Selected Poems of Giovanni Pascoli Read online

  1909 Publishes the first edition of New Little Poems, thirty-three poems that further develop the familial themes of Little Poems, and the first edition of Le canzoni di re Enzio [Canzoni of King Enzo], inspired by the medieval history of Bologna. This title belongs to Pascoli’s project of promoting national Italian history, conceived during his years at Pisa.

  1910 Publishes the fifth edition of Canti of Castelvecchio to include the eight-poem appendix “Autumn Diary,” dedicated to Maria and set in scenes around San Mauro, Castelvecchio, and Bologna. The director of the hospital in Lucca records liver problems in the poet’s medical report. Pascoli begins to complain about his health in letters.

  1911 Publishes his new collection, Poemi italici [Italian Poems], in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of the Unification of Italy, and the ninth edition of Myricae. Anonymously enters his Latin poem “Hymnus in Romam” [“Hymn to Rome”] in a Rome-based competition on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the Unification of Italy. No first prize is awarded, prompting D’Annunzio to wonder (in a newspaper article) how an authoritative committee could assign only second prize to “the greatest Latin poet in the world to be born since the time of Augustus.”

  1912 January 26, A local doctor and friend notes that Pascoli has cirrhosis and stomach cancer that has spread to the liver. The diagnosis is corroborated by other doctors. February 4, News of Pascoli’s illness is published in local and national newspapers, which begin updating the public regularly. February 17, Pascoli’s health deteriorates rapidly and he is transferred from Castelvecchio to Bologna. Neighboring farmers work through the night to regrade a steep road so the poet can arrive at the nearest train station in an automobile rather than in the less comfortable carriage. In a specially fitted railway car provided by local authorities, Pascoli arrives in Bologna, where he is greeted by city officials, friends, and students. April 6, Pascoli dies, leaving everything to Maria. Eulogizing him in the Giornale d’Italia, D’Annunzio declares Pascoli “the greatest and most Italian poet since Petrarch,” adding that his stature “will be recognized once Italy has modernized its poetic values of old.” April 9, Pascoli’s funeral is held in Bologna and crowded with politicians, academics, and common people. Both San Mauro in Romagna and Barga in Tuscany claim the body for burial, which is transported immediately to Barga after the ceremony in Bologna. Maria has a tomb built for her brother in the chapel of their Castelvecchio home, where she dedicates herself to the preservation of the poet’s papers and his memory for the next forty-one years. October 6, Pascoli’s body is transferred from temporary burial in the Barga cemetery to the Castelvecchio chapel. A friend writes, “At 2pm, the funerary procession started, and it began to rain lightly. But no one cared about getting wet. They really loved him. Houses had draped black from the windows, and storefronts posted signs of Official Mourning . . . Farmers had come from all over the county, and the further we went, the more of them we found. Approaching Castelvecchio, they were so many that they flanked the road on both sides. And they all stood somberly; they had not come just to see their poet but to wish him farewell.”

  from Myricae

  Patria

  Sogno d’un dì d’estate.

  Quanto scampanellare

  tremulo di cicale!

  Stridule pel filare

  moveva il maestrale

  le foglie accartocciate.

  Scendea tra gli olmi il sole

  in fascie polverose:

  erano in ciel due sole

  nuvole, tenui, róse:

  due bianche spennellate

  in tutto il ciel turchino.

  Siepi di melograno,

  fratte di tamerice,

  il palpito lontano

  d’una trebbïatrice,

  l’angelus argentino . . .

  dov’ero? Le campane

  mi dissero dov’ero,

  piangendo, mentre un cane

  latrava al forestiero,

  che andava a capo chino.

  Birthplace

  Dream of a summer day.

  Limitless cicadas

  trilled and quivered.

  Wind from the north

  whipped crumpled leaves

  through a line of trees.

  Sun fell between elms

  in strips of dust:

  From the sky, two clouds

  hung threadbare:

  white brushed

  across wide blue air.

  Tamarisk shrubs,

  pomegranate trees, the far

  throb of a threshing machine

  and the silvery swell

  of the evening call to prayer . . .

  Where was I? The bell

  for the prayer said where,

  in tears, while a dog

  bayed at a stranger

  who walked by, head bowed.

  Alba festiva

  Che hanno le campane,

  che squillano vicine,

  che ronzano lontane?

  È un inno senza fine,

  or d’oro, ora d’argento,

  nell’ombre mattutine.

  Con un dondolìo lento

  implori, o voce d’oro,

  nel cielo sonnolento.

  Tra il cantico sonoro

  il tuo tintinno squilla

  voce argentina—Adoro,

  adoro—Dilla, dilla,

  la nota d’oro—L’onda

  pende dal ciel, tranquilla.

  Ma voce più profonda

  sotto l’amor rimbomba,

  par che al desìo risponda:

  la voce della tomba.

  Sunday Dawn

  What brings those bells

  that ring somewhere near

  and rumble, farther off?

  A song without end,

  silver, then gold,

  in the day’s first shadows.

  Swinging slow,

  your golden voice

  beseeches the sleepy sky.

  In the echoing hymn

  your silver trills–

  I love, I love—Oh, sing,

  sing, you strain

  of gold—wave that swings

  from the sky above.

  But, beneath the love,

  the deeper voice

  of a grave responds—as if

  to the song’s true wish.

  Allora

  Allora . . . in un tempo assai lunge

  felice fui molto; non ora:

  ma quanta dolcezza mi giunge

  da tanta dolcezza d’allora!

  Quell’anno! per anni che poi

  fuggirono, che fuggiranno,

  non puoi, mio pensiero, non puoi,

  portare con te, che quell’anno!

  Un giorno fu quello, ch’è senza

  compagno, ch’è senza ritorno;

  la vita fu vana parvenza

  sì prima sì dopo quel giorno!

  Un punto! . . . così passeggero,

  che in vero passò non raggiunto;

  ma bello così, che molto ero

  felice, felice, quel punto!

  Back Then

  Back then . . . I was happy, so happy.

  That’s gone. But still,

  such sweetness reaches me here

  from the infinite sweetness back then.

  That year. All the years now done,

  all the years to come, and you can’t,

  my thoughts, you can’t bring

  any year but that one.

  That year was a day, and a day

  without match, without future or past:

  life before and life after

  is only illusion, or shade.

  An instant . . . So fast, it left

  unarrived, but an instant

  so real, so fine, so alive,

  I was happy, happy, back then.

  Fides

  Quando brillava il vespero vermiglio,

  e il cipresso pareva oro, oro fino,

  la madre disse al piccoletto figlio:

  Così fatto è lassù tut
to un giardino.

  Il bimbo dorme, e sogna i rami d’oro,

  gli alberi d’oro, le foreste d’oro;

  mentre il cipresso nella notte nera

  scagliasi al vento, piange alla bufera.

  Fides

  When twilight glowed a rare, brilliant red

  and the cypress seemed gold, a gold dusting,

  the mother explained to her very small son

  that, up there, it’s nothing but gardens.

  Her son is asleep and dreams of gold

  branches, trees made of gold, golden forests.

  Meanwhile, outside, in the blackness of night,

  the cypress weeps rain, and wars with the wind.

  I puffini dell’Adriatico

  Tra cielo e mare (un rigo di carmino

  recide intorno l’acque marezzate)

  parlano. È un’alba cerula d’estate:

  non una randa in tutto quel turchino.

  Pur voci reca il soffio del garbino

  con ozïose e tremule risate.

  Sono i puffini: su le mute ondate

  pende quel chiacchiericcio mattutino.

  Sembra un vociare, per la calma, fioco,

  di marinai, ch’ad ora ad ora giunga

  tra ’l fievole sciacquìo della risacca;

  quando, stagliate dentro l’oro e il fuoco,

  le paranzelle in una riga lunga

  dondolano sul mar liscio di lacca.

  Puffins of the Adriatic

  They talk between the sky and sea

  (a streak of pink on dappled swells).

  The cerulean dawn of summer:

  not a sail on the turquoise screen.

  But streams of southwest wind bring in

  the laughing, idle voices: puffins.

  Their lazy morning chatter rides

  on crests of quiet waves.

  In the calm it seems like sailors’ slang

  that now and again drifts in to shore

  on the slight swish of the undertow

  while framed against the gold and flame,

  a line of little trawlers sways

  on the slickly varnished sea.

  from L’ultima passeggiata

  Arano

  Al campo, dove roggio nel filare

  qualche pampano brilla, e dalle fratte

  sembra la nebbia mattinal fumare,

  arano: a lente grida, uno le lente

  vacche spinge; altri semina; un ribatte

  le porche con sua marra pazïente;

  chè il passero saputo in cor già gode,

  e il tutto spia dai rami irti del moro;

  e il pettirosso: nelle siepi s’ode

  il suo sottil tintinno come d’oro.

  Galline

  Al cader delle foglie, alla massaia

  non piange il vecchio cor, come a noi grami:

  chè d’arguti galletti ha piena l’aia;

  e spessi nella pace del mattino

  delle utili galline ode i richiami:

  zeppo, il granaio; il vin canta nel tino.

  Cantano a sera intorno a lei stornelli

  le fiorenti ragazze occhi pensosi,

  mentre il granturco sfogliano, e i monelli

  ruzzano nei cartocci strepitosi.

  from The Last Walk

  They’re Plowing

  In the field, where vines gleam

  the color of rust, and morning fog

  rises like smoke from the brush,

  folks are plowing: one prods slow cows

  with slow cries; others seed; with a hoe’s

  patient blade one covers the furrow;

  for the sly sparrow delights in the seeds

  it sees from its branch on a mulberry tree;

  the red robin, too—from bushes, its jingling

  falls like the chime of gold coins.

  Hens

  Unlike us fools, the farmer’s wife

  won’t weep a tear for falling leaves:

  shrewd roosters guard her henhouse;

  And in the peace of dawn, she hears

  the calls of helpful hens: her granary

  is packed; wine sings inside the vat.

  At dusk the girls all gather near

  to shuck the corn while singing rounds,

  and impish boys jump laughing

  into heaps of crackling husks.

  Lavandare

  Nel campo mezzo grigio e mezzo nero

  resta un aratro senza buoi che pare

  dimenticato, tra il vapor leggero.

  E cadenzato dalla gora viene

  lo sciabordare delle lavandare

  con tonfi spessi e lunghe cantilene:

  Il vento soffia e nevica la frasca,

  e tu non torni ancora al tuo paese!

  quando partisti, come son rimasta!

  come l’aratro in mezzo alla maggese.

  La via ferrata

  Tra gli argini su cui mucche tranquilla-

  mente pascono, bruna si difila

  la via ferrata che lontano brilla;

  e nel cielo di perla dritti, uguali,

  con loro trama delle aeree fila

  digradano in fuggente ordine i pali.

  Qual di gemiti e d’ululi rombando

  cresce e dilegua femminil lamento?

  I fili di metallo a quando a quando

  squillano, immensa arpa sonora, al vento.

  Laundresses

  A plow without oxen or strap

  sits in a field half gray, half black.

  In the mist, it looks forgotten.

  And up from the pond, the sound

  of laundresses, beating wet cloth

  against stone as they sing:

  Strong winds rain the petals down

  and still you won’t come home.

  You left! And left me alone—

  a plow on untilled ground.

  Track

  Past riverbanks where cattle

  calmly graze, the track unfurls

  a dusky line that shines a long

  way off. And neatly drawing back,

  the poles recede in rows to overlap

  their wires through a sky of pearl:

  What woman’s howl grows louder,

  then fades to troubled sighing?

  From time to time those wires ring,

  a giant harp that sings in the wind.

  Festa lontana

  Un piccolo infinito scampanìo

  ne ronza e vibra, come d’una festa

  assai lontana, dietro un vel d’oblìo.

  Là, quando ondando vanno le campane,

  scoprono i vecchi per la via la testa

  bianca, e lo sguardo al suol fisso rimane.

  Ma tondi gli occhi sgranano i bimbetti,

  cui trema intorno il loro ciel sereno.

  Strillano al crepitar de’ mortaretti.

  Mamma li stringe all’odorato seno.

  Quel giorno

  Dopo rissosi cinguettìi nell’aria,

  le rondini lasciato hanno i veroni

  della Cura fra gli olmi solitaria.

  Quanti quel roseo campanil bisbigli

  udì, quel giorno, o strilli di rondoni

  impazïenti a gl’inquïeti figli!

  Or nel silenzio del meriggio urtare

  là dentro odo una seggiola, una gonna

  frusciar d’un tratto: alla finestra appare

  curïoso un gentil viso di donna.

  Faraway Festival

  A little endless peal swells, reverberates,

  as if the sound’s escaping from a festival

  held far away, behind oblivion.

  There, when bells come lilting down,

  the old folks by the road uncover

  thin white hair, and keep their gazes low.

  But wide-eyed children watch the clear sky

  tremble all around them. They shriek

  to hear the firecrackers crack.

  Mothers lean in close, pull them back.

  That Day

  After so much
flap and brawl

  the swallows left the ledges

  of the church between the elms.

  The rosy belfry must have heard

  a thousand murmurings that day,

  a surge of urgent swallows to their nests.

  Now, in the quiet of the afternoon,

  I hear a chair scrape wood indoors, the rustle

  of a skirt, abrupt: a woman’s gentle,

  puzzled face appears beside the window.

  Già dalla mattina

  Acqua, rimbomba; dondola, cassetta;

  gira, coperchio, intorno la bronzina;

  versa, tramoggia, il gran dalla bocchetta;

  spolvero, svola. Nero da una fratta

  l’asino attende già dalla mattina

  presso la risonante cateratta.

  Le orecchie scrolla e volgesi a guardare

  chè tardi, tra finire, andar bel bello,

  intridere, spianare ed infornare,

  sul desco fumerai, pan di cruschello.

  Carrettiere

  O carrettiere che dai neri monti

  vieni tranquillo, e fosti nella notte

  sotto ardue rupi, sopra aerei ponti;

  che mai diceva il querulo aquilone

  che muggìa nelle forre e fra le grotte?

  Ma tu dormivi sopra il tuo carbone.

  A mano a mano lungo lo stradale

  venìa fischiando un soffio di procella: