“I feel sorry for men who take others seriously, and am highly amused by those who take themselves seriously.” – Aldo Palazzeschi
| La fontana malata
Aldo Palazzeschi Clof, clop, cloch, cloffete, cloppete, clocchette, chchch…… E’ giu’, nel cortile, la povera fontana malata; che spasimo! sentirla tossire. Tossisce, tossisce, un poco si tace…. di nuovo. tossisce. Mia povera fontana, il male che hai il cuore mi preme. Si tace, non getta piu’ nulla. Si tace, non s’ode rumore di sorta che forse… che forse sia morta? Orrore Ah! no. Rieccola, ancora tossisce, Clof, clop, cloch, cloffete, cloppete, chchch…. La tisi l’ uccide. Dio santo, quel suo eterno tossire mi fa morire, un poco va bene, ma tanto…. Che lagno! Ma Habel! Vittoria! Andate, correte, chiudete la fonte, mi uccide quel suo eterno tossire! Andate, mettete qualcosa per farla finire, magari… magari morire. Madonna! Gesù! Non più! Non più. Mia povera fontana, col male che hai, finisci vedrai, che uccidi me pure. Clof, clop, cloch, cloffete, cloppete, clocchete, chchch… |
The sick fountain
Aldo Palazzeschi Clough, clop, cluck, cloughing, clopping, clucking, ckckck…… And down, in the yard, the poor sick fountain; such anguish! to hear him cough. Coughing, coughing, a bit then stop… again. coughing. My poor fountain, your malady to me is just heartbreaking. Silence, no more spurting. Silence, no more sound not a bit perhaps… perhaps he’s dead? Horror Oh! no. Here he is, again coughing, Clough, clop, cluck, cloughing, clopping, hckhckhck… TB is killing him. Dear god, that incessant coughing of his is killing me, a touch is fine, but no more… Such whining! Oh, Habel! Victoria! Get going, get moving, start closing, that spring, that coughing of his is killing me! Get going, start putting something to make it finish, perhaps… perhaps to perish. Holy Mother! Lord! No more! No more. My poor fountain, with the pain you feel you’ll see you’ll kill even me. Clough, clop, cluck, cloughing, clopping, clucking hckhckhck… Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2019 |
Aldo Palazzeschi (1885-1974) had a distinguished career as a writer and poet, essayist and story-teller. His most famous novels include The Materassi Sisters (1934), The Cuccoli Brothers (1948), and Roma (1953).
The poem is a sequence of onomatopoeic words that describe the sounds that the poet hears from his room. The fountain down in the courtyard is “sick”, and making him sick, and it is making all the coughing noises of a person with “la tisi”: it cloughs, and clops, and clucks; and it is just breaking the poet’s heart. He can’t bear to hear it and asks his maid and butler to go down to close the tap, to take it out of it’s misery, and there is, in fact, a moment of silence until…”clough, clop, cluck…” the fountain starts up again.
In this poem, like in many other works by the author, the subject is an everyday object, and the poet’s attention is focused on one of life’s most simple things, personifying it, giving it life.
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