Category: Poetry and Translation

Calabrian Chronicles: Caulonia, and so we begin…

The drive in to Caulonia
The drive in to Caulonia

It’s still incredibly beautiful here. I forgot. In the spaces between the rains the sky runs and falls; gathers itself and plunges again towards the sea. Cumulonimbus titans strike their shins on the horizon line as they stumble through the Mediterranean, dead drunk and anxious to reach Ithaca. This is a place where mothers still name their sons Ulysses.

Caulonia under stomy skies.
Caulonia superiore under stomy skies.

The houses are like barnacles on a rock; roof tiles buried in lichen and slathered with concrete where they meet at the crown in an uneasy sea-sick ridge. Below the rust-eaten white iron boundary of the balcony-rail I can see two flaps of a prickly pear struggling out from between two heavy arcs of terracotta.

Morning light on the Ionian Sea
Morning light on the Ionian Sea from Piazza Belvedere

The edge of the sky at dawn over the water is like Montale’s description, a singing strip of metal lath, a kite string straining against the rebounding vault of blue. His was the western sea, the Ligurian coast, a sunset light. Here the Ionian dawn makes eastern music…Jove’s mute mistress writes her name in the sand with a round hoof…IO.

Gioiosa Ionica
Gioiosa Ionica
Looking up at Caulonia from the East.
Looking up at Caulonia Superiore from the East.

New Translation: Eugenio Montale’s “Corno Inglese”

Eugenio Montale

English Horn

The wind this evening attentively plays
-bringing to mind the ringing metallic
slip of a blade-
the instrument of thick trees and open
copper horizon
where the lath of light yanks itself straight
like kites to the sky rebounding

(Traveling clouds, pale realms
of above! Of the high Eldoradeans
ill-closed door!)

and the sea that flake by flake
of mute, livid colours
thrusts at the ground a blast
of twisted foam;
the wind that births and dies
within the slowly darkening hour
may also be singing to you this evening,
disused instrument,
heart.

Corno Inglese

Il vento che stasera suona attento
-ricorda un forte scuotere di lame-
gli strumenti di fitti alberi e spazza
l’orizzonte di rame
dove strisce di luce si protendono
come aquiloni al cielo che rimbomba

(Nuovole in viaggio, chiari
reami di lassu! D’alti Eldoradi
malchiuse porte!)

e il mare che scaglia a scaglia
livido, muta colore
lancia a terra una tromba
di schiume intorte;
il vento che nasce e muore
nell’ora che lenta s’annera
suonasse te pure stasera
scordato strumento,
cuore.

International Poetry Month Submission

In celebration of International Poetry Month, the following poem was submitted by:

Georgianna Krieger

There are small pieces of joy which flutter
through your fingers and
drift about your eyelashes
like windborn cinders, still warm
from the blaze they were born in
yet unable to ignite
even the smallest whisper of a flame

And you forget they are there
because the blizzard is pelting your cheeks,
the wind burns your eyes
your fingers are numb and stinging from the cold
at the same time
even though this cannot be

So, you have forgotten joy,
but the small particles (little bastards)
follow you
just the same

poem copyright 2009 Georgianna Krieger (all rights reserved to the author)

Estate al Mare Liguriana

Le cose grandi, la vista larga, sono generiche. La costa mediterranea c’è piena di lavanda e gli altri arbusti, essiccati sotto il sole d’estate, che emanano il profumo di curry e timo. L’occhio e la bocca prèndono il sapore di qualcosa stringata ed ocra nel mezzo di questa verde bruciata. Che lascia un sapore metallico sulla punta della lingua, nel bacino della retina, nichel-cadmio, un centesimo leccato.

C’è anche il mare stesso che diffonde tutto. I piccoli sassi stanno nel fondale marino mormorando: “Zita…zita…zita…” alle onde felici e turbolente. Le onde si occupano di ridisegnare il litorale; scavano sempre più sassi per consigliare il silenzio.  Alla riva, qualche sassi hanno preso il colore del rame ossidato che emerge dal caos generale di grigio striato con bianco.

Le cose chi sono particolare sono contemporaneamente universale dai terrazzi delle apertamente in affitto per l’estate: la banalità di bougainvillea e cedro; il cemento e le piastrelle; la tavola bianca, il parasole della spiega, le sedie pieghevole; i zaini stipato di teli da mare. A terra, tra i formici, sono briccole e i giocattoli di plastica. Sopra la tavola è l’ombrellone e l’ombra della farfalla circumvolante la su.

Dove è qui, esattamente? FRAMURA, frazione ANZO sopra COSTA e la stazione ferroviaria. Le sedie pieghevoli sono i tipi vecchi, fatto in legna con i meccanismi in metallo un po’ arrugginito. Una volta sono stati verniciati di bianco ma, forse l’anno scorso, qualcuno ha riverniciato un colore che il colorificio potrebbe chiamare  “Cotê d’Azure”. L’ombrellone sopra la tavola è coperto in una tela rossa-ciliegia distesa sul sei stecche di legno. Un fruttuoso ramo di cedro ha invaso il spazio sotto il bordo dal ombrellone più lontano da me. Tutti i faci degli fogli chi stanno guardando sopra prendano la luce riflessa e fanno la sfumatura cromatica: rosso-rossiccio-marone-nero. Il contrasto tra il verde sotto e la superficie rossoscuro degli fogli fa ogni margine di transizione nitido come una lettera d’araba incisa in argento.

Google Translator vs. The poet.

Obviously translating into one’s mother tongue is easier (and hopefully more accurate) than translating into a language that you’ve studied in adulthood. My daughter will be truly bi-lingual, growing up with the two languages simultaneously. I will never be, even learning Italian from the ground up with the aid of her children’s books. But I have to ask, what’s a ‘serious’ translation? Signs, labels, menus, operating instructions for military equipment, legal documents? One you’re getting paid for?

Poetry is pretty serious business language wise; a distillation of the heart of a language that stretches sense and usage to its limits, layers multiple meanings, half-meanings, wry jokes, and rhythms into the briefest possible space sometimes into a single word. For this reason poetry is almost untranslatable; a poetic translation of the work is often a re-composing in a different language that strives to maintain the tone of the original, a literal translation can easily miss the nuances of individual words (see Robert Pinsky’s translation of ‘The Divine Comedy’ vs. the classic scholastic text of Mandlebaum). Translating instructions, menus, and traffic signs is comparatively straightforward (it is perhaps because of this that overconfidence or laziness causes so many charming and laughable errors).

The wonderful thing about translating is that it opens a door between two cultures. Grazie to all those who studied Russian so that I could read “The Idiot”  and “Crime and Punishment”. Despite the challenges, as a poet and a translator I take the work seriously and have had wonderful moments when my American friends read (and are interested in and excited by) the work of an Italian (or French) poet they might never have  otherwise encountered and when my Italian friends start asking me who William Carlos Williams is.

I do have to extend my sympathy to Google Translate, at least they offer (along with the unintended comedy) the option of suggesting a better translation.
My desktop widget translator is worse. If I translate from English to Italian “I’m a big fan of Mike!” (even with the proper name capitalized) it becomes: “Sono un ventilatore grande del microfono!” I have now become a large exhaust fan for a microphone…pazienza

Translations

Eugenio Montale

“Siria”

“Dicevano gli antichi che la poesia / è scala a Dio. Forse non è così /se mi leggi. Ma il giorno io lo seppi /che ritrovai per te la voce, sciolto / in un gregge di nuvoli e di capre / dirompenti da un greppe a brucar bave / di pruno e di falasco, e i volti scarni / della luna e del sole si fondevano, / il motore era guasto ed una freccia / di sangue su un macigno segnalava / la via di Aleppo. “

“Syria”

“The ancients always said that poetry / is a stairway to God. Perhaps this is not so / if you read mine. But the day I knew it / was the day I found my voice again for you, let loose / in a flock of clouds and goats / broken free from their corral to nibble at the foam / of blackthorn and marshgrass, the lean faces / of the moon and sun confounded, / the car broke down and an arrow / of blood on sandstone indicated / the road to Aleppo.

William Carlos Williams

“This Is Just To Say”

“I have eaten / the plums / that were in / the icebox / and which / you were probably / saving / for breakfast / Forgive me / they were delicious / so sweet / and so cold

“Questo È Solo Per Dire”

“Ho mangiato / le prugne / che c’erano / nel frigo / e che immagino / stessi tenèndo da parte / per colazione / Mi perdoni / erano delizosi / così dolce / e così fresche”

Living in Italy as a full-time mother after a lifetime in Dallas, Texas as a professional textile designer is an exercise in learning to be flexible. One of my biggest challenges is maintaining my English vocabulary while trying to discover the nuances of my new language. One of the most enjoyable ways I’ve found is to work at translating poems from their original English or Italian into the reciprocal language. It teaches me new things about both English and Italian. Here are some of the most recent pieces I’ve been working on, I hope that you enjoy them.

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