poetry
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The Infinite – Giacomo Leopardi
Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,e questa siepe, che da tanta partedell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude. Ever dear to me has been this empty knoll, And this hedgerow, which walls away so muchOf that last horizon from my sight. Ma sedendo e mirando, interminatispazi di là da quella, e sovrumanisilenzi, e profondissima quïeteio nel pensier mi fingo; ove per pocoil cor non si spaura. E come il ventoodo stormir tra queste piante, io quelloinfinito silenzio a questa vocevo comparando: e mi sovvien l’eterno,e le morte stagioni, e la presentee viva, e ‘l suon di lei. Così tra questaimmensità s’annega il pensier mio:e ‘l naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare. But…
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Giacomo Leopardi’s Alla Luna – To the Moon
O graziosa luna, io mi rammento O friend, o gracious moon, once more returns to mind Che, or volge l’anno, sovra questo colle Io venia pien d’angoscia a rimirarti: E tu pendevi allor su quella selva Siccome or fai, che tutta la rischiari. The turning of the year, when over this wooded knoll, I came, full of pain, admiring thee: And there you hung over that wood And then as now, everything bathed in light. Ma nebuloso e tremulo dal pianto Che mi sorgea sul ciglio, alle mie luci Il tuo volto apparia, che travagliosa Era mia vita: ed è, né cangia stile, O mia diletta luna. Yet clouded and tremulous from the…
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The Swallows and the Buddha
Feet sink in the melting sand As paces carry me forward Along scribbled threshold between land and sea. Ahead, a mist masks an unfamiliar treeline, And beyond, fading reaches of headland. La sabbia squaglia sotto i miei piedi Mentre i passi mi portano avanti Per la soglia scarabocchiata fra terr’ e mare Avanti, una foschia maschera alberi sconosciuti E più in fondo, svanenti promontori estesi. Sad and slivery-green, the waves carry their stories ashore. Bubbled lines flee down the sandy slope, Too quickly to be read before they, Vanish forever into the sea. Far out on the water, fishing boats bob in the early morning light. Verde-argenteo e tristi, le…
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What an Italian novella really taught me about Shakespeare …
It’s a strange place to look, you’d think. Shakespeare is an English poet. No … He is the English poet. So surely there would be little to learn about him in an Italian story, particularly one written before he was even born. But that’s the great thing about taking a turn down the side roads of history. You never know what you’ll discover. Earlier I wrote an article titled: It’s Funny, but Shakespeare is Teaching me Italian Stories. This is a complement and looks at the relationship between Italy and Shakespeare from the opposite direction. But where to begin? That maybe there was a grain of truth in a Groats-worth…
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Ekphrasis on Ekphrasis: Haegue Yang’s Changing From From to From
“The … title drawn from a poem by … Li-Yuan Chia evokes … migration between locations.” NGA Riotous, It fills the room as I enter. It could be from here but is not. I know … I found it seeking something, Something from another where. That fragmented facing … To abyss … … between … … … Home-now-here … … and … … … Home-there-then; To the voids That run like veins Like fissures in my world. Still, I seek, A weft strong enough to warp The forever borders, … The everywhere borders: … … The incisions Bleeding in our … unnamed … … unfelt … … … unsought ……
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Luke Whitington: un poeta australiano con un cuore italiano
Luke Whitington abita a Sydney, ma ha trascorso vent’anni della sua vita in Italia. Quegli anni hanno lasciato un senso di mancanza incancellabile nella sua vita che trova espressione nella sua poesia straordinaria: in questa ritorna più volte alla sua esperienza italiana. Da giovane ha scelto, come dicono gli anglofoni “la via meno seguita” o “battuta” in italiano: Luke abbandonò una carriera al Ministero degli Affari Esteri australiano per intraprendere gli studi della lingua italiana all’Università di Perugia in Umbria. Le sue avventure continuarono a svolgersi, diventando un imprenditore di successo. Lavorò con soci italiani al restauro di edifici del patrimonio paesaggistico dell’Umbria. Il suo percorso lo ha portato in’Irlanda…
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Luke Whitington: an Australian poet with an Italian heart
Luke Whitington lives in Sydney, but twenty years of his life were spent in Italy. Those years have left an indelible longing in his life which has been expressed in his extraordinary poetry which returns again and again to his experience of Italy. As a young man he chose a path less travelled: leaving a career in the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade to undertake language studies at the University of Perugia in Umbria. His adventure continued to unfold as he became a successful entrepreneur. Working with Italian partners he restored heritage buildings in the countryside of Umbria. His journey was to take him to Ireland (where he began…
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We will decide who comes here …
We will decide who comes here, Who crosses our golden shore. We will decide who comes here … we said And from our fair southland, Our words went forth, And in a far aged white continent, Our words were heard. Our words weren’t done yet. After long years, The echoes return, Return from faraway. We will decide who comes here … From “Mare Nostrum” the echo returns. Our waves – Our sea. We in possessive. Did you know, That we can paint Lines above the waves And build from them a wall? And are the children still flung overboard? Red meat for that loyal hound which still Waits, waits for…
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Isabella’s Castle Prison and Her Poetic Escape
Isabella di Morra looked out from a height. Below, in a deep chasm, flowed a river. Her river, the Sinni. Isabella turned her eyes to the sea, searching the horizon for a ship. It was the ship that would carry her free from her prison, her own family’s castle. D'un alto monte, onde si scorge il mare,miro sovente io, tua figlia Isabella,s'alcun legno spalmato in quello appare,che di te, padre, e mi doni novella, ...From a high mountain, where sea is seen,Often I gaze, Isabella, your daughter,For the gleam of any glistening beam,Which of you, father, brings news across water ...Ch’io non veggo nel mar remo né vela (così deserto…
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