He wrote commentaries on books of the Old Testament in Hebrew, as well as a compendium of Hebrew poetry entitled Mahbarot Collection. His lyric production in Italian con- sists of four sonnets and a frottola. He died in E mio compar tradimento stia forte: Love does things that cause me great suffering.
But in Rome I am a Colonnese or Ursino: And in Tuscany, the Guelphs should rejoice! For Chelsea Editions, he has recently translated major selections of the poetry and prose poetry of Pierre-Albert Jourdan and Philippe Jaccottet. Normally a translator of contemporary French writing, Taylor has become interested in Lorenzo Calogero and is currently translating much of his poetry. Lorenzo Calogero has long remained a major overlooked igure in Italian poetry.
However, another period of relative neglect set in. Today, Calogero has returned fully to the fore. An informa- tive website www. New editions have appeared, notably Poco Suono ; Nuove Edizioni Barbaro, and especially Parole del tempo ; edited by Mario Sechi, Donzelli, , the latter comprising 25 Poesie as well.
The poems published in this issue have been chosen from these volumes or from the previ- ously unpublished writings collected on the website. Yet because herms are divided into equal parts your irm thoughts no longer rescue you above your lowers in the same laring now-sparkling [aridity and you notice you are more alone. Miserly in your thoughts, the same arid substance gets you stuck for your pleasure alone. Faraway and donned with things already appear all the roses.
Se bianco udivi Se bianco udivi ora vedi. Misteriosamente due a due caddero come si volsero bruni volti i soli. Lambiva la tua vita incerta una veste inutilmente, una cara gioia nel folto nuda voce uno scoglio. Verdi iridi vende in un sofio una nube a primavera su una tempesta subitamente rapida partendo. Erano i rigori chiusi del ruscello un caro coro di segni schiusi per sempre, un tenue casto canto di pioppi sui poggi del fringuello. They responded with a dewy slowness of love so I lay down on their parched jagged peaks as on a woods made of wind. A son of the ocean was born to me.
If Whiteness You Heard If whiteness you heard now you see. And manly as clear water lowing down, down into the depths of oneself gets torn apart I hide myself from you. Some clothes barely touched your uncertain life uselessly, a dear joy in the thicket naked voice a boulder. Green irises sell off in a whiff a cloud to the spring and away it goes on a quick sudden storm.
The rigors shutting off the creek were a dear chorus of ever-open everlasting signs, a chaste slender song of poplars on the leeside of the chafinch. Subito mi piega, linea timida, un tuo bacio. A new thing was giving back to the full moon I hide silence, branched-out, deeply entangled, and, from branch to branch, the leaves in my hands, a pale cheek or an already faint eyelid on the shyly fading ingertips.
I thus learn facing a waning bent-down light the waning silence of life. A Distich is Hardly Exfoliated A distich is hardly exfoliated and then the swollen arborescences or something else: In the morning I had gone far from your restful fragile eyes toward the top of a fantastic city and the sway of the pines in the murky wind becomes mild, it was a scruple a lemur or the square space. Io sapevo i nastri sognanti e un silenzio glabro. Ma un turbine scuote e tu a ritroso lentamente vedevi. A strange living stillness among the white pebbles.
A memory of another life could burn down and out. I knew the dreaming ribbons and a glabrous silence. But a whirlwind shakes things up and you, turning back, slowly saw. Oodgeroo wrote poems, short stories, essays, and children literature. What does matter in her work is the message, while any aesthetic pleasure we derive from her writing is of secondary importance. The deliberate rejection of aes- thetic concerns, according to Mudrooroo, is intended to produce a sense of alienation.
The Italian scholar and translator Lorenzo Perrona, including Oodgeroo amongst the most inluential Australian intellectuals of the past century, suggests that her work refers to the vast heritage of Aboriginal culture as to something lost, cancelled - something to save as a treasure for the present and for the future.
Stradbroke Stradbroke, an island that was once stocked with natural beauty: Years ago, my family — my Aboriginal family — lived on Stradbroke Island. Years before the greedy mineral seekers came to scar the landscape and break the back of this lovely island. I recall how we used to make the trip to Point Lookout.
Dogs without sex:
My father would saddle our horse at early light and we would make our way along the shoreline, then cut inland to climb over the hills covered with lowering pines, wattles and gums. The brumbies would watch our approach from a safe distance. These wild horses never trusted man, their foe. They would nuzzle their foals, warning them to stay away from their enemy. The shells washed up by the sea delighted us. Sometimes, too, we found strange, small-scale outrigger craft. Father told us that some of our neighbours to the north of Australia prayed to their god to bless their ishing leet, and tossed these model ships into the sea to appease the waves.
There was one sight we loved about all others. When we ar- rived at Point Lookout, we would tether our horses out of sight, then take up position behind the small sandhills that dotted the shore. We would lie full-length upon our stomachs and silently wait for the beautiful nautilus shells to come out of the sea.
They looked like little ships in full sail. We feasted our eyes upon the sight, knowing it would not last long, for at the least sound these shy creatures would immediately draw in their satin sails and drop like stones to the safety of the sea bottom. The island is different now. Motor-cars belch fumes over the land, and the noise of industry drowns out all the other sounds of life. Anni fa, la mia famiglia - la mia famiglia aborigena - abitava a Stradbroke Island. Anni prima che gli avidi cercatori di minerali giungessero a ferire il paesaggio e spezzare la schiena di questa bella isola.
Ricordo che facevamo sempre una a gita a Point Lookout. I cavalli selvatici ci osservavano avvicinarci da una distanza di sicurezza. Stroinando il muso contro i puledri, li ammonivano di stare alla larga dal nemico. Le conchiglie lavate dal mare erano la nostra passione.
A volte, inoltre, trovavamo una strana canoa di piccole dimensioni. Arrivati a Point Lookout, legavamo i cavalli in modo che non si vedessero, poi ci appostavamo dietro alle dune di sabbia che punteggiavano la riva. Assomigliavano a piccoli vascelli con le vele spiegate. Le conchiglie a imbuto spiegavano alla brezza una vela color malva, che catturava i raggi del sole e riluceva come raso. The birds and animals are going.
The trees and lowers are being pushed aside and left to die. Tourists come to soak up the sunshine and bathe in the blue Paciic, scattering as they go their discarded cans and cigarette packs and bottles and even the hulks of cars. Greedy, thoughtless, stupid, ignorant man continues the as- sault on nature. But he too will suffer. His ruthless bulldozers are digging his own grave. Kill to eat My father worked for the Government, as a ganger of an Ab- original workforce which helped to build roads, load and unload the supply ships, and carry out all the menial tasks around the island.
For this work he received a small wage and rations to feed his seven children. I was the third-eldest daughter. Of course, we never depended upon the rations to keep our- selves alive. We each had our own sling-shots to bring down the blueys and greenies — the parrots and lorikeets that haunted the lowering gums.
And he showed us how to make bandicoot traps: Bandicoots cannot resist burnt toast. We would set our traps at dusk, and always next day there was a trapped bandicoot to take proudly home for Mother to roast. Dad also showed us how to latten a square piece of tin and sharpen it. This was very valuable for slicing through the shallow waters; many a mullet met its doom from the accurate aim of one of my brothers wielding the sharpened tin. Dad made long iron crab hooks, too, and we each had a hand ishing-line of our own. One rule he told us we must strictly obey.
When we went hunting, we must understand that our weapons were to be used onlt for the gathering of food. We must never use them for the sake of killing. This is in fact one of the strictest laws of the Aborigine, and no excuse is accepted for abusing it. Uccelli e animali stanno scompar- endo. Alberi e iori sono messi da parte e lasciati morire. I turisti vengono a crogiolarsi al sole e a fare il bagno nel Paciico azzurro, e quando se ne vanno sparpagliano i loro riiuti: I suoi spietati bulldozer gli stanno scavando la fossa.
Io ero la terzogenita. Solitamente erano composte di carne, riso, sago, tapioca e, in occasioni speciali, come il Com- pleanno della Regina, un dolce alle prugne. Naturalmente, per mantenerci in vita non contavamo mai sulle razioni. Lui ci mostrava come costruire le trappole per i ratti: I topi giganti non sanno resistere al pane.
Una sola regola ci disse di osservare alla lettera. Quando an- davamo a caccia, dovevamo renderci conto che le armi andavano usate solo per procacciare il cibo. Non dovevamo mai usarle per il gusto di uccidere. We armed ourselves with our sling-shots and made our way towards he trees. My sister and I always shot at our quarry from the ground. The boys would climb onto the branches of the gum-trees, stand quite still, and pick out the choicest and healthiest birds in the lock.
My elder brother was by far the best shot of all of us.
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He was always boasting about it, too. But never in front of our mother and father, because he would have been punished for his vanity. The boys ordered us to take up our positions under the trees as quietly as possible. In spite of the disgust we felf for our boastful brother, we always let him start the shooting. He was a dead shot, and we all knew it. Now we watched as he drew a bead on the large bluey straight across from him. The bird seemed intent on its honey-gathering from the gum-tree.
We held our breath and our brother ired. Suddenly there was a screeching from the birds and away they lew, leaving my brother as astonished as we were ourselves. He had been so close to his victim that it seemed impossible he should have missed… but he had. We looked at him, and his face of blank disbelief was just too much for us.
We roared with laughter. My other brother jumped to the ground and rolled over and over, laughing his head off. But the more we laughed, the angrier my elder brother became. Then, seeming to join in the fun, a kookaburra in the nearby tree strated his raucus chuckle, which rose to full pitch just as though he, too, saw the joke. In anger my elder brother brought up his sling-shot and ired blindly at the sound.
Our laughter was cut short by the fall of the kookaburra to the ground. My brother, horriied, his anger gone, climbed down and we gathered silently around the stricken bird. We looked at each other in frightened silence, knowing full well what we had done.
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We had broken that strict rule of the Aboriginal law. Armati delle nostre ionde, ci dirigemmo verso gli alberi. Io e le mie sorelle tiravamo sempre da terra alla preda. Mio fratello maggiore era di gran lunga il miglior tiratore di noi tutti. E per questo si vantava sempre. Si vantava soltanto con noi, sapendo che non ci saremmo lagnati di lui con i nostri genitori.
Era un tiratore infallibile e lo sapevamo tutti. Lo osservammo mirare con cura il grande bluey proprio davanti a lui. Trattenemmo il respiro e nostro fratello fece fuoco. Improvvisamente, gli uccelli volarono via ischiando e lasci- ando mio fratello attonito quanto noi. Era talmente vicino alla sua vittima, che Scoppiammo a ridere fragorosamente. Non aveva neanche fatto in tempo a mirare. La nostra risata fu interrotta dalla caduta del kookaburra. Muti e spaventati ci guardammo, coscienti di quel che avevamo fatto. Avevamo infranto quella severa legge aborigena: The Aborigine does not eat the kookaburra.
His merry laughter is allowed to go unchecked, for he brings happiness to the tribes. We call him our brother and friend. We did not see our father coming towards us. He must have been looking for irewood. When he came upon us, we parted to allow him to see what had happened. He checked his anger by remaining silent and picking up a fallen branch. Mercifully he put the stricken bird out of its misery.
Then he ordered us home. On the way back we talked with awesome foreboding of the punishment we knew would come. I wished our father would beat us, but we all knew it would not be a quick punishment. Besides, Dad never beat us. No, we knew the punishment would be carefully weighted to it the crime. When we got home, our mother was told to give us our meal.
Nothing was said of the dead kookaburra, but we knew Dad would broach the subject after we had eaten. None of us felt hungry, and our mother only played with her food. We knew that Dad had decided upon the punishment, and that Mother had agreed to it, even if she felt unhappy about it.
It was our mother who ordered us to bring into the backyard our bandicoot traps, our sling-shots, and every other weapon we had. We had to place them in a heap in the yard, while our father carefully checked every item. Our big black dog stood with us. He always did when there was trouble in the family. Although he could not possibly understand the ways of hu- man beings, he could nevertheless interpret an atmosphere of trouble when it came.
Father spoke for the irst time since we had killed the kooka- burra. He asked for no excuses for what we had done, and we did not offer any. We must all take the blame. That is the way of the Aborigine. Since we had killed for the sake of killing, the punish- ment was that for three months we should not hunt or use our weapons. During those three months our stomachs growled, and our puzzled dog would question with his eyes and wagging tail why we sat around wasting our time when there was hunting to be done.
It happened a long time ago. Yet in my dreams, the sad, suffer- ing eyes of the kookaburra, our brother and friend, still haunt me. Non vedemmo nostro padre avvicinarsi. Doveva essere andato a far legna. Lui tenne a freno la rabbia rimanendo in silenzio e raccogliendo un ramo caduto. Sulla via del ritorno parlammo con tremendo presentimento della punizione che sapevamo sarebbe arrivata. Speravo che nostro padre ci picchiasse, ma noi tutti sapevamo che la punizione non sarebbe stata rapida. No, sape- vamo che la punizione sarebbe stata ponderata attentamente in relazione al reato. Nessuno aveva appetito e nostra madre giocherellava col cibo.
Fu nostra madre a ordinarci di portare in giardino le trappole, le ionde e ogni altra arma in nostro possesso. Dovevamo ammuc- chiarle nel giardino, sotto lo sguardo attento di nostro padre. Il nostro grosso cane nero ci stava accanto. Forse non riusciva a capire i modi di fare degli esseri umani, ma era in grado di interpretare un clima agitato. Era tutta colpa nostra. Tuttavia nei miei sogni gli occhi tristi, sofferenti, del kookaburra, nostro fratello e amico, mi tor- mentano ancora.
The tide was out and the mud-lats were alive with sea-birds. Curlews were calling and ibises walked with heads down, searching with their beaks for crabs in the seaweed. Gulls fought each other on the sand-lats, and the mangrove Jack, crouched like a hunchback, pretended to sleep and waited for the small ish and crabs to ven- ture too near him.
The dog was puzzled. Lately the pattern of life seemed to have changed. The little humans had gone to school, and the woman always seemed to be busy washing. He watched the little humans go off with their schoolbags each morning; he went with them as far as the bridge, but he was forbidden to go any farther. They would be gone for a long time. He was bored with just sitting around.
This morning the mud-lats called him. He pretended not to hear and stretched himself full-length on the grass, and yawned. He wondered why the little humans no longer went hunting. They, too, seemed to sit and grow bored when they were home. The curlew called to his mate on the mud-lat, and the dog pricked up his ears and made up his mind. He bounded through the fence and across the sand until he came to the low-water mark left by the tide.
He watched the small toads darting to and fro in the shallows. With one paw raised he snapped at the toads, but it was only in fun. The little humans had trained him as a pup not to touch the toads. Now, his grown-up-dog instinct told him that if he swallowed a sea-toad it could poison him. The black dog wandered farther into the water, where the long seaweed grew near the deepest part of the channel. His keen eyes watched for movement in the water. He knew this was the place of the salmon sharks. His mouth watered for the taste of shark. The little human often took him with them in the dinghy when they hunted the small salmon sharks, which built their nests in the long seaweed.
But they always made him stay in the boat, though he had tried hard to convince them that he was a match for any shark. In vain, for the smallest human always held him with her arms entwined round his neck. La marea era bassa e il litorale paludoso brulicava di gabbiani. I gabbiani si azzuffavano sul bagnasciuga e il mangrove jack1 acquattato come un gobbo, faceva inta di dormire in attesa che pesciolini e granchi gli si avvicinas- sero incautamente. Il cane era perplesso. Negli ultimi tempi, lo schema della vita sembrava cambiato.
I piccoli umani erano andati a scuola e la donna pareva sempre indaffarata a fare il bucato. Ogni mattina, vedeva i piccoli umani uscire con la cartella; li accompagnava ino al ponte, ma andare oltre gli era proibito. Sarebbero stati via a lungo. Anche loro seduti a casa parevano annoiarsi. Da cucciolo, i pic- coli umani lo avevano addestrato a non toccare i rospi di mare.
Ora il suo istinto di cane adulto gli suggeriva che, se ne avesse ingoiato uno, avrebbe potuto avvelenarsi. Sapeva che questo era il luogo degli squali salmone. I piccoli umani se lo porta- vano dietro spesso nel canotto quando andavano a caccia di piccoli squali salmone, che costruivano i loro nidi tra le lunghe alghe. Ma lo facevano sempre stare sulla barca, nonostante le avesse provate tutte per convincerli che lui era degno avversario di qualunque squalo. Scappare sarebbe stato facile, ma non avrebbe mai disobbedito ai comandi dei pic- coli umani.
Gli occhi del cane colsero un movimento tra le alghe. It was only half-grown, and in its panic to get away, it made the mistake of licking its tail and darting against the outgoing tide. A full-grown shark would never have made such an error. The ish darted onto a half-submerged sandbank, realised its mistake, and struggled to free itself. But that error cost its life. The dog pounced again. Grabbing the shark by the tail, he tossed his head and licked the ish high and dry onto the mud-lat. Then he sat by the dying shark, catching his breath. He stood up and shook the water off his coat and out of his ears and eyes.
The dog tried to pick up the shark in his jaws, but it was too big for him. It was much bigger than the goannas, lizards and snakes he often carried home from the hunt with the little humans. They were not here to help him; he must ind a way to carry the shark home. He looked towards the house.
It was about a quarter of mile away. Finally he worked out a plan of action. Taking the now almost dead shark by the tail, he dragged it after him, stopping every now and then to take a rest. He dragged it as far as the beach gate, and decided that was far enough. Now, if he could persuade the woman to come out, she could carry it the rest of the way for him.
The dog barked and barked, but the woman took no notice. The dog dared not leave the shark and go to ind the woman; an- other dog might come along and take it from him in his absence. So he sat up and gave the most pitiful howl he could muster. That howl had the desired effect. The woman opened the house door to see what was wrong with the dog. When she saw the shark, she came down the steps and out of the gate. She shaded her eyes against the sun and looked out toward the drag marks on the sand, and realised what the dog had done. She patted his head and stooped to pick up the shark.
Valid bid!
The dog placed one paw on his prize. Hun- gry for ish, eh? Better than that muck the white man calls food. Uno squalo adulto non avrebbe mai commesso un errore del genere. Afferrato lo squalo per la coda, scosse la testa e lo fece volare in panne sul litorale. Poi si mise seduto accanto allo squalo moribondo, trattenendo il respiro. Se ora fosse riuscito a persuadere la donna a uscire, lei avrebbe potuto trasportarlo al posto suo per il resto del tragitto. Il cane non si idava ad abbandonare lo squalo per andare in cerca della donna: Proteggendosi gli occhi dal sole, vide le tracce del trascinio sulla sabbia e si rese conto di cosa avesse fatto il cane.
Voglia di pesce, eh? Non posso darti torto. When the little humans returned from school, they too sniffed the smell of cooked shark and looked in amazement at each other, for it was not yet three months since they had shot at the kooka- burra, and the hunting ban was still in force. The woman told them how the shark had come there, and they looked with envy at the dog.
They sat and talked about it on the grass outside the house, until the woman came out with a large dish which she sat down on the ground. The dog wagged his tail and licked his chops. They cannot have any. Go on now — eat. After he had emptied the dish, he came and sat with them. His belly felt warm and happy again. The smallest human took the dish inside, then came running out again. Quando anche i piccoli umani rientrarono da scuola e sen- tirono il profumino di squalo, si guardarono sbalorditi: La donna disse loro da dove proveniva lo squalo, e i ragazzi guardarono il cane con invidia.
La sua pancia era di nuovo calda e felice. His last three books, published by Anchor, are The Book of Firsts: Its chapel, rebuilt in the nineteenth century, was the object of a midwinter visit by Eliot described in the opening movement of the poem that borrows its title from that place of prayer. Why did Eliot choose to forgo rhyme? Though each of the Quartets features rhymed lyrics, the narrative sections, such as the Dantesque imitation, are all unrhymed. In addition, the Dantesque passage is immediately preceded by a heavily rhymed line lyric—three stanzas rhyming aabbccdd—that would have jarred with it and cloyed more than a bit if Eliot had composed the passage in true terza rima.
Very tardily following up on a suggestion made to me in the mids by the late Professor Edmund L. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, , The Modernist in History New York: Cambridge University Press, , , that Eliot, in compos- ing his Dantesque passage, was thinking back to a blitz that had taken place in the autumn of Regarding the purgatorial aspects of this passage, it should be mentioned that ire is the ancient element that presides over this quartet, the destructive ire of the German bombs contrasting with the reining ire that Dante, following the lead of Arnaut, must traverse to purge himself of the sin of lust in Canto 27 of the Purgatorio, before he can set eyes on the spirit of his chastely-loved Beatrice.
Doubleday Anchor, , Thomas Micchelli, Involuntary Contractions. Canto XV Now we proceed by one of the stony borders That the vapor from the stream overshades, Sparing the banks and water from the ire. Just as the Flemings, between Wissant and Bruges, Fearing the tide that rushes in against them, Erect a bulwark to drive back the sea; And as the Paduans, along the Brenta, Act to protect their castles and their towns Before the heat is felt in Carentana; In similar fashion had those banks been made, Except that—whoever he was—their builder Made them neither as lofty nor as broad.
Pur ier mattina le volsi le spalle: Yesterday morning I turned my back on it. Ancient report accuses them of blindness— A greedy people, envious and proud. Make sure you cleanse yourself of all their customs. Let the Fiesolan beasts make their fodder Of themselves alone, and not touch the plant If any yet can sprout upon their dungheap In which there still survives the holy seed Of the old Roman founders who remained there When it became a nest of wickedness. Ed elli a me: Gente vien con la quale esser non deggio. Of this, however, I can now assure you: Provided that my conscience does not chide, I am prepared for Fortune, as she wishes.
And he to me: In brief, know that they all were clericals Or learned men of letters who were famous, Deiled by the same sin, up in the world. Although I would say more, my speech and detour Must not be any longer, for I see New clouds of smoke rise from the sand ahead there: People approach with whom I must not be. And so, let me commend to you my Treasure, In which I still live on; I ask no more. Come quando ti rivolgesti e con la mano, sgombra la fronte dalla nube dei capelli, mi salutasti - per entrar nel buio.
Troppo tardi se vuoi esser te stessa! As on the day You turned, and with your hand, after you cleared Your forehead of its cloud of hair, you bade Farewell to me - to vanish in the dark. Along the Beach The wind grows loud, the dark to shreds is shattered; the shadow you send out over the fragile fence is now curling up. Too late already if you still wish to be yourself. The mouse thuds from the palm, a gleam is on the fuse, upon the long, long lashes of your gaze. Nothing, let me nothing know of you, and let me ever from the lash of your eyes lee.
Quite different this earth. Empty, upon the edge the wave is breaking, breaks at Finisterre. In Sleep The singing of the screech owls, while a rainbow loses with intermittent throbs its glow, the moans and the sighs of youth, the error that enwraps the temples and the vague horror of the cedars shaken by the strong impact of the night - all this may well come back to me, low out of ditches, break forth from pipelines, and awaken me to your voice.
Harshly sounding, now a jig cruelly stings, the foe lowers his visor over his face. The amaranth moon steps in into my closed eyes, and it is a cloud that swells, and when sleep takes it deeper down, it is blood lowing even beyond death. Tu gli appartieni e non lo sai. Sei lui, ti credi te. Gli orecchini Non serba ombra di voli il nerofumo della spera. Nella cornice tornano le molli meduse della sera.
It is for us that streak of light that climbs from the sea to the park and wounds the aloes. But it is not so, not so at all. The octopus that winds its inky tentacles amid the shoals can learn from you. You do belong with him, and know it not. The sponge has passed and from the gilded circle has wiped all helpless glimmers soon away. There I was looking for your stones, your corals, and the strong fascination ruling you; I shun a goddess loath to being lesh, and bear desire till in your lame it burns.
Elytra drone outside, a senseless funeral also drones, showing that two lives mean nothing. Your imprint will appear from below: Altra luce che non calma, altre vampe, o mie edere scarlatte. It too bespeaks of you, and on my path is the whole sky, the only light you shed out of the jades encurled around your wrist, the curtain in the storm of sleep unveiled by your condonings, your reclaiming wings, o transmigrating Artemis, unharmed in all the battles of the stillborn.
Window at Fiesole Here where the cricket digs insidious holes into the clothes of vegetable silk and with its smell the camphor does not chase the moths that turn to powder in the books, the little bird climbs up the elm in whirls, and in the foliage the dark sun is stuck. The Red Lily The red lily, if one day it spread roots in your twenty-year-old heart the weir was glittering amid the sieves of the sand-diggers, lustrous leaping moles burrowed inside the reeds, and towers, lags seemed to be victorious in the rain, and the successful graft in the new sun, happened without your knowing: Il Ventaglio Ut pictura Muore chi ti riconosce?
The fan Ut pictura The confounding lips, the looks, the signs, the days now long by-gone I try to feign them there as in the disc of a telescope turned upside down, all silent and still, but far more lively. The mother-of-pearl is gleaming, and the dizzying abyss still swallows victims, but upon your cheeks the feathers pale: O ceaseless blows, when you reveal yourself, O savage lightning lashes, and O downpour upon the waves!
Must he who sees you die? Fuma il ramaiolo in cucina, un suo tondo di rilessi accentra i volti ossuti, i musi aguzzi e li protegge in fondo la magnolia se un sofio ve la getta. Right this way your form has come, to rest down in the plain mid grounded eel-pots, inally to fade just like a sigh, around - and there was not any uplooding horror there: Certainly the storm will gather them beneath that same old roof, but far away, much farther than this earth, this thunderstruck earth where both lime and blood boil in the imprint of a human foot.
The ladle is now steaming in the kitchen, mirroring in its roundness bony faces and sharpened snouts, protected at the base by a magnolia, if a gust throws it there. The spring storm shakes my ark with barking loyalty, O lost ones. Then the hazy night down in the little square, the steps, and always this hard effort to sink and rise the same for centuries, or minutes, of ghosts that never will retrieve the light of your eyes again inside the incandescent den - and still the same shouts and the long weeping on the veranda if suddenly the shot rebounds that reddens your throat and crashes your wings, O perilous herald of dawn, and in the meantime the cloisters and the hospitals awake to a lancinating sound of horns Your Flight If you appear in the ire amulets hang from your forelock, bespangling you two lights reclaim you, vying with the ditch entering the vault of thorns.
Your dress is shreds, the trampled bushes glitter anew and the ishpond illed with human tadpoles opens up to the furrows of the night. The ilthy selvage, oh do not disturb, and leave the burning piles around, the acrid smoke over survivors! Dustin Mulcahey at the keys, February A high-school classmate and lifelong friend of Orville and Wilbur Wright, Dunbar was president of his class and of the literary society, and editor of the school newspaper, despite being the only black student. After graduation he worked for a while as an elevator operator. Lyrics of Lowly Life , which reprinted two earlier small collections, made him famous.
He published many other volumes of poetry and iction, including the excellent novel The Sport of the Gods , before his early death from tuberculosis. His popularity ultimately led to his being honored by President Theodore Roosevelt, but his end was sad. Depressed by ill health and a failed marriage, he felt also that the need to support himself by his writing had prevented his growth as an artist. Yet a century after his death his work re- mains in print and his reputation is secure. Marilyn Nelson was born in in Cleveland, Ohio, the daughter of an elementary school teacher and an oficer in the U.
Air Force who had been one of the Tuskegee Airmen. After growing up on various Air Force bases around the country, she earned a B. She taught at various institutions, including the Uni- versity of Connecticut She has also published several books for children and young adults, as well as translations of the Hecuba of Euripides and volumes of selections from the Danish poets Inge Pedersen and Halfdan Rasmussen. Paul Laurence Dunbar We Wear the Mask We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask. We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask! Theology There is a heaven, for ever, day by day, The upward longing of my soul doth tell me so. It may be misery never to be loved, But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
No, che gli altri ci vedano soltanto Se la maschera portiamo. Noi sorridiamo, O grande Cristo, il nostro lamento Verso te sale da anime in tormento. To have just missed the perfect love, Not the hot passion of untempered youth, But that which lays aside its vanity, And gives thee, for thy trusting worship, truth— This, this it is to be accursed indeed; For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by the things we have, But by what kept us from the perfect thing. Washington The word is writ that he who runs may read. What is the passing breath of earthly fame? But to snatch glory from the hands of blame— That is to be, to live, to strive indeed.
Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind, The mark of rugged force on brow and lip, Straight on he goes, nor turns to look behind Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip; With one idea foremost in his mind, Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship. Ma chi alla colpa la gloria ha strappato — Sicuramente esiste, vive, lotta. Men court not death When there are sweets still left in life to taste. Nor will a brave man choose to live when he, Full deeply drunk of life, has reached the dregs, And knows that now but bitterness remains.
He is the coward who, outfaced in this, Fears the false goblins of another life. I honor him who being much harassed Drinks of sweet courage until drunk of it,— Then seizing Death, reluctant, by the hand, Leaps with him, fearless, to eternal peace! Sympathy I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river lows like a stream of glass; When the irst bird sings and the irst bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals— I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must ly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting— I know why he beats his wing! Non corteggia la morte Quando la vita ancora offre dolcezze.
E sa che ora solo amarezza resta. The Manumission Requiem In , a slave named Fortune died at about the age of Preserved Porter, rendered the bones of his former slave so he could use the skeleton as a teaching tool. Over the years, the skeleton was lost and found. It was boarded up in an attic, then discovered by a crew of work- ers hired to renovate an old building. Preface Fortune was born; he died. Between those truths stretched years of drudgery, years of pit-deep sleep in which he hauled and lifted, dug and plowed, glimpsing the steep impossibility of freedom.
They say work broke his back: Before it healed, they say, he suffered years of wrenching pain. His wife was worth ten dollars. And their son a hundred sixty-six. A man unmanned, he must sometimes have waked with balled-up ists. A white priest painted water on his head and Fortune may or may not have believed, whom Christ offered no respite, no reprieve, only salvation. Was he good or bad? Il suo padrone, Dott. Preserved Porter1, sciolse le ossa del suo defunto schiavo in modo da poterle utilizzare per insegnare. Il nome di Fortune venne dimenticato per quasi un intero secolo.
Nel corso degli anni lo scheletro venne perso e poi ritrovato. Le ossa di Fortune ci dicono che era forte; parlano di vasti terreni dissodati, di alti muri di pietra. Ci dicono che il lavoro gli aveva spezzato la schiena: Prima [che fosse guarito, ci dicono, ha sofferto anni di dolore lancinante. Sua moglie valeva dieci dollari. E il loro iglio centosessantasei. His bones say only that he served and died, that he was useful, even into death, stripped of his name, his story, and his lesh. She make me take the dust rag and the broom and clean around my husband, hanging there. Since she seen Fortune head in that big pot Miss Lydia say that room make her feel ill, sick with the thought of boiling human broth.
I wonder how she think it make me feel?
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To dust the hands what use to stroke my breast; to dust the arms what hold me when I cried; to dust where his soft lips were, and his chest what curved its warm against my back at night. Through every season, sun-up to star light, I heft, scrub, knead: The world so white, nobody know my pain, but Fortune bones. On Abrigador Hill Dr. I have manipulated joints, cracked necks, and set my neighbors back to work. Era buono o cattivo? Qualche volta ha tirato indietro la testa scoppiando a [ridere?
Dice che non ce la fa a stare in quella stanza: Ma pensa mai a come mi sento io? Spolvero le mani che mi accarezzavano il seno; spolvero le braccia che mi tenevano stretta quando [piangevo; spolvero quello che resta delle labbra, del petto del ventre che di notte mi scaldava la schiena. Su Abrigador Hill Dott. Herewith begins my dissection of the former body of my former slave, which served him who served me throughout his life, and now serves the advance of science.
Note well how death softens the human skin, making it almost transparent, so that under my reverent knife— the irst cut takes my breath away; it feels like cutting the whole world— it falls open like bridal gossamer. And I am humbled by ignorance, humbled by ignorance. Standing on a new continent beyond the boundaries of nakedness, I am forever changed by what I see: In profound and awful intimacy, I enter Fortune, and he enters me. Ho fatto salassi e ho purgato febbri e umori, ho vaccinato contro il vaiolo, ho prescritto aria buona e verdure, olio di fegato di merluzzo e laudano, e ho chiuso gli occhi senza luce dei morti di fresco.
It was easier to face him with an imaginary name. For Fortune was an image of myself: Gentle Jesus, have mercy. Dispassionate and curious his gaze, patients tell me, from the corner. Or we took the skull out of its wooden box, and with a leg rolled it around the dusty loor. Look what was boarded up-a in the wall!
We stand-a with our caps over our hearts and say an Ave Maria. Senza un nome immaginario era impossibile stargli di fronte. A volte tiravamo il teschio fuori dalla sua scatola di legno, e usando una delle gambe lo facevamo rotolare sulla polvere del pavimento. Guarda cosa ho trovato incastrato nel muro! This skeleton was just my temporary home. Elementary molecules converged for a breath, then danced on beyond my individual death. And I am not my body, I am not my body.
We are brief incarnations, we are clouds in clothes. We are water respirators, we are how earth knows. I bore light passed on from an original lame; while it was in my hands it was called by my name.
But I am not my body, I am not my body. Non sono le mie ossa Fortune Non ero questo corpo, non ero queste ossa. Questo scheletro era solo un rifugio temporaneo. E io non sono il mio corpo, io non sono il mio corpo. Siamo brevi incarnazioni, siamo nuvole in camicia. Ma io non sono il mio corpo io non sono il mio corpo. But you are not your body, you are not your body. You can murder hope, you can pound faith lat, but, like weeds and wildlowers, they grow right back. For you are not your body, you are not your body.
You are not your body, you are not your bones.
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Well, I woke up this morning just so glad to be free, glad to be free, glad to be free. I woke up this morning in restful peace. For I am not my body, I am not my bones. I am not my body, glory hallelujah, not my bones. I am not my bones. Sanctus Holy of Holies, thy creating name be raised above all barriers. Each and every one of us is Fortune, for a brief, mortal time. Then we are compost. Mother of all Holiness, cradle us so we can hear the truth of your heartbeat.
Voglio dirti una cosa, e ti dico il vero: Ma tu non sei il tuo corpo, tu non sei il tuo corpo. Vaga per le mute geometrie dei cieli notturni. Tu non sei il tuo corpo, tu non sei il tuo le tue ossa. Io non sono il mio corpo, gloria, alleluia, non sono le mie ossa, io non sono le mie ossa. Sanctus Santo fra i Santi, il tuo nome origine della creazione sia lodato oltre ogni conine.
E poi diventiamo concime. Eternal source of all identity, call our true names when we forsake our bones. Magnetic center of the universe, make us iron ilings. Be to us what south is to autumn geese. Call us home, Lord, call us home. Call us home, Lord, set us free. Anche se ci siamo allontanati da casa, chiamaci a te. Facci tornare a casa, Signore, facci tornare a casa. Facci tornare a casa, Signore, vieni a liberarci. John Avelluto, acrylic mediums and acrylic paint. Translation of Postcolonial Texts in English: Literature, Essays, Theatre and Cinema. A widely published academic and an award-winning editor, literary translator and poet, he is writing a book on ecphrasis as intersemiotic translation.
John Dennison was born in Sydney in He is currently working on a monograph on Seamus Heaney based on his doctoral dissertation. His poems have appeared and continue to appear in some of the best literary journals and anthologies, most notably the prestigious New Poetries V: Dennison is not an easy poet. The familiarity of the themes, situations and characters he lucidly examines is deceiving.
His elegant, reined and silk-smooth language is the perfect shrine both syntactically and semantically for challenging metaphysical relections. Nocturne Drawn in the shallow breath of the night, I wait for you to come back home, willing the shadows to ind your form; but how can they carry your bright step, the house of light that is your face?
My lighthouse, my love, the rocks are night all around. Standing on the porch, I drive these backroads — some hurt unwinding, some dry-mouthed valley. Turn heart, turn — go back home; leave this road unwound. Northwards In the way I stall under the oncoming headlight of each ancient train, this acupuncture of light, the weightless years that advance recede, the dot-to-dot surveillance of our listless twitching, driving.
Off the surface of Waihola they cover us. There is relief only in waiting for the rind to roll under us, a brief valve in our atmospheres. Do we rear earthily into the black Taieri hills, or does Orion, his blue diamonds worn long over cool indigo, slip into the wings? Sul portico, batto queste strade secondarie — qualche dolore che si snoda, qualche valle dalla bocca secca, e i suoni — grige, sorde sillabe: Voltati tesoro, voltati — torna a casa; lascia che questa strada non si snodi.
Dalla supericie dello Waihola ci coprono. You can still place a hold on the title, and your hold will be automatically filled as soon as the title is available again.
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