Italian Stories
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Down by the Queanbeyan River
Down by the Queanbeyan River Sulla Sponda del fiume di Queanbeyan A river too is like a library, Its banks like storied shelves, Its memories written on water, And in the nearby land. Anche un fiume è come una biblioteca, Le sue rive come piani di scaffali, Le sue memorie scritte sull’acqua, E sulla terra vicina. The suspension bridge still bounces like it always did, And on each end the obelisks Painted brilliant white, Hold up the spiralled cables, Steeled taught across the gulf, Across the space between one world And that which is beyond. Il ponte sospeso dondola ancora come sempre faceva, E su ogni lato gli obelischi Dipinti…
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Echoes of Other Tongues
The poem below plays with language and voice. Recently I have been publishing poems in bilingual form: an original accompanied by a translation (English-Italian or English-Arabic). My poem below experiments with blending language and meaning into a single whole. La seguente poesia gioca con la voce e con la lingua. Di recente ho pubblicato poesie bilingue: un originale con una traduzione (inglese-italiano o inglese-arabo). Questa poesia prova a fondere due lingue e significati in un singolo insieme. In Andalusia, when Arabic was still the language of government and literature, writers did not confine themselves to one language, but could mix Romance and Arabic or Hebrew together. Muwashah poetry (a particular…
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Marengo Chicken: the Battle that put Napoleon on the Throne
My poem below is about the Battle of Marengo (Piedmont, Italy, 14 June 1800) and “Marengo Chicken“, a dish inspired by the battle. In June 2024, we visited the site of the battle and stayed in Cascina Grossa, (which is where the French were based during the battle). The next day we visited the fine museum in Spinetta Marengo dedicated to the battle and the campaign. We were there again (by coincidence) on the anniversary date of 14 June. Questo mio poema in seguito tratta della Battaglia di Marengo (Piemonte, 14 giugno 1800) e del “Pollo alla Marengo“, un piatto ispirato alla battaglia. Nel giugno del 2024, abbiamo visitato il…
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Not the pages are divided
This poem was inspired by the process of translation and thinking about the physical book (the parallel text bilingual publication) in which the translations live. It explores the relationship between the words and pages. Questo poema fu ispirato dal processo di tradurre e pensare al libro fisico (la pubblicazione bilingue con pagine affiancate) in cui si trovano le traduzioni. Il poema esplora la relazione fra parole e pagine. Non sono le pagine ad essere divise Not the pages are divided Inglese a destra, l’italiano a sinistra, Divisi l’un dall’altro: oriente è l’oriente e ovest l’ovest, Uno spazio di un pollice, ma fin quando le vedremo, parole da pagina a pagina,…
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Annie Vivanti – What is your country and what your faith?
Annie Vivanti was a celebrated writer in her own day, and her works were translated across Europe. Her poem “ego” (used in the sense of “I”), caught my attention. It appeared in her first collection of poems and captures the orientations of youth. She is not yet twenty when she writes it, and she uses it to introduce herself and her poetry. Yet she lives in a world in which she doesn’t fit. The world’s boxes are not designed for her, and the world struggles to find the right pigeonhole in which to put her. As the poem which follows makes clear, it is a process which she resists. Of…
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Salvatore Quasimodo: Uomo del mio tempo – Man of my time
Uomo del mio tempo Man of my time Sei ancora quello della pietra e della fionda,uomo del mio tempo. Eri nella carlinga,con le ali maligne, le meridiane di morte,t’ho visto – dentro il carro di fuoco, alle forche,alle ruote di tortura. T’ho visto: eri tu,con la tua scienza esatta persuasa allo sterminio,senza amore, senza Cristo. Hai ucciso ancora,come sempre, come uccisero i padri, come ucciserogli animali che ti videro per la prima volta. Still, the stone and sling rest easy in your handMan of my time. There you were in the cockpit,on wings of evil, casting meridians of death,I saw you — in your wagon of fire; at the scaffold,Standing…
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Giacomo Leopardi’s Il Sabato del villaggio – Village Saturday
La donzelletta vien dalla campagna, In sul calar del sole, Col suo fascio dell’erba; e reca in mano Un mazzolin di rose e di viole, The maiden returns from the meadows, At setting of sun, Bringing her bundle of herbs; and in hand, A garland of roses and violets, Onde, siccome suole, Ornare ella si appresta Dimani, al dì di festa, il petto e il crine. And, as is custom, The next day, she prepares and adorns For the festival, her breast and her hair. Siede con le vicine Su la scala a filar la vecchierella, Incontro là dove si perde il giorno; E novellando vien del suo buon tempo,…
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Alessandro Manzoni’s Farewell to Como
It’s no accident that Italy used to be many countries, as we discovered on a recent road trip around northern Italy. Even that subset of Italian landscapes is full of stunning contrasts. Mountains and sea and thousands of years of diverse horticulture create different environments wherever you go. The climate on the east of the Italian peninsula is drier and different to that on the west. The north is more influenced by the climate of the continent and the Alps. The south is bathed in Mediterranean waves and the Sirocco wind from the Sahara. Of course much is shared, and the swallows are certainly unfazed by such changes. For them…
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The sparkling Duomo in the darkness
The sparkling Duomo in the darkness Il duomo scintillante nel buio Stone outlined in green and rose and white As if it were paper cut out by giant’s hand As if the stone itself glows with inner light Tourists, unthinking, circumambulating this glimmering Kaaba. Like them, I am in awe, shivering at its wonder Tier upon tier, panel upon panel drawing eye upward Into lost and questioning darkness above This endless flow of humanity, come to worship its beauty Do we do well to come here? And in the beauty, do we find some echo of the nameless? Pietra tracciata di verde, rosa e bianco Come se fosse carta tagliata…
