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Da Praga Ad Auschwitz Online. Un Filo Di Parole Online. Storia Dell Antica Roma Online. Novecento Secolo Delle Tenebre Online. Italia E Somalia Online. This raises more questions about the direc- tion of metaphors. In translation, we are no longer moving between language and its extralinguistic referent, but we are mov- ing sideways, so to speak, from one linguistic entity to another lin- guistic entity. The concern is no longer with meaning but with an interlinguistic movement.
Meaning is entirely imbedded in the origi- nal work, and we can leave it there. In the final analysis, the range of life must be determined by history rather than by nature, least of all by such tenuous factors as sensation and the soul. Benjamin 71 Also any linguistic creation should be translatable even if no one is capable of translating it at any given time There is implied in this a maturing process where the growth of the original language corresponds to the development of the language of translation.
Recalling what we discussed above, the afterlife of a work of art should be determined by history rather than by nature, unaffected by factors such as sensation and the soul. Unlike a work of literature, translation does not find itself in the center of the language forest but on the outside facing the wooded ridge; it calls into it without entering, aiming at the sole spot where the echo is able to give, in its own language, the reverberation of the work in the alien one.
Translation turns language inside out. It breaks the walls of safety in which the subject finds itself protected, cared for, yet incarcerated. In this way, translation destabilizes. It reveals the instability of the original. It disarticulates the original, says de Man, for whom critical philosophy, literary theory, history—resemble each other in the fact that they do not resemble that from which they derive. But they are all intralinguistic: They disarticulate, they undo the original, they reveal that the original was always already disarticulated.
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They reveal that their failure, which seems to be due to the the fact that they are secondary in relation to the original, reveals an essential failure, an essential disarticulation which was already there in the original. They kill the original, by discovering that the original was already dead. Let us recall once more that in translation sensation and the soul should not play a role. But this pain that generates is not hu- man. Gentile agrees with this. Yet this formal use of language brings the messianic with it. Every possible shortcoming perceived in a work of translation can now be overcome by this achieved higher knowledge of the work- ings of language.
The words we now read are, in a sense, not human. Vico stated that in language, man begins to think humanly New Science , but this does not imply that there is meaning before and outside language before meaning is materialized linguistically. Language is his- torical, and it is used by the men who have it as their dwelling place without their being in control of, nor their being identified, with it. The Dante Gentile speaks of gets grafted in the now-language of the reader, and such a translation occurs first of all within the Italian language in which Dante wrote.
In this pro- cess the reader who captures Dante becomes captured by Dante, and thus by the Italian language already many languages , in the uniqueness of the only Language humans speak. Gentile, contrary to Benjamin, seems apparently to need to preserve the intentional- ity not only in the meaning but also in the mode of signification of a language in the hands of an all-encompassing subject.
This subject is still blind to its condition by uncon- sciously accepting its blindness. This allows the subject to think it has built its own fortress-house. This trans- lation of the inside is possible in the first place because of its insta- bility, says Benjamin [A]ll translation is only a somewhat provisional way of coming to terms with the foreignness of languages. An instant and final rather than a temporary and provisional solution of this foreignness remains out of the reach of mankind; at any rate, it eludes any direct attempt.
Although translation, unlike art, cannot claim permanence for its products, its goal is undeniably a final, conclusive, decisive stage of all linguistic creation. It cannot live there permanently, to be sure, and it certainly does not reach it in its entirety. Yet, in a singular impressive manner, at least it points the way to this region: The transfer can never be total, but what reaches this region is that element in a translation which goes beyond transmittal of subject matter.
This nucleus is best defined as the element that does not lend itself to translation. Even when all the surface content has been extracted and transmitted, the primary concern of the genuine translator remains elusive. The original can only be raised there anew and at other points in time. For Gentile, the original as well as every provisional appropriation work like relays: It seems that for Gentile that predestined region of fulfill- ment and reconciliation of languages is reachable, and its unstable terrain is left unaccounted for.
Gentile sees no disjunction between any of these multiplying steps toward that region, but rather an implied continuity that imitates life: Yet in this process, that body the original poem never gets old but is forever rejuvenating. Gentile stresses a sort of messianic aspect of language that is nonetheless manmade, and not a God-given gift—like a messianism without a religion. There is no bro- ken vessel to reconstitute.
There is a chain of metaphors that, by actualizing themselves in a new meaning, relay to a higher region their growth in the form of a new metaphor. The problem of the unstable original is bypassed by this provisional appropriation of an original work of art. The move is presented as the most natural operation of reading.
In this process of endless redressing, Gentile necessarily sus- pends the original work of art, holding it outside the intra-linguis- tic relation and protecting its wholeness from revealing its met- onymic status. Ultimately, the subject is defined by the fortress- house, which it might have built, but of which it was never the king. This subject can only find itself already made into the Kafkaesque animal that it does not know. The translator must be recep- tive to the disruptions already at work in the original language of the work of art that translation reveals; and the translator must ulti- mately make room for this disruption in the language of transla- tion, which painfully grows and expands in a non-human manner.
Gentile conceives of the art of translation as an hermeneutics. And translation is indeed an act of reading: Thus I get in touch with what was repressed, covered up, hidden in the specific material language of the original work. There is no text with- out a reader who brings the text to life in its afterlife: Translation is itself a translation first and fore- most of our own words as we proffer them. Now, in my actual speak- ing of my language I am actually translating within my very lan- guage already many languages , in the uniqueness of the only Lan- guage humans speak.
Translation acts itself out as translation: The ultimate task of the translator is to read the unreadable. It is to deal with a writing that writes what is never meant to read, what is unreadable—like graphemes for speech. Graphemes in writ- ing are taken for granted, yet they are the keepers of a promise of meaning. For Gentile, to speak is to write since speech has all the prerogatives of writing.
What Gentile says is, all at once, what is being said and the confirmation of what is being said. In repetition lies the novelty. In order to do this, the saying must be recognizable and repeatable— even if this may mean that the saying is recognizable by itself as a language that in turn recognizes itself as it speaks. The historical continuity between the then and the now postulated by Gentile is marked by the univocity that indicates the historical ether, accord- ing to Husserl Derrida, Husserl The platonic mimetic relationship between image and speech will end up with writing occupying the last and hum- blest place within the chain of signification.
Grammars always follow language in an attempt to stabilize what is already in itself destabilized. In this sense, grammar shares the same project of translation: In fact, the arbitrariness of each and every grammar is what Gentile has to reconcile with the spirituality of language. The metaphorical sequence of replacement gets interrupted. When we translate, we open up all options of signification out of an original restricted referentiality. From here on, there is no way to orient ourselves any longer.
Benjamin clearly says so. Otherwise grammar coincides with language and language with translation. Indeed, Gentile—and here is a paradox—says this much. The con- sequence is the killing of the originality of any origin. And this lack is already at work in speech as it is in writing: Since Plato, writing has been the sign of a sign removed from truth, and this process is also at work always already in speech as we speak.
I read, I say, I translate, therefore I reproduce all at once in an immediate iterability which is directly possible thanks to the me- chanical reproduction of any original sound bite, of any graph- eme playing within language. Benjamin himself addresses the mechanical reproduction of the work of art and the issue of the aura in The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.
It haunts the original. Again, Gentile speaks of Dante—a Dante read, spoken, translated, therefore forever re- produced anew in his afterlife. When we read—as when we read Dante—we have to reinvent what we read. Our reading must affirm the original; and our reading, in or- der to be affirmative, must confirm its originary reading. The I-then-there and the I- now-here underscore my singular signature: I-now-here reaffirm the I-then-there. Ultimately, I am not Ulysses either, I have respect for the past, I submit to what is in front of me: The first event must already be iterable, it must immediately confirm itself in differentiating itself by its now spo- ken iteration.
This is achieved by charging every word, every sentence, with meanings, possibilities, associations. In reading Dante, we partake of the chains of confirmation. However, Gentile sees this trans- lation as an affirmation of the original.
La Terza, , University of Minnesota Press. Inven- tion of the Other. Kamuf, Peggy and Elizabeth Rottenberg, eds. Maurizio Godorecci 69 Stanford: Stanford U Press, The Johns Hopkins U Press, Cornell University Press, Notes 1 Previously published in Rivista di cultura, a. The English translation from the Italian is mine throughout. Also reprinted in K. The translation from the French is mine throughout.
In this sense to be in the closeness of Being means to be there where the metaphor retreats. Hear Say in Joyce. New york and London: Her article Dalle zolle perdute alla ines- tra: Francesco Petrarca Petrarch requires little introduction. Incomparable poet, in- novative Humanist, and brilliant scholar, his major works consist of the Rime sparse Rerum vulgarium fragmenta , I trioni, the Secretum, and numerous collections of letters. We have chosen three sonnets whose themes and images reappear in the poetry of Gaspara Stampa: In the second, the mythological Arabian phoenix is compared to Laura and of course poetry itself— il lauro.
It includes a critical introduction, commen- tary, and a rich array of biographical and bibliographical informa- tion. It is based on the edition. Here we offer new versions, more focused on poetic harmony than literal meaning. The Venetian poetess takes up the themes of love and memory while renewing the emblem of the Arabian phoenix and the ship struggling at sea. These imita- tions were rendered in English and in Italian.
The Italian version was co-translated with Antonella Anedda. The present version is more of a translation than an imitation. Nevertheless attempts have been made to recreate corresponding meters, rhymes, and tones as well. Francesco Petrarca, Canzoniere XC Her aura was scattered in strands of gold which she had wound in countless knotted crowns, her lovely light-illed eyes, which have turned old, once burned beyond their source of greenish brown. It seemed compassion set her face aglow, I do not know if it was dreamt or real the fuse of love that lit me long ago though I should not wonder since I still feel.
She did not move as any mortal thing but like angelic dawn, nor were her words dull sounding like a human, they seemed to sing like one celestial spirit, sun struck wings had touched her soul and voice which I irst heard and had they not, my wound would lose its sting. Cerulean edges of her violet dress, conceal her fair shoulders scattered with roses uniquely beautiful aura, novel guise. Fame still proclaims that her sweet scented breast in Arabian mountains hides and poses yet she lies so haughtily through our skies. What helmsman could steer his precious ship through tides as I have done, never afraid to wrestle the currents or cliffs, guiding my frail vessel amidst the battering blows of her harsh pride?
And yet this rain of tears and fearsome winds of ininite sighs now drive my vessel on throughout my sea of winter and horrid night bestowing tedium to her, aches and chagrin to itself, nothing else, vanquished by strong sea surfs disarming sails to ungoverned might. Oh night, worthy of praise by the highest and keenest of minds, not by my ecstasy. You brought him back to me with tenderness the one who each joy of mine has governed disarmed my doubts, dissolving all stubborn remains of bitterness with sheer sweetness.
My game and my every delight consist of living ire and never feeling pain, of never caring if he who causes this relents the vehemence of his domain. Soon after the irst lame had burned away, then Love lit up another, which I feel with more intensity and greater sway. A ire just like the irst I feel; if this, in such tight space, is now the case I fear it will be greater than the other.
What can I do, if burning is my appeal, if voluntarily I consent to taste ill after ill, one ire after another? Durling, Harvard University Press, Annotazioni di Daniele Ponchiroli. Torino, Einaudi, , pp. She has published essays of literary criticism in Critical Companion to J. Her work displays a full range of emotion as she reacts to challenges she faced as an orphan, wife, mother and widow.
Her immediacy of voice and personal subject matter create not only an unprecedented feel for the struggles of women of her historical period, but also relect a sensibility almost modern in its confessional tone. Rime spirituali sopra i Misteri del Santissimo Rosario Roma: Molinelli, ; enlarged During the next twelve years, Turini Bufalini continued to write and revise this work, which she describes in two sonnets3 as providing her with an outlet for her creativity as well as with much-needed consolation throughout her dificult life.
At the time of her death in , however, the poem remained unpublished. Over the centuries, the text of Il Florio was believed lost until, in the s, a manuscript was located among the family archives at the Bufalini castle in San Giustino Umbria. I am greatly indebted to Professor Antonio Lanza, Director of Letteratura Italiana Antica, for permission to reproduce the original, as well as for translation permissions. I extend my heartfelt thanks to Professor Natalia Costa-Zalessow San Fran- cisco State University , for her unlagging generosity in sharing her knowledge of Italian literary history with me.
Comment on the translation In Il Florio, Turini Bufalini utilizes ottava rima,6 the traditional stanza form of Italian narrative poetry, to recreate the story of two young innamorati, Florio and Biancoiore, as they labor to overcome obstacles to their love. I was, however, labbergasted at her extensive use of text-within-text technique in the selection that follows.
The two letters between the lovers, inserted verbatim into the narrative frame, heighten the realism and the emotional charge of the exchange and allow for close reader involvement. Ariosto does not show a response letter from Bradamante. Turini Bufalini, moreover, shows a response letter from Biancoiore comprising an additional fourteen stanzas nos.
The two letters in Il Florio thus total an astonishing lines of text-within-text. Although Turini Bufalini may not have been the irst to employ the technique, we are nonetheless seeing in her Canto XVI an early and signiicant use of meta-narration. On the one hand, I wanted my target language to capture the emotional spontaneity expressed in the letters of the young lovers. On the other hand, I vowed to keep faith with the formal metrics of the ottava and its elegant tone.
The exciting atmo- sphere of a medieval tale—replete with chivalric knights, distressed damsels, court intrigues and feats of derring-do—demanded a broad action vocabulary. To parallel the hendecasyllabic lines of the original with stanzas that gallop forward, I charged ahead with iambic pentameter, the preferred meter of narrative verse in English. To run the end-rhyme gauntlet, I relied on my anglophone steed, well equipped with slant rhyme, to echo the musical ring of the original when I did not have a full rhyme sound at the ready.
To capture spontaneity, I reached for idiomatic expressions. Conversely, by inverting word order and pinning down a few archaisms here and there, I hoped to render some historical atmosphere and to move the translation closer to the source text. To pay homage to the prosodic features of the original, I matched consonance and internal rhyme wherever I could. We come upon the scene with Florio in the distant city of Montorio, where he has been sent by his parents, the king and queen, in an effort to separate the lovers. Florio believes that Bian- coiore has jilted him for Fileno, an errant knight just arrived from Marmorina seat of the court where Biancoiore remains.
The truth is that Biancoiore, against her will, was commanded by the queen to do so after Fileno won a tournament at court. Now alone, Florio denounces Biancoiore as unfaithful seeing the veil as proof of her betrayal , and threatens to turn his sword against himself. Franc- esca Turini Bufalini, Autobiographical Poems: Translations by Joan E. Mancini and Glenn Palen Pierce Detroit: In sonnets numbered and , Turini Bufalini directly addresses the title character, Florio, of her eponymous narrative work, declaring to him that writing has remained her only consolation refugio through years of grief.
Not quite twenty-one years old, she married Count Giulio Bufalini then seventy years of age. With professional military duties in Rome, Giulio was absent for long periods. She subsequently gave birth to two sons and a daughter but was widowed at age thirty. Her maternal love and devotion, evident throughout her poems, is later coupled with the lament of not enjoying a reciprocal affection.
Her sons, upon reaching manhood, quarreled with her over money and litigated formally against her and against one another, as Giulio, the eldest, would retain future right of inheritance to the castle, whereas Ottavio, his younger brother, only the right to reside there. At age sixty-one, because of family discord, she left Umbria for Rome to take a post in the Colonna household as lady- in-waiting to the duchess, Lucrezia Tomacelli Colonna. She returned to Umbria only upon the death of Tomacelli in Directed by Antonio Lanza.
This international journal is dedicated to texts and studies on Italian literature and is available for purchase on the internet. For a discussion of the form, see: Casa Editrice Le Lettere, For a short synopsis of the Filocolo, see: Giovanni Boccaccio, Antologia delle opere minori volgari, a cura di Giuseppe Gigli. Nuova presentazione di Vittore Branca Firenze: Revered for his narrative poems, principally Gerusalemme Liberata pub. Turini Bufalini may have known Tasso personally during her residency in Rome at the Colonna household.
My thanks go again to Professor Costa-Zalessow for indicating these passages to me. In Greek myth, the souls of the newly dead were required to drink from the waters of Lethe a river of Hades , which aided them to achieve complete forgetfulness of their mortal past before entering the underworld. In Greek myth, the god of dreams who, as a son of Hyp- nos Sleep , assumes the form of humans when visiting mortals during sleep. He is often accompanied by his brothers Icelus who personiies beasts, birds, serpents and Phantasus who transforms himself into rocks, water, woods and inanimate objects along with 1, other male siblings in order to enact the dream.
O mio dolore intenso, smisurato! O me infelice sopra gli altri amanti! O senza alcuna colpa abbandonato! O mia dura sventura! Jealousy Canto XVI Oh wretched me, more so than other lovers! Oh guiltless, thrust aside upon no grounds! Oh thing yet unseen in this universe! Oh my hard luck! Then by such wrath, by such a frenzy grasped, since to his clamor Death turned a deaf ear , furious now, in hand his sword he clasped, her gift to him in times far happier: Throughout his dream rested the unsheathed sword that he had drawn to run through his own breast, such was the reasoning so twisted, crude, against himself, its harm to manifest.
But like a shield, hope lent him fortitude. Without you I am good for naught, and neither would I live on: Io solo odio e disamo, per te, me stesso: Nothing can alter my desire—not fate, place, time, Fortune; neither can Love nor Death! Oh stars, you witnesses of my hard plight, reveal how I so fail and furthermore may die of keeping faith to cruel degrees with those nocturnal trysts and mournful cries! I alone hate and eschew myself for you, though death I would receive! Ed ei risponde al domandar di quella: My right hand, poised for death to end my grief, clutches the sword.
Write as my obsequy: The hurt he felt so struck his heart, so rent, he thought his certain death drew very near. Within the paper, his complaints he folded and called a servant, one faithful and shrewd, In conidence to him, the prince reprised: Be there by dark, and seek out Biancoiore. Hand her this envelope and wait, and then with her response hurry back here again! Bending to the importance of the charge, the servant swiftly takes leave of his lord and gets there on the double, for his passage and pace with loyalty and trust he spurred.
Soon as the damsel spies the messenger, who of their love was entirely aware , she brightens, summons sweet words to inquire: From me, the reason for his pain is hidden, and why he leads a life so sorrow-laden. Soon as she learned of all he would infer in what he wrote and what he left untold , and of his indignation and his anger— that his heart was by Jealousy controlled— cold fear, martyring anguish to endure, gripped her at heart and instantly took hold.
Those pages would have burned from sighs so searing, had not her tears kept them from disappearing! Repeatedly between choked sobs and tears, having read what he wrote, and read again, seeing fault of lovers ingenuous! As long as breath and life in me be found, let not Love pierce me with another wound! As this, my soul, within my lesh so frail, is spoil to dart diverse. Love cannot slay my breast that loves and prizes you alone , lest with your beauty his darts he would hone. To unravel our love she made provision and wove with craft, and perhaps proited.
So cruel is she! By her I was betrayed, and by you, too, falling for traps she laid! Heaven well sees that when you sought your leave from me, my life turned hard, for I without a heart remained! You plucked it from my person when you abandoned me to pain, cruel one! By calling me ungrateful you then ind aire anew a means to skirt my blame!
Prendi pur qual tu vuoi dubbiosa strada: Mancar si sente in tal dolor la vita e la faccia ha tutta di pianto aspersa. Constant I know you; know, too, that a love constant for you does Biancoiore have! To live and die with you do I aspire! Let not that crude steel blade to you lay claim and cover you with an eternal shame!
Go follow any dubious path you will: So pained, she felt that life itself receded, her face wholly awash in tearful sprays. Her pages folded, she expertly brought together and entwined the wax and knot. Those crimson lips now parched from such distress, with her plentiful tears did she, the damsel, moisten the gem in order to impress her image, lovely, proud, upon the seal. Then, perturbed by an anger amorous, to carry back her answer does she call the messenger. Devoted, bowing low, off like an arrow shot straight does he go.
Ha pubblicato diversi romanzi, narrative di viaggi e racconti sia in italiano che in inglese, tra i quali Tiro al piccione , ristampa , Peccato originale , Biglietto di terza , ristampa , Una posizione sociale , ristampa col titolo La stanza grande, , Grafiti , Molise Molise , Il tempo nascosto tra le righe , Detroit Blues , e i romanzi in inglese Benedetta in Guysterland , premio American Book Award, , Accademia , Il paese di Nonsisadove - romanzo telematico, websito arscomica.
Non ne capii molto, ma tre parole strane, belle, incomprensibili mi affascinarono: Leo Spitzer, Martin de Riquer, T. Bergin, Salvatore Battaglia e, ultimamente, Robert Lafont. Il Lafont, che basa il suo studio sul testo manoscritto C della Biblioteca Nazionale di Parigi, che io seguo, ne fa una panoramica: Die Melodien der Troubadours.
Fernandez de la Cuesta, Ismael. New Haven and London, Studi in onore di Angelo Monteverdi.
Urla d'amore (Tascabili. Romanzi e racconti) (Italian Edition) Kindle Edition
La lingua dei trovatori. In Praise of Love. Van der Werf, Hendrik. Et ella lo fetz a gran honor sepeillir en la maison del Temple; e poi en aqel dia ella se rendet monga, per la dolor qe ella ac de la soa mort. A cura di Robert Lafont. Casa Editrice Le Let- tere, Firenze , p. Io mi avvalgo per convalida e guida del Vo- cabolario ragionato del dialetto di Casacalenda, di Antonio Vincelli, Edizioni Enne, Campobasso, Her compendium, On Prejudice: Also a novelist and literary critic, she founded and directs the only poetry prize for bilingual book publication for Italian American poets with Italian poet, Alfredo dePalchi.
Ned Condini is a native-born Italian who has lived in the United States for many years, a fact that makes him thoroughly bi-lingual. After all, it is a plant and I do love greenery. Other plants wait for death to give lesh to roots. I resolve to become a vegetarian. But this Venus Fly Trap is too much for me. It will have to die tossed into the waste can with the bright red lipstick, the blood red nail polish.
I no longer wear. She nods at us knowing we are lovers returning from paradise. Ho cercato di ricordare di darle acqua. Altre piante aspettano che la morte dia polpa alle radici. Propendo a farmi vegetariana. Questa dionea non fotosintetizza in pace. Sta cercando di diventare un animale e io che cerco tanto di essere un albero non lo sopporto. Ci accenna sapendo che siamo amanti che tornano dal paradiso.
Each falls asleep and wakes alone in a dream on a cold shore far from home, without shelter from wind, sun dark, cold, heat. I feel as a tiny breathing thing alone in a vast night no hand anywhere to hold mine. We wake into life sure of dying under the frozen sky and mute stars, glistening with winter light.
We hold hands into new [years, knowing all new years turn old, and listen to the night, snow creaking in mounds, and the air iced from the [Northwind For the sake of the other, we do not say how each together is alone returning from paradise. Ciascuno si addormenta e si sveglia solo in sogno su una spiaggia fredda lontano da casa, senza riparo da vento, sole, buio, freddo, calore. Mi sento un minuscolo oggetto che respira solo in una notte [immensa da nessuna parte una mano a tenere la mia.
Ci destiamo alla vita sicuri di morire sotto il gelido cielo e stelle mute, che brillano di luce invernale. A few bleeding leaves fall amidst wilting greenery. Poison ivy turns red with warning. My ninety-year-old mother still argues with my father, twenty years dead. Their hatred reverberates in a back room of my head, rattling recollections of a lonely childhood. Their loathing for each other colors all my days. I loved him, because he loved me best, but I look like her.
My face and spirit tear at each other. I am the child of hate. A weed sprouts from watery depths, uncultivated, lowers, white and purple, bloom, even in these days of dying leaves. Beyond winter, no one grieves. Italy, — d. America, ] written in Edna St. You died in spring, father, and now the autumn dies. Bright with ripe youth, dulled by time, plums of feeling leaked red juices from your eyes, blood hemorrhaged in pools to still your quivering mind. Alcune foglie sanguinanti cadono sul verde che langue. Il loro reciproco disgusto colora tutti i miei giorni.
Il mio volto e il mio spirito fanno a pugni. Sonetti americani per mio padre —per Donato Giosefi: Vincent Millay Steepletop, N. Vivido di compiuta giovinezza, opacato dal tempo, prugne di affetto gocciavano dai tuoi occhi rosse essenze, sangue emorragiato in polle a calmare la tua trepida mente.
In this russet November woods of Millay, I wear your old hat, Dear Italian patriarch, to see if I can think you out of your American grave to sing your unwritten song with me.
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I carry your silenced poetry with your spirit. I take off your old black hat and sniff at it to smell the still living vapor of your sweat. You wore your heart and soles sore. At forty, not climbing autumn hills like me, you lay with lung [disease strapped down with morphine, hearing your breath rattle in your throat like keys at the gates of hell. Your body was always a iend perplexing your mascu [line will. You illed me with pride, and immigrant tenacity. You are done, unfulilled by song [except in me.
If your dreams are mine, live again, breathe in me and [be. In questi boschi di Millay, novembrini, rugginosi, sfoggio il tuo vecchio cappello, caro patriarca Italiano, per vedere se posso pensarti fuori della tua tomba americana a cantare con me la tua mai scritta canzone. Col tuo spirito reco la tua poesia fatta muta. Mi tolgo il tuo vecchio cappello e lo annuso per odorare il sudore che esala, ancora vivo.
Lavoravi come un mulo, il maggiore di troppi igli, un [magrolino in zuava frusta che negli Anni Ruggenti zoppicava su per i gradini della city, di porta in porta con carichi di giornali del mattino e serali, ciascuno contato un misero soldo sudato per mantenere la famiglia. Ti logorasti il cuore e le suole. Il tuo corpo fu sempre un briccone impastoiante il tuo [volere di maschio.
Mi riempisti di orgoglio e tenacia di immigrante. Hai concluso, adempiuto nel canto [solo in me. Se i tuoi sogni sono miei, vivi di nuovo, respira e esisti in [me. Tu non capisti mai la trama americana. Good night, go gently, tired immigrant father full of pride and propriety. We, your three daughters, all grew to be healthier, stronger, more American than you. The wound that will not heal in me is the ache of dead sensibility. Once full of history, philosophy, poetry, physics, astronomy, your bright, high-lying psyche is now dispersed, set free from your tormented body, but the theme you offered, often forlorn, sheer luminescent soul, glistened with enough light to carry us all full-grown.
The sky was falling. When they laughed, I learned I had a pen for a tongue that could please. Buona notte, viaggia remissivo, stanco padre immigrante pieno di correttezza e orgoglio. Autobiograia incompiuta per mia iglia scritta nel , durante la prima Guerra del Golfo Nacqui nel Il cielo stava precipitando. Dio benedica la pasta! Quando risero seppi che per lingua avevo una penna che dava piacere.
Are you wearing one? Twenty and virginal when raped one midnight in a jail cell by an angry Klansman, Deputy Sheriff of Montgomery County, Alabama—only law for miles around Selma. Ebreo, Polacco, Romania, omosessuale Ventenne e vergine fui stuprata una mezzanotte in una cella di prigione da un rabido Klansman, il vice sceriffo della Contea Montgomery, Alabama—unica legge per miglia nei dintorni di Selma. My greatest moment of joy came in a near death—not when jailed by the Klans- man, but when giving birth to you who came by emergency Cesarean, bright with hope, lovely daughter; do you hear the ambulance of guilt, grieving in your near death birth, the re- birth of your mother, your moment of almost not being new life greeting me in your eyes, my eyes peering back at me, questioning, after the fever [subsided.
Are they yours, Daughter? I edit a book, On Prejudice: A Global Perspective, of xenophobia, ethnocentrism, sexism, racism, and hate the nuclear and oil barons who are your enemy. We cannot love without enemies who bond us together in love—Freud said— unless we see that avarice pours our own garbage and debris back upon us— Smothering us with mutual enemy. Our oil, nuclear, chemical, and germ warfare proiteers hold us all hostage, you, me, and them, to the screams of skulls with their forever gold teeth, lampshades of skin, their ears are ours illed with a siren of guilt from the history book of corpses.
It talks to autumn, Daughter. Its splendor makes us sing. Un sottile ilo di vita goccia sulla pagina mentre i miei occhi diventano gli occhi di un altro: Sono i tuoi, Figlia? Metto insieme un libro, Sul Pregiudizio: Una Prospettiva [Globale, di xenofobia, etnocentrismo, sexismo, razzismo, e odio i baroni nucleari e del petrolio che sono i tuoi nemici. Il suo splendore ci fa cantare. Only middle age girth makes me look maternal. Menopause has left not one kernel of hope in my old ovaries.
Oggi, non vengo o spero di divenire incinta, nessun bimbetto scalpicciante in arrivo. La menopausa non ha lasciato un briciolo di speranza nelle mie vecchie ovaie. It, too, possesses a navel for seeing the world through the skin, has rounded buttocks, good to place against the hand the way earth reminds lesh of its being. Through the eye of the needle, death is a country where people wonder and worry what it is like to live. The sullen wish to live and live soon, to be done with death and the happy want to stay dead forever wondering: Near Bari and Brindisi where the ferry has travelled the Adriatico, to and from Greece for centuries.
Il cupo desiderio di vivere e vivere presto, di farla inita con la morte e la voglia appagata di stare morti per sempre chiedendoci: How strange to view you, piccolo villaggio, with ladybugs, my talisman, landed on my shirt. Ladybugs rest on me at the dig of stone sculptures the Belgian professor shows me. You never returned to your ancient land where now the [natives, simpatici pisani, wine and dine me in their best ristorante. I insist on paying the bill.
- Home.
- Works (146).
- Love Letters to a Sacred Prostitute.
- The Happiest Time of Their Lives.
- Mirror Mirror.
- Top Authors.
They give me jars of funghi and pimento preserved in olive oil—their prize produce to take back home with me. They nod knowingly, when in talking of you, I must leave the table to weep— alone in the restroom, looking into the mirror at the eyes you gave me, the hands so like yours that turn the brass faucet and splash cold water over my face. For an instant, in this foreign place, I have met you again, Father, and have understood better, your labors, your struggle, your pride, your humility, the peasantry from which you came to cross the wide sea, to make me a poet of New York City.
Which is truly my home? Mi mostrano il tuo certiicato di nascita— Donato Giosefi, nato nel — scarabocchiato a penna, su carta che ingiallisce. Quando gli dico che sono una scrittrice, prima della [famiglia americana a ritornare alla casa paterna, di colpo sono nobile! Coccinelle riposano su di me allo scavo di sculture in pietra che il professore belga mi mostra. Non ritornasti mai alla tua terra vetusta dove i nativi, simpatici paesani, mi dan da mangiare e bere nel loro ristorante migliore.
Insisto a pagare il conto. This home where you would have [been happier and better understood than in torturous Newark tenements [of your youth. This land of sunlight, blue sky, pink and white lowers, [white stucco houses, and poverty, mezzogiorno, this warmth you left to make me a poet from New York City, indifferent place, mixed of every race, so that I am more cosmopolitan than these, your villagers, or you could ever dream of being.
This paradoxical journey back to a lost generation gone forever paving the way into a New World from the Old. Maria Lisella has been an editor and journalist for most of her life and has covered the travel industry, a profession that has taken her to dozens of countries.
Her work appears online at FOXNews. Bound; Bible and silk thread. To bring poetry to people is her mission: In , when the blood of the U. She opened the microphone to the city inviting poets, non-poets, ordinary citizens to share their voices on the airwaves. Best known for The Poet and the Poem, which is celebrating its 36th year on the air as an hour-long radio program, Cavalieri con- tinues to produce and host the show on public radio.
Her programs include every Poet Laureate since and a signiicant collection of African-American poets. Cavalieri has written 16 books of poems and 26 produced plays. She lives in Annapolis, Maryland, and was married to metal sculptor, Kenneth C. Flynn who recently passed away. She has four children and four grandchildren. I suoi programmi hanno proposto tutti i Poeti Laureati a partire dal e una notevole raccolta di poeti Afro-Americani.
La Cavalieri ha scritto 16 libri di poesie e ha prodotto 26 opere teatrali. Vive ad Annapolis, nel Maryland, ed era sposata con lo scultore Kenneth C. Ha quattro igli e quattro nipoti. But the African-American link came through poetry rather than cultural or political afiliations. When I heard a new radio station was being planned to go on-air in Washington, D.
I had the love and history on my side I worked three years fundraising and sweeping loors to get a radio station on the air, to establish a platform for poetry. Although I was making poetry available in a way that had not been done before, I still had to prove myself. Gwendolyn Brooks was wary of me, but became a friend; Allen Ginsberg insulted me but eventually respected my work. My most profound memories were of truck drivers, prize-ighters, drunks, grandmothers, who called in to read their own poems. Nel periodo tra il e il aiutavo ad avviare ed insegnare la scrittura presso i campus universitari della costa orientale del College di Antioch, a Washington D.
Quando venni a sapere che una nuova stazione radio sarebbe stata fondata, con trasmissioni a Washington D. Lavorai tre anni raccogliendo fondi e pulendo pavimenti pur di far partire le trasmissioni radiofoniche, per fondare un programma per la poesia. Ricorda dei momenti signiicativi di The Poet and the Poem?
My heritage is an ongoing theme I have only begun to explore, there is so much richness wait- ing, the past has so many stories, but I cannot be objective about its effect on me yet. I have yet to make enough use of it. But the past is all still in my future. Poetry is the way we rinse off language. If it were not for po- etry, we would all talk in slogans and TV commercials. We would use the language of politicians — words with no meaning. Poetry is, as Allan Grossman once said, the way we preserve the beloved.
I see it as the great equalizer, the democratic ideal, the way every person can speak with an inimitable voice, the miracle that each one of us has our own breath and cadence that cannot be sto- len. Poets document what it is to be alive at this moment in history. What would you like readers to come away with from po- etry? I wish and hope they think: I feel less alone now.
E devo ancora utilizzarlo appieno. Useremmo il linguaggio dei politici — parole senza signiicato. Cosa vorrebbe che la poesia lasciasse ai suoi lettori? Desidero e spero che pensino: Ora mi sento meno sola. Thompson is a full time writer and translator and lives outside Oxford, UK. His latest book of poetry is Letter to Auden Smokestack, a verse epistle in rime royal. Pier Paolo Pasolini Although he achieved inter- national fame as a ilm director, Pasolini was irst and foremost a poet and played an important part in Italian literary life as editor, critic and novelist.
While pursuing these many different paths, he continued to write and publish verse throughout his life, including poetry in the Friulan dialect. But it was his novels and screenplays of Roman low life that led to his success in the cinema as director: His collected poetry came out as Bestemmia: Non puoi, lo vedi? You were young then in that May when error Was still alive2… in that Italian May That gave at least the beneit of ardour, That careless, less immorally healthy Time of our fathers, when you — humble brother, Not a father — were ready with a stealthy Hand, ready to sketch out an ideal other But not for us now, as dead here as you In this dank garden bringing light to bear On silence.
Journal of Italian Translation, Vol. VIII, No. 1, Spring | Luigi Bonaffini - theranchhands.com
II Tra i due mondi, la tregua, in cui non siamo. Nei cerchi dei sarcofaghi non fanno che mostrare la superstite sorte di gente laica le laiche iscrizioni in queste grigie pietre, corte e imponenti. Now the wind blows bringing in intermittent drops of rain. II Between two worlds, this is the respite where We have no life. Choices and sacriices… Make no sound in this garden now so bare, If noble.
But all the obstinate lies That deaden life are here for death to know. And in these circles of sarcophagi, Banal inscriptions of these banal folk Show nothing but a lasting transition Set in the graveness of this greyish stone, Brief and imposing. With unbridled passion But no longer any scandal, the burnt Remains of millionaires who came from nations Much grander; as if they were here, the hum Of irony from prince and pederast Whose ashes lie in scattered burial urns And, although turned to cinders, still not chaste.
The silence of the dead here is witness To cultivated silence of these last Remains of men still men, of weariness The weary garden tactfully disguises, The city that surrounds it making less Its splendour in between the pieties Of makeshift shacks and churches.
Le ceneri di Gramsci Although it has to face Harsh weather, the history of this soil is sweet Between these walls and oozes with a trace Of different soil and in its dampness meets Another dampness; these echoes bring back — Familiar from the latitudes replete With English woods that coronet the lakes Misted by sky beside the meadows green As phosphorescent billiard tables Or emeralds: Severe, non-Catholic, elegant as song. And so I come across you quite by chance With hope and old mistrust still on my tongue And ind you in this makeshift lean-to placed Around your grave, your spirit resting here Along with these free spirits.
Ed ecco qui me stesso I feel here — in this quietness where your tomb is Laid, in this country where your tension had No place in this unstable fate of ours, — How right and wrong you were, before the sad Day of your murder, writing the supreme notes3 You did. And bearing witness to the seed Of power with its old traditions not Displaced, these dead attached to ownership That founders in the centuries with its pot Of evil and its grandeur.
But the taps Heard from that hammered anvil, heartrending, Obsessive, if faint, coming from the traps Of poverty, bear witness to its ending. And here I ind myself, poor, in the kind Of clothes the poor admire in window dressing Of garish splendour, but have lost the grime Picked up in long forgotten streets and seats Of trams that give my day a dizzying time. Vivo nel non volere del tramontato dopoguerra: Come i poveri povero, mi attacco come loro a umilianti speranze, come loro per vivere mi batto ogni giorno.
Ma nella desolante mia condizione di diseredato, io possiedo: Poor as the poor, like them I pit myself Against humiliating hopes, like them I struggle every day to keep one step Ahead in my life. Ma come io possiedo la storia, essa mi possiede; ne sono illuminato: Ma in esso impastati quali comuni, prenatali vizi, e quale oggettivo peccato!
But how can I own history When it owns me, has me illuminated: And what use is its light? And so his deeds, Internal and external — all that go To give some body to his life — must needs Be subject to religions, there is no Escape, they take a mortgage out on death To trick the light and light this trick they do.
Ciecamente fragranti nelle asciutte curve della Versilia, che sul mare aggrovigliato, cieco, i tersi stucchi, le tarsie lievi della sua pasquale campagna interamente umana, espone, incupita sul Cinquale, dipanata sotto le torride Apuane, i blu vitrei sul rosa E intorno ronza di lietezza lo sterminato strumento a percussione del sesso e della luce: VI I have to go… and leave you in the sad Time evening brings as it falls softly on The living in the sunlight that turns pallid As it thickens above this part of Rome Turning dark and stirring it, making it Look large and empty.
And the eager longing For life lights up in the distance, split With the harsh rasp of the trams, the raucous And distant shouts in dialect that knit To form a concerto. In those far-off souls That laugh and shout as they drive off, you feel The life in those impoverished houses Where they fritter away the fruitless, real But expansive gift of life: Diademi di lumi che si perdono, smaglianti, e freddi di tristezza quasi marina You feel that any true faith is missing, Life is not life, only survival makes sense — which is happier than life perhaps — in being Akin to the animal world, they mumble Arcane orgasms, the only passion Is for daily existence, whose humble Fervour gives a sense of festival To humble corruption.
In the rumble Of this empty space in history, all Pulsating pause in which life is silent — You feel the pointlessness of all ideals. Sul cippo si leggono solo le parole: Nearby, about the mound and piles of rubble, Illegal shanty housing and the blocks Of lats that almost look clean, young kids play out And in the tepid breeze dance light as socks Pinned out. Elsewhere, dark adolescents pout As well: But life is bustling here, Its folk lost in it like a bright kermes, A fair that leaves hearts full; and here they are Poor, but out for fun this evening; defenceless But empowered, the myth for them reborn… But having in my heart the consciousness Of those who know how history is the mover Will pure passion ever move me again When I know that our history is over?
It is now a protected archaeological site. She lived many years in Rome and now resides in Manhattan. As one critic, Luigi Picchi, succinctly put it, describing his poetry: Today, there are two main anthologies of his work, as well as many individual volumes to peruse, most of them issued by the Milanese publishing house Mondadori. The principal anthologies are: Poesie scelte with introduction by Giovanni Raboni and Di certe cose: Poems — which contains an Afterword by the author.
Risi is also well known for his extensive translation work, especially the many volumes of Pierre Jean Jouve, also selections from Supervielle, Jules Laforgue, Kavafy, and Radnoti. The titles alone indicate his engagement with social themes. Both as a poet and a ilm-maker, Risi is clearly heir to the traditions of Parini and Leopardi, predecessors whom he often evokes within the poems, along with other quite different inlu- ences such as Rimbaud.
A progressive, neorealistic ilm-maker and author, his is a constant critique of hypocrisy, corruption, injus- tice, indeed every abuse of power in contemporary life. Often he mimics the speech of the enemy—governmental meta-language, publicity slogans, etc. A unique, original civic stance is veined with sardonic bursts. If he reduces phenomena to the bones, however, he also expands our sense of a higher destiny for humankind with his noble reminders. I include one of the best of his early poems about the atomic threat that became our nuclear threat: Never tiring of telling us the harm we all have done, Risi seems to me right in step with the ecological-minded poets of today in America and in the world.
I include one poem, a fantasy about freeing birds, that, simple as it is structurally, relates to this theme. Both keep an eye out for the absurd, often domesticating the exotic.