It’s National Poetry Day here in Blighty. I am, of course, caught completely unprepared, on the hop, and devoid of any fresh effusions of my own to thrust eagerly at you all. In fact, it is Thursday evening, and National Poetry Day is very nearly over, and I haven’t so much as read a smigeonette of a versicle all day long, let alone prepared musings on this year’s theme of ‘Identity’. It’s jolly hard to muse at work when your beloved colleagues are discussing Zinédine Zidane in tones of indecorous enthusiasm [But you digress - Ed].
On the way home in the drizzle, darkening skies, and misted bus windows, I did however permit myself a quick mope on Autumn, decidedly here and declining to be mellow. The first poem that I ever learnt by heart, back in the Other Country where I grew up and where learning by rote was still ‘in’, was on Autumn. I was six years old. We were all instructed to learn a particular poem by heart, one written by a Nineteenth Century Nobel prize-winner of whom the Italians are inordinately proud, Giosué Carducci. Is it me or is that an odd choice of pedagogic tool for children who can’t quite spell their own names yet? But I can still visualize the school text-book, and the cheerful picture of candyfloss trees in shades of copper and gold on the same page. I clearly remember not understanding above half the words, and loathing my teacher, who only the day before had caught me picking my nose and had dragged me round every class in the school to expose me to every other pupil as the vile little bogey-ferret I clearly was. To said other pupils’ credit, they did not take an uncharitable advantage of this humiliation, they had plenty to be going on with as it was, foreigner, unnaturally tall, stupid unpronouncable names all three of them spelt with letters that didn’t exist in the Italian alphabet, disconcerting ability to read with my mouth closed…
[But, as I said, you digress. Massively. Stop it at once or I shall hire a violin]
Nevertheless and despite and possibly because of all this, I memorised the blasted poem. I was never asked to stand up and recite in in class, probably just as well, as I was the only one who had it word perfect, and I would have thus elegantly signed my own death warrant. And the next year, my little sister memorised it, and we used to chant it together as we walked home from school. Lord knows why, again, neither of us understood above half the words. Eventually, by osmosis, we knew what it meant. And I still chant it to myself while walking on cold and drizzly days.
[Oh, I am this close to resigning. Along with Dorothy Parker I say: ‘Tonstant Weader fwowed up.’ Tiddly pom.]
Here is the poem. I couldn’t find a nice smooth translation by a professional, so I append my own horrible one.
San Martino
La nebbia agli irti colli
Piovigginando sale,
E sotto il maestrale
Urla e biancheggia il mar;Ma per le vie del borgo
Dal ribollir de’ tini
Va l’aspro odor de i vini
L’anime a rallegrar.Gira su’ ceppi accesi
Lo spiedo scoppiettando:
Sta il cacciator fischiando
Su l’uscio a rimirarTra le rossastre nubi
Stormi d’uccelli neri,
Com’ esuli pensieri,
Nel vespero migrar.
The mist clings to the steep hills,/ Drizzling salt,/ While under the Mistral/ The sea howls and foams.//But in the streets of the town,/ From the seething of the vats/ Goes the harsh smell of the wines/ To cheer the soul.//It turns on burning kindling/ The crackling spit/ The hunter, whistling stands/ At the doorway to watch//Among the reddish clouds,/ Flocks of black birds,/ Like exiled thoughts,/ Migrating into the sunset.
I beg of you do not tell me the translation sucks. I know it does. It’s nearly midnight, of course it sucks. But it’s better than babelfish’s version.
Heh, I wouldn’t know whether the translation sucked because I can only speak English and very bad Japanese. But I get a strong sense of the atmosphere from your translation. I like the idea of flocks of black birds like exiled thoughts migrating into the sunset… although I do think it was quite a bizarre “learning device” for a teacher to get 6 year olds to memorise it.
Hey, when I was a kid I memorised a bit of Love’s Labour’s Lost from a story cassette we used to constantly play, and now, whenever the weather is cold I chant that one to myself! I thought I was the only person who did that. It is especially funny to say it in Australia because it seems quite ridiculous and melodramatic here in the wimp’s “winter”:
When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Of course “a merry note” has to be said in the grimmest voice possible, like on the story cassette.
Left by Helen on October 6th, 2006
We were forced to memorize the Prologue to Canterbury Tales in the original Old English by our senior class English instructor. This was not particularly difficult for me since I had been playing violin and piano for 9 years at that time and had memorized several concertoes and sonatas by that time. A short verse was hardly a challenge. But the rest of the class struggled painfully over the task. Meanwhile, I began my project, which was comparing Macbeth with Titus Andronicus. From the perspective of 31 years, I wonder at my marvellous arrogance in my choice of topic.
Left by healingmagichands on October 6th, 2006
I am amazed that small children should have to memorise such a difficult poem … is the school system in Italy still like that? I also can’t comment on quality of your translation, but I liked the poem, especially the birds “like exiled thoughts”. That image is especially autumnal and melancholic.
Left by Charlotte on October 7th, 2006
I enjoyed your Italian verse. All translations lose something of the original (hmmm - did someone say “King James’s Version?) yet your’s still supplies imagery and feeling and place.
The only verse I was able to memorise at school was ;
“The common cormorant or shag
Lays eggs inside a paper bag.
The reason you will see, no doubt
Is to keep the lightning out.
But what those unobsevant birds
Have never noticed is that herds
Of wandering bears come with buns
And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.”
Left by archie on October 8th, 2006
Poetry is one of the hardest things to translate, imho.
Not only is it impossible to translate word-by-word because, usually, the result will not make any sense - if you want to stay true to the rhythm and rhyme, you’ll end up with a very ‘freely translated’ version…
Left by Titania on October 9th, 2006