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

*     *     *     *     *

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.

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

*     *     *     *     *

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.

Sight lowering from “California Notebooks”: by Anna Mosca

These poems have disappeared from the website, find them again HERE.

You  can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clicking HERE.
Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna Mosca QUI.

Cosa può un attimo: di Giacomo Gusmeroli

Cosa può un attimo

(a Gervasio, Daniele, Dario, Giacomo, Giuliano)

Quel giorno e in quel giorno
soltanto avrei voluto volare. Da bambino.
Nel vuoto di uno strapiombo sotto

le fontane al Vàak dél Valgél*.
Durò un baleno. La seduzione della libertà
con un piccolo slancio del corpo,

l’invito nel vortice della voragine
ampia e sconcertante, e quel senso
angosciato di cosa può un attimo. E poi

come rientrato immaginai la vita
dentro un vento che trascina
via per spazi nuovi, e nel suo meglio

la terra depose sui miei nudi piedi

una goccia di ruscello

a tramontana.

Vàak: luogo esposto a tramontana
Valgél: ruscello che si forma in un leggero avvallamento
durante le piogge abbondanti

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

*     *     *     *     *

An English translation of this poem can be found below:

What could in an instant

(to Gervasio, Daniele, Dario, Giacomo, Giuliano)………………………………..

That day and in that day
only, I wanted to fly. As a child.
Into the blank void of a descent [below]

below the fountains at Vàak dél Valgél*.
It lasted a heartbeat. the seduction of freedom
with the slightest surge of the body,

the invitation into the wide, bewildering
vortex of the ravine, and that agonized
sense of what could in an instant. Then

reentering, imagining life
within the wind pulling away
into new spaces, and at it’s best

the earth laid upon my bare feet

a drop from the stream

of the north wind.

Vàak: an area exposed to the north wind
Valgél: a  creek that forms in a  slight depression
during heavy rains

(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

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

Verlaine in Translation: Shifting frames

 
Le paysage dans le cadre des portières

Court furieusement, et des plaines entières

Avec de l’eau, des blés, des arbres et du ciel

Vont s’engouffrant parmi le tourbillon cruel

Où tombent les poteaux minces du télégraphe

Dont les fils ont l’allure étrange d’un paraphe.


 
Une odeur de charbon qui brûle et d’eau qui bout,

Tout le bruit que feraient mille chaînes au bout

Desquelles hurleraient mille géants qu’on fouette ;

Et tout à coup des cris prolongés de chouette.

– Que me fait tout cela, puisque j’ai dans les yeux

La blanche vision qui fait mon coeur joyeux,

Puisque la douce voix pour moi murmure encore,

Puisque le Nom si beau, si noble et si sonore

Se mêle, pur pivot de tout ce tournoiement,

Au rythme du wagon brutal, suavement.

– Paul Verlaine 1870

The landscape by the car’s door framed
Runs furiously, and entire plains
of water, of wheat, of trees and sky
are swallowed amidst conflicting tides
where in falling, slender poles and telegraph’s
alluring wires, write a strange paraph.
 
Smell of charcoal burning and boiling water,
Every noise of a thousand chains lashed round
A thousand giants screaming, bound;
Then in a blow, the owl’s prolonged laments.
– What is all this to me, since my eyes hold
White vision that my heart joyful renders
Since for me that voice still murmurs tender,
Since that Name lovely, sonorous, noble
Blends – purest hub round which all spins –
Sweetly, with the railcar’s brutal din.
 
-Translated by Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 2013

Calabrian Chronicles: Translations of poetry by Lucia d’Amato

I found these poems by chance in a book amongst a pile of books and papers on a side table in an efficency apartment loaned to us in Caulonia (RC). I had never heard of Lucia d’Amato and, unfortunately, I don’t think you will find her book “Sostenere il sogno” anywhere other than this table, next to its clot of dusty papers. These few poems express the dense and lovely reflections of what I saw everyday that late winter and early spring in Caulonia Superiore.
casa a piazza della carmine caulonia

CALDI PASSATEMPI

Caldi passatempi nell'aria,
E un vago color mattone
nel cuore,
parla di case abitate.
Un sonno silenzioso.
L'inverno passa.

WARM PASSTIMES

Warm passtimes in the air
and a vague brick colour
in the heart,
speaks of inhabited habitations.
A silent sleep.
Wintertime passes.

view towards the sea from caulonia superioreLE PRIME ORE D’UN POMERIGGIO

Le prime ore
d'un pomeriggio brullo,
color di terra, di sabbia, e d'oro,
e la solennità
dei gochi più sereni
del tempo.
Dall'autunno al'inverno
andando verso l'estate,
come un grosso pacco
la campagna si svolge.
Un gregge sta,
come una nevicata sporca
Da un rotolio di nuvole
sguscia il sole.

THE FIRST HOURS OF AN AFTERNOON

The first hours
of a bare afternoon,
Colour of earth, of sand,
and of gold,
and the solomnity
of weather's more serene games.
From Autumn to Winter
now tending towards summer,
the countryside unwraps herself
like a fat package.
A flock stands
like dirty snow fallen
from a roll of clouds
that just slip-shelled the sun.
nota bene: Original poems in Italian by Calabrian poet Lucia D’Amato as published in “Sostenere il Sogno”. Translations in English copyright 2009 Bonnie M. McClellan.

Labyrinthe Vegetal: by Gilles-Marie Chenot

Vous pouvez lire ce poésie en français ICI.  Écoutez une lecture ci-dessous.

The written version of this poem is available in French at the above link. An audio version of the English translation is available below:

To read more work by GMC, click HERE.

To find other poems by GMC on this blog click HERE.

Cultural Atlas of a Displaced Life: El Pescador / Fingerprint:Ring

Cultural Atlas of a Displaced Life: Il Pescador / Fingerprint:Ring
El Pescador/Fingerprint: Ring – a multimedia collage from “Cultural Atlas of a Displaced Life: Embroidered Errors.”

This will make more sense if you take a look at the previous pages of the Cultural Atlas of a Displaced Life: Embellished Errors

The title El Pescador is from the Mexican lotteria card (that somehow emigrated from Texas to Italy tucked between the pages of a book) included in the mixed media collage on the left hand page. Behind it is another hand print in marble dust on tissue painted round with lampblack. The hand print reaches towards a neon-pink sticker with my mother’s handwriting, towards an unreachable past from a composite future represented by El Pescador – the fisherman – who must always be anchored within in order not to be lost. Ironically, although the image is taken from my Texas cultural roots, the landscape on the card looks surprisingly like that of Lago Maggiore with the Alps in the background, a landscape I’ve addressed in two poems: Monte Rosa or the Picturesque and the Sublime, and Lombard Spring / Rondeau á Lago Maggiore.

The left hand page is connected to the right by a coat of white paint that covers (on the center left) an image of a person who has just opened a box (Pandora’s?), and is holding instructions for what to do with the contents but looks doubtful – again from IKEA. Living in a different cultural context with a different language and only the cultural map from my ‘mother-culture’ to navigate by was a bewildering sensation that I explored in Testimonio.

I found myself searching for constants, strangely comforted by being near the Mediterranean sea whose waters – in some slow, circumnavigation through white clouds and shifting currents – must have once broken on the sands of the Gulf of Mexico. Fingerprint:Ring expresses that unity through another universal language: hardware (no, not the computer kind). A pencil drawing of a hose clamp, comfortingly the same in any country, neither metric nor standard, adjustable with a flat-head screwdriver, a slender coin, or the tip of a butter knife. At the top left of the page, my pale, smeary fingerprint, an intentional error, both unique and universal.

ECHOGRAPHIE EN ROBE D’ECRITURE: by Gilles-Marie Chenot

Vous pouvez lire ce poésie en français ICI. Écoutez une lecture ci-dessous.

The written version of this poem is available in French at the above link. An audio version of the English translation is available below:

To read more work by GMC in French and English, click HERE.

To find GMC on this blog click HERE.

The Store (For Matthew): by Bonnie Broussard

The written version of this poem has disappeared. Find a reading and a link to other work by this poet below:

To listen to a reading of this poem, click on the player:

To read or hear more work by Bonnie McClellan-Broussard, click HERE

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