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genet son of genet wrote:

>Erminia -- My italian is not too good... mais voila...
Non preoccuparsi, a
>me la arte poetica è
>       virtualmente l'arte di traduzione. >>


Dear Genet son of Genet,

I am very glad you are pointing at this specific issue since it is the main
argument of my thesis on the Italian poet, literary critic and translator
(Goethe, Milton, among many others) Franco Fortini that the translation
follows in fact the
same procedure of poetry from various and complex points of view.

Of course, although I spent years to learn (and I have not finished
learning neither one never will) how to translate into one's own the
poetics of another author, the process whereby I can reproduce my owm
poetics by means of a self translation into a language I do not possess is
a pindaric if not ridiculous and desperate attempt at communicating one's
verse. Luckily I am fortunate enough as to be able to rely on the good will
of three close friends of mine who have translated and still try to
translate my poems (I say still, because my texts have turned more obscure
than they used to be), who happen to cultivate the art of translation, say
Peter Dale (he , a poet himself, went for Dante's Divina Commedia,
Laforgue, Corbiere, Villon), Michael Pickering (Finland) and Brian Cole
(who publised a wonderful translation of Neruda and recently a translation
of Cattafi). If you wish to visit Brian Cole's web-site on poetic
translations you will find a stunning selection of authors: So, please,
link to http://www.brindinpress.demon.co.uk

Here is my revised self-translation of what was "don't ask me why.." and
now is "About mu mother", which is truly my 110th ode to my lost mother,
who I adored and whose language, action and behaviour I imitate in every
sense, but without managing to be as nice as she was and as creative.
(note, my entire collection Macchina, is dedicated to her and employes her
view of the world , even her voice. I wrote those poems while she was
seriously affected by a severe stroke which caused her an interesting
language aphasia, so some of the poems are interaction of voices, aiming to
pay a tribute to her original grace).

 
“About my mother”   

don’t ask me whythe unfathomable eyes that watch me
match the washbasin above which
I used to comb my hair
till dawn while being immersed
in my mother’s inconclusive speech 
I have transcribed her lips
and recalled her voice without meaning
as an eye  fixed or the pointing finger 
of a god a police officer 
 
although I stand here between a little stream
and two angelic stones
for how much I have been misinterpreted
it delights my memory to recall those
four or five sentences that I had to ponder
being as I am their only judge
 
 
and from the washbasin
the water of beauty and filth overflows
while a man with baritone voice sings 
but with neither anguish
nor historical remorse
as an insatiable sing-song  

a faithless and hopeless outcry
for  a love worth  his life
the price of no more than three shillings a month
 
but, where is my mother?
I remember I left her seated in her hushed solitude
in a beautiful garden
wearing her blue flowery housedress
still  able to defend her pockets
with the brave determination of an orphan
and to break without any contrapuntal scheme
other people's coherence
 
oh! there she is
where I thought she was.
In spite of death in spite of the silence
imposed on her by a marble condition,
look how she lifts the cerulean glance
of her torn face towards me
and smiles blows a kiss 
closing the lips
as if she was kissing the air.
 
 
27 July 2001