Oh my gosh! Arg! It's been ages since I've posted something; it's taken a while to get into the right head space and non-busy-ness space to dedicate a few hours to translation again, but I've finally managed and I am happy to be BACK!
This wonderful badass woman at the window is Amelia Rosselli, daughter of the English political activist Marion Cave and Carlo Rosselli, activist of the anti-fascist resistance. She has been widely translated into English and has also written in English, so my work here is no novelty, but I love this poem and just wanted to share my version. Fun fact: she was herself a translator and she has produced an extensive translation of Sylvia Plath's poetry into Italian.
This poem is about spring (seasonal!) but it's actually not at all. HA! It's a bomb of powerful, piercing, weird images, and it's very moving. I struggled quite a lot in the translation, which I suspect might change in the next few months, but this is a first version - apologies for roughness. The first verse especially has a g r e a t Italian word (abbrividisce) which I have sacrificed for the sake of rhyme (I'm weak), but also mostly because I could not think of the right translation for it. I might change that when the time comes!
Enjoy this,
Buona lettura! x
Spring, abundant spring,
your crooked streams, your pinewoods
they dream of different adventures, and you do
not have the fear I hold, of winter
when the wind turns cold.
You strip the horticulturists of their branches, you plant
seeds of unease inside my soul (which, docile,
lies on her knees), you prove to me
that all that has an end
has none.
Or perhaps you think you can vanish, cunning one
hid by a cloud
impossibly burdened with rains.
But my cry, or rather my weariness
that cannot crawl itself back to the shelter
shakes up the leaves, which yesterday
looked like longings, and tenderness
and disperse my desire now.
I would need to live, to sing of
these beaches, or mountains, or creeks,
but I cannot find a way: you killed your grain
in my throat.
You resemble me: who, between deaths,
sigh a sigh of relief
but I do not stir; or do I? For
while you laugh you look like you will die.
And the people do curse: they are prouder
of you than of the space that afflicts you
leading you into my arms. And I
hold on to a pale mummy who
does not stink a bit: out of her eyes come seeds,
cries, commas and medicines,
and you do not bring the mountain into the house
and you cannot fructify, these
sisters who look over you.
Indeed you look like a corpse inside its box
and I have nothing else to do but to knock
the nails into your face.
Primavera, primavera in abbondanza
i tuoi canali storti, le tue pinete
sognano d’altre avventure, tu non hai
mica la paura che io tengo, dell’inverno
quando abbrividisce il vento.
Strappi rami agli orticoltori, semini
disagi nella mia anima (la quale bella
se ne sta in ginocchio), provi a me
stessa che tutto ciò che ha un fine
non ha fine.
Oppure credi di dileguarti, sorniona
nascosta da una nuvola di piogge
carica sino all’inverosimile.
Ma il mio pianto, o piuttosto una stanchezza
che non può riportarsi nel rifugio
strapazza le foglie, che ieri
mi sembravano voglie, tenerezze anche
ed ora sperdono la mia brama.
Di vivere avrei bisogno, di decantare
anche queste spiagge, o monti, o rivoletti
ma non so come: hai ucciso il tuo grano
nella mia gola.
Assomigli a me: che tra una morte
e l’altra, tiro un sospiro di sollievo
ma non mi turbo; o mi turbo? del tuo
sembrare agonizzante mentre ridi.
E bestemmia la gente: è più fiera
di te che dello spazio che ti strugge
portandoti fra le mie braccia. E io
stringo una pallida mummia che non
odora affatto: escono semi dai suoi
occhi, pianti, virgole, medicinali
e tu non porti il monte nella casa
e tu non puoi fruttificare, queste
sorelle che ti vegliano.
Sembri infatti un morto nella cassa
e non ho altro da fare che di battere
i chiodi nella faccia.
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