poetry
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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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The sparkling Duomo in the darkness
Stone outlined in green and rose and white As if a paper cut out of a 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? Do we see the price paid for its making? The darkness hidden in the light? The craftsmen who made it are gone now…
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Family
Harmonies rising, faces aglow Mother, father, daughter Spanning human creation Daughter fulcrum of their song Within, low lighting Illumines and shadows. If you saw them apart One, you would not imagine them. Yet they are. And such things can be. Beyond, outside their sacred space, all is amiss And hate and anger reign, And our differences we can’t forget. Image by Ri_Ya
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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…
