Grazie ad Alan Mansfield per avere inviato
questa splendida
traduzione di un poeta italiano molto importante
e geniale: Umberto Saba.
I membri della lista che interpretano i testi
Europei apprezzeranno questa
poesia e questa traduzione di pregevole
livello.
(Thank you to Alan for having sent this splendid
translation of an italian poet who is very important and genial: Umberto Saba.
The list members who can interpret European texts will appreciate Alan's
translation which is of a remarkable level).
Erminia (apologies for X posting)
>Dear Erminia
>Is this a new thread? I believe on looking through
the backlog I came across some references to Montale. How can >people
stick so long with threads like "A Terrible Work"? Basta indeed!
Italian is everything you say it is. Let's talk >Italian
poets. I offer the following and my translation. I have some
other translations at >http://www.brindinpress.demon.co.uk
and at my own site http://www.abraxaspress.co.uk
.
Umberto Saba:
Mezzogiorno
d’Inverno
In quel momento ch’ero già felice
(Dio mi perdoni la
parola grande
e tremenda) chi quasi al pianto spinse
mia breve
gioia? Voi direte: Certa
bella creatura che di là passava,
e ti
sorrise. Un palloncino invece,
un turchino vagante
palloncino
nell’azzurro dell’aria, ed il nativo
cielo non mai come nel
chiaro e freddo
mezzogiorno d’inverno risplendente.
Cielo con qualche
nuvoletta bianca,
e i vetri delle case al sol fiammanti,
e il fumo tenue
d’uno due camini,
e su tutte le cose, le divine
cose, quel globo dalla
mano incauta
d’un fanciullo sfuggito (egli piangeva
certo in mezzo alla
folla il suo dolore,
il suo grande dolore) tra il Palazzo
della Borsa e
il Caffè dove seduto
oltre i vetri ammiravo io con lucenti
occhi or
salire or scendere il suo bene.
===========================
Translation by Alan
Marshfield:
Mid-afternoon in Wintertime
That time in time I still had happiness
(may God forgive
a word so great and dreadful),
who was it that reduced my puny
joy
almost to tears? It was, you’ll say, a certain
beautiful
creature who passed by you there
and smiled at you. But no, a child’s
balloon,
an ultramarine, meandering balloon
in the light blue of air,
the native heaven
never so bright as on a clear and cold
mid-afternoon
in middle wintertime.
Sky with some tiny drifts of whitest cloud
and
house windows with sunlight all on fire
and tenuous smoke from chimneys
here and there
and over all things the divinity
of things: that bubble
slipped the fingers of
a child’s incautious hand (and he was crying
with
such distress, ringed by a crowd, with such
unhappiness) between the Stock
Exchange
and the Café where from a window-seat
I watched with wonder and
with shining eyes
the rise and fall of what had been his
joy.
================================
Also, is anyone in this room interested in discussing their
own poetry? Or topics like narratology; language poetry; the
authenticity of the verse, of the author; obliquity in poetry? I am not
young & have nothing against isms, so I'd rather not tangle with
that thread.
Regards to you all.
Alan
