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Uccelli Mario Luzi il vento è un’aspra voce che ammonisce per noi stuolo che a volte trova pace e asilo sopra questi rami secchi. E la schiera ripiglia il triste volo, migra nel cuore dei monti, viola scavato nel viola inesauribile, miniera senza fondo dello spazio. Il volo è lento, penetra a fatica nell’azzurro che s’apre oltre l’azzurro, nel tempo ch’è di là dal tempo; alcuni mandano grida acute che precipitano e nessuna parete ripercuote. Che ci somiglia è il moto delle cime nell’ora – quasi non si può pensare né dire – quando su steli invisibili tutt’intorno una primavera strana fiorisce in nuvole rade che il vento pasce in un cielo o umido o bruciato e la sorte della giornata è varia, la grandine, la pioggia, la schiarita. |
Birds Mario Luzi The wind is a harsh voice that cautions us flock who sometimes find peace and shelter on these dead branches. And the formation resumes its sad flight, migrating into the heart of the mountain, violet carved into the inexhaustible violet, a bottomless mine in space. The flight is slow, piercing with difficulty the blue that opens beyond the blue, in a time that is on the other side of time; some let out sharp cries that fall heavily and which no walls reverberate. What resembles us is the sway of the tips in the moment – we can almost not imagine nor say it – in which on invisible stems all around a strange spring blossoms in sparse clouds that the wind herds in a sky either wet or burnt and the outcome of the day is varied, spells of hail, of rain, of sun. Translation ©Matilda Colarossi |
From the collection by Mario Luzi, “Onore del vero“, 1957, (Neri Pozza, Venezia). In a beautiful article by Pier Paolo Pasolini, published in “Passione e ideologia” (Garzanti, Milano, 1973), the author underlines the main characteristics of the landscape that emerges from the poems in the collection: « […] in the land where Luzi lives, there is always rain, or almost always, or strong winds or freezing cold. If the sun does appear, it is unhealthy and makes one sick; if the sky is clear, it is haunted and heavy, tormenting the body of the ill, the convalescing, the psychasthenic… This “choice” of landscape within a real landscape, corresponds to a similar, let’s say, sociological “choice”. […] We have huts along river banks in the outskirts, groups of shacks, refugee camps, diners as sad as caverns, etc. The protagonists that fill these places are not just poor but wretched, tramps, alive and colourful in their social extravagance, but atrociously grey. “
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