Giorgio Caproni said his poetry was “in shirt sleeves” until, after editing, it wore a jacket. But whether in shirt sleeves or jacket, it is an extraordinary thing of complex simplicity.
Oh cari Apparivano tutti in trasparenza. Tutti in anima. Tutti nell’imprescindibile essenza Dell’ombra. Ma vivi Vivi dentro la morte come i morti son vivi nella vita. Cercai di contarli. Il numero si perdeva nel vuoto come nel vento il numero delle foglie. Oh cari. Oh odiosi. Piansi d’amore e di rabbia. Pensai alla mia mente accecata. Chiusi la finestra. Il cuore. La porta. A doppia mandata. | Oh dear ones They appeared all in transparency. All in heart. All in the indispensable essence Of the shadow. But alive Alive within death like the dead are alive in life. I tried to count them. The number was lost in the emptiness like in the wind the number of the leaves. Oh dear ones. Oh odious ones. I wept with love and with anger. I thought of my blinded mind. I closed the window. My heart. My door. Double locked. Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2022 |
Poetry is what we feel in the moment we read it: Caproni was talking of himself, of his past lives; as I translate, I think of others, those living far away and those lost forever.
For my father.
Reblogged this on Paolo Ottaviani's Weblog.
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