Tag: Italian

SISIFO: di Luca Maria Antonini

non so più quello chepensa il mio pensiero, non capisco più cosa vuole pensare, se quello che il mio pensiero pensa sia giusto o sbagliato, o buono o cattivo o qualcos’altro, io non posso più controllare il mio pensiero, penso senza sapere pensare, il mio pensiero pensa quello che vuole e io non posso più pensare a quello cui voglio pensare, penso solo a quello cui pensa il mio pensiero, a quello che decidelui, e non decido quello cui il mio pensiero debba pensare ma il mio pensiero fa quello che vuole, non mi considera, non so più quello che pensa, o come pensa, o perché (perché il mio pensiero pensa senza che io possa pensare), il mio pensiero pensa a quello che vuole indipendentemente da me, e io non ho controllo sul mio pensiero, il mio pensiero mi sovrasta, è avanti, è laterale, trasversale, compiaciuto di se stesso, incontrollabile, e io non so se quello che pensa sia vero e sensato, perché pensa solo lui e perché il mio pensiero non è mio ma è il pensiero del mio pensiero, e io non penso il mio pensiero ma è il mio pensiero a pensare me, a osservarmi con sufficienza, dall’alto al basso, e il mio pensiero mi controlla e giudica mentre lavo l’insalata in bilico sul lavandino.

 

Ascoltare una lettura qui sotto, la musica è stata composta e arrangiata per Sisifo da Igor Sciavolino:

*     *     *     *     *

An English translation of this poem can be found below:

SISYPHUS

i don’t know what my thought thinks anymore, i don’t understand what it wants to think, if that which my thought thinks is right or wrong, or good or bad or something else, i can’t control my thought anymore, i think without knowing i think, my thought thinks what it wants and i can no longer think about what i want to think, i just think about what my thought thinks, about what it decides, and i don’t decide what my thought should think but my thought does what it wants, it has no regard for me, i no longer know what it thinks, or how it thinks, or why (because my thought thinks without me being able to think), my thought thinks about what it wants independent from me, and i have no control over my thought, my thought dominates me, it’s in front, it’s beside and through me, self satisfied, uncontrollable, and i don’t know if what it thinks is true and reasonable, because only it is thinking and because my thought is not my own but is the thought of my thought, and i don’t think my thought but it’s my thought which thinks me, observes me with condescension, up and down, and my thought keeps an eye on me and judges me while i wash the lettuce balanced on the sink.

(translation by Matthew Broussard)

Topografia nord / 1: di Luka Stojnic

La manica di questa giacca è lunga. Il braccio si protrae verso un ramo di ciliegio come per indicare un fiore rosa. Consumata ai polsi, la stoffa, scura, svela le due lancette di una delle quattro. Quante volte ti sei accorto delle quattro? L’attenzione per un fiore rosa alle ore quattro. Petali fibrillano nella brezza dell’aria: un soffio che nulla vuol cambiare. Il rimedio per una manica troppo lunga.

Topography North/ 1

The sleeve of this jacket is long. The arm extends towards a cherry branch as if to indicate a pink flower. Consumed at the cuffs, the fabric, dark, reveals the two hands of the one of the four. How many times have you noticed the four? Attention to a pink flower at four o’clock. Petals quiver in the breeze: a sigh that would nothing change. The antidote for a sleeve that’s too long.

If you would like to read more of Luka’s poetry on this blog, click HERE.

Sonnet on Descartes’ Vinyard / Sonetto sul Vigneto di Cartesio: by Bonnie McClellan

SONETTO SUL VIGNETO DI CARTESIO

Paesaggio trascrive in polvere il fantasma del tempo
Tratto manomesso; friabile, reticolo evidente.
Maledizione di Jahweh, o di Minerva fatidico dono
Nudo frutto d’Eden, nel lavoro ridefinito.
Asse cartesiana della mente ben ordita
Contro il caos verdeggiante; la ruota della ragione.
EGO SUM dell’uomo tirato in campo ardente
Morbida, intransigente linea infinita.

Cosa abbiamo perso in questo mondo ben composto,
Arato dalla nostra razza divisa e consapevole?
Beatitudine incolta, dura, senza nome;
Primo bacio selvaggio tra Adamo ed Eva d’ossa fine;
Frusciante betulla sbiancata, mai scritta;
Panno primale della lingua, tessuto ma ancora spiegato.

*****     *****     *****

SONNET ON DESCARTES’ VINEYARD

Landscape writes out in dust the ghost of time
Well-fingered tract; friable, forceful grid.
Yahweh’s curse or Minerva’s fateful gift
Naked fruit of Eden, in labour, redefined.
Cartesian axle of the ordered mind
Brought against verdant chaos, reason’s wheel.
Man’s own I AM scratched out in burning field
Soft, intransigent infinity of line.

What have we lost in this well-structured world
Ploughed out by our sentient, divided kind?
A hard, unnamed, uncultivated bliss;
Adam and fine-boned Eve’s first savage kiss;
Clattering, chalky aspen undescribed;
Primal cloth of language, woven, yet unfurled.

Click on the player below to listen to the podcast:


Per ascoltare allo podcast in italiano, premete qui sotto:

Lost At Sea: by Anna Mosca

*

I had the feeling

I had been lost at sea

just for a few weeks

.

if weeks count as

years having no sweet

food or drink just

.

overcoming the waves

withstand the wind patience

unfolded under the sun

.

one morning  – passing by

a mirror – not able to

recognize myself

.

*

ho avuto la sensazione

d’esser stata naufraga persa

nel mare qualche settimana

 .

se le settimane contano

come anni senza cibo

o acqua dolce solo

 .

le onde da superare

sopportando il vento la pazienza

spiegata sotto il sole

.

una mattina – passando

davanti a uno specchio –

incapace di riconoscermi

.

To listen to the poet’s reading of this poem in English click on the audio below:
 
You  can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clicking HERE.
Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna Mosca QUI.

“Mia piccola nonna, Maria”: di Giacomo Gusmeroli

La notte si ingrandiva spessa di neve alla Biurca de Gàvet, tutta luminosa di spilli di ghiaccio e di luna. Dal ponte arrivava una donna giovane vestita di pannolenci.

………………………………………………………………………………………

“Mia piccola nonna, Maria”

Quando ti ha chiuso gli occhi intorno
c’era solo suléugul
e il fumo di una piccola lucerna

pulizia e dignità come nel candore
dei muri di calcina e nel lenzuolo
di canapa e quanto c’è di unico

e di compiuto nell’essere.
…………………………….

Al funerale una foglia avvizzita si librò sul fiume e scomparve. Ogni cosa era avvolta dal freddo. Solo delle pecore erano sperse sulla stretta, flemme, andavano aldilà. Di ritorno, c’era odor di polenta, patate e biancheria lavata. Mangiammo con fame quel che il nonno ci metteva davanti.

suléugul, un mesto senso di abbandono (dial.).

.

Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, incluso il suo ultimo libro LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO

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An English translation of this poem can be found below:

The night expanded thick with snow at Biurca de Gàvet, all bright pins of ice and moon. A young woman dressed in thin felt came from the bridge.
……………………………………………………………………………

“My little grandmother, Maria”

When you’d closed your eyes around
there was only forlornness
and the smoke of a small oil lamp

cleanliness and dignity as in the white
of the lime-washed walls and in the hempen
sheets and how much there is of the inimitable

and of completeness in being.
……………………………

At the funeral a withered leaf drifted on the river’s surface and disappeared. Everything was enveloped by the cold. Only the sheep were scattered along the narrow way, phlegmatically, they moved along. Returning, there was the smell of polenta, potatoes and freshly-washed laundry. We ate with hunger what Grandfather set before us.

(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.

senza titolo: by Giacomo Gusmeroli

Mai e poi mai dimenticalo – ribadì- quel bene affidato, quel
sentir giusto. Ricordali quei nomi scalpellati
sulle nostre soglie di pietra – le date di nascita e le
……..impronte,
e insieme i canti, quel libro, quell’eco, la conca, le lune;

iöiumé!, e di pre-sera quando il nonno, guadagnato il pane,
tira via dai piedi i calzerotti, mette a posto gli arnesi
………a piano a piano
nel sua rastrelliera; poi, alla fontana, si lava
i piedi, il collo, le mani temprate e i capelli ricciuti.

E, benevolo e straniato, beve a sazietà , portandosi
alla bocca la ciotola di legno – opera delle sue
………opere
povere, fragili, e utili; – beve a testa alta,
più distinto degli altri, il nonno statuario,
il nonno vacillante.

.

Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, incluso il suo ultimo libro LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO

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An English translation of this poem can be found below:

Never and then never to be forgotten – resounded – that entrusted good, that
feeling of rightness. Remember them, those names chiseled
on our stone thresholds – the dates of birth and the
imprints,…….
and together the songs, that book, that echo, the basin, the moons;

iöiumé!, and in early evening grandfather, having earned his daily bread,
pulls heavy socks from his feet, puts his tools in their place
row by row…….
in the rack; then, at the pump, he washes
his feet, his neck, his tempered hands and curly hair.

And, benevolent and apart, drinks his fill, carrying
to his mouth the wooden bowl – work of his
working…….
poor, fragile, and useful; – head high he drinks,
more distinct than the others, the statuary grandfather,
the vacillating grandfather.

.

(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.

One More Soundless Day: by Anna Mosca

*

wishing for one more

soundless day

.

swimming quietly

at the bottom of

a sea of written words

.

squealing and chirping

if any outside

.

the time held

between night

.

and day between

sleep and awakening

.

*

desidero un altro

giorno silenzioso

 .

per nuotare tranquilla

sul fondale di un mare

di parole scritte

 .

stridii e cinguettii

– ve ne fossero – fuori

.

il tempo sospeso

tra la notte

.

e il giorno tra

il sonno e la veglia

.

To listen to the poet’s reading of this poem in English click on the audio below: 
You  can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clicking HERE.
Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna Mosca QUI.

La grande scelta: di Giacomo Gusmeroli

                     per te Daniela

La grande scelta

 

Capii che era lei quando era là al castagno; capii non per

le All Star alte, l’orecchino, – no; cose

……..diverse:

l’inciampo sul ciottolo, la lena, la falcata del passo.

……..Trattenuto,

il corpo accucciato alla roccia, cercavo un nascondiglio,

una sporgenza, ancora del tempo, prima di farmi vedere,

prima di chiamarla. Per me, lei, aveva atteso quel tempo,

quel tempo di travaglio e di incertezza, per me contemplativo

senza più averi e dalle scelte confuse. Mi appoggiai zitto a

……..piè del muro,

scrutai intento lo scorcio di torrente, come

……..scrutassi

la mia stessa vita. E “ciao” udii,

sentendo caldo, vicino il suo respiro. Sul cucuzzolo, il

……..monastero,

dava l’ombra di campane sulla cinta; e in un attimo,

l’attimo di uno sfioro, là diventò lontano e riannodato al passato.

.

Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, incluso il suo ultimo libro LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO

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An English translation of this poem can be found below:

for you Daniela.………………………….……………………………….

The choice

I knew it was her when she was there at the chestnut tree; I knew
not by the All-Stars, the earring, – no; by other
things:……..
the stumbling over a stone, the vigorous, coltish stride.
Reined in,……..
body curved against the rock, searching for a hiding place,
a recess, a bit more time, before showing myself,
before calling to her. For me, she, had waited that time,
that time of anguish and uncertainty, for me contemplative
without possessions and confused by choices. I leant silent
at the wall’s base,……..
scrutinizing intently the glimpse of the torrent, as if
I were scrutinizing……..
my own life. And I heard “hey”
feeling warm and close, her breath. At the summit
the monastery,……..
cast the belltower’s shadow on the barrier; and in an instant,
the instant of glancing touch, there I became far, tied again to the past.

(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.

Compare Love To Water: by Anna Mosca

The English version of this poem has disappeared, listen to the author’s reading below or enjoy reading it in Italian:

*

confronta l’amore

con l’acqua

 .

nelle sue tante

manifestazioni

.

solido e fluido

nebuloso e etereo

.

che sale e poi scende

senza mai smettere

.

d’esistere sempre

.

presente in una maniera

o nell’altra

Listen to the poem by clicking on the audio player below:
You  can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clicking HERE.
Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna Mosca QUI.

Calabrian Chronicles: The Ovile of Mimmo and Peppe – Part Two

If you haven’t read “The Ovile of Memo and Pepe: Part One” (click here).

Memo and Pepe at the Ovile
Peppe and Mimmo

Inside, the room was clean and sparse. A bucket of water just inside the door held the meter-and-a-half-long wooden stick with which they stirred the cheese. The cheese was boiling in a black iron cauldron, with a mouth a meter wide, that hung over a wood fire burning so hot and clean that I do not recall even a breath of smoke in the tiny room. Some sausages hung from the rafters; on a table catty-corner from the fire a wood plank table held up two bottles of wine and several packs of cigarettes. In the far corner, opposite the fire, Mimmo and Peppe were busy at a shallow-sided, waist-high stone sink, squeezing whey from the cheese through plastic sieves. They looked up from their work, smiling, verbally poking at Matthew for having taken so long to bring his family down to the ovile, saying hello to me and saving all of the best sweet talk for Robin.

Now I’m going to cheat, this is a blog and not a novel so I can show you a picture of Mimmo and Peppe that I’ve posted above and ask you to look at their hands. They are amazing hands, impressively large and smooth, these hands make almost anything they hold look small. I’m also going to break another writer’s rule and slip into something more comfortable, the present tense:

They offer us some curds of the cheese they’re cooking; it tastes like fresh farmers cheese, bright and dry. Mimmo explains that this is the first cooking and that they will cook it again, making it into creamy, rich ricotta (literally: re-cotta/re-cooked). In the meantime they are busily pressing and compressing the cheese, the whey runs down the slanted work surface and into the drain feeding the rivulet of whey specked with curd that we encountered on the way in. Matthew pops another bit of crumbly bright cheese in my mouth and I understand why the dog outside is so happy to lap up the remnants.

Robin is squirming and agitated by the fire, the dark room and the two robust men with hands bigger than her head. She says alternately, “want to go OUTside.” and “want to see BABY goats!” She wants nothing to do with the fresh cheese. She’s squiggled down out of my arms and hoisted up onto her papa’s shoulders. Matthew asks for permission to go through the door next to where Mimmo and Peppe are working; this is the door that leads to the enclosed concrete part of the ovile where all the goats, too young to go out to pasture, are kept.

Inside the Ovile
Inside the Ovile

Ducking through the door we see goats of all ages from ones that look grown to ones that are barely standing, only 24 hours old. Amongst the goats is a lone lamb with his tight white wool looking tidy in comparison to the splendor of speckles, spots and stripes that embellish the surrounding swirl of goats. Their legs and bellies thick with damp feces, the baby goats are still enchanting. Robin shimmies down from her father’s shoulders and her sneakers smack on the wet cement. The baby goats resist her attempts to pat them by dancing away on their delicate hooves in a wave, like startled ballerinas on point. We explain that they’re nervous, that she needs to walk slowly so she can get a little closer. She won’t get her hands on one this time but she’s happily talking to and about them, informing the world in general about which ones are what colors, and which ones are sleeping, or jumping. Then, like any toddler, her attention span is used up and she wants to go.

We come back into the cheese making room where Mimmo and Peppe have started the second cooking. Our shoes, everyone’s shoes, are slimed with goat shit so I am relieved to see that Mimmo meticulously rinses his hands and keeps the cheese stirring stick always up or resting in the bucket of clean water. Robin cannot be tempted to try the cheese and now wants to go outside, see pigs, see pretty, sad puppy. As we walk back down the path towards the pig pens Mimmo and Peppe’s brother, Gianni, is coming up the path with another man, he sees Robin and scoops her up on to his hip, like a veteran papa, and chucks her startled cheek with his broad knuckle and tells her what a lovely girl she is.

Robin balks at being picked up by Gianni but she doesn’t cry she just wriggles and chants her latest mantra, “mama gon pick you up!” Gianni gets the message and puts her down. He, the stranger and Matthew all walk back up to the cheese room and Matthew returns with a small, plastic basket full of hot and creamy fresh ricotta. He spoons bites into my mouth at happy intervals as we walk up and back down the path. Robin is balanced on my hip and we alternately shoot the breeze and point out things to her, rocks in the cliff face, flowers by the side of the road. The ricotta is magnificent.

To be continued (Click here for part three)

If you’re curious to see when Robin finally got her hands on the baby goats, click here: Robin of the goats