Antonia Pozzi

Dai diari

10 settembre 1937

L’angelo è tornato ieri sera. Abbiamo percorso insieme la strada nuova, fino al cimitero. Dai monti minacciavano nuvole di temporale. I contadini uscivano dalle cascine con grandi tele di sacco per coprire i mucchi di fieno e difenderli dalla pioggia. La Chiesa del cimitero è proprio in disordine: quando potrò disporre del mio denaro lascerò qualche cosa perché l’aggiustino. Sono rimasta molto tempo con la testa appoggiata alle sbarre del cancello. Ho visto un pezzo di prato libero che mi piace.

Vorrei che mi portassero giù un bel pietrone e vi piantassero ogni anno rododendri, stelle alpine e muschi di montagna. Pensare di essere sepolta qui non è nemmeno morire, è un tornare alle radici. Ogni giorno le sento più tenaci dentro di me. Le mie mamme montagne. Di colpo il campanile, che pare un albero anche lui, così verde, è scoppiato a suonare. E un bambino è venuto giù in volata su di una vecchia bicicletta, fischiando. Ho detto: ‘Angelo, torniamo’, e intanto cercavo di scoprire se il profilo dei Sassi Rossi non somiglia a una donna addormentata.

Ma niente. Come ho netto negli occhi il contorno della Schläfende Griechen sul lago di Traun. […]”

Antonia Pozzi

From her diaries

September 10, 1937

The angel returned last night. Together we walked along the new road to the cemetery. From the mountains, storm clouds hung suspended. The farmers left their homes with huge burlap sheets to cover the mounds of hay and protect them from the rain. The church near the cemetery is in a sad state: when I am able to dispose of my own money, I will bequeath something so they can restore it. I stood for a long while with my head leaning on the bars of the gate. I saw a section of free grass that I like.

I would like them to bring down a big beautiful rock for me and to plant rhododendrons every year and edelweiss and mountain mosses. The thought of being buried here is not even dying; it is returning to my roots. Every day I feel they are more unwavering within me. My mother mountains. All of a sudden the bell-tower, which, being so green, also looks like a tree, started sounding. And a child flew down on an old bicycle, whistling. I said, “Angel, let’s go back,” and in the meantime I tried to understand if the profile of the Sassi Rossi resembled a sleeping woman.

But to no avail. How precisely I see the contour of the Schläfende Griechen on Lake Traun.”

Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2020

On December 2, 1938 Antonia Pozzi was found unconscious (most likely as a consequence of an attempted suicide by overdose) in a ditch in front of Chiaravalle Abbey, a suburb of Milan. She died the next day, on December 3; and she was buried in the cemetery in Pasturo.

Antonia Pozzi wrote as many as 300 poems, which were published posthumously, some edited by her father who also destroyed her papers .

This note from her diary, dated September 10, 1937, talks about the very cemetery in which she would later be buried.
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