Rocco Scotellaro: C’era l’America /There was once America

“Forever gone is our fathers’ illusion that there is still America.” Rocco Scotellaro

C’ERA L’AMERICA

Rocco Scotellaro

C’era l’America, bella, lontana
del padre mio che aveva vent’anni.
Il padre mio poté spezzarsi il cuore.
America qua, America là,
dov’è più l’America
del padre mio?

America sarà la terra mia
col sole e la luna giganti,
aria mite, cielo celeste,
a operaio e contadino
una notte di festa.
Così parlavano piano:
Piroscafo che dici sí e no
sull’onda che ti tiene in mano,
voglio vedere che sorte avrò.

La Serenata apriva le porte
e notte e giorno aravo il mare
per quella terra che non l’ascoltava.

L’amico morí sparato a quella terra,
gli misero la cera in faccia,
una faccia di cera tale e quale.
Tornarono con la casa e la vigna
per un letto di gramigna
da tanto lontano.

Ora dov’è l’America nostra?
La nonna credeva all’altro mondo,
i figli leggemmo
le facce di cera dei padri.
Non c’è un’America nostra.
È venuto il vento,
è caduta la giostra,
è morto il vicino di casa,
che era stato a quella terra.

America qua, America là,
dov’è più l’America
del padre mio?
(1951)

THERE WAS ONCE AMERICA

Rocco Scotellaro

There was once the America, beautiful, distant,
of my father who was twenty years old.
My father could break his own heart.
America here, America there,
where is that American now,
the America of my father?

America will be my land
with sun and a giant moon,
mild breeze, light blue sky,
for labourers and farmers
a night of celebration.
So they spoke softly:
Steamship, who say yes and no
on the wave that holds you in its palm,
I want to see what my future will bring.

La Serenata opened its doors
and night and day I ploughed the sea
for that land that did not listen.

My friend was shot dead in that land,
they put wax on his face,
exactly that, a face of wax.
They returned with their home and a vineyard
for a bed of weeds
from far far away.

Now where is our America?
My grandmother believed in the other world,
we her children read
the faces of wax of our fathers.
There is no America for us.
The wind came,
the carousel fell,
the neighbour died,
who had been to that land.

America here, America there,
where is that America now,
the America of my father?
(1951)

Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2025

This poem by Rocco Scotellaro, from the collection E’ fatto giorno, sheds light on something so clear to every immigrant from every country in the world (for hundreds of years until, perhaps, today) but which may be very puzzling for those “Americans” who have lost touch with their origins.

“America”, both North and South, was for many a symbol of freedom; it was the land of opportunity. “L’America” rolled off the tongues of numerous peoples across the world, and it meant hope.

In Italy, “ha trovato l’America” is the equivalent of saying he made a fortune, he made a name for himself, he was lucky, he was successful… But already in 1951, Rocco Scotellaro, “poeta contadino”, the farm poet, who, as Carlo Levi stated, “had no cultured roots, if not those of the most ancient and ineffable farm culture”* knew the truth. America is nothing but a dream, nothing more. “L’America” as imagined by our fathers, does not exist. And today more than ever, all we have to do is read the news to know that is absolutely and so heartbreakingly true.

Rocco Scotellaro E’ fatto giorno, introduction by Carlo Levi, Arnaldo Mondadori Editore, 1954. p 9

Picture: My parents. We are all from someplace and sometimes we go to another; sometimes we even go back and forth, as we please, because the world really has no borders that were not made by man.

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