Fumo di Sigarette / Cigarette Smoke - Sibilla Aleramo

Many people might have heard of Sibilla Aleramo due to her outstanding 1906 book, Una Donna (A Woman), one of the first feminist texts to be published in Italy. Here she is, photographed above, elegantly posing surrounded by books and tapestries that any contemporary hipster would kill for.

Well, besides being a prose writer, she was also a talented poet.

Here I publish a translation of her poem 'Fumo di Sigaretta', made of short, quick lines and evanescent images of stillness, slowness and desire. The poem is part of a larger 1921 collection, 'Momenti' (Moments), available in Italian for free on Project Gutenberg.

If you'd like to take a look at the original Italian, I've attached it below! It struck me because it relies so strongly on simple visual images, managing to convey really effectively a feeling of passing attraction. I hope you enjoy! Buona lettura.

CIGARETTE SMOKE

Cigarette smoke.

A tentative smile.

Then smoke again,

spiralling lightly

from my lips,

from his lips,

every night

a few minutes

from his balcony

from my window

spiralling lightly

the birth of a smile,

and he knows not my voice

I know not his,

only,

amidst the spiralling smoke

I like his eyes

he likes my eyes,

every evening

a few minutes

a greeting

of spirals

of smoke

gesture of lightness and grace

irresistible gaiety of silence

the tiniest dot of fire

there, above the sleepy courtyard,

nothing more.

So,

while work awaits by the lamp,

my soul awaits

a few minutes

every night,

for a few nights,

spiralling, light

spiralling, light.

---

FUMO DI SIGARETTE

Fumo di sigarette.

Accenno di sorriso.

E di nuovo fumo,

spire leggere,

dalle mie labbra,

tutte le sere

qualche minuto,

dal suo balcone,

dalla mia finestra,

spire leggere,

sbocciar di sorriso,

e non sa la mia voce

e non so la sua,

solo,

traverso le spire di fumo

i suoi occhi mi piacciono,

gli piacciono i miei occhi,

tutte le sere

qualche minuto,

un saluto

di spire di fumo,

lievità graziosa di gesto,

silenzioso punto di fuoco

alto su l’addormentato cortile,

e niente più,

così,

mentre presso la lampada

il lavoro attende,

qualche minuto

tutte le sere

per qualche sera,

spire leggere

spire leggere.