi. 

Lodo l’amore delle cameriste!

Classics Revisited 

English Translation of Ugo Foscolo’s “Le Grazie” / 

Traduzione inglese di “Le Grazie” di Ugo Foscolo 

by Joseph Tusiani 

Joseph Tusiani, professor emeritus, Lehman College, City University 

of New York, came to the US in 1947, when he was 23. Naturalized in 1956, 

he is the translator of classics of Italian of poetry into English verse, and a 

poet in his own right. The great bulk of his translations includes 

Michelangelo’s Complete Poems, Boccaccio’s Nymphs of Fiesole, Luigi Pulci’s 

Morgante, all of Machiavelli’s verses, Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered and Creation 

of the World, Leopardi’s Canti. He is the author of collections of verse in 

English (Rind and All, 1962; The Fifth Season, 1964; Gente Mia and Other Poems, 

1978; Collected Poems 1983-2004, 2004), in Latin (Carmina latina, 1994; Carmina 

latina II, 1998), in Italian (among others, Il ritorno, 1992), and in his Gargano 

dialect (sixteen titles between 1955 and 2004), and of an autobiography in 

three volumes, La parola difficile (1988), La parola nuova (1991), La parola antica 

(1992). 

Note on Translation 

Of the two hundred and more Italian poets I rendered into English, no 

one posed problems that no translator - so I thought - would ever solve. Pulci, 

Michelangelo, Tasso, and Leopardi seemed at first so untranslatable to me 

that even the most felicitous approximation would diminish them. Ugo 

Foscolo’s case is unique in that Le Grazie is the most polished and elegant 

Italian poem written in blank verse. Its haunting musicality, in which the 

subtly shifting dactyls and spondees recreate the magic of the Homeric hexameter, 

is at times so ethereal, so rarefied, so hypnotic as to make the boldest 

translator utterly afraid of any attempt at a possible rendering of its enchantment. 

Lines such as “il vel fuggente biancheggiar fra i mirti,” “scoppian 

dall’inquiete aeree fila, quasi raggi di sol rotti dal nembo,” and “agile come 

in cielo Ebe succinta” present no syntactical obscurity but are so charged 

with inner grace and melody as to defy description. Yet it is this grace and 

melody that (hoc est in votis) must be maintained if we want to keep Foscolo’s 

poem as pure and singular as it is. Le Grazie has also been compared to a 

spellbinding tapestry with a texture of multicolored threads woven by goddesses’ 

hands. One thing is certain: no other Italian poem is as intimate and 

astonishing, as fluent and echoing. 

Translator’s Note: I have based this verse translation of Ugo Foscolo’s Le 

Grazie on the edition by Mario Puppo: Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis e Poesie 

(Milan: Mursïa, 1965). This translation first appeared in Canadian Journal of 

Italian Studies: «Hymn One. Venus», Vol. 5, 1-2, Fall-Winter 1981-1982, pp. 

101-8; «Hymn Two. Vesta», Vol. 5, 3, Spring 1982, pp. 211-21; «Hymn Three. 

Pallas», Vol. 6, N. 4/Vol. 7, N. 1, 1983, pp. 183-88.

232 


Inno primo 

Venere 

Cantando, o Grazie, degli eterei pregi 

di che il cielo v’adorna, e della gioia 

che vereconde voi date alla terra, 

belle vergini! a voi chieggo l’arcana 

armonïosa melodia pittrice 

della vostra beltà; sì che all’Italia 

afflitta di regali ire straniere 

voli improvviso a rallegrarla il carme. 

Nella convalle fra gli aerei poggi 

di Bellosguardo, ov’io cinta d’un fonte 

limpido fra le quete ombre di mille 

giovinetti cipressi alle tre Dive 

l’ara innalzo, e un fatidico laureto 

in cui men verde serpeggia la vite 

la protegge di tempio, al vago rito 

vieni, o Canova, e agl’inni. Al cor men fece 

dono la bella Dea che in riva d’Arno 

sacrasti alle tranquille arti custode; 

ed ella d’immortal lume e d’ambrosia 

la santa immago sua tutta precinse. 

Forse (o ch’io spero!) artefice di Numi, 

nuovo meco darai spirto alle Grazie 

ch’or di tua man sorgon dal marmo. Anch’io 

pingo e spiro a’ fantasmi anima eterna: 

sdegno il verso che suona e che non crea; 

perché Febo mi disse: Io Fidia, primo, 

ed Apelle guidai con la mia lira. 

Eran l’Olimpo e il Fulminante e il Fato, 

e del tridente enosigèo tremava 

la genitrice Terra; Amor dagli astri 

Pluto feria: nè ancor v’eran le Grazie. 

Una Diva scorrea lungo il creato 

a fecondarlo, e di Natura avea 

l’austero nome: fra’ celesti or gode 

di cento troni, e con più nomi ed are 

le dan rito i mortali; e più le giova 

l’inno che bella Citerea la invoca. 

Perché clemente a noi che mirò afflitti 

travagliarci e adirati, un dì la santa 

Diva, all’uscir de’ flutti ove s’immerse 

a ravvivar le gregge di Nerèo,

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo 

Hymn One 

Venus 

By singing, Graces, the ethereal worth 

and the adorning heaven–granted bliss 

that, bashful still, you shower on the world, 

beautiful maidens, dare I ask of you 

the magical immortal melody 

that solely may depict your loveliness: 

suddenly Italy, so sorely hurt 

by wrath of foreign sires, will be reached 

by my consoling wingèd song at last. 

Here to the valley mid the airy hills 

of Bellosguardo, in the quiet shade 

of countless youthful cypresses, where I 

have raised to the three Goddesses an altar 

surrounded by an ever-limpid stream 

and solemnly watched over as a shrine 

by fateful laurel trees where through the vine 

less verdant writhes, O my Canova, come: 

come to the lovely rite and to the song. 

‘T is but a gift on this my heart bestowed 

by the fair Goddess to whose vigilance 

you consecrated all the tranquil arts 

flourishing still upon this Arno’s bank, 

while in ambrosia and immortal glow 

she veiled her holy image utterly. 

Sculptor of Deities, along with me 

maybe (so let me hope) you will soon breathe 

a newer life into the Graces hewn 

out of the marble by your hand. I, too, 

breathe into phantoms an eternal soul; 

I loathe the line that sounds yet fails to live, 

for Phoebus said to me: “I taught Apelles 

as well as Phidias with my lyre first.” 

Olympus, Thundering Zeus and Fate alone 

existed when our pregnant Mother Earth 

feared Neptune’s trident; Love, high from the stars, 

pierced Pluto, but there were no Graces yet. 

One Goddess only over all creation, 

to make it fecund, ever lightly flew— 

she who was known by Nature’s awesome name 

and has a hundred thrones in heaven while 

with varied names and altars here on earth 

233

234 


apparì con le Grazie; e le raccolse 

l’onda Ionia primiera, onda che amica 

del lito ameno e dell’ospite musco 

da Citera ogni dì vien desiosa 

a’ materni miei colli: ivi fanciullo 

la Deità di Venere adorai. 

Salve, Zacinto! All’antenoree prode, 

de’ santi Lari Idei ultimo albergo 

e de’ miei padri, darò i carmi e l’ossa, 

e a te il pensier: chè piamente a queste 

Dee non favella chi la patria obblìa. 

Sacra città è Zacinto. Eran suoi templi, 

era ne’ colli suoi l’ombra de’ boschi 

sacri al tripudio di Dïana e al coro; 

pria che Nettuno al reo Laomedonte 

munisse Ilio di torri inclite in guerra. 

Bella è Zacinto. A lei versan tesori 

l’angliche navi; a lei dall’alto manda 

i più vitali rai l’eterno sole; 

candide nubi a lei Giove concede, 

e selve ampie d’ulivi, e liberali 

i colli di Lieo: rosea salute 

prometton l’aure, da’ spontanei fiori 

alimentate, e da’ perpetui cedri. 

Splendea tutto quel mar quando sostenne 

su la conchiglia assise e vezzeggiate 

dalla Diva le Grazie: e a sommo il flutto, 

quante alla prima prima aura di Zefiro 

le frotte delle vaghe api prorompono, 

e più e più succedenti invide ronzano 

a far lunghi di sé äerei grappoli, 

van alïando su’ nettarei calici 

e del mèle futuro in cor s’allegrano, 

tante a fior dell’immensa onda raggiante 

ardian mostrarsi a mezzo il petto ignude 

le amorose Nereidi oceanine; 

e a drappelli agilissime seguendo 

la Gioia alata, degli Dei foriera, 

gittavan perle, dell’ingenue Grazie 

il bacio le Nereidi sospirando. 

Poi come l’orme della Diva e il riso 

delle vergini sue fêr di Citera 

sacro il lito, un’ignota violetta 

spuntò a’ piè de’ cipressi; e d’improvviso 

molte purpuree rose amabilmente


we mortals worship her, who welcomes most 

the hymn that calls her Cytherea the Fair. 

‘T was she, the holy Goddess, who, one day, 

tenderly pitying our wrathful strife, 

at last together with the Graces rose 

out of the waters whereto she had plunged 

to charge the flocks of Nereus with life. 

Glad, the Ionian waves first welcomed them— 

the waves that, friendly to the beauteous sand 

as well as to its hospitable moss, 

longingly come from Cythera each day 

to my maternal hills where as a child 

the deity of Venus I adored. 

Hail, Zante: To the Antenorian shores, 

last refuge of the household Gods of Troy 

and of my ancestors, will I commend 

my song and bones; to thee alone my thought, 

for with the Graces no one can converse 

who impiously forsakes his native land. 

A holy town is Zante. Once her temples 

and hillocks harbored the restoring shade 

of woodlands sacred to Diana’s chorus 

and festival, before God Neptune strengthened 

with siege-resisting towers Ilium 

for wicked-hearted King Laomedon. 

Most beautiful is Zante. British ships 

pour ample treasures on her; from the sky 

the timeless sun sheds its most vital rays 

on her alone while Jove grants lustrous clouds, 

wonder of olive-groves, and boundless hills 

teeming with vines: a rosy healthiness 

is in the air, kept fragrant evermore 

by ever-verdant cedars and wild blooms. 

The whole sea shone the very day it held 

the three fair Graces balanced on a shell 

and sweetly fondled by the Goddess: there, 

on every wave’s crest, just as many swarms 

of restless bees onrush and, borne aloft 

by the first fragile breath of Zephyrus, 

others and others come in buzzing hives, 

which, forming endless clusters in the air, 

hover above the nectar of each bud 

dreaming of future honey blissfully, 

so many atop the wide, bright billows were 

the loving lovely Nereids of the deep: 

235

236 


si conversero in candide. Fu quindi 

religïone di libar col latte 

cinto di bianche rose, e cantar gl’inni 

sotto a’ cipressi, e d’offerire all’ara 

le perle, e il primo fior nunzio d’aprile. 

L’una tosto alla Dea col radïante 

pettine asterge mollemente e intreccia 

le chiome dell’azzurra onda stillanti. 

L’altra ancella a le pure aure concede, 

a rifiorire i prati a primavera, 

l’ambrosio umore ond’è irrorato il petto 

della figlia di Giove; vereconda 

la lor sorella ricompone il peplo 

su le membra divine, e le contende 

di que’ mortali attoniti al desìo. 

Non prieghi d’inni o danze d’imenei, 

ma de’ veltri perpetuo l’ululato 

tutta l’isola udìa, e un suon di dardi 

e gli uomini sul vinto orso rissosi, 

e de’ piagati cacciatori il grido. 

Cerere invan donato avea l’aratro 

a que’ feroci: invan d’oltre l’Eufrate 

chiamò un dì Bassarèo, giovine dio, 

a ingentilir di pampini le rupi. 

Il pio strumento irrugginia su’ brevi 

solchi, sdegnato; e divorata, innanzi 

che i grappoli recenti imporporasse 

a’ rai d’autunno, era la vite: e solo 

quando apparian le Grazie, i cacciatori 

e le vergini squallide, e i fanciulli 

l’arco e ‘l terror deponeano, ammirando. 

Con mezze in mar le rote iva frattanto 

lambendo il lito la conchiglia, e al lito 

pur con le braccia la spingean le molli 

Nettunine. Spontanee s’aggiogarono 

alla biga gentil due delle cerve 

che ne’ boschi dittei schive di nozze 

Cintia a’ freni educava; e poi che dome 

aveale a’ cocchi suoi, pasceano immuni 

da mortale saetta. Ivi per sorte 

vagolando fuggiasche eran venute 

le avventurose, e corsero ministre 

al viaggio di Venere. Improvvisa 

Iri che segue i Zefiri col volo 

s’assise auriga, e drizzò il corso all’istmo


following, near and nimble, in the wake 

of wingèd Joy, the Gods’ sole harbinger, 

pearl after pearl, in throngs, about they strew, 

each of them sighing—lucky Nereids— 

for the ingenuous Graces’ happy kiss. 

Then as the Goddess’ footprint and the smile 

of her escorting virgin maidens made 

Cythera’ shore a land of loveliness, 

an unknown violet was seen to sprout 

down at the foot of every cypress tree 

while many roses that were purple-hued 

turned of a sudden innocently white. 

Thus a most hallowed ritual was born– 

libating milk out of white-rose-trimmed cups 

and singing hymns beneath the cypress shade 

while casting on the holy altar pearls 

with the first blossom that announces April. 

With a refulgent comb one of them–look– 

most languorously braids Joves’s daughter’s hair, 

still dripping of the sea’s still azure foam. 

The other maiden, bidding every meadow 

quickly reburgeon into Spring at last, 

sprinkles the air with each ambrosian drop 

that keeps Venus’s breast still dewy-wet. 

Bashful, their sister lets the peplos fall 

upon the holy limbs, concealing them 

from the desire of man’s ecstatic gaze. 

No suppliant song nor hymeneal dance 

but lengthy ululations of wild hounds 

resounded through the isle, with din of darts 

and men at fight over the vanquished bear 

and cries of wounded hunters in between. 

In vain had Ceres to those ruthless brutes 

given her plough; in vain had she, one day, 

begged from beyond Euphrates Bassareus, 

a youthful god, to soften the hard rock 

with gentleness of tendrils. In great ire 

within its narrow groove the sacred tool 

was left to rust while tendrils were devoured 

before their recent bunches stood a chance 

to ripen purple in the autumn sun. 

‘T was only when the Graces first appeared, 

hunters and squalid virgins and young lads 

laid bows and fear aside, and watched in awe. 

Meanwhile, its wheels still half inside the sea, 

237

238 


del Laconio paese. Ancor Citèra 

del golfo intorno non sedea regina: 

dove or miri le vele alte su l’onda, 

pendea negra una selva, ed esiliato 

n’era ogni Dio da’ figli della terra 

duellanti a predarsi; e i vincitori 

d’umane carni s’imbandian convito. 

Videro il cocchio e misero un ruggito, 

palleggiando la clava. Al petto strinse 

sotto al suo manto accolte, le tremanti 

sue giovinette, e: Ti sommergi, o selva! 

Venere disse, e fu sommersa. Ahi tali 

forse eran tutti i primi avi dell’uomo! 

Quindi in noi serpe, ahi miseri, un natìo 

delirar di battaglia; e se pietose 

nol placano le Dee, spesso riarde 

ostentando trofeo l’ossa fraterne. 

Ch’io non le veggia almeno or che in Italia 

fra le messi biancheggiano insepolte! 

Ma chi de’ Numi esercitava impero 

su gli uomini ferini, e quai ministri 

aveva in terra il primo dì che al mondo 

le belle Dive Citerea concesse? 

Alta ed orrenda n’è la storia; e noi 

quaggiù fra le terrene ombre vaganti 

dalla fama n’udiam timido avviso. 

Abbellitela or voi, Grazie, che siete 

presenti a tutto, e Dee tutto sapete. 

Quando i pianeti dispensò agli Dei 

Giove padre, il più splendido ei s’elesse, 

e toccò in sorte a Citerea il più bello, 

e l’altissimo a Pallade, e le genti 

di que’ mondi beate abitatrici 

sentìr l’imperio del lor proprio Nume. 

Ma senza Nume rimanea negletto 

il picciol globo della terra, e nati 

alle prede i suoi figli ed alla guerra, 

e dopo breve dì sacri alla morte. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Il bel cocchio vegnente, e il doloroso 

premio de’ lor vicini arti più miti 

persuase a’ Laconi. Eran da prima 

per l’intentata selva e l’oceàno 

dalla Grecia divisi; e quando eretta 

agli ospitali Numi ebbero un’ara,


pushed by the fair Neptunians with their hands, 

lightly the shell was skimming still the shore 

when very gently two most gentle does 

willingly to the chariot yoked themselves. 

To Cynthia they belonged: the Goddess kept them 

in her Dictean forests where, immune 

to mortal arrows, they in freedom grazed. 

Venture had brought the nimbly faring pair 

right there that morning; so they quickly ran 

to aid the Goddess’ journey. Suddenly 

Iris, who views with Zephyrs in their flight, 

sat down as charioteer and onward aimed 

toward the Laconian isthmus. Cythera 

was not yet queen of the encircling gulf: 

where now you watch but sails high on the waves 

a thick, black woodland hung where not one god 

was welcomed by the children of the earth 

who fought each other for each other’s prey 

with human flesh ever the victor’s meal. 

Seeing the chariot, they wildly roared, 

wielding their clubs in anger. Promptly Venus, 

cuddling the shivering virgins to her breast 

under her cloak, “Plunge down, thou forest:,” bade, 

and of that forest there was trace no more. 

Such were, alas, man’s primal ancestors! 

Hence a delirious readiness to fight 

instinctively lies dormant in us all, 

which, if the pitying Graces curb it not, 

often rekindles and most wretchedly 

flaunts as its trophy but fraternal bones. 

Ah, these may I not see now that in Italy 

they bleach unburied in the golden wheat. 

But who, of all the Gods, could ever tame 

those beast-like humans? And what help had he 

here on this earth upon the very dawn 

Venus released her Graces to the World? 

High and horrendous is the tale of it, 

of which a timid echo Fame disclosed 

to us still groping in our native dark. 

Embellish it, you Graces who were there, 

and, being Goddesses, know all things well. 

When Father Jove distributed the stars 

among the Gods, he kept the brightest one, 

gave Cytherea the fairest, and Athena 

the highest of them all: the happy throngs 

239

240 


vider tosto le pompe e le amorose 

gare e i regi conviti; e d’ogni parte 

correan d’Asia i guerrieri e i prenci argivi 

alla reggia di Leda. Ah non ti fossi 

irato Amor! e ben di te sovente 

io mi dorrò, da che le Grazie affliggi. 

Per te all’arti eleganti ed a’ felici 

ozi, per te lascivi affetti, e molli 

ozi, e spergiuri a’ Greci; e poi la dura 

vita, e nude a sudar nella palestra 

[sottentrar] le fanciulle onde salvarsi 

Amor da te. Ma quando eri per anche 

delle Grazie non invido fratello 

Sparta fioriva. Qui di Fare il golfo 

cinto d’armonïosi antri a’ delfini, 

qui Sparta e le fluenti dell’Eurota 

grate a’ cigni; e Messene offria securi 

ne’ suoi boschetti alle tortore i nidi; 

qui d’Augìa ‘l pelaghetto, inviolato 

al pescator, da che di mirti ombrato 

era lavacro al bel corpo di Leda 

e della sua figlia divina. E Amicle 

terra di fiori non bastava ai serti 

delle vergini spose; dal paese 

venian cantando i giovani alle nozze. 

Non de’ destrieri nitidi l’amore 

li rattenne, non Laa che fra tre monti 

ama le caccie e i riti di Dïana, 

né la Maremma Elea ricca di pesce. 

E non lunge è Brisea, donde il propinquo 

Taigeto intese strepitar l’arcano 

tripudio e i riti, onde il femmineo coro 

placò Lieo, e intercedean le Grazie. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Ma dove, o caste Dee, ditemi dove 

la prima ara vi piacque, onde se invano 

or la chieggo alla terra, almen l’antica 

religïone del bel loco io senta. 

Tutte velate, procedendo all’alta 

Dorio che di lontan gli Arcadi vede, 

le Dive mie vennero a Trio: l’Alfeo 

arretrò l’onda, e die’ a’ lor passi il guado 

che anc’oggi il pellegrin varca ed adora. 

Fe’ manifesta quel portento a’ Greci 

la Deità; sentirono da lunge


that firsts inhabited those very worlds 

felt soon the empire of their deity. 

But with no deity, forlorn and lost 

the little globe of this our earth lay still 

with all its children born for war and prey 

and, after a brief season, doomed to die. 

——————————————————————— 

The fair approaching chariot and the harsh 

fate that had struck their neighbors in a flash 

taught the Laconians more peaceful arts. 

Untrodden forests and the ocean bed 

until that very day had kept them all 

utterly sundered from the rest of Greece; 

but as they raised an altar to the Gods 

opulence, regal banquets, and love jousts 

at once they knew, and soon from everywhere 

princes of Argos, warriors of Asia 

hastened to Leda’s court. Why did you then 

yield, Love, to anger? If you still afflict 

the Graces so, how will you win my heart? 

Sweet ways and idle bliss were born of you, 

who also stirred the senses with such lust 

as brooded treason ‘gainst the Greeks at once. 

To save themselves from all your might, O Love, 

stark-naked maidens with great toil and sweat 

hardened their limbs in fighting manliness. 

And yet, so long as envy failed to force you 

against the Graces, your own sisters, Sparta 

flourished in splendor. Here was Pharae’s gulf, 

around which dolphins find their sounding dens. 

Yea, Sparta with Eurota’s streams was here— 

swans’ cherished home; and here Messene lent 

safe refuge in her woods to turtle-doves; 

here, too, was seen Augeas’ little sea 

never by fishermen disturbed again 

since shading myrtle trees around it grew— 

the bathing spot for Leda’s beauteous form 

and for her divine daughter’s dainty limbs. 

Nor could Amyclae, land of wreaths, provide 

as many buds as there were virgin brides: 

the grooms, a-singing, to the nuptials came, 

for neither love of dauntless steeds nor Las, 

where at the foot of three high mountains sprang 

Diana’s rituals and hunting chase, 

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odorosa spirar l’aura celeste. 

De’ Beoti al confin siede Aspledone: 

città che l’aureo sol veste di luce 

quando riede all’occaso; ivi non lunge 

sta sull’immensa minïèa pianura 

la beata Orcomèno, ove il primiero, 

dalle ninfe alternato e da’ garzoni, 

amabil inno udirono le Grazie. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Così cantaro; e Citerea svelossi; 

e quanti allor garzoni e giovinette 

vider la Deità furon beati, 

e di Driadi col nome e di Silvani 

fur compagni di Febo. Oggi le umane 

orme evitando, e de’ poeti il volgo, 

che con lira inesperta a sé li chiama, 

invisibili e muti per le selve 

vagano. Come quando esce un’Erinne 

a gioir delle terre arse dal verno, 

maligna, e lava le sua membra a’ fonti 

dell’Islanda esecrati, ove più tristi 

fuman sulfuree l’acque; o a groelandi 

laghi, lambiti di [sulfuree] vampe, 

la teda alluma, e al ciel sereno aspira; 

finge perfida pria roseo splendore, 

e lei deluse appellano col vago 

nome di boreale alba le genti; 

quella scorre, le nuvole in Chimere 

orrende, e in imminenti armi converte 

fiammeggianti; e calar senti per l’aura 

dal muto nembo l’aquile agitate, 

che veggion nel lor regno angui, e sedenti 

leoni, e ulular l’ombre de’ lupi. 

Innondati di sangue errano al guardo 

delle città i pianeti, e van raggiando 

timidamente per l’aereo caos; 

tutta d’incendio la celeste volta 

s’infiamma, e sotto a quell’infausta luce 

rosseggia immensa l’iperborea terra. 

Quinci l’invida Dea gl’inseminati 

campi mira, e dal gelo l’oceàno 

a’ nocchieri conteso; ed oggi forse 

per la Scizia calpesta armi e vessilli, 

e d’itali guerrier corpi incompianti. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


nor even fish-replete Elea could 

ever restrain their ardor. Also near, 

Brisea lies, whence the Taygetus heard 

the loud-exultant clangor of the rites 

whereby a female chorus, strengthened by 

the interceding Graces, soothed Lyaeus. 

................................................ 

But where, chaste Goddesses, oh, tell me where 

you saw the primal altar dear to you, 

so that, if never shall I find its like 

upon this earth, I may at least feel in me 

the old religion of its dazzling site. 

Utterly veiled, proceeding toward the lofty 

Dorion scanning far Arcadia, 

my Goddesses reached Thuria: Alpheus 

withdrew his waves, thus laying at their feet 

an easy ford that to this very day 

a pilgrim crosses worshiping in awe – 

a portent that to all the Greeks revealed 

the mighty sky: from far away indeed 

they felt the fragrant breathing of the Gods. 

Right where Boeotia ends, starts Aspledon, 

a city mantled by the setting sun 

in raimen’ts of pure gold; not far from there, 

right in the boundless Minyan plainland, lies 

blest Orchomenus where the Graces heard 

the first entrancing hymn, half sung by nymphs 

and half by youths in alternating strains. 

................................................ 

When their hymn ended, Cytherea shone 

in her unclouded deity: the nymphs 

and all the youths that saw her knew full bliss 

and, but as Dryads and as Sylvans known, 

faithfully followed Phoebus ever since. 

Shunning all human vestiges, and deaf 

to vulgar poets whose unskillful lyre 

lures them in vain, through woods they wander still, 

invisible and silent all of them. 

Just as a Fury now released from hell, 

eager to feast on winter-frozen ground, 

bathes in Icelandic execrable streams 

where waters reek most putrid and most foul 

or, searching for blue skies, lights up her torch 

from the live sulphur of Greenlandic lakes; 

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244 


E giunte 

le Dive appiè de’ monti, alla sdegnosa 

Diana Iride il cocchio e mansuete 

le cerve addusse, amabil dono, in Creta. 

Cintia fu sempre delle Grazie amica, 

e ognor con esse fu tutela al core 

dell’ingenue fanciulle ed agl’infanti. 

E solette radean lievi le falde 

dell’Ida irriguo di sorgenti; e quando 

fur più al Cielo propinque, ove una luce 

rosea le vette al sacro monte asperge, 

e donde sembran tutte auree le stelle, 

alle vergini sue che la seguieno 

mandò in core la Dea queste parole: 

- Assai beato, o giovinette, è il regno 

de’ Celesti ov’io riedo; a la infelice 

Terra ed a’ figli suoi voi rimanete 

confortatrici; sol per voi sovr’essa 

ogni lor dono pioveranno i Numi. 

E se vindici sien più che clementi, 

allor fra’ nembi e i fulmini del Padre, 

vi guiderò a placarli. Al partir mio 

tale udirete un’armonia dall’alto, 

che diffusa da voi farà più liete 

le nate a delirar vite mortali, 

più deste all’Arti e men tremanti al grido 

che le promette a morte. Ospizio amico 

talor sienvi gli Elisi; e sorridete 

a’ vati, se cogliean puri l’alloro, 

ed a’ prenci indulgenti, ed alle pie 

giovani madri che a straniero latte 

non concedean gl’infanti, e alle donzelle 

che occulto amor trasse innocenti al rogo, 

e a’ giovinetti per la patria estinti. 

Siate immortali, eternamente belle! - 

Più non parlava, ma spargea co’ raggi 

de le pupille sue sopra le figlie 

eterno il lume della fresca aurora, 

e si partiva: e la seguian cogli occhi 

di lagrime soffusi, e lei da l’alto 

vedean conversa, e questa voce udiro: 

- Daranno a voi dolor novello i Fati 

e gioia eterna. - E sparve; e trasvolando 

due primi cieli, s’avvolgea nel puro 

lume dell’astro suo. L’udì Armonia


wicked, she feigns a rosy splendor first 

(people are baffled, and a gentle name— 

Aurora Borealis—give to her); 

Then, moving onward, she transmutes all clouds 

into Chimaeras and horrendous flames 

of overhanging swords: the silent storm 

causes the frightened eagles down to plunge 

from their high realm where sudden snakes are seen 

couching with lions and wolves’ whining shades. 

The city’s glance perceives blood-dripping stars 

up in the airy chaos shyly burn: 

one conflagration wins the firmament 

and underneath that evil-boding light 

the hyperborean boundless earth glows red. 

The envious Goddess scans the unsown fields 

and the wide-frozen seas that steersmen shun, 

and at this very moment maybe treads 

on arms and banners through the Scythian land 

and on Italian still unburied braves. 

............................................ 

When our fair Deities at last arrived 

in Crete, most willing at its mountain’s foot 

Iris surrendered chariot and does 

to fierce Diana as a gift of love: 

Cynthia, whereupon, swore timeless faith 

to the three Graces from that very day, 

ever to watch with them over the hearts 

of candid girls as well as candid lads. 

Thus very lonely they were seen to roam 

Mount Ida’s base where fountainheads abound 

until they climbed, one day, as near the Sky 

as they could go—right where a rosy sheen 

sprinkles the holy mountain’s lofty tops 

wherefrom the stars are viewed as lustrous gold. 

‘T was then the Goddess rained these glowing words 

into her loyal virgins’ very hearts: 

“Most blessèd, happy maidens, is the realm 

of the Celestials whereto I return; 

but here you must remain, here to console 

the luckless Earth with all her hapless sons. 

For you alone will every God bestow 

his every gift upon her lavishly, 

and you, should Heaven’s ire outweigh its ruth, 

will I take there to placate all its storms 

and Zeus’s thunderbolts. When I am gone 

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246 


e giubilando l’etere commosse. 

Chè quando Citerea torna a’ beati 

cori, Armonia su per le vie stellate 

move plauso alla Dea pel cui favore 

temprò un dì l’universo . . . . . . . . 

Come nel chiostro vergine romita, 

se gli azzurri del cielo, e la splendente 

Luna, e il silenzio delle stelle adora, 

sente il Nume, ed al cembalo s’asside, 

e del piè e delle dita e dell’errante 

estro e degli occhi vigili alle note 

sollecita il suo cembalo ispirata, 

ma se improvvise rimembranze Amore 

in cor le manda, scorrono più lente 

sovra i tasti le dita, e d’improvviso 

quella soave melodia che posa 

secreta ne’ vocali alvei del legno, 

flebile e lenta all’aüre s’aggira; 

così l’alta armonia che . . . . . . 

discorreva da’ Cieli . . . . . . . . 

Udiro intente 

le Grazie; e in cor quell’armonia fatale 

albergàro, e correan su per la terra 

a spirarla a’ mortali. E da quel giorno 

dolce ei sentian per l’anima un incanto, 

lucido in mente ogni pensiero, e quanto 

udian essi o vedean vago e diverso 

dilettava i lor occhi, e ad imitarlo 

prendean industri e divenia più bello. 

Quando l’Ore e le Grazie di soave 

luce diversa colorìano i campi, 

e gli augelletti le seguìano e lieto 

facean tenore al gemere del rivo 

e de’ boschetti al fremito, il mortale 

emulò que’ colori; e mentre il mare 

fra i nembi, o l’agitò Marte fra l’armi, 

mirò il fonte, i boschetti, udì gli augelli 

pinti, e godea della pace de’ campi. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

E l’arte 

agevolmente, all’armonia che udiva, 

diede eleganza alla materia; il bronzo 

quasi foglia arrendevole d’acànto 

ghirlandò le colonne; e ornato e legge 

ebber travi e macigni, e gìan concordi


such harmonies shall reach you from above 

as will, prolonged by you, give more delight 

to man’s brief life created but to fret, 

thus making it more heedful of the arts 

and less afraid of all-possessing death. 

Let the Elysian Fields—should there be need— 

be your sole friendly haven; ever smile 

on bards whose laurel wreaths are purely earned, 

on freedom-minded princes, on young mothers 

who do not yield their babes to alien breasts, 

on naive maidens innocently thrust 

by hidden love on an untimely pyre; 

and smile on youngsters fallen for their land. 

Be beautiful, and live for evermore!” 

She spoke no longer, but her radiant eyes 

scattered upon her daughters then and there 

the deathless glimmer of the new-born Dawn 

before she fled. In tears they watched her go, 

and as from high above at them she waved 

they heard this final message: “From the Fates 

new grief and endless triumph you will have.” 

She vanished; flying through the first two heavens, 

she reached the crowning light of her own star. 

Harmony heard her come and with her joy 

moved the entire universe to song, 

for every time sweet Venus shares the bliss 

of her abode again, dear Harmony 

along the starry ways applauds the one 

whose tender sovereignty reshaped the world. 

As a young lonesome maiden in her room, 

watching ecstatic in the spotless sky 

the splendent Moon and every silent star, 

feels the inspiring Deity and sits 

down at her harpsichord which, in her new 

excitement, with her feet and hands and eyes 

she fast attunes to the awaiting note; 

but, if deep in her heart Love comes to rouse 

remembrances of joy, her fingers run 

less rapid on the keyboard, causing soon 

the tender melody that lies concealed 

right at the vocal bottom of the wood 

to wander slow and feeble in the air: 

so did the mystic harmony descend 

from Heaven....................................... 

Keenly the Graces heard, and in their hearts 

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curvati in arco aereo imitanti 

il firmamento. Ma più assai felice 

tu che primiero la tua donna in marmo 

effigïasti: Amor da prima in core 

t’infiammò del desìo che disvelata 

volea bellezza, e profanata agli occhi 

degli uomini. Ma venner teco assise 

le Grazie, e tal diffusero venendo 

avvenenza in quel volto e leggiadrìa 

per quelle forme, col molle concento 

sì gentili spirarono gli affetti 

della giovine nuda; e non l’amica 

ma venerasti Citerea nel marmo. 

E non che ornar di canto, e chi può tutte 

ridir l’opre de’ Numi? Impazïente 

il vagante inno mio fugge ove incontri 

grazïose le menti ad ascoltarlo; 

pur non so dirvi, o belle suore, addio, 

e mi detta più alteri inni il pensiero. 

Ma e dove or io vi seguirò, se il Fato 

ah da gran giorni omai profughe in terra 

alla Grecia vi tolse, e se l’Italia 

che v’è patria seconda i doni vostri 

misera ostenta e il vostro nume oblia? 

Pur molti ingenui de’ suoi figli ancora 

a voi tendon le palme. Io finché viva 

ombra daranno a Bellosguardo i lauri, 

ne farò tetto all’ara vostra, e offerta 

di quanti pomi educa l’anno, e quante 

fragranze ama destar l’alba d’aprile, 

e il fonte e queste pure aure e i cipressi 

e segreto il mio pianto e la sdegnosa 

lira, e i silenzi vi fien sacri e l’arti. 

Fra l’arti io coronato e fra le Muse, 

alla patria dirò come indulgenti 

tornate ospiti a lei, sì che più grata 

in più splendida reggia e con solenni 

pompe v’onori: udrà come redenta 

fu due volte per voi, quando la fiamma 

pose Vesta sul Tebro e poi Minerva 

diede a Flora per voi l’attico ulivo. 

Venite, o Dee, spirate Dee, spandete 

la Deità materna, e novamente 

deriveranno l’armonia gl’ingegni 

dall’Olimpo in Italia: e da voi solo,


treasured that fateful song while running fast 

from land to land to breathe it into men. 

And ever since men felt within their souls 

an incantation, all their thoughts shone bright, 

and every novel thing they heard or saw 

in beauty grew and most delighted them 

if but they tried to imitate its awe. 

When with the Graces all the fleeting Hours 

colored with varied lights the countryside, 

and small birds followed them with carefree sounds 

of rivulets and forests, mortal eyes 

began to copy all those happy hues 

and, while the ocean floor was storm-harassed 

or agitated by still warring Mars, 

looking on rills and woods, they could enjoy 

but painted wings and rustic scenery. 

................................................. 

Easily Art, which heeded Harmony, 

made matter elegant: bronze like a leaf 

of meek acanthus wreathed the columns’ height, 

and beams and marble blocks gained frieze and law 

till, curved in nimble arches, they reflected 

with equal melody the firmament. 

But, oh, much happier are you who could 

sculpture your lady’s effigy in stone. 

Love first engendered in your deepest heart 

a yearning for her beauty wholly bare 

which man’s profaning eyes failed to adore. 

For where you sat the Graces sat with you, 

and on those features, on that very face 

such graceful beauty their live breathing left, 

such gentle feelings with their gentle song 

did they inspire to her nakedness, 

instead of your true friend you recognized 

Venus herself within the marble core. 

Hard though it be to decorate with song, 

can any man divulge the Gods’ events? 

Impatiently this erring hymn of mine 

shuns the most gracious minds eager to hear; 

yet, my fair Sisters, I cannot depart 

while this my thought dictates much prouder songs. 

But whither shall I ever follow you 

if Fate has snatched you from your native Greece, 

and Italy, your second home, can boast 

but of your beauty, heedless of your might? 

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250 


né dar premio potete altro più bello, 

sol da voi chiederem, Grazie, un sorriso. 

Vesta - Inno secondo 

Tre vaghissime donne a cui le trecce 

infiora di felici itale rose 

giovinezza, e per cui splende più bello 

sul lor sembiante il giorno, all’ara vostra 

sacerdotesse, o care Grazie, io guido. 

Qui e voi che Marte non rapì alle madri 

correte, e voi che muti impallidite 

nel penetrale della Dea pensosa, 

giovinetti d’Esperia. Era più lieta 

Urania un dì, quando le Grazie a lei 

il gran peplo fregiavano. Con esse 

qui Galileo sedeva a spïar l’astro 

della loro regina; e il disvïava 

col notturno rumor l’acqua remota, 

che sotto a’ pioppi delle rive d’Arno 

furtiva e argentea gli volava al guardo. 

I


Yet of her guiltless children many still 

look up to you. So long as living shades 

keep Bellosguardo’s laurel trees alive, 

to your bright altar will I offer them 

together with the fruit the seasons yield, 

together with the scents first April stirs, 

mixed with pure rills and cypresses and airs 

and also with my tears and timid lyre, 

thus binding arts and silence to one rite. 

Crowned both a painter and a poet, I 

shall tell my land your mercy’s risen hour, 

that she may once again now honor you 

with ampler gratitude and greater pomp 

in a more splendid Court: thus will she know 

how twice she was redeemed by your bright worth 

when on the Tiber Vesta laid her torch 

and Pallas gave to Flora for your sake 

the Attic olive tree. Come, Deities, 

and oh, dear Goddesses, upon the earth 

cast your maternal tenderness again. 

So here in Italy the greatest minds 

will from Olympus draw their harmony, 

for, as you cannot give a greater gift, 

give us, O Graces, but your happy smile. 

Hymn Two Vesta 

Belovèd Graces, to your altar now 

some most enchanting priestesses I lead— 

three ladies whose long tresses Youth enwreathes 

with radiant Italian roses while 

a fairer daylight on their faces shines. 

Here, come here quickly, you Hesperian lads 

Mars has not snatched from loving mothers’ breasts, 

and you who, pallid and in silence dwell 

deep in the pensive Goddess’ holy shrine. 

Happier was Urania when the Graces 

adorned her lengthy peplos with their hands. 

Here Galileo sat with them, intent 

on studying the planet of their queen 

yet soon distracted by the nightly murmur 

of distant waters hiding silver-hued 

under the poplars of the Arno’s banks. 

I 

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Qui a lui l’alba, la luna e il sol mostrava, 

gareggiando di tinte, or le severe 

nubi su la cerulea alpe sedenti, 

or il piano che fugge alle tirrene 

Nereidi, immensa di città e di selve 

scena e di templi e d’arator beati, 

or cento colli, onde Appennin corona 

d’ulivi e d’antri e di marmoree ville 

l’elegante città, dove con Flora 

le Grazie han serti e amabile idïoma. 

Date principio, o giovinetti, al rito, 

e da’ festoni della sacra soglia 

dilungate i profani. Ite, insolenti 

genii d’Amore, e voi livido coro 

di Momo, e voi che a prezzo Ascra attingete. 

Qui né oscena malìa, né plauso infido 

può, né dardo attoscato: oltre quest’ara, 

cari al volgo e a’ tiranni, ite, profani. 

Dolce alle Grazie è la virginea voce 

e la timida offerta: uscite or voi 

dalle stanze materne ove solinghe 

Amor v’insidia, o donzellette, uscite: 

gioia promette e manda pianto Amore. 

Qui su l’ara le rose e le colombe 

deponete, e tre calici spumanti 

di latte inghirlandato; e fin che il rito 

v’appelli al canto, tacite sedete: 

sacro è il silenzio a’ vati, e vi fa belle 

più del sorriso. E tu che ardisci in terra 

vestir d’eterna giovinezza il marmo, 

or l’armonia della bellezza, il vivo 

spirar de’ vezzi nelle tre ministre, 

che all’arpa io guido agl’inni e alle carole, 

vedrai qui al certo; e tu potrai lasciarle 

immortali fra noi, pria che all’Eliso 

su l’ali occulte fuggano degli anni. 

Leggiadramente d’un ornato ostello, 

che a lei d’Arno futura abitatrice 

i pennelli posando edificava 

il bel fabbro d’Urbino, esce la prima 

vaga mortale, e siede all’ara; e il bisso 

liberale acconsente ogni contorno 

di sue forme eleganti; e fra il candore 

delle dita s’avvivano le rose, 

mentre accanto al suo petto agita l’arpa.


Here he was shown by moon or rising sun 

severe clouds sitting on cerulean hills 

or the whole plainland stretching as far down 

as the Tyrrhenian Sea—a boundless stage 

of blissful ploughmen, temples, towns and woods— 

or countless hillocks whence the Apennines 

adorn with olive groves and marble homes 

the splendid city where the Graces live 

and share with Flora idiom and wreaths. 

Mark the beginning of the rite, you lads, 

and from the garlands on the threshold strewn 

the uninitiated keep away. 

Away, you sneering genii of Love, 

away, O Momus’ livid throng, with all 

of you who purchase even Ascra’s peak: 

No obscene magic here, no wicked praise, 

no poisoned dart avails: now you who serve 

the mob and tyranny, this altar shun! 

Dear to the Graces is the virgin voice 

and timid offering: so leave, you too, 

O lovely maidens, the maternal rooms 

where Love will stalk your very loneliness: 

Love promises great bliss, bestows but tears. 

Lay on this altar turtle-doves along 

with roses and three chalices of milk, 

bright-garlanded; and till the sacred rite 

invites you to the song, in silence wait: 

silence, so sacred to the bards, endears you 

more than a smile. And you, who dare on earth 

dress barren marble with eternal youth, 

today, I’m certain of it, you will see 

beauty’s own harmony, the living breath 

that is the charm of the three priestesses 

I’m bringing to the dances and the hymns: 

you will be able thus to leave them here 

immortal in our midst before they flee, 

on time’s dark wings, to their Elysium. 

Gracefully out of a most graceful home, 

which, gladly laying his fair brush aside, 

the handsome master from Urbino built 

for one about to choose the Arno’s bank, 

the first fair mortal to the altar comes. 

A silken veil most lavishly reveals 

her matchless contours; her white fingers grow 

suddenly bright as roses newly born 

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Scoppian dall’inquïete aeree fila, 

quasi raggi di sol rotti dal nembo, 

gioia insieme e pietà, poi che sonanti 

rimembran come il ciel l’uomo concesse 

alle gioie e agli affanni onde gli sia 

librato e vario di sua vita il volo, 

e come alla virtù guidi il dolore, 

e il sorriso e il sospiro errin sul labbro 

delle Grazie, e a chi son fauste e presenti, 

dolce in core ei s’allegri e dolce gema. 

Pari un concento, se pur vera è fama, 

un dì Aspasia tessea lungo l’Ilisso: 

era allor delle Dee sacerdotessa, 

e intento al suono Socrate libava 

sorridente a quell’ara, e col pensiero 

quasi a’ sereni dell’Olimpo alzossi. 

Quinci il veglio mirò volgersi obliqua, 

affrettando or la via su per le nubi, 

or ne’ gorghi letèi precipitarsi 

di Fortuna la rapida quadriga 

da’ viventi inseguita; e quel pietoso 

gridò invano dall’alto: A cieca duce 

siete seguaci, o miseri! e vi scorge 

dove in bando è pietà, dove il Tonante 

più adirate le folgori abbandona 

su la timida terra. O nati al pianto 

e alla fatica, se virtù vi è guida, 

dalla fonte del duol sorge il conforto. 

Ah ma nemico è un altro Dio di pace, 

più che Fortuna, e gl’innocenti assale. 

Ve’ come l’arpa di costei sen duole! 

Duolsi che a tante verginette il seno 

sfiori, e di pianto alle carole in mezzo, 

invidïoso Amor bagni i lor occhi. 

Per sé gode frattanto ella che amore 

per sé l’altera giovane non teme. 

Ben l’ode e su l’ardenti ali s’affretta 

alle vendette il Nume: e a quelle note 

a un tratto l’inclemente arco gli cade. 

E i montanini Zefiri fuggiaschi 

docili al suono aleggiano più ratti 

dalle linfe di Fiesole e dai cedri, 

a rallegrare le giunchiglie ond’ella 

oggi, o Grazie, per voi l’arpa inghirlanda,


as to her breast she holds the quavering harp. 

Out of the restless airy strings break forth, 

like rays of sun by sudden tempest torn, 

mercy and mirth together: in their sound 

they will recall how Heaven granted man 

triumph and trouble, thus to make his life 

an ever-varied, ever-balanced flight; 

how grief alone to manly virtue leads; 

how smile and sigh touch both the Graces’ lips, 

and those who feel their happy presence lodge 

sweet joy and sweet lament deep in their hearts. 

Aspasia one day, if fame is true, 

‘long the Ilissus sang a likely song: 

a priestess of the Goddesses was she 

when, heedful of that sound, Socrates smiled 

and, while abating at the altar, reached 

(or almost) calm Olympus with his thought. 

Hence the old man saw Fortune’s chariot, 

chased by all people, through the clouds now rush 

and now plunge down into Lethean waves, 

so that, to pity moved, in vain he cried, 

“Blind is your leader, O you wretched men; 

she leads you where no mercy ever dwells 

and whence in his worst wrath thundering Zeus 

drops all his bolts upon the frightened earth; 

Men, born to tears and toil, if virtue still 

can guide you, from your grief is solace born. 

Ah, more than Fortune, still another God 

abhors sweet peace and fights the innocent. 

See how the lady’s harp is anguish—rent: 

She’s anguish-rent that envious Love should touch 

so many maidens’ hearts and, in the midst 

of their sweet dancing, wet their eyes with tears 

But happy for herself she seems to all, 

most proudly feeling still immune and free. 

Hearing her boast, on wings ablaze the God 

prepares his sudden vengeance: at those notes 

he lets his unrelenting bow fall down. 

Faster than ever, by that music won, 

the mountain’s ever-fleeting Zephyrs leave 

Fiesole’s nymphs and cedars to bring joy, 

O Graces, to the jonquils she has woven 

around her harp to honor you, and make 

this hymn I sing still dearer to your hearts. 

Behold: Attuning feet and hands and eyes 

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256 


e a voi quest’inno mio guida più caro. 

Già del piè delle dita e dell’errante 

estro, e degli occhi vigili alle corde 

ispirata sollecita le note 

che pingon come l’armonia diè moto 

agli astri, all’onda eterea e alla natante 

terra per l’oceàno, e come franse 

l’uniforme creato in mille volti 

co’ raggi e l’ombre e il ricongiunse in uno, 

e i suoni all’aere, e diè i colori al sole, 

e l’alterno continüo tenore 

alla fortuna agitatrice e al tempo; 

sì che le cose dissonanti insieme 

rendan concento d’armonia divina 

e innalzino le menti oltre la terra. 

Come quando più gaio Euro provòca 

sull’alba il queto Lario, e a quel sussurro 

canta il nocchiero e allegransi i propinqui 

lïuti, e molle il fläuto si duole 

d’innamorati giovani e di ninfe 

su le gondole erranti; e dalle sponde 

risponde il pastorel con la sua piva: 

per entro i colli rintronano i corni 

terror del cavrïol, mentre in cadenza 

di Lecco il malleo domator del bronzo 

tuona dagli antri ardenti; stupefatto 

perde le reti il pescatore, ed ode. 

Tal dell’arpa diffuso erra il concento 

per la nostra convalle; e mentre posa 

la sonatrice, ancora odono i colli. 

Or le recate, o vergini, i canestri 

e le rose e gli allori a cui materni 

nell’ombrifero Pitti irrigatori 

fur gli etruschi Silvani, a far più vago 

il giovin seno alle mortali etrusche, 

emule d’avvenenza e di ghirlande; 

soave affanno al pellegrin se innoltra 

improvviso ne’ lucidi teatri, 

e quell’intenta voluttà del canto 

ed errare un desio dolce d’amore 

mira ne’ vólti femminili, e l’aura 

pregna di fiori gli confonde il core. 

Recate insieme, o vergini, le conche 

dell’alabastro, provvido di fresca 

linfa e di vita, ahi breve! a’ montanini


in prompt obedience to the waiting chords, 

she prods, inspired, every single note 

till all of them depict how Harmony 

first set in motion stars, ethereal waves, 

and this earth floating on the ocean; how 

with rays and shadows it broke then the wide 

but uniform creation into thousands 

of faces, quickly blended into one; 

and how it joined each color with the sun, 

and with the air each sound, and thus with time 

and vexing fortune all vicissitudes, 

so that, discordant though they be, all things 

might render a concordant hymn to Heaven 

lifting the human mind above the earth. 

Just as when Eurus with his joyous breath 

rouses the restless Larius at dawn, 

and soon the boatman at that murmur sings 

the nearing lutes rejoice, and languidly 

the flutes of loving lads and nymphs reply 

from wandering gondole: in the meantime 

a little shepherd’s bagpipe from the shore 

echoes once more; from hill to hill the horn 

brings terror to the deer; from caves ablaze 

Lecco’s bronze-taming hammer soon rebounds, 

and, losing now his nets, the fisherman 

listens, astounded, to the happy song: 

so through our valleys does the melody, 

roused by the harpsichord, so dearly sound 

that, even when the harpsichordist rests, 

the knolls around her still enraptured hear 

Now bring to her, young virgins, laurel wreaths 

and roses watered in the Pitti’s shades 

by Etruscan Sylvans for the greater grace 

of fair Etruscans’ youth-enamored breasts 

ever desirous of new buds and charm: 

baffled and sweetly tempted, foreigners 

who our well–lighted theaters explore 

are by the song’s voluptuousness so swayed, 

so taken by that sweet desire of love 

wandering sweetly on our women’s faces, 

a whiff of flowers floating in the air 

perturbs their hearts. And all together here, 

dear maidens, bring the alabaster basins 

wherein you keep the fresh but fleeting life 

for mountain jasmine and for violet, 

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258 


gelsomini, e alla mammola dogliosa 

di non morir sul seno alla fuggiasca 

ninfa di Pratolino, o sospirata 

dal solitario venticel notturno. 

Date il rustico giglio, e se men alte 

ha le forme fraterne, il manto veste 

degli amaranti invïolato: unite 

aurei giacinti e azzurri alle giunchiglie 

di Bellosguardo che all’amante suo 

coglie Pomona, e a’ garofani alteri 

della prole diversa e delle pompe, 

e a’ fiori che dagli orti dell’Aurora 

novella preda a’ nostri liti addussero 

vittorïosi i Zefiri su l’ale, 

e or fra’ cedri al suo talamo imminenti 

d’ospite amore e di tepori industri 

questa gentil sacerdotessa edùca. 

Spira soave e armonïoso agli occhi 

quanto all’anima il suon, splendono i serti 

che di tanti color mesce e d’odori; 

ma il fior che altero del lor nome han fatto 

dodici Dei ne scevra, e il dona all’ara 

pur sorridendo; e in cor tacita prega: 

che di quei fiori ond’è nudrice, e l’arpa 

ne incorona per voi, ven piaccia alcuno 

inserir, belle Dee, nella ghirlanda 

la quale ogni anno il dì sesto d’aprile 

delle rose di lagrime innaffiate 

in val di Sorga, o belle Dee, tessete 

a recarle alla madre. 

II 

Ora Polinnia alata Dea che molte 

lire a un tempo percote, e più d’ogni altra 

Musa possiede orti celesti, intenda 

anche le lodi de’ suoi fiori; or quando 

la bella donna, delle Dee seconda 

sacerdotessa, vien recando un favo. 

Nostro e disdetto alle altre genti è il rito 

per memoria de’ favi, onde in Italia 

con perenne ronzìo fanno tesoro 

divine api alle Grazie: e chi ne assaggia 

parla caro alla patria. Ah voi narrate 

come aveste quel dono! E chi la fama 

a noi fra l’ombre della terra erranti


sorry not yet to die upon the breast 

of Pratolino’s ever–running nymph 

or shunned by lonely breezes of the night. 

Give the wild lily that, although it shows 

its kindred forms less high, can dazzle still 

in the pure mantle of the amaranth; 

mix all sky-blue and golden hyacinths 

with Bellosguardo’s jonquils that Pomona 

still for her lover picks, with all the proud 

carnations ever new in shades and shapes, 

and with the blooms that on victorious wings 

the Zephyrs from Dawn’s garden snatched and rought – 

a recent trophy—to our very shores, 

and now this gentle priestess gently grows 

with artful heat and hospitable love 

among the cedars hanging o’er her home. 

Harmonious and soft both to the sight 

and to the soul the very sound exhales; 

bright shine the wreaths that of so many hues 

as well as many fragrances are wrought; 

and yet the flower that twelve Gods have made 

proud of their names can sever all of them 

and place them on the altar with a smile, 

praying that, out of all the blooms she grows 

and decks her harp with just to honor you, 

one you may pick, fair Goddesses, to blend 

into the garland that on April sixth, 

O lovely Deities, in Sorga’s vale 

out of all roses wet with tears you weave 

for Venus, your own mother. 

II 

Let now Polymnia, the wingèd Goddess 

that plucks many a lyre at one time 

and, more than any other Muse, in heaven 

owns flower gardens, understand the praises 

of all her wreaths now that the lovely lady, 

the second priestess of the Goddesses, 

comes to the altar with a honeycomb. 

Our own, not other nations’, is the rite 

that celebrates the honeycomb’s old lore, 

wherefore in Italy heavenly bees 

with endless murmur to the Graces yield 

abundant honey: he who tastes of it 

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260 


può abbellir se non voi, Grazie, che siete 

presenti a tutto, e Dee tutto sapete? 

Quattro volte l’Aurora era salita 

su l’orïente a riveder le Grazie, 

dacché nacquero al mondo; e Giano antico, 

padre d’Italia, e l’adriaca Anfitrite 

inviavan lor doni, e un drappelletto 

di Naiadi e fanciulle eridanine, 

e quante i pomi d’Anïene e i fonti 

godean d’Arno e di Tebro, e quante avea 

Ninfe il mar d’Aretusa; e le guidavi 

tu, più che giglio nivea Galatea. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

E cantar Febo pieno d’inni un carme. 

Vaticinò, com’ei lo spirto, e varia 

daranno ai vati l’armonia del plettro 

le sue liete sorelle, e Amore il pianto 

che lusinghi a pietà l’alme gentili, 

e il giovine Lïeo scevra d’acerbe 

cure la vita, e Pallade i consigli, 

Giove la gloria, e tutti i Numi eterno 

poscia l’alloro; ma le Grazie il mèle 

persüadente grazïosi affetti, 

onde pia con gli Dei torni la terra. 

E cantando vedea lieto agitarsi 

esalando profumi, il verdeggiante 

bosco d’Olimpo, e rifiorir le rose, 

e [scorrere] di nèttare i torrenti, 

e risplendere il cielo, e delle Dive 

raggiar più bella l’immortal bellezza; 

però che il Padre sorrideva, e inerme 

a piè del trono l’aquila s’assise. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Inaccessa agli Dei splende una fiamma 

solitaria nell’ultimo de’ cieli, 

per proprio foco eterna; unico Nume 

la veneranda Deità di Vesta 

vi s’appressa, e deriva indi una pura 

luce che, mista allo splendor del sole, 

tinge gli aerei campi di zaffiro, 

e i mari, allor che ondeggiano al tranquillo 

spirto del vento facili a’ nocchieri, 

e di chiaror dolcissimo consola 

con quel lume le notti, e a qual più s’apre


dearly converses with his fatherland. 

Oh, tell us how that gift was yours alone. 

Who else, O Graces, can embellish fame 

for us, still groping in this earthly dusk; 

who else but you, who were already there, 

and, being Goddesses, know all things well? 

Once more to see the Graces since their birth 

bright Dawn had climbed four times the eastern sky: 

father of Italy, old Janus then, 

and Adriatic Amphitrite sent 

their gifts along with Eridanian girls 

and Naiads, with the dwellers who enjoyed 

Aniene’s trees, Arno’s and Tiber’s springs, 

and all the nymphs from Arethusa’s sea— 

and it was you escorted them all there, 

O whiter-much-than-lilies Galatea. 

................................................. 

Till Phoebus sang a hymn-repleted song, 

He phrophesied how bards would take the soul 

from him, from his glad sisters the sweet lyre 

from Love the weeping that would lure a gentle 

spirit to ruth, from young Lyaeus life 

devoid of cares, from Pallas good advice, 

and from all Gods the laurel afterwards; 

but from the Graces would the honey flow, 

inspiring gracious feelings apt once more 

to reconcile with Heaven this our earth. 

He noticed, as he sang, the fragrance-breathing 

excitement of the green Olympian woods, 

the nectar-running streams, the roses’ birth, 

the splendor of the skies, and the far brighter 

immortal beauty of the Goddesses: 

indeed the Father smiled on this while, harmless, 

his eagle rested underneath his throne. 

Unreachable to all the Deities, 

in the last heaven shines a lonely flame 

which its own fire makes eternal: there 

the awesome Goddess Vesta climbs alone 

to fetch a cloudless light that with the sun’s 

paints in pure sapphire the whole firmament 

and the whole sea, now in the tranquil breeze 

waving most easy to the seaman’s eyes, 

and comforts with its sweetest clarity 

each solitary night wherein the humblest 

flower that burgeons to bedeck the earth 

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262 


modesto fiore a decorar la terra 

molli tinte comparte, invidïate 

dalla rosa superba. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Dite, o garzoni, a chi mortale, e voi, 

donzelle, dite a qual fanciulla un giorno 

più di quel mèl le Dee furon cortesi. 

N’ebbe primiero un cieco; e sullo scudo 

di Vulcano mirò moversi il mondo, 

e l’alto Ilio dirùto, e per l’ignoto 

pelago la solinga itaca vela, 

e tutto Olimpo gli s’aprì alla mente 

e Cipria vide e delle Grazie il cinto. 

Ma quando quel sapor venne a Corinna 

sul labbro, vinse tra l’elèe quadrighe 

di Pindaro i destrier, benché Elicona 

li dissetasse, e li pascea di foco 

Eolo, e prenunzia un’aquila correva, 

e de’ suoi freni li adornava il Sole. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Di quel mèl la fragranza errò improvvisa 

sul talamo all’eolïa fanciulla, 

e il cor dal petto le balzò e la lira 

ed aggiogando i passeri, scendea 

Venere dall’Olimpo, e delle sue 

ambrosie dita le tergeva il pianto. 

Indarno Imetto 

le richiama dal dì che a fior dell’onda 

ergea, beate volatrici, il coro 

eliconio seguìeno, obbedïenti 

all’elegia del fuggitivo Apollo. 

Però che quando su la Grecia inerte 

Marte sfrenò le tartare cavalle 

depredatrici, e coronò la schiatta 

barbara d’Ottomano, allor l’Italia 

fu giardino alle Muse, e qui lo stuolo 

fabro dell’aureo mèl pose a sua prole 

il felice alvear. Né le Febee 

api (sebben le altre api abbia crudeli) 

fuggono i lai della invisibil Ninfa, 

che ognor delusa d’amorosa speme, 

pur geme per le quete aure diffusa, 

e il suo altero nemico ama e richiama; 

tanta dolcezza infusero le Grazie, 

per pietà della Ninfa, alle sue voci,


is granted hues so soft the proud rose envies. 

Now tell, O lads, and you, sweet maidens, tell 

unto what mortal man, unto what lass 

the Goddesses most kindly gave, one day, 

most of that honey. A blind man came first: 

on Vulcan’s shield he saw the world revolve, 

high Ilium in ruins, and, outcast 

on unknown seas, the lone Ithacan sail: 

the whole Olympus to his vision burst, 

baring the Cyprian and the Graces’ zone. 

But when that savor soothed Corinna’s lips, 

mid the Elean coaches it outsped 

Pindaric steeds whose thirst Helicon quenched: 

Eolus fed them with his fire, the Sun 

adorned them with his spurs and, high above, 

speeding ahead, an eagle showed the way. 

................................................... 

The sudden fragrance of that honey sprinkled 

the nuptial bed of the Eolian girl: 

Her lyre quavered and her heart leapt up 

when in a chariot, drawn by sparrows, down 

came Venus to wipe out her every tear 

with her ambrosian fingers. Ah, in vain 

has the Hymettus called them home again 

since the first dawn when, on swift wings of bliss 

skimming the high Aegean waves, behind 

the Heliconian chorus came the Graces, 

heedful of Phoebus’ fleeting elegy. 

For after Mars on slothful Greece unleashed 

the all-marauding mares of Tartary, 

and Ottoman’s barbaric sons were crowned, 

Italy gave the Muses a new home, 

and those who spun that golden honey placed 

its happy beehive for her children here. 

Not that the bees of Phoebus (others, too, 

are cruel equally) shun the laments 

of the unseen and ever-hopeless Nymph 

who, self-expanding through the quiet air, 

vents her despair, and calls and calls again, 

though unrequited, her despising foe; 

but so much sweetness did the graces breathe, 

for the Nymph’s sake, into her every word 

that, utterly forgetful of their work, 

those bees, now idle here in Italy, 

listen to but the echo that can make 

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264 


che le lor api immemori dell’opra, 

ozïose in Italia odono l’eco 

che al par de’ carmi fe’ dolce la rima. 

Quell’angelette scesero da prima 

ove assai preda di torrenti al mare 

porta Eridàno. Ivi la fata Alcina 

di lor sorti presàga avea disperso 

molti agresti amaranti; e lungo il fiume 

gran ciel prendea con negre ombre un’incolta 

selva di lauri: su’ lor tronchi Atlante 

di Ruggiero scrivea gli avi e le imprese, 

e di spettri guerrier muta una schiera 

e donne innamorate ivan col mago, 

aspettando il cantor; e questi i favi 

vide quivi deposti, e si mietea 

tutti gli allori; ma de’ fior d’Alcina 

più grazïoso distillava il mèle, 

e il libò solo un lepido poeta, 

che insiem narrò d’Angelica gli affanni. 

Ma non men cara l’api amano l’ombra 

del sublime cipresso, ove appendea 

la sua cetra Torquato, allor che ardendo 

forsennato egli errò per le foreste 

“sì che insieme movea pietate e riso 

“nelle gentili Ninfe e ne’ pastori: 

“né già cose scrivea degne di riso 

“se ben cose facea degne di riso”. 

...Deh! perché torse 

i suoi passi da voi, liete in udirlo 

cantar o Erminia, e il pio sepolcro e l’armi? 

Né disdegno di voi, ma più fatale 

Nume alla reggia il risospinse e al pianto. 

...A tal ventura 

fur destinate le gentili alate 

che riposâr sull’Eridano il volo. 

Mentre nel Lilibeo mare la fata 

dava promesse, e l’attendea cortese 

a quante all’Adria indi posaro il volo 

angiolette Febee, l’altro drappello 

che, per antico amor Flora seguendo, 

tendea per le tirrene aure il suo corso, 

trovò simile a Cerere una donna 

su la foce dell’Arno; e l’attendeva 

portando in man purpurei gigli e frondi 

fresche d’ulivo. Avea riposo al fianco


a rhyme as pleasant as the song itself. 

Those wingèd, winsome bees descended first 

right where the mighty Eridanus brings 

its largest prey of torrents to the sea. 

There fate-presaging sorceress Alcina 

had copiously strewn wild amaranths, 

and there, along the very stream, a thick 

forest of laurels veiled much of the sky 

with its black shadow: on their trunks Atlante 

would carve Ruggiero’s ancestors and deeds; 

and there a silent throng of phantom knights 

and loving ladies with a sorcerer 

awaited still their singer: there he saw 

the honeycombs at his disposal placed, 

and made a harvest of all laurel trees. 

But the best honey from Alcina’s wreaths 

was left for but one poet yet to taste – 

the witty bard that also sang with it 

lovelorn Angelica’s unhappy woes. 

Yet no less dear is to the bees the shade 

of the tall cypress where Torquato hung 

his harp when, madly burning, through the woods 

he wandered “moving shepherds and sweet nymphs 

to pity and to laughter at one time; 

no longer did he write what made man laugh— 

he only did what made man only laugh.” 

Ah, why did he 

meander, O sweet bees, away from you, 

who liked to hear him sing Erminia’s flight 

and pious arms and holy sepulcher? 

No hate of you—a fatal Power brought him 

back to a princely court and to new tears. 

Such was the venture 

of all those ever-gentle, pinioned bees 

destined to halt their flight upon the Po. 

While from the Lilybaean Sea the Fairy 

with many soon-kept promises allured 

every Phoebean creature come to rest 

finally on the Adriatic shores, 

the other swarm that, borne by Flora’s love, 

had only aimed at the Tyrrhenian sky, 

right on the Arno’s estuary found 

a lady that had long been waiting there: 

Ceres-resembling, in her hands she held 

vermilion lilies and fresh olive sprouts. 

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266 


un’etrusca colonna, a sé dinanzi 

di favi desïoso un alveare. 

Molte intorno a’ suoi piè verdi le spighe 

spuntavano, e perìan molte immature 

fra gli emuli papaveri; mal nota, 

benché fosse divina, era l’Ancella 

alle pecchie immortali. Essa agli Dei 

non tornò mai, da che scendea ne’ primi 

dì noiosi dell’uomo; e il riconforta 

ma le presenti ore gl’invola; ha nome 

Speranza e men infida ama i coloni. 

Già negli ultimi cieli iva compiendo 

il settimo de’ grandi anni Saturno 

col suo pianeta, da che a noi la Donna 

precorrendo le Muse era tornata 

per consiglio di Pallade, a recarne 

l’ara fatale ove scolpite in oro 

le brevi rifulgean libere leggi, 

madri dell’arti onde fu bella Atene. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Ecco prostrata una foresta, e fianchi 

rudi d’alpe, e masse ferree immani 

al braccio de’ Ciclòpi, a fondar tempio 

che ceda tardo a’ muti urti del tempo. 

E al suono che invisibili spandeano 

le Grazie intorno, assunsero nell’opra 

nuova speme i viventi: e l’Architetto 

meravigliando della sua fatica, 

quasi nubi lievissime, di terra 

ferro e abeti vedea sorgere e marmi, 

a sue leggi arrendevoli, e posarsi 

convessi in arco aereo imitanti 

il firmamento. Attonite le Muse 

come vennero poscia alla divina 

mole il guardo levando, indarno altrove 

col memore pensier ivan cercando 

se altrove Palla, . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

o quando in Grecia di celeste acànto 

ghirlandò le colonne, o quando in Roma 

gli archi adornava a ritornar vittrice 

trïonfando con candide cavalle, 

miracolo sì fatto avesse all’arti 

mai suggerito. Quando poi la Speme 

veleggiando su l’Arno in una nave 

l’api recò e l’ancora là dove


Resting one side on an Etruscan column, 

she gazed on something right in front of her— 

a beehive longing still for honeycombs. 

Full many a verdant spear of wheat burst forth 

down at her feet while others, not yet ripe, 

amongst the vying poppies perished soon: 

though of celestial origin, the Handmaid 

was hardly known to the immortal bees. 

Never has she returned among the Gods 

since she came down on man’s first tedious days; 

man she consoles but steals his present hours: 

her name (she smiles on farmers most) is Hope. 

In the last heavens Saturn with his planet 

was in the seventh of his lengthy years 

when, as forerunner of the Nine, the Handmaid, 

by Pallas so advised, returned to us 

bringing the sacred altar where in gold 

were carved and shone the free and simple laws 

that made the arts and Athens beautiful. 

..................................................... 

Behold, a forest down is being felled 

along with marble blocks and measureless 

masses of iron by Cyclopes’ hands: 

a temple here must rise that will for long 

withstand the silent buffetings of time. 

At the sound scattered by the unseen Graces 

the living with new hope join in the deed: 

marveling at his work, the Architect 

sees, like thin clouds, fir trunks and iron beams 

and marble matter, docile to his laws, 

rise quickly from the earth and only rest 

when, curved in airy arches, they reflect 

the firmament. The Muses, all enrapt, 

lift now their eyes to the imposing dome 

and with nostalgic thoughts try to recall 

if Pallas elsewhere .................................... 

either in Greece, when the divine acanthus 

garlanded every column, or in Rome 

when, entering victorious on white steeds, 

she decked its arches with triumphal leaves, 

had with her presence so inspired the arts 

as to behold such glory born at last. 

When, sailing toward the Arno on her ship, 

Hope afterwards brought there all of her bees— 

there where the Muses’ regal mansion would 

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sorger poscia dovea delle bell’arti 

sovra mille colonne una gentile 

reggia alle Muse, . . . corser l’api 

a un’indistinta di novelle piante 

soavità che intorno al tempio oliva. 

Un mirto 

che suo dall’alto Beatrice ammira, 

venerando spendeva; e dalla cima 

battea le penne un Genio disdegnoso 

che il passato esplorando e l’avvenire 

cieli e abissi cercava, e popolato 

d’anime in mezzo a tutte l’acque un monte; 

poi, tornando, spargea folgori e lieti 

raggi, e speme e terrore e pentimento 

ne’ mortali; e verissime sciagure 

all’Italia cantava. Appresso al mirto 

fiorian le rose che le Grazie ogni anno 

ne’ colli euganei van cogliendo, e un serto 

molle di pianto il dì sesto d’aprile 

ne recano alla Madre. A queste intorno 

dolcemente ronzarono, e sentiro 

come forse d’Eliso era venuto 

ad innestare il cespo ei che più ch’altri 

libò il mèl sacro su l’Imetto, e primo 

fe’ del celeste amor celebre il rito. 

Pur con molti frutteti e con l’orezzo 

le sviò de’ quercioli una valletta 

dove le Ninfe alle mie Dee seguaci 

non son Genii mentiti. Io dal mio poggio 

quando tacciono i venti fra le torri 

della vaga Firenze, odo un Silvano 

ospite ignoto a’ taciti eremiti 

del vicino Oliveto: ei sul meriggio 

fa sua casa un frascato, e a suon d’avena 

le pecorelle sue chiama alla fonte. 

Chiama due brune giovani la sera, 

né piegar erba mi parean ballando. 

Esso mena la danza. N’eran molte 

sotto l’alpe di Fiesole a una valle 

che da sei montagnette ond’è ricinta 

scende a sembianza di teatro acheo. 

Affrico allegro ruscelletto accorse 

a’ lor prieghi dal monte, e fe’ la valle 

limpida d’un freschissimo laghetto.


upon a thousand columns some day rise— 

dashed all those bees, attracted by a faint 

fragrance of new-born plants around the shrine. 

A sacred myrtle tree, 

which Beatrice from heaven calls her own, 

was shining there, and from its very top, 

beating his wings, a wrathful Genius, scanning 

both past and future, sought abyss and skies 

and, in the midst of all the seas, a mountain 

inhabited by souls; then, back on earth, 

upon the mortals cast he thunderbolts 

and happy rays, repentance. hope and fright, 

singing to Italy disasters true. 

Close to that myrtle tree those roses bloomed, 

which every year on the Euganean hills 

the Graces pick and weave a wreath thereof 

to offer, wet with tears, on April sixth, 

to their own Mother. Sweetly round those buds 

murmured the bees, and felt the rosebush grafted 

by him who tasted on th’ Hymettus’ peak 

the sacred honey more than others, singing, 

first, the religion of celestial love. 

And yet, despite the orchards and the shade, 

a tiny dell of youthful oak trees swayed them 

where, loyal to my Goddesses, the nymphs 

are not mendacious Genii. 

From this hill, 

when through the towers of my lovely Florence 

the winds are still, I hear a sylvan guest 

unknown in yonder silent hermitage 

of nearby Oliveto: he, past noon, 

makes shady twigs his home, and with his oat 

calls one by one his little sheep to drink. 

At evening, then, two dark-haired maidens come, 

who hardly bend the grasses as they dance 

(‘t is he who leads them there). Beneath the hill 

of Fiesole too many maidens dwelt 

in a fair dell that from six circling mountains 

like an Achean theater descends. 

Mindful of all their callings from above, 

Africo, carefree rivulet, replied 

and, forming there the coolest little lake, 

made the entire little valley bright. 

Not yet had Fiammetta heard of Nymphs 

when, telling tales of courtesy and love, 

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270 


Nulla per anco delle Ninfe inteso 

avea Fiammetta allor ch’ivi a diporto 

novellando d’amori e cortesie 

con le amiche sedeva, o s’immergea, 

te, Amor, fuggendo e tu ve la spïavi, 

dentro le cristalline onde più bella. 

Fur poi svelati in que’ diporti i vaghi 

misteri, e Dïoneo re del drappello 

le Grazie afflisse. Perseguì i colombi 

che stavan su le dense ali sospesi 

a guardia d’una grotta: invan gementi 

sotto il flagel del mirto onde gl’incalza 

gli fan ombra dattorno, e gli fan prieghi 

che non s’accosti; sanguinanti e inermi 

sgombran con penne trepidanti al cielo. 

Dalla grotta i recessi empie la luna, 

e fra un mucchio di gigli addormentata 

svela a un Fauno confusa una Napea. 

Gioì il protervo dell’esempio, e spera 

allettarne Fiammetta; e pregò tutti 

allor d’aita i Satiri canuti, 

e quante emule ninfe eran da’ giochi 

e da’ misteri escluse: e quegli arguti 

ozïando ogni notte a Dïoneo 

di scherzi e d’antri e talami di fiori 

ridissero novelle. Or vive un libro 

dettato dagli Dei; ma sfortunata 

la damigella che mai tocchi il libro! 

Tosto smarrita del natìo pudore 

avrà la rosa; né il rossore ad arte 

può innamorar chi sol le Grazie ha in core. 

O giovinette Dee, gioia dell’inno, 

per voi la bella donna i riti vostri 

imìta e le terrene api lusinga 

nel felsineo pendio d’onde il pastore 

mira Astrea che or del ciel gode e de’ tardi 

alberghi di Nereo; d’indiche piante 

e di catalpe onde i suoi Lari ombreggia 

sedi appresta e sollazzi alle vaganti 

schiere, o le accoglie ne’ fecondi orezzi 

d’armonïoso speco invïolate 

dal gelo e dall’estiva ira e da’ nembi. 

La bella donna di sua mano i lattei 

calici del limone, e la pudica 

delle vïole, e il timo amor dell’api,


with her own friends for pastime there she sat 

or plunged into those waters, shunning you, 

O Love, who spied upon her furtively, 

and found her fairer in the crystal foam. 

The wondrous mysteries were then revealed 

in that diversion whereby Dioneo, 

king of the group, displeased the Graces’ sight. 

Away he chased the turtle-doves that watched 

on full-spread wings the entrance to a cave: 

moaning in vain beneath the myrtle’s lashing, 

they cast their shadows ‘round him, begging him 

not to draw near, but, armless, fast they flee 

on bleeding wings in terror to the sky. 

The moon that floods the sunken cave with light 

shows on a bunch of lilies a Napea 

asleep and blended in a Faun’s embrace. 

By that example spurred, the daring lad 

hoped to ensnare Fiammetta, and invoked 

as many white-haired Satyrs as he knew 

with all the envious nymphs until then banned 

from all that playing, all that mystery; 

witty and shrewd and idle, every night 

to Dioneo they recounted tales 

of fun and caves and nuptial beds of blooms. 

Dictated by the Gods, a book still lives, 

but hapless is the lass that touches it: 

her rose will quickly lose its native hue, 

and never will the Graces fall in love 

with artful blushing on a woman’s cheeks. 

O youthful Goddesses, my hymn’s one joy, 

for you the lovely lady now renews 

your holy rites and lures the earthly bees 

to her Felsinean hillock whence the shepherd 

watches Astrea in love with sky and sea. 

Shading her hearth with most exotic plants, 

her home she lends for fun to wandering throngs 

or she invites them to the healthy shade 

of her harmonious cottage never touched 

by winter’s frost or summer’s wrathful storm. 

With her own hand the lovely lady wets 

the milky calyxes of lemon buds, 

shy violets, and thyme, to bees so dear; 

as balm of dew she begs from peaceful stars 

and consecrates new honeycombs to you, 

deep in her heart she sighes a silent prayer. 

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272 


innaffia, e il fior delle rugiade invoca 

dalle stelle tranquille, e impetra i favi 

che vi consacra e in cor tacita prega. 

Con lei pregate, donzellette, e meco 

voi, garzoni, miratela. Il segreto 

sospiro, il riso del suo labbro, il dolce 

foco esultante nelle sue pupille 

faccianvi accorti di che preghi, e come 

l’ascoltino le Dee. E certo impetra 

che delle Dee l’amabile consiglio 

da lei s’adempia. I preghi che dal Cielo 

per pietà de’ mortali han le divine 

vergini caste, non a voi li danno, 

giovani vati e artefici eleganti, 

bensì a qual più gentil donna le imìta. 

A lei correte, e di soavi affetti 

ispiratrici e immagini leggiadre 

sentirete le Grazie. Ah vi rimembri 

che inverecondo le spaventa Amore! 

III 

Torna deh! torna al suon, donna dell’arpa; 

guarda la tua bella compagna; e viene 

ultima al rito a tesser danze all’ara. 

Pur la città cui Pale empie di paschi 

con l’urne industri tanta valle, e pingui 

di mille pioppe aerëe al sussurro, 

ombrano i buoi le chiuse, or la richiama 

alle feste notturne e fra quegli orti 

freschi di frondi e intorno aurei di cocchi 

lungo i rivi d’Olona. E già tornava 

questa gentile al suo molle paese; 

così imminente omai freme Bellona 

che al Tebro, all’Arno, ov’è più sacra Italia, 

non un’ara trovò, dove alle Grazie 

rendere il voto d’una regia sposa. 

Ma udì ‘l canto, udì l’arpa; e a noi si volse 

agile come in cielo Ebe succinta. 

Sostien del braccio un giovinetto cigno, 

e togliesi di fronte una catena 

vaga di perle a cingerne l’augello. 

Quei lento al collo suo del flessuoso 

collo s’attorce, e di lei sente a ciocche 

neri su le sue lattee piume i crini 

scorrer disciolti, e più lieto la mira


Pray, gracious maidens, with her, and with me, 

O lads, just look at her. Her secret sigh, 

the smile upon her lips, the tranquil flame 

exulting in her eyes should tell you what 

she prays for, and how fast the Goddesses 

listen to her. Surely she begs the Three 

to help her do their lovely will on earth. 

The worth that Heaven, sorry for mankind, 

bestows on the chaste virgins from the sky 

will never fall on you, O artisans 

and youthful bards of futile elegance, 

but only on the gentlest lady eager 

to imitate them. Therefore, run to her, 

and you will sense the Graces as they breathe 

feelings of love and images of grace. 

Remember: Love unchaste they ever dread. 

III 

Come, lady with the harp, and play again! 

Look at your lovely friend, arriving last: 

she’ll dance around the altar in this rite. 

The town whose plainland Pales fills with pastures 

through industrious canals and countless poplars 

singing sublimely in the lofty air 

(fat oxen shade its outskirts) calls her back 

to its nocturnal splendor in the midst 

of gardens fresh with trees and golden-bright 

with chariots along th’ Olona’s banks. 

Once more the pleasure of her country home 

this gentle one was seeking, for so near 

is still Bellona’s cry she could not find 

either upon the Tiber or the Arno— 

where the more sacred Italy abides – 

a single altar whence a regal bride 

could lift her prayer to the Goddesses. 

But then she heard the song, she heard the harp: 

swiftly she turned to us just as in heaven 

Hebe in her long, tucked-up dress would do. 

Perched on her arm, she holds a youthful Swan; 

now from her forehead she removes a chain, 

pearl-studded, and soon binds the bird with it. 

Slowly the Swan, with undulating grace 

winding his neck around her neck, now feels 

her raven hair on his white plumage loose, 

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mentr’ella scioglie a questi detti il labbro: 

Grata agli Dei del reduce marito 

da’ fiumi algenti ov’hanno patria i cigni, 

alle virginee Deità consacra 

l’alta Regina mia candido un cigno 

Accogliete, o garzoni, e su le chiare 

acque vaganti intorno all’ara e al bosco 

deponete l’augello, e sia del nostro 

fonte signor; e i suoi atti venusti 

gli rendan l’onde e il suo candore, e goda 

di sé, quasi dicendo a chi lo mira, 

simbol son io della beltà. Sfrondate 

ilari carolando, o verginette, 

il mirteto e i rosai lungo i meandri 

del ruscello, versate sul ruscello, 

versateli, e al fuggente nuotatore 

che veleggia con pure ali di neve, 

fate inciampi di fiori, e qual più ameno 

fiore a voi sceglia col puniceo rostro, 

vel ponete nel seno. A quanti alati 

godon l’erbe del par l’aere e i laghi 

amabil sire è il cigno, e con l’impero 

modesto delle grazie i suoi vassalli 

regge, ed agli altri volator sorride, 

e lieto le sdegnose aquile ammira. 

Sovra l’òmero suo guizzan securi 

gli argentei pesci, ed ospite leale 

il vagheggiano, s’ei visita all’alba 

le lor ime correnti, desïoso 

di più freschi lavacri, onde rifulga 

sovra le piume sue nitido il sole. 

Fioritelo di gigli. 

Al vago rito 

Donna l’invia, che nella villa amena 

de’ tigli (amabil pianta, e a’ molli orezzi 

propizia, e al santo coniugale amore) 

nudrialo afflitta; e a lei dal pelaghetto 

lieto accorrea, agitandole l’acque 

sotto i lauri tranquille. O di clementi 

virtù ornamento nella reggia insùbre! 

Finché piacque agli Dei, o agl’infelici 

cara tutela, e di tre regie Grazie 

genitrice gentil, bella fra tutte 

figlie di regi, e agl’Immortali amica! 

Tutto il Cielo t’udìa quando al marito


and looks upon her with much greater bliss 

as she begins to move her lips to say: 

“Grateful to Heaven for her man’s return 

from the cold rivers, fatherland of swans, 

my noble Queen to the three virgin Graces 

is offering the whiteness of this Swan.” 

Welcome the Bird, O lads, and lay him down 

on the clear waters murmuring around 

the altar and the forest: let him be 

lord of our stream, and let the waves bring forth 

his graceful ways and innocence. To all 

who gaze upon him may this happy Swan 

say, “I am beauty’s symbol.” Happily 

dancing, O graceful maidens, pluck the leaves 

of every rosebush, every myrtle tree 

along the winding stream, and cast them all 

over the stream itself, thus laying stumbles 

of blossoms right before the fleeting bird 

sailing on pinions of pure, dazzling snow, 

and, dearly treasuring the sweetest bud 

he chooses for you with his purple beak, 

conceal it on your breast. Of all the birds 

that love air, lakes and meadows equally, 

the Swan is gentle king: most affably 

he rules his subjects in the Graces’ realm, 

smiles at his wingèd mates and joyfully 

watches the scornful eagles overhead. 

Over his back the fish in sliver spree 

most safely wriggle, loving him as guest 

when he at daybreak tries their deeper waves 

in search of fresher cleansings that may lure 

upon his feathers the new-risen sun. 

Crown him with lilies! 

For the beauteous rite 

he was donated by Her Ladyship, 

who in her villa fresh with linden trees 

(lovable plants propitious to cool shades 

as well as sanctity of wedded love) 

in sadness nourished him: from the small lake 

the Swan had run to her, causing a ripple 

on the immobile waters underneath 

her laurel trees. O virtues’ ornament 

there in her royal palace of Milan! 

O (while the Gods allowed it) ever-pleasant 

harbor to weeping mortals, gentle mother 

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guerreggiante a impedir l’Elba ai nemici 

pregavi lenta l’invisibil Parca 

che accompagna gli Eroi, vaticinando 

l’inno funereo e l’alto avello e l’armi 

più terse e giunti alla quadriga i bianchi 

destrieri eterni a correre l’Eliso. 

Ma come Marte, quando entro le navi 

rispingeva gli Achei, vide sul vallo 

fra un turbine di dardi Aiace solo, 

fumar di sangue; e ove dirùto il muro 

dava più varco a’ Teucri, ivi attraverso 

piantarsi; e al suon de’ brandi, onde intronato 

avea l’elmo e lo scudo, i vincitori 

impäurir del grido; e rincalzarli 

fra le dardanie faci arso e splendente; 

scagliar rotta la spada, e trarsi l’elmo 

e fulminar immobile col guardo 

Ettore, che perplesso ivi si tenne: 

tal dell’Ausonio Re l’inclito alunno 

fra il lutto e il tempestar lungo di Borea 

si fe’ vallo dell’Elba, e minacciando 

il trïonfo indugiava e le rapine 

dello Scita ramingo oltre la Neva. 

Quinci indignato il sol torce il suo carro, 

quando Orïone predator dell’Austro 

sovra l’Orsa precipita e abbandona 

corrucciosi i suoi turbini e il terrore 

sul deserto de’ ghiacci orridi, d’alto 

silenzio e d’ossa e armate esuli larve. 

Sdegnan chi a’ fasti di fortuna applaude 

le Dive mie, e sol fan bello il lauro 

quando Sventura ne corona i prenci. 

Ma più alle Dive mie piace quel carme 

che d’egregia beltà l’alma e le forme 

con la pittrice melodia ravviva. 

Spesso per l’altre età, se l’idïoma 

d’Italia correrà puro a’ nepoti, 

(è vostro, e voi, deh! lo serbate, o Grazie!) 

tento ritrar ne’ versi miei la sacra 

danzatrice, men bella allor che siede, 

men di te bella, o gentil sonatrice, 

men amabil di te quando favelli, 

o nutrice dell’api. Ma se danza, 

vedila! tutta l’armonia del suono


to three sweet regal Graces, the most fair 

of the king’s daughters, deathless Heaven’s friend! 

All the Gods heard your plea when for your husband, 

at war to keep the foe from Elba away, 

you raised your prayer to the unseen Fate 

that, marching with the heroes, prophesies 

a hymn, a lofty tomb, most shining arms, 

and, yoked to their quadriga, snow-white steeds 

to tread, eternal, the Elysian Fields. 

But as, when pushing the Acheans back 

onto their ships, Mars on the wall saw Ajax, 

bleeding, alone within a storm of darts, 

stand where a breach had made more Trojans rush, 

and, in the midst of swords resounding high 

on shield and helmet, frighten with his shout 

and chase the winners through Dardanian flames 

that made him most resplendent as he burned, 

until he hurled his broken blade at last, 

removed his helmet, and with flashing gaze 

made Hector stop, perplexed: in such a way 

the lustrous pupil of Ausonia’s King 

through Boreas’ wailing and lugubrious storm 

made Elba his own wall whence a while longer 

beyond the Neva with his threat he kept 

the Scythians’ triumphant plundering. 

The Sun now sways his chariot from here, 

mad when Orion with his preying winds 

precipitously falls upon the Bear 

unleashing all its wrathful, dreadful gales 

on deserts of horrendous glaciers, high 

silence, and bones, and ghosts of warring men. 

My Goddesses abhor those who exalt 

Fortune’s bright lavishness: they only make 

splendid the wreath that crowns grief-tested kings. 

But, most of all, my Goddesses delight 

in hymns that with depictive melody 

waken to lofty beauty soul and flesh. 

Oft for the future ages—if the tongue 

of Italy retain its purity 

(‘t is yours, O Graces; therefore keep it so)— 

in these my very lines I try to limn 

the sacred dancing lady, oh, less fair 

when she sits down, less beautiful than you, 

O gentle harpsichordist, less endearing 

than you, O foster mother of the bees, 

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scorre dal suo bel corpo, dal sorriso 

della sua bocca; e un moto, un atto, un vezzo 

manda agli sguardi venustà improvvisa. 

E chi pinger la può? Mentre a ritrarla 

pongo industre lo sguardo, ecco m’elude, 

e le carole che lente disegna 

affretta rapidissima, e s’invola 

sorvolando su’ fiori; appena veggio 

il vel fuggente biancheggiar fra’ mirti. 

Inno terzo 

Pallade - 

I 

Pari al numero lor volino gl’inni 

alle vergini sante, armonïosi 

del peregrino suono uno e diverso 

di tre favelle. Intento odi, Canova; 

ch’io mi veggio d’intorno errar l’incenso, 

qual si spandea sull’are a’ versi arcani 

d’Anfïone: presente ecco il nitrito 

de’ corsieri dircèi; benché Ippocrene 

li dissetasse, e li pascea dell’aure 

Eolo, e prenunzia un’aquila volava, 

e de’ suoi freni li adornava il Sole, 

pur que’ vaganti Pindaro contenne 

presso il Cefiso, ed adorò le Grazie. 

Fanciulle, udite, udite: un lazio Carme 

vien danzando imenei dall’isoletta 

di Sirmïone per l’argenteo Garda 

sonante con altera onda marina, 

da che le nozze di Pelèo, cantate 

nella reggia del mar, l’aureo Catullo 

al suo Garda cantò. Sacri poeti, 

a me date voi l’arte, a me de’ vostri 

idïomi gli spirti, e co’ toscani 

modi seguaci adornerò più ardito 

le note istorie, e quelle onde a me solo 

siete cortesi allor che dagli antiqui 

sepolcri m’apparite, illuminando 

d’elisia luce i solitari campi 

ove l’errante Fantasia mi porta 

a discernere il vero. Or ne preceda 

Clio, la più casta delle Muse, e chiami 

consolatrici sue meco le Grazie. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


while still you speak. But if she dances, oh, 

the whole harmonious power of the sound 

explodes through her fair body and her smile: 

each lovely gesture, every graceful turn 

gives unexpected pleasure to the eyes. 

But who can ever paint her? Ah, the more 

I try to hold her beauty in my glance, 

the more she baffles me: her dancing steps, 

until now slow, become a sudden whirl 

and just as breeze on blooms she vanishes: 

I hardly see her veil now disappear 

as a white gleam among the myrtle trees. 

Hymn Three 

Pallas 

I 

Let now the hymns in equal number soar 

to yonder holy virgins with the wondrous 

sound of the same yet diverse music of 

three languages. Canova, hear me still: 

I feel the incense all about me spread 

such as was strewn on altars when Amphion’s 

mysterious lines were sung: the neighing’s here 

of the Dircean steeds which Hippocrene 

refreshed with its own streams, Eolus fed 

with winds, and the Sun quickened with his spurs 

while, high above, an eagle showed the way. 

‘T was Pindar tamed the others, running wild 

near the Cephisus, and adored the Graces. 

And listen, girls, you too: a Latin Hymn 

out of the little isle of Sirmio 

comes with a rhythm of a wedding feast 

over the Garda of the silver light, 

whose waters proudly sound as sea-born waves 

since golden-voiced Catullus told his lake 

of Peleus’ nuptials sung beneath the sea. 

Give, sacred poets, all your art to me, 

to me the spirit of your different tongues, 

and, bolder than before, I will adorn 

with Tuscan elegance the well-known tales 

and those that you reveal to me alone 

as you appear out of the ancient tombs 

casting Elysian light on lonely lands 

whereto my wandering fantasy has brought me, 

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Come se a’ raggi d’Espero amorosi 

fuor d’una mìrtea macchia escon secrete 

e tortorelle mormorando a’ baci, 

guata dall’ombra l’upupa e sen duole, 

fuggono quelle impaurite al bosco; 

così le Grazie si fuggian tremando. 

Fu lor ventura che Minerva allora 

risaliva que’ balzi, al bellicoso 

Scita togliendo il nume suo. Di stragi 

su’ canuti, e di vergini rapite, 

stolto! il trionfo profanò che in guerra 

giusta il favore della Dea gli porse. 

Delle Grazie s’avvide e della fuga 

immantinente, e dietro ad un’opaca 

rupe il cocchio lasciava, e le sue quattro 

leonine poledre; ivi lo scudo 

depose, e la fatale ègida, e l’elmo, 

e inerme agli occhi delle Grazie apparve. 

- Scendete, disse, o vergini, scendete 

al mar, e venerate ivi la Madre; 

e dolce un lutto per Orfeo nel core 

vi manderà, che obblierete il vostro 

terror, tanto ch’io rieda a offrirvi un dono, 

né più vi offenda Amore. - E tosto al corso 

diè la quadriga, e la rattenne a un’alta 

reggia che al par d’Atene ebbe già cara; 

or questa sola ha in pregio, or quando i Fati 

non lasciano ad Atene altro che il nome. 

II 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

E a me un avviso Eufrosine, cantando, 

porge, un avviso che da Febo un giorno 

sotto le palme di Cirene apprese. 

Innamorato, nel pierio fonte 

guardò Tiresia giovinetto i fulvi 

capei di Palla, liberi dall’elmo, 

coprir le rosee disarmate spalle; 

sentì l’aura celeste, e mirò l’onde 

lambir a gara della Diva il piede, 

e spruzzar riverenti e paurose 

la sudata cervice e il casto petto, 

che i lunghi crin discorrenti dal collo 

coprian, siccome li moveano l’aure. 

Ma né più rimirò dalle natìe


searching for truth. Let Clio come now first – 

the chastest of the Muses – and with me 

let her invoke the Graces’ soothing ease. 

......................................................................... 

As in the glimmer of the Evening Star 

from the dark thickness of the myrtle trees 

murmuring turtle-doves come forth to kiss 

till, watched by the resentful hoopoe, back 

into the forest terrified they flee: 

in such a way the frightened Graces ran. 

But luckily for them, right at that time 

Minerva climbed those very hills again 

to take her mighty deity away 

from fighting Scythians whose victory, 

which she had granted for a rightful war, 

had madly been profaned by rape of women 

and slaughter of unarmed white-haired old men. 

Noticing the three Graces in their flight, 

behind a darkened rock she hid at once 

the four lionine mares that pulled her coach; 

helmet and shield and breastplate she laid down 

and wholly bare before the Graces stood. 

“Go down,” she said, “dear virgins, to the sea, 

go down, and worship your own Mother there. 

Such a sweet grief for Orpheus’s death 

will she inspire in your hearts, you’ll soon 

forget your terror till I here return 

with a dear present for you; nor will Love 

offend you any longer.” Thus she spurred 

her fast quadriga forward till she reached 

a lofty royal palace dear to her 

as much as Athens – her sole cherished home 

now that the Fates gave Athens but a name. 

II 

................................................................... 

Singing, Euphrosyne now counsels me 

as she herself was counseled long ago 

by Phoebus underneath Cyrene’s palms. 

Enamored, down in the Pierian spring 

youthful Tiresias, one day, caught sight 

of Pallas’ sunlit hair that, helmet-free, 

fell loose upon her rosy shoulders bare: 

a breeze from heaven felt he as he saw 

the waves that vied to kiss the Goddess’ feet 

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282 


cime eliconie il cocchio aureo del Sole, 

né per la coronèa selva di pioppi 

guidò a’ ludi i garzoni, o alle carole 

l’anfïonie fanciulle; e i capri e i cervi 

tenean securi le beote valli, 

chè non più il dardo suo dritto fischiava, 

però che la divina ira di Palla 

al cacciator col cenno onnipotente 

avvinse i lumi di perpetua notte. 

Tal destino è ne’ fati. Ahi! senza pianto 

l’uomo non vede la beltà celeste. 

III 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Isola è in mezzo all’oceàn, là dove 

sorge più curvo agli astri; immensa terra, 

come è grido vetusto, un dì beata 

d’eterne messi e di mortali altrice. 

Invan la chiede all’onde oggi il nocchiero, 

or i nostri invocando or dell’avverso 

polo gli astri; e se illuso è dal desio, 

mira albeggiar i suoi monti da lunge, 

e affretta i venti, e per l’antica fama 

Atlantide l’appella. Ma da Febo 

detta è Palladio Ciel, che da la santa 

Palla Minerva agli abitanti irata, 

cui il ricco suolo e gl’imenei lascivi 

fean pigri all’arti e sconoscenti a Giove, 

dentro l’Asia gli espulse, e l’aurea terra 

cinse di ciel pervio soltanto ai Numi. 

Onde, qualvolta per desìo di stragi 

si fan guerra i mortali, e alla divina 

libertà danno impuri ostie di sangue; 

o danno a prezzo anima e brandi all’ire 

di tiranni stranieri, o a fera impresa 

seguon avido re che ad innocenti 

popoli appresta ceppi e lutto a’ suoi; 

allor concede le Gorgòni a Marte 

Pallade, e sola tien l’asta paterna 

con che i regi precorre alla difesa 

delle leggi e dell’are, e per cui splende 

a’ magnanimi eroi sacro il trionfo. 

Poi nell’isola sua fugge Minerva, 

e tutte Dee minori, a cui diè Giove 

d’esserle care alunne, a ogni gentile


and, reverent and hesitant, then sprinkled 

her still-perspiring face and virgin breast 

which her long-streaming hair, tossed by the wind, 

protected from man’s gaze. But nevermore 

was he to watch the chariot of the Sun 

golden above his native Helicon 

nor would he through Coronis’ poplar trees 

lead youngsters any longer to the game 

or Amphionian maidens to the dance. 

Through the Boeotian valleys rams and deer 

roamed safely ever since, for nevermore 

did his dart whistle straight up in the air: 

heeding the might of her omnipotence, 

Athena’s godly wrath had then and there 

bandaged the hunter’s eyes with endless night. 

Such is the Fates’ decree. Through tears alone 

must man behold celestial beauty here, 

III 

There is an island in mid-ocean, right 

where its most rounded waves rise to the stars – 

according to old tales a boundless land 

one day inhabited by men and blessed 

with everlasting vegetation. Now, 

although invoking stars of either pole, 

the seaman cannot see it any more; 

only, if still deluded by desire, 

from far away he scans its whitened peak 

and, therefore trying to outspeed the winds, 

he calls Atlantis what Apollo named 

Heaven of Pallas, for it was Minerva 

who, fully angered by those dwellers made 

by wealthy soil and most lascivious love 

thankless to Jove and heedless of the arts, 

expelled them all into the Asian woods, 

girding our golden planet with a sky 

accessible to Deities alone. 

Therefore, whenever thirst for bloodshed makes 

these mortal creatures one another fight 

or when to heavenly freedom they lift up 

unholy hosts of blood or for a price 

yield soul and sword to wrath of foreign kings 

or follow in ferocious enterprises 

a greedy tyrant eager to enchain 

innocent nations and oppress his own: 

283

284 


studio ammaestra: e quivi casti i balli, 

quivi son puri i canti, e senza brina 

i fiori e verdi i prati, ed aureo il giorno 

sempre, e stellate e limpide le notti. 

Chiamò d’intorno a sé le Dive, e a tutte 

compartì l’opre del promesso dono 

alle timide Grazie. Ognuna intenta 

agl’imperî correa: Pallade in mezzo 

con le azzurre pupille amabilmente 

signoreggiava il suo virgineo coro. 

Attenuando i rai aurei del sole, 

volgeano i fusi nitidi tre nude 

Ore, e del velo distendean l’ordito. 

Venner le Parche di purpurei pepli 

velate e il crin di quercia; e di più trame 

raggianti, adamantine, al par de l’etre 

e fluide e pervie e intatte mai da Morte, 

trame onde filan degli Dei la vita, 

le tre presàghe riempiean la spola. 

Né men dell’altre innamorata, all’opra 

Iri scese fra’ Zefiri; e per l’alto 

le vaganti accogliea lucide nubi 

gareggianti di tinte, e sul telaio 

pioveale a Flora a effigïar quel velo; 

e più tinte assumean riso e fragranza 

e mille volti dalla man di Flora. 

E tu, Psiche, sedevi, e spesso in core, 

senz’aprir labbro, ridicendo: “Ahi, quante 

gioie promette, e manda pianto Amore!”, 

raddensavi col pettine la tela. 

E allor faconde di Talia le corde, 

e Tersicore Dea, che a te dintorno 

fea tripudio di ballo e ti guardava, 

eran conforto a’ tuoi pensieri e a l’opra. 

Correa limpido insiem d’Èrato il canto 

da que’ suoni guidato; e come il canto 

Flora intendeva, e sì pingea con l’ago. 

Mesci, odorosa Dea, rosee le fila; 

e nel mezzo del velo ardita balli, 

canti fra ‘l coro delle sue speranze 

Giovinezza: percote a spessi tocchi 

antico un plettro il Tempo; e la danzante 

discende un clivo onde nessun risale. 

Le Grazie a’ piedi suoi destano fiori, 

a fiorir sue ghirlande: e quando il biondo


‘t is then, surrendering to Mars her Gorgons, 

Athena brandishes her father’s spear 

whereby, preceding monarchs, she defends 

altars and laws, thus rendering a true 

and noble hero’s triumph ever bright. 

Back to her island then Minerva runs, 

where many minor Goddesses, by Jove 

sent as dear pupils to her, she instructs 

in every gentle task: chaste dancing there 

is seen, chaste music heard; no frost offends 

ever the flowers or the verdant lawns; 

in golden sunshine the whole day remains 

with ever-limpid, ever-starry nights. 

She bade her Goddesses around her come, 

and then assigned to all part of the work 

for the completion of the gift already 

promised to the shy Graces solemnly. 

Each, most attentive, to her bidding ran. 

Right in the middle, Pallas amiably 

over her virgins watched with chaste, blue eyes. 

Spinning the golden sun, ray after ray, 

three naked Hours their lustrous spindles twirled, 

lengthening thus the texture of a veil. 

With oak-leaves aureoled, in purple clad, 

came the foreseeing Fates, and soon they filled 

the long-awaiting spool with threads as bright 

and varied and celestial as the sky, 

fluent and pervious yet Death-untouched – 

threads all the Gods employ when spinning life. 

No less enamored than the others, down 

came Iris with the Breezes to that toil: 

reaching for wandering, refulgent clouds 

with one another vying for new tints, 

she down to Flora rained them one by one, 

hers to depict the veil with; Flora’s touch 

lent them new sheen and fragrance as they took 

on countless faces. And you, too, sat down, 

O Psyche, often saying in your heart, 

though uttering no sound, “O Love! O Love! 

You promise pleasure but give only tears,” 

and with a comb you thickened every thread 

while, comforting your work and all your thoughts, 

with eloquence Thalia plucked her chords 

and heavenly Terpsichore, enrapt, 

in boundless jubilation danced about you. 

285

286 


crin t’abbandoni e perderai ‘l tuo nome, 

vivran que’ fiori, o Giovinezza, e intorno 

l’urna funerea spireranno odore. 

Or mesci, amabil Dea, nivee le fila; 

e ad un lato del velo Espero sorga 

dal lavor di tue dita; escono errando 

fra l’ombre e i raggi fuor d’un mìrteo bosco 

due tortorelle mormorando ai baci; 

mirale occulto un rosignuol, e ascolta 

silenzïoso, e poi canta imenei: 

fuggono quelle vereconde al bosco. 

Mesci, madre dei fior, lauri alle fila; 

e sul contrario lato erri co’ specchi 

dell’alba il sogno; e mandi a le pupille 

sopite del guerrier miseri i volti 

de la madre e del padre allor che all’are 

recan lagrime e voti; e quei si desta, 

e i prigionieri suoi guarda e sospira. 

Mesci, o Flora gentile, oro alle fila; 

e il destro lembo istorïato esulti 

d’un festante convito: il Genio in volta 

prime coroni agli esuli le tazze. 

Or libera è la gioia, ilare il biasmo, 

e candida è la lode. A parte siede 

bello il Silenzio arguto in viso e accenna 

che non volino i detti oltre le soglie. 

Mesci cerulee, Dea, mesci le fila; 

e pinta il lembo estremo abbia una donna 

che con l’ombre e i silenzi unica veglia; 

nutre una lampa su la culla, e teme 

non i vagiti del suo primo infante 

sien presagi di morte; e in quell’errore 

non manda a tutto il cielo altro che pianti. 

Beata! ancor non sa quanto agl’infanti 

provido è il sonno eterno, e que’ vagiti 

presagi son di dolorosa vita. 

Come d’Èrato al canto ebbe perfetti 

Flora i trapunti, ghirlandò l’Aurora 

gli aerei fluttuanti orli del velo 

d’ignote rose a noi; sol la fragranza, 

se vicino è un Iddio, scende alla terra. 

E fra l’altre immortali ultima venne 

rugiadosa la bionda Ebe, costretti 

in mille nodi fra le perle i crini, 

silenzïosa, e l’anfora converse:


Escorted by those sounds, Erato’s song 

soared limpid in the air, and with her needle 

Flora depicted what the singing meant. 

Weave, fragrant Goddess, weave now rosy threads, 

and, painted in the middle of the veil, 

let ever-daring, ever-dancing Youth 

join in the singing chorus of her hopes. 

Time oft and dully strikes his ancient lyre 

while down a hill that no one climbs again 

the dancing maiden’s coming. At her feet 

the Graces waken blossoms, that she may 

replenish all her garlands happily. 

Oh, when your hair will lose its golden glow, 

and you, sweet Youth, will lose your very name, 

living and living still, those very flowers 

around a tomb will shed their final scent. 

Now, lovely Goddess, weave snow-dazzling threads, 

and from your fingers’ effort let at once 

Hesperus on the veil’s right side arise: 

through rays and shadows out of myrtle trees 

murmuring turtle-doves come forth to kiss; 

unseen, a nightingale sees them, instead, 

listens in silence and then sings of love: 

bashful, into the forest back they flee. 

Mother of wreaths, weave laurel leaves with hreads, 

and let Dream linger on the veil’s left side 

with Dawn’s own mirrors, flashing on the weary 

eyes of a sleeping warrior the grieving 

images of a mother and a father 

offering at the altar vows and tears: 

suddenly he awakes and with a sigh 

looks at poor prisoners he still must guard. 

Weave, gentle Flora, gold along with threads, 

and let the painted right side now exult 

with a most joyous banquet: fast about, 

let Genius crown the exiles’ goblets first. 

Now free is all the joy, cheerful the blame, 

and genuine the praise. There in a corner 

beautiful Silence sits alone and stares, 

wittily warning all to keep their words 

under the secret safety of the roof. 

Weave, Goddess, now, weave now cerulean threads, 

and let the painted left side now reveal 

a woman in the darkness still awake: 

holding a lamp over a cradle lit, 

287

288 


e dell’altre la vaga opra fatale 

rorò d’ambrosia; e fu quel velo eterno. 

Poi su le tre di Citerea Gemelle 

tutte le Dive il diffondeano; ed elle 

fra le fiamme d’amore invano intatte 

a rallegrar la terra; e sì velate 

apparian come pria vergini nude. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

E il velo delle Dee manda improvviso 

un suon, qual di lontana arpa, che scorre 

sopra i vanni de’ Zeffiri soave; 

qual venìa dall’Egeo per l’isolette 

un’ignota armonia, poi che al reciso 

capo e al bel crin d’Orfeo la vaga lira 

annodaro scagliandola nell’onde 

le delire Baccanti; e sospirando 

con l’Ionio propinquo il sacro Egeo 

quell’armonia serbava, e l’isolette 

stupefatte l’udiro e i continenti. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Addio, Grazie: son vostri, e non verranno 

soli quest’inni a voi, né il vago rito 

obblieremo di Firenze ai poggi 

quando ritorni April. L’arpa dorata 

di novello concento adorneranno, 

disegneran più amabili carole 

e più beato manderanno il carme 

le tre avvenenti ancelle vostre all’ara: 

e il fonte, e la frondosa ara e i cipressi, 

e i serti e i favi vi fien sacri, e i cigni 

votivi, e allegri i giovanili canti 

e i sospir delle Ninfe. Intanto, o belle 

o dell’arcano vergini custodi 

celesti, un voto del mio core udite. 

Date candidi giorni a lei che sola, 

da che più lieti mi fioriano gli anni, 

m’arse divina d’immortale amore. 

Sola vive al cor mio cura soave, 

sola e secreta spargerà le chiome 

sovra il sepolcro mio, quando lontano 

non prescrivano i fati anche il sepolcro. 

Vaga e felice i balli e le fanciulle 

di nera treccia insigni e di sen colmo, 

sul molle clivo di Brianza un giorno 

guidar la vidi; oggi le vesti allegre


her dear first infant’s wailings she mistakes 

for presages of death, and in that error 

sends nothing but her weeping to the sky. 

Blessèd is she, who has not yet been told 

that infants would prefer eternal sleep, 

and that their cries bespeak a life of woe. 

As Flora at the song of Erato 

perfected her embroidery, bright Dawn 

wreathed the whole veil’s soft-waving, airy hems 

with roses we know not — whose scent alone, 

only if God is near, can reach the earth. 

And, last of all immortal Goddesses, 

blonde Hebe full of dew descended there: 

her hair held fast by myriads of pearls, 

she emptied the whole amphora she brought 

and, silent still, with sweet ambrosia sprinkled 

the fated, famous toil of all the other 

Divinities: that veil eternal grew. 

Finally all the Goddesses displayed 

before the Graces the whole wondrous work; 

in Love’s high flames in the meantime unscorched, 

around they wandered to cheer up the earth 

and, though so veiled, bare virgins were they still. 

The holy veil gives out a sudden sound 

as of a distant harp most dearly borne 

on Zephyrs’ wings: in such a guise, one day, 

throughout the isles of the Aegean Sea 

an unknown harmony was faintly heard 

after the fierce Bacchantes bound the lyre 

that once was Orpheus’ to his handsome hair 

sad plunged it down into the flowing waves: 

sighing together with the near Ionian, 

instantly the Aegean’s holy tide 

echoed that melody till every isle 

and Continent was full of all its awe. 

Graces, farewell. Our festive hymns are yours, 

but you will have much more lest we forget 

upon the hills of Florence this sweet rite 

when April’s here again. Your three enchanting 

maidens around the altar will adorn 

the golden harp with still a modern sound; 

still more delightful dances will they weave, 

and a more blissful song raise to you still. 

Spring, leafy altar, votive swan and wreath, 

dark cypress trees and golden honeycombs, 

289

290 


obliò lenta e il suo vedovo coro. 

E se alla Luna e all’etere stellato 

più azzurro il scintillante Èupili ondeggia, 

il guarda avvolta in lungo velo, e plora 

col rosignuol, finché l’Aurora il chiami 

a men soave tacito lamento. 

A lei da presso il piè volgete, o Grazie, 

e nel mirarvi, o Dee, tornino i grandi 

occhi fatali al lor natìo sorriso.


youngsters’ glad hynms and nymphs’ amorous sighs – 

may all this be most sacred unto you. 

Listen meanwhile, O fair, celestial guardians 

of the mysterious deep, to this my prayer. 

Give days of calmness to the only one 

who, since my years in greater gladness bloomed, 

divinely burned me with immortal love. 

Alone she lives, dear burden to my heart, 

just as alone and dear she will unbind 

her tresses on my sepulcher unless 

Fate also sets my tomb out of man’s reach. 

One day l saw her, beautiful and blest, 

on the sweet hillock of Brianza lead 

dark-haired, full-breasted maidens to the dance; 

today, instead, she has forsaken all 

her cheerful dresses and her girls’ lament. 

And if with bluer light the Eupili 

shines to the Moon and to the starry air, 

clad in long raiments, she still looks at him, 

and with the nightingale still sadly weeps 

till Dawn recalls him to a lesser grief. 

Graces, come down and walk along with her, 

and while, O Goddesses, she looks at you, 

let her big, fatal eyes return at once 

to the familiar beauty of their smile. 

291

Book Reviews

294 


Simonetta Agnello Hornby. The Almond Picker. Translated by Alastair 

McEwen. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005. Pp. x + 315. 

With his translation of the novel La mennulara (published by Feltrinelli 

in 2002), Alastair McEwen gives English speakers the chance to experience 

an enticing slice of life in Sicily in the 1960s. Taking place over just 

one month in the small hill town of Roccacolomba, The Almond Picker offers 

a prismatic portrait of Maria Rosalia Inzerillo through the reactions 

of numerous townspeople as they learn of her death. Known as “la 

mennulara,” (Sicilian for almond picker), Inzerillo was the domestic of a 

wealthy family, in addition to being a mysterious figure around town. 

Rumors regarding her true nature run the gamut, from an illiterate and 

insubordinate servant to the lover of her boss, to a drug smuggler with 

ties to the mafia. Everyone in town seems to know only a small piece of 

the story - if that much - and no one can see beyond their own noses to the 

truth. Each character adds another piece to the narrative puzzle until the 

surprising truth is revealed. With this - her debut novel - Hornby has 

produced an intriguing story full of colorful characters, one that surely 

merits comparison with some of her Sicilian literary predecessors, namely 

Verga and De Roberto. 

Simonetta Agnello Hornby was born in Sicily but has lived in London 

for over 30 years and therefore makes a nod to her new home in the 

dedication of the translation, which is quite different from that of the original. 

The Italian version is simply “alla British Airways,” whereas the translation 

is dedicated as follows: “I owe the ‘illumination’ that led me to this 

novel to a delay in the Palermo-London flight of 2 September 2000. For 

this reason – and perhaps also for the aerial link that permits me to keep 

up the connections with both my countries – British Airways has a special 

place in this book.” This same text appears in the back of the Italian version, 

included among the acknowledgements, but in the English version it 

is placed at the very front of the book, so that Hornby may reach out to 

her British readers (the translation was also published in the United Kingdom 

by Viking in 2005) and establish a personal relationship with them, 

drawing them into the intimate setting of the story as well. 

Indeed, McEwen’s translation reflects his own British usage and the 

result is a very appropriate European feel to the language. Overall, the 

reader does not get the sense of reading a translation, but of a British 

novel written some forty years ago. There is no question that McEwen - 

whose other translations include numerous works by Umberto Eco, as 

well Tabucchi, Veronesi, and Baricco - is an accomplished translator who 

has mastered George Steiner’s concept of hermeneutic motion in translation 

(After Babel [Oxford: Oxford UP, 1998]). In this work, McEwen has 

gone beyond Steiner’s first three stages of trust, aggression and incorporation 

to the final stage, restitution. That is to say that he allows the beauty 

and character of the original language to show through in the translation,

Book Reviews 295 

rather than providing a sterile version in which the original language is 

assimilated into the language of the translation, thereby disappearing completely. 

This is no easy feat with The Almond Picker, because McEwen must 

actually acknowledge the linguistic variation between Italian and the Sicilian 

dialect spoken by many characters in the novel, including Mennulara 

herself. This task was made somewhat easier for him by the author, who 

chose not to include too much Sicilian dialogue. The use of Sicilian is referred 

to more often than it is actually included, but the differences between 

the two languages are very important from a sociolinguistic standpoint 

– Italian is the refined language of the upper class in Sicily at the 

time, whereas Sicilian is the rough speech of the uneducated and the illiterate, 

like Mennulara. An interesting example of this distinction appears 

on page 200 of the translation: 

“’You’re right: it’s not easy to explain her. There’s no 

doubt that she was remarkably intelligent and she had even 

acquired a degree of learning: a complex woman. At home we 

used to laugh at her secrecy. My father, who in the carabinieri, 

would say that if she had been born a man she would have 

become a mafia boss; he said she was a fimmina di panza, a woman 

who could keep her mouth shut.’ 

Gerlando Mancuso spoke the gentle Italian of the 

mainland, with a French r, but he pronounced the Sicilian 

expression perfectly. Gian Maria pointed this out tactfully. 

‘Unfortunately, we were born and brought up in the north. I 

have never been in Sicily, but we kept up the dialect to 

communicate with Aunt Rosalia, who stubbornly refused to 

speak Italian. I think she was ashamed of her lack of education 

and her limited knowledge of etiquette.’ Again Mancuso feared 

that he had spoken out of turn, giving the impression that a 

Sicilian accent was unusual, and turning to Lilla he added, ‘If I 

may say so, signora Bolla, your Sicilian accent shows through 

delightfully in your perfect Italian.’” 

COLCLOUGH SANDERS 

Kean University 

Lucio Mariani. Echoes of Memory: Selected Poems of Lucio Mariani. Bilingual 

Edition. Translated by Anthony Molino. Middletown (CT): 

Wesleyan University Press, 2003. Pp. 118. 

Echoes of Memory includes an introductory translator’s note, as well 

as an afterword by Thomas Harrison. The text offers the reader the original 

Italian with a facing English translation. When possible, I find, it is 

always best to include the original language, along with the target lan-

296 


guage. This becomes especially important with Mariani’s poetry, for his 

linguistic richness and his use of mythologies (old and new), when contrasted 

with the English-language rendition, make for an exceptional exercise 

in the whole process of translation, which entails more than just 

conversion from one lexical term to its equivalent in another language.. 

Because Mariani’s cultural and historical references might escape the non- 

Italian, Molino has rightly chosen to include a list of brief notes at the end 

of the volume. One, however, could argue that his gloss is inconsistent in 

its intent. For example, he includes an explanation of the city of Elea (in 

the poem “Ombre dei martiri”), but does not mention the other city cited 

along with it, Miletus. For that matter, if Elea needs a brief note, should 

not the mention of the Cimmerians (in “Ephesus”) merit one, as well? 

Molino’s endeavor, at any rate, is commendable. After all, Mariani’s 

poetry speaks as much of antiquity as it does of contemporary society, 

and is therefore replete with archaic terms as much as with unusual coinages 

that reflect a man comfortable in moving between the two worlds. 

The translator is forced to accommodate a whole range of polysemous 

expressions, all the while paying mind to structures that equally betray 

Mariani’s dual allegiances. In his afterword, Harrison notes Mariani’s “remoteness,” 

which “is harbored in time and culture. It calls for archaeological 

excavation, a critique of tradition. Like Janus bifrons, Mariani the 

Roman has double vision, looking forward and backward” (p. 111). I would 

argue further that Mariani is organic and yet isolated, like a man alone on 

a cold planet (somewhere) making connections with humanity through 

memories of even the most banal detail as well as through classical allusions. 

For, what is an allusion but an ‘echo of memory’. For this reason, I 

wonder if Mariani could be likened to Quasimodo in his own time; the 

Quasimodo of Acque e terre, of Erato e Apòllion. Generally speaking, 

Mariani’s verses are difficult and reveal a sort of hermetic quality (though 

not necessarily in the political sense) of a Quasimodo or a Montale. However, 

occasionally his sensibility for post-modern affect reveals itself in 

lines of utter nonsense like: “Per lui / l’amo talvolta e l’ancora comunque 

/ son superfetazioni” (“For him, / the hook, at times, and the anchor / 

always, are superfetations.”). 

Judging the quality of Molino’s translations is another matter. He 

values fidelity to structure, verse length and nuance. For example, in 

“Alfabeti della resa” (“Alphabets of Surrender”), Molino offers a clever 

solution for imitating Mariani’s anaphora in the original. “Piú voci” (“Several 

Voices”) serves as an example of attention to verse length: where 

Mariani had left “sento” on a line of its own (without the optional subject 

pronoun, “io”), Molino chose to mirror this in the English, even at the risk 

of seeming grammatically awkward, with “felt.” His insistence works to 

instill the same sense of quiet obliviousness ‘felt’ in pondering the “workings 

of silence.” (This remains consistent with Molino’s ability to handle 

verbal phrases quite well.) In terms of lexicon, Molino chooses to keep the


more obscure terms like “caique” and “meltemi” (for “caicco” and 

“meltemi,” respectively) in his poem “Mikonos,” rather than opting for 

more accessible, if not less accurate, terminologies for the corresponding 

boat and wind. In the same poem, he also recognizes the limits of the 

translator as he avoids a rendition of “lagartiglie”; instead, he shifts the 

untranslatable modulation of “lizards” into the adjective, opting for 

“brownish” in place of ‘brown’ for “brune.” In “Morte di cane” (“Dog’s 

Death”), though “whimsy” is not a direct equivalent of “allegria,” Molino 

elects the word so that it will form an alliteration with “war” to mirror 

that found in Mariani’s “allegria e guerra.” But this attention, even fidelity, 

to detail is quite irregularly applied. 

One drawback of Molino’s translations figures as the general drawback 

of all translators. At times, reticent to reduce their own value, translators 

highlight themselves instead of the original writer’s intent. That is, 

if the equivalence of the languages facilitates the translation as a natural, 

logical transfer from original to target, a translator almost feels obligated 

to impede that flow; even when a perfectly good equivalent exists a variant 

will be chosen. In one case, perhaps Molino does it for the sake of 

euphony or realism, rendering the ‘I’ in “e io là nello stesso abbandono / 

del cane grattato” with the ‘me’ in “and me, mellow as a dog / whose 

back has been stroked.” He renders “platano” first as “sycamore” in 

“Vienna 29 febbraio” and then as merely “tree” in “Faire part.” Why use 

two options, none of which is the plane-tree? One might question the failure 

to include an equivalent of “magistero” in the line “per magistero 

naturale” from “Odisseide”; in the English, this expression becomes “by 

its very nature.” Why not include an approximation of “magistero?” Why 

insist on “brier” for “tralcio” in “L’eternità” when Molino had proven his 

mettle with more difficult vocabulary? This may be all well and good, but 

in other cases, avoiding the direct equivalent changes the meaning, causing 

the reader to miss a potential thematic connection. When, in “Lettera” 

(“Letter”), Molino translates the “songino” as “blackberry” instead of as 

the valerian plant, or the setwall, he was not simply replacing the name of 

a plant which would have seemed obscure to English speakers with a 

more well-known one. For in the same poem the “tiglio” (linden tree) 

appears four lines later. The fact that both plants are known for their causing 

sleepiness is missed because the first term was changed to a different 

plant, and the linden tree was altogether changed to simply “berries” – an 

aspect of many a non-specific plant. Again, in “Miele” (“Honey”), Molino 

inexplicably avoids an ‘easy’ equivalent. For “sciarra ignobile” he writes 

“muck and mayhem.” Nothing of the moist, organic nature of muck is 

found in “sciarra” (admittedly, an uncommon term, but one for which 

“mayhem” seemed appropriate enough). Yet, many of these examples can 

be understandable, for often as a translator works his craft, a new work 

emerges. There must have been something in the integral text that allowed 

for this insight in Molino’s interpretation/translation. What is less excus-

298 


able, however, is a complete misreading or misunderstanding of the text. 

In “Verso un concerto in Val d’Orcia” (“Concert-going, Orcia Valley”), 

we find such a case. Molino, perhaps in haste, translated “al tessere dei 

merli e delle bigie” as “In a weave of blackbirds and chariots.” He has 

mistaken barred warblers for chariots. No doubt the similarity of “bigie” 

(warblers, sylvia nisoria) to “bighe” (chariots) was heightened by the reference 

to “legendary battle” in the successive line. 

Weighed in the whole of the work, however, it will be up to a reader 

to decide if these are slight matters or heavy ones. But these examples 

which I have just cited are few and far between in the course of Molino’s 

work. His translations, overall, are more than adequate. In fact, as I have 

already noted, the fact that he even attempted to transcribe Mariani into 

English speaks volumes on his confidence and range in Italian. If one were 

to be dissuaded from reading Molino’s translations based on these few 

objective criticisms of some of the linguistic inconsistencies found within 

them, one would be missing an important voice in Italian poetry; a voice 

which reminds us that in every line we write, we are old and new, constantly 

re-evaluating the power of rhetoric. In this sense, Mariani reminds 

us to avoid surrendering to the codifications of language in his “Alphabets 

of Surrender”: “salvo un grave allarme che detta nuovi alfabeti della 

resa / e fa piangere a ognuno il suo poema” (“If not for the grave alarm 

that sounds new alphabets of surrender / And prompts each of us to cry 

the poem that is ours alone.”). 

GREGORY PELL 

Hofstra university 

Dante, Alighieri. Inferno. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, 

intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 2000. 

Dante, Alighieri. Purgatorio. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, 

intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 2003. 

Translation is a challenging and complex enterprise often resulting 

in failure. Even the most excellent effort, at best, accurately approximates 

the communicative power and beauty of the original. In an attempt to 

find the right balance between rhyme and tone, sense and syntax, too 

often the translator sacrifices one for the sake of the other. In the case of 

the “poema sacro”, Dante’s Commedia, the challenges and complexities 

are compounded by its intricate form, “terza rima” and polymorphic sense. 

Given the fact that so many will only know Dante in English, the 

choice of translation is most crucial. The decision of which translation to 

choose is further complicated by the fact that through the years, several 

fine translations have surfaced. John Sinclair’s (1939), Robert Durling’s 

(1996), and Charles Singleton’s (1970) prose versions are well-recognized 

standards. The list of verse translations is a longer one and includes those 

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1867), John Ciardi (1954), Robert


Pinskey (1994), Mark Musa (1995), Allen Mandelbaum (1980), Michael 

Palma, and the one presently under review, Robert Hollander and Jean 

Hollander’s, Inferno (2000), Purgatorio (2003). 

The collaborative effort of a renowned Dante scholar, Robert Hollander, 

and poet, Jean Hollander, this new verse translation with facingpage 

Italian text, is a crisp, clear, and graceful rendition of the first two 

canticles of Dante’s masterpiece. With an original intent to “clean up” 

John D. Sinclair’s prose translation of its archaism, the end result is a harmonious 

balance between sense and syntax, accuracy and poetry, a synthesis 

between scholarship and grace. Without pretense of replicating the 

Italian original, the Hollanders unveil Dante to the English speaking reader 

with the least amount of distortion possible, thus, their use of free verse. 

Remaining faithful both to the sense and feeling of the original, without 

compromising the naturalness of English syntax, the translation accomplishes 

the not so easy task of rendering the vitality, force and briskness of 

Dante’s idiom, while avoiding forced poetry, dismissing such expressions 

as, “the good master said.” A few examples from Inferno and Purgatorio 

will serve to convey the clarity and poetic beauty of this translation. 

Hollanders’ faultless and emphatic “wretchedness” (miseria) fully 

captures Francesca’s moral tragic pathos as she recalls happier times: 

“…There is no greater sorrow/than to recall our time of joy/ in wretchedness- 

and this your teacher knows.” (Inferno 5, 121-123). Compare 

Longfellow’s less pregnant “misery”, and archaic “thy Teacher”: “…There 

is no greater sorrow/Than to be mindful of the happy time/ In misery, 

and that thy Teacher knows”, and Ciardi’s feeble “pain” and more obscure 

“double grief” “The double grief of a lost bliss/ is to recall its happy 

hour in pain.” 

Farinata’s majestic pride in Inferno X is succinctly exposed with Hollanders’ 

choice of “utter scorn” (gran dispetto), “chest” (petto), “brow” 

(fronte), also depicting a clear image of the deliberate and composed movement 

of his rising torso, “was rising” for (s’ergea): “And he was rising, 

lifting chest and brow/ as though he held all Hell in utter scorn.” Here 

again, Longfellow resorts to a more antiquated “despite” “uprose”, and 

rhetorical “breast” “front.” Ciardi’s less weighty “disrespect” diminishes 

the sense, requiring him to add “great chest great brow” so as to convey 

the depth of Farinata’s pride, just as his less accurate “he rose” leads him 

to add “above the flame.” Other such examples are also found in Purgatorio. 

In Purgatorio XXX, 139-141, Hollander accurately renders the sense 

of the Italian text without sacrificing poetry. Beatrice’s depth of love and 

commitment are clearly conveyed as she recounts for the angels her descent 

to Limbo for the sake of Dante’s salvation: “And so I visited the 

threshold of the dead/ and, weeping, offered up my prayers to the one 

who has conducted him this far.” Compare the Italian, “Per questo visitai 

l’uscio d’i morti,/e a colui che l’ha qua su’ condotto,/ li preghi miei, 

piangendo, furon porti.” Conciseness and naturalness of sound are

300 


achieved with: “And so” “Per questo”, “threshold” “l’uscio”, and “to the 

one who has conducted him this far” “e a colui che l’ha qua su’ condotto.” 

For the same terzina, Singleton uses the less accurate “gate” and medieval 

“hither”, while Mandelbaum chooses “gateway”, and gives a rather unclear 

if not awkward rendition: “..to him who guided him above/my 

prayers were offered, even as I wept.” 

It is my hope that the above examples have sufficed to convince the prospective 

reader of the great merits of this translation. In addition to clarity, precision, 

and eloquence, it also offers an informative introduction, canto outlines, 

and in-depth notes, drawn from Robert Hollander’s many years of scholarship 

and teaching. The Hollanders’ translation is a true work of mastery, a gift of 

poetry offered in a spirit of grace to novices and professionals alike. 

We anxiously await the Hollanders’ translation of Paradiso-Robert 

Hollander is presently completing the commentary to the third canticle. 

FINA MODESTO 

Humanism and secularization from Petrarch to Valla, by Riccardo 

Fubini. Translated by Martha King. Durham: Duke University Press, 2003, 

pp. viii + 306. 

Riccardo Fubini, professor of Renaissance History at the University 

of Florence, has authored several fundamental studies on Italian Humanism. 

This volume, first published in Rome in 1990 and originally entitled 

Umanesimo e secolarizzazione da Petrarca a Valla, serves as a collection of 

essays on Italian Humanism, almost all of which had been previously 

published in journals and symposia proceedings between 1966 and 1987. 

Although composed of individual essays, this is, without doubt, a coherently 

argued book. Dedicated to writers of great stature such as Petrarca, 

Poggio Bracciolini, Lorenzo Valla, Flavio Biondo and Leonardo Bruni, this 

volume concentrates on a unique topic of research which Fubini defines 

as the following: “My primary aim is to identify an ideological movement 

that develops out of Petrarch’s work and that is given its most precise and 

structured configuration by the aforementioned authors of the first half of 

the fifteenth century” (p. 1). 

The movement analyzed by Fubini is not Humanism in its entirety, 

but, rather, only a part of it: “I have not intended to propose a paradigm 

of humanism in my discussion of the humanist movement from Petrarch 

to Valla; indeed quite the opposite. Existing simultaneously and in competition 

is a patristic humanism that finds its most authoritative voice in 

Ambrogio Traversari, as well as a genuine expression in the letters of 

Francesco Pizolpasso” (p. 7). In particular, Fubini is strongly interested in 

defining the intellectual movement that, in the first half of the fifteenth 

century proposed and defended a secular model of culture. The Italian


historian states very clearly that the secularization of culture defended by 

Bruni, Bracciolini and Valla must not be interpreted as a condemnation of 

religion, but rather as a criticism of the principle of authority dogmatically 

imposed by the Church and by its cultural institutions. According to 

Fubini, secularization consists both in a strong reaction, begun with 

Petrarch, against the late-medieval Aristotelism and in a criticism of the 

medieval Christian tradition and its rigid scholastic method: “Such insistence 

on Petrarch’s influence also requires the explanation of an important 

term in the title of this collection, that is, the concept of “secularization”. 

This term is not intended to denote any kind of an all-embracing 

Weltanschauung. Still less is it to be understood as the opposite of “religiousness,” 

even though in the sphere of secularized culture religious devotion 

seems weakened and at times even absent. This investigation is 

not concerned with religious sentiments (or even with those irreligious), 

but rather with indirect cultural aspects. The opposite of “secularization,” 

as it is defined here, would be “prescriptive,” to be understood in the 

sense of a culture that obeys canons established by the common agreement 

of ecclesiastical, ethical, and educational institutions” (pp. 2-3). 

In other words, Humanism and Secularization from Petrarch to Valla 

describes and documents the rise of “an avant-garde culture, establishing 

itself outside a definite institutional base, conscious of its separate existence 

and marked by the refusal of age-old scholastic and ecclesiastical 

traditions” (p. 44). Each of the five essays in the English version (which, as 

we will see, is different from the Italian edition) is devoted to a particular 

episode that represents a significant moment of discussion of the idea of 

authority. In the first chapter “Consciousness of the Latin Language among 

Humanists. Did the Romans Speak Latinî”, the debate between Leonardo 

Bruni and Flavio Biondo on the true nature of Latin spoken and written in 

ancient Rome shows that the humanists had a pragmatic idea of language 

that was opposed to the grammatical and rhetorical categorizations of the 

scholastic tradition. The second chapter (“Humanist Intentions and Patristic 

References. Some Thoughts on the Moral Writings of the Humanists”) is devoted 

to the innovative use of classical authors and of the Church Fathers’ 

writings shown in the works of Petrarch, Bruni, Bracciolini and Valla. 

Chapters Three and Four are on Poggio Bracciolini’s production (“Poggio 

Bracciolini and San Bernardino. The Themes and Motives of a Polemic”; “The 

Theater of the World in the Moral and Historical Thought of Poggio 

Bracciolini”). In the first essay, Fubini analyzes the individualism of Poggio 

and his polemic – witnessed in the dialogue De Avaritia – against the rigid 

morality of the Observant movement and, in particular, against the teaching 

of the Franciscan Observant preacher Bernardino da Siena. In the second 

essay, Fubini composes a complex and articulate portrait of Bracciolini 

and his literary and historical production, with special attention paid to 

the dialogue De variegata fortune. The last chapter “An Analysis of Lorenzo 

Valla” De Voluptate. His Sojourn in Pavia and the Composition of the Dia-

302 


logue”) describes the history of the composition of the famous De voluptate 

and its “ideological dissidence” (p. 172). 

In this volume, Fubini not only shows his encyclopedic knowledge, 

but he also distinguishes himself for the profound analysis of the complex 

cultural phenomenon that was Humanism, and provides us with an important 

lesson of critical methodology. 

The translation is very clear and precise despite the complexity of 

the original characterized by an evident preference for digressions as well 

as for long and articulated sentences. It is noteworthy that all the quotations 

have been translated into English (while instead, in the original edition, 

they remain in Latin). Thanks to this precious translation (enriched 

also by numerous bibliographical updates), Fubini’s fascinating and seminal 

work is now available for a broader public, and not restricted to Italian 

readers. Moreover, it is unfortunate that the English edition does not 

reproduce exactly the Italian volume in which there are several chapters 

and appendixes that have not been translated. For the sake of precision, 

the missing chapters are as follows: the section entitled “La coscienza del 

latino. Postscriptum”, in which Fubini wrote a fundamental discussion of 

Mirko Tavoni’s volume, Latino, grammatica, volgare. Storia di una questione, 

(1984); the chapter “Tra umanesimo e concili. L’epistolario di Francesco 

Pizolpasso” and the “Appendice” in which Fubini published important 

letters between the humanists Pier Candido Decembrio and Nicola di 

Acciapaccia; a very short “Appendice” to the aforementioned chapter “The 

Theater of the World in the Moral and Historical Thought of Poggio 

Bracciolini” in which an unpublished version of Poggio’s proem to the 

Istorie fiorentine is presented; lastly, the chapter “L’orazione di Poggio 

Bracciolini a Costanza sui vizi del clero (1917). Premessa e testo”. 

I hope that this book will be followed by translations of other essays 

published in Italy and yet still little known in America beyond a restricted 

group of specialists. I am not only thinking about the other fundamental 

volumes by Riccardo Fubini (Italia quattrocentesca. Politica e diplomazia 

nell’età di Lorenzo il Magnifico, Milano 1994; L’umanesimo italiano e i suoi 

storici. Origini rinascimentali-critica moderna, Milano 2001; Storiografia 

dell’Umanesimo in Italia da Leonardo Bruni ad Annio da Viterbo, Roma 2003), 

but am also referring to the groundbreaking studies of Italian scholars 

such as Mario Martelli (Angelo Poliziano. Storia e metastoria, Lecce, 1995 e 

Letteratua fiorentina del Quattrocento. Il filtro degli anni sessanta, Firenze, 1996), 

and Francesco Bausi (Machiavelli, Roma, 2005). 

ALESSANDRO POLCRI 

Fordham University 

1. During this period of time, Fubini also published the editions of Voltaire’s 

works (1964) and Poggio Bracciolini’s writings (1964-69). He also edited the first 

two volumes of the monumental edition of the epistolary of Lorenzo deí Medici 

(1977)..

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