Il braccio destro (Contemporanea) (Italian Edition)

I had thought the following translation of a poem by Trilussa, another Romanesco poet, was finally and after much struggle finished when I had this down on paper: To Mimi Do you remember our first rendezvous behind the Convent House, alone together in the cloister? Here Carlo kissed Mimi. I saw you once more, just as you had been, wearing a pretty lilac dress. Fui io che scrissi: I wrote, Twelve February, nineteen hundred. Here Charley kissed Mary. I think it might have been the chance of rhyming Mary whimsically with a Romanesco word in the original, jeri yesterday , which first inclined me toward the English names.

Also I was fascinated by how, in this poem about the passage of time, the poet had handled words that marked off time: What difference did the month make when everybody knows that given the right weather in Rome, the noonday sun can glitter as brightly in February as in May? Trilussa had been Trilussa since he was eighteen. He even signed his name Tri.

But he was born Carlo Alberto Salustri. For a poet who described his poetry and his personality as a series of masks, this mention of his almost-forgotten well, forgotten by me anyway! Also, as the months went by, it dawned on me that February is not May, no more than age is youth or disillusion hope. Carlo, Mimi, and the month of May too were all written back into the poem. While I was at it, I changed Rosa, who had been Rose in the English, back to her original name, but Paul, whose name in Romanesco was Pasquale, stayed Paul to rhyme with the wall on which he had carved his name.

Now, I thought the translation was finished, and I submitted it, just as it appears at the beginning of this article, in a volume of translations from Trilussa for the University of Arkansas Press. One of the outside readers for the University of Arkansas Press, how- ever, going over the manuscript before its publication, did not think the translation of the last line was finished: This is one of those few instances in English where what everybody says is an error and what is correct is pedantic.

Paul could have been in love with Rosa in or or even in What difference does it make? I could translate by the numbers. Vistas of alternate endings opened before me. To be systematic, I began with I had scored with my first shot. The grammar was correct with- out being pompous, the rhyme was perfect, and the line meant pretty much the same as the original: I read the English to myself aloud. The present perfect tense seemed to imply that if only Paul pulled himself together, and did something, he might still come out all right.

Paul was a dead person; I was making him sound like a failure in the business world. I changed the tense. The problem was more than the tense; it was also the too active rhyming verb, done. And do would not do when I got to Carlo could address his fellow lover across the centu- ries instead of merely meditating on his fate. This was more comic than the Romanesco, but not as kind. In the original, the emotion goes outward; self pity blossoms into sym- pathy. By ending in you rather than me, Carlo seems to be taking not only consolation, but satisfaction in knowing that someone is worse off than he is.

Translating a little closer to the origi- nal might help: But there were more numbers. I might try three again, varying the last line: What am I feeling sorry for myself for? For some reason I was fond of this solution anyway. Maybe the technical flaws gave it a kind of humor in accord with the sardonic Romanesco, but nobody that I showed it to liked it. The even makes perfect sense: But at the end of the sentence, when the sentence could have ended perfectly well without it, even sounds as if the translator stuck it there simply for the rhyme, which he did.

Other abstract words, such as predicament or situa- tion or of course state either bring on other associations in conflict with the original or are too vague. It is late in the poem to be introducing an Arkansas accent, rhym- ing been with ten. Also, it evokes the metaphysical question of whether Paul, having died, is now experiencing Purgatory or worse, a question that has no place in this poem.

I wrote more, with rhymes for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen There must be better endings, but mine get worse. But did my language sound conversational enough throughout the poem? Ma io ero innamorato del Provenzale. Il punto interrogativo era comunque questo: Io sono passato attraverso questi cicli, e ne scrissi. Le lingue di queste poesie sono state esplorate, controllate e comparate prima di essere state tradotte Poesia provenzale in dialetto molisano e lingua. Cosmo Iannone Editore, Isernia La similitudine allegorica mi risporta al traduttore-esegeta.

Vedi anche Annalisa Buonocore. Dialettali e Neo dialettali in Inglese. Prefazione di Cosma Siani. Edizioni Cofine, Roma, Born in in Santarcangelo di Romagna, Raffaello Baldini pub- lished six poetry collections, all written in the romagnolo dialect of Italian: Intercity, was published by Einaudi in Baldini wrote three theatrical mono- logues: Carta canta, Zitti tutti!

There are no further allegorical, liturgical or philosophical significances to this con-credendo, with prefix? They do not accompany him up onto the stage to confront the huckster-performer wearing the shabby jacket? After fleeing the lower levels of the theater that has flooded with water, the narrator climbs flight-of-stairs after flight-of-stairs, opens door after door, and meets a card-reader with cards all laid out on a table; is this card-reader a man or a woman? The translator wants to get this exactly right. How can I explain it? He was in great pain. Each word cost him.

Not a small plate. Not a huge plate. Is this an evocation of a particular line of po- etry? The verb tenses must be changed: His most recent collection was awarded the Campana Prize. Solitude, Outsider, Small Talk. Each poem moves towards and resists Death. His narrators also wander into anacoluthon, that is to say ending a sentence with a different structure from that with which it began.

His poems employ the rhetorical techniques that form the backbone of argu- ment: The rhetorical techniques of argument are defined in this way: The translator read it late one night, intending to phone the next day to ask if it was possible to get a copy of the music. There was a message on the answering machine. The translator was feeding paper into a printer, catching yet more errors. Cartridge out of ink. A computer talking back: White stacks on floor, packages prepared for release to known addressees to reach the unknown interlocutor.

The window was open in Milan. Here it is, he said. I go ahead and just let him say it: This is an order! Do you need glasses? I was soaked, a faucet? Damn, could he have hypnotized me too? Small Talk I had bad dreams all night, all these snakes, how did you make this coffee? I was just about do go down to see you, and so have you finished the skirt? I say that, what are they racking their brains about? He is cur- rently on the faculty at Bennington College, where he teaches Italian literature.

He also works as a writer of Italian films for DVD release. The main reason is translation. The English in the translation of the novel regularly tends to- wards the very linguistic medietas Gadda takes every possible step to avoid. It also offers extensive com- mentary in the form of linear notes. The importance of the linguistic elaboration, indisputable in Gadda, are of primary concern to the translator. Much effort is being made in the present version to preserve the diatypes lexical variety of the original, where possible.

Given the impossibility of translating into another language the aura parlativa peculiar to an environment, the translator must, however, try to conserve, in some way, the heterogeneity of registers that the introduction of colloquialisms and dialects represents. This new translation is a small part of the renewed understanding of this great literary work. Synopsis In Fascist Rome the novel takes place in , the young police in- spector Francesco Ingravallo called don Ciccio for short , a detective-phi- losopher from the southern Italian region of Molise, is called on to investi- gate a jewel theft that has taken place in an apartment building at , Via Merulana.

In the building lives a couple, Remo and Liliana Balducci, friends of Ingravallo: Three days after the robbery, whose investigation is so far inconclusive, Ingravallo is shocked by the news that Signora Balducci has been found murdered in her home. He rushes to the scene and takes part in the preliminary inquiry, wondering whether there is any link between the two crimes.

It also abounds indirectly, via remembered citations from others in speech from the mur- dered Liliana Balducci — an anomaly in a novel where the Signora is central, though largely silent. Ceccherelli, backed by the other two, corroborated down to the last detail both the order received by the poor Signora, more than two months before, and the sundry phases of the readying of the fob: In all honesty, I just focus on doing my job, as above board as possible. Anyway just to be on the safe side, I chucked it right in this special drawer here I got for that stuff, just right as soon as I got it pried out of the setting with the pliers, without even laying a pinky on it, like.

The pliers I ran over to the barber to have disinfected with alcohol: E come un cappone in mezzo a tanti galli! Il ciondolo doveva consegnarlo a Giuliano in persona. Il cassiere—capo ragionier Del Bo conosceva Liliana: Like a capon in the middle of a bunch of roosters! The one you estimated at two thousand lire? I want to give that one away as a present. The one you figured was worth nine and a half thousand? You know to whom I mean! Liliana herself had insisted on explaining everything to Amaldi: Ceccherelli traced with the nail of his little finger the clean contour of the stone, green, seal mounted, that is to say slightly overhanging the setting, and backed with a thin gold plate, in order to hide and encase the uncut face.

Easier said than done. But after those three depositions in his defense by the three jewelers, that were middling enough, there was the one, better still, by the head teller of the bank: According to the bank balance on the savings account passbooks , it turned out that Liliana had withdrawn the ten thousand lire there, just on January Del Bo, the head teller, knew Liliana: Oh yes, he remembered it like yesterday: Una bella signora come lei.

Domenica 20, nella mattinata, ulteriori indicazioni del Balducci ai due funzionari: Ed ecco il dente. In dieci anni de matrimo- nio, a momenti, che, che! I medici aveveno parlato chiaro: Nice little smell, just take a whiff. Fresh from the Mint. I practically played the part of mother when he was a baby. The table, in fact, overflowed onto the shelves, and from there to the cabinets: All smoky and stifling, the charming Cacco atmosphere, in a syn- cretic little fragrance sort of like a barracks or the upper gallery of the Teatro Jovinelli: Beat the tower of Babel on a shopping day.

In ten years of marriage, almost, not even a token: The doctors had laid it on the line: So that out of those ongoing disappointments, those ten years, or nearly, where the pain, the humiliation, desperation and tears had put down roots; from those use- less years of her beauty those sighs dated, those ahs, those long glances at every woman, not to mention the ones with a baby in the oven!

Er maschietto nostro de quattro chili: Avemo preso li passi avanti Ragguagli e rapporti di subalterni, parole e carta scritta: She looked at the girls; returned, in a flash as by deep-felt, despondent signal, the bold glances of young men: The pure assent of a fraternal soul: But out of the dark manger the years stampeded, one after the other, into nothingness.

That mania… for forking out double bed-sheets to the maids, insisting on putting up dowries, push- ing folks who asked for nothing better to tie the knot: Ate her heart out: Our eight pound kiddo, two pounds a month. The bride, poor kid, comes in with her guy, preceded by a belly like a hot air balloon at the fireworks at San Giovanni.

Naturally they were a little embarrassed. I say to them, laughing: It was at this point, his face ashen, that Ingravallo begged leave to shove off: Reports and memoranda from subordinates, voiced or in writing: Femmine tutte, e nel ricordo e nella speranza, e nel pallore duro o ostinato della reticenza e nella porpora del non—confiteor: Roberto De Lucca shoulders sagging, with a bearing that seemed tired, absorbed. He saw him pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, engrossed in unknown cares. The door closed behind him. Even that notion of wanting to die if no kid came: And now from the talk of the husband, made garrulous by hardship, by his sense of being at the center of attention and collective commiseration A hunter, he was!

Saw himself tramping in with a bagged hare, shouldering his gun, muddied boots, panting hounds , needing to get it off his chest after the blow: Buttafavi and Alda Pernetti stairway A , whose brother counted for an extra six. Females all, demon- strating that widespread sensitiveness, in consequence: Females all, both in memory and hope, and in the hard, stubborn pallor of their reticence and the purple of the non-confiteor which dottor Fumi, those days, was soliciting them to recall in detail, with the courtesy and tact which set him apart during the whole of a long and busy career the just reward of which, today, is his nomination to the position of sub-prefect of Lucunaro, adnuente Gasparo: His latest book of translations is From Adam to Adam: Giorgio Roberti Poet, essayist, translator, editor, founder and presi- dent for thirty years of the Centro Romanesco Trilussa, Giorgio Roberti energetically promoted Romanesco language, culture and poetry.

His translation into Romanesco of Er Vangelo seconno S. Marco has been much praised and often reprinted. Note on translation G. Belli, writing sonnets in Romanesco in the early nineteenth cen- tury, gave an example for Italian poets with his sonnets that showed how dialect could convey the energy of conversation more effectively than stan- dard language.

We translators of dialect into English in the United States do not have dialects to convey that energy precisely, so we try to make our verse sound like people talking. This would seem impossible for A Stick in the Eye, a story over twenty-seven centuries old, but Roberti helps with his deft details and his sudden shifts of style, and makes translating his poem a pleasure, though difficult. You call your country Greater Greece, because you dine on greater grease I guess--and stronger wine!

Tell me what your name is. Anyone will swear I am. But are you single? Do you have a wife? Hitched to the single life.

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Then the poor fool fell, fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut in the Colosseum at a festival. Some promised they were able to slip him a little gift beneath the table; and others talked about friends in high places. Like it or like it not, when all talk ended, all that the lottery threw up were four pathetic bastards no one ever protected.

E mentre Lui strillava la natura diventava rugosa e penzierosa: Chi te fa piagne come un regazzino? Nessuno che me leva, sarvognuno, tutto er punto de vista personale Furious, frantic, fast, Ulysses struck it deeper and turned it like a merry-go-round. At once that moribund volcano hurled forth great eye fragments and little wads of jell out of his monster brain. He yelled a yell enough to raise goose pimples on the world. As he was screaming, Mother Nature frowned, wrinkling her great face, and started to stir and raised up mountains from the level ground.

Beholding earth beneath them relandscaped, many a luminous, uneasy star turned into a comet and escaped. Are you all right? Why have you pulled your cave door shut and hid yourself away from us and out of sight? No One, god damn it! Then, hey, shut the fuck up and quit your belly aching. E le stelle me dicheno: He has published two po- etry chapbooks: His poetry has been included in numerous anthologies and published in local, regional and national magazines and newspapers. His principal works include: Note on translation The dialect I have translated is referred to by local people as Lancianese, that is the language of Lanciano, a city of 30, inhabitants in Abruzzo.

Although people familiar with Abruzzese dialects in general have proved helpful, at times I needed to consult with people who grew up in Lanciano in order to obtain the full flavor of a particular word or expression. Lancianese, like all languages, has evolved over time. Some words and expressions are now extinct.

Only go backwards or even better stay nailed to the spot where you find yourself! Love and song My love, I would compose for you a song one of those hammered and forged in fire, polished the way it should be and blended with notes that are shiny and passionate. I speak and afterwards you speak And what do we say?

My Life My life: A sky that often has a hole that at certain times makes like a small window: A wind that, sometimes, if it stops leaves the dry leaves by my feet; What do you find that is good? Of a rose the only thing that you can pick up is a leaf! A brooklet, even that at times, leaves the stains of melancholy and goes, without getting dirty with mud, singing all by itself along the way. The Song To those who no longer sing, the spirit of life is tasteless To those who sing more, the voice of the heart gets more flavor Concetta I Concetta, your petticoat is too hot swinging every which way as you walk!

Cuncette, nche ssu passe vacce piane: Lanciane Bande e campane!

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Concetta, step more softly as you go: Concetta, my God, why are you running? Take it easy as you walk or the folds of your dress will not fall right! Lanciano Bands and bells! Here is my dear Lanciano exactly the way it is. Snow All ruffled and with those tiny eyes soaked through and through, that wee bitty sparrow under that snowfall, wretched little thing, looked up at the sky and gave out a cry.

He looked for pity from saints and angels at least to keep the snow off of the roof? Bagpipes Snow falls and I hear the sound of footsteps; it is really him, it is the piper that, when I was a kid, just seeing him for me was a good time beyond compare! But how goes it, if one -- is the bagpipe and the other one -- is the song one sings why, why, do the oncoming years go by more than the festival shines through my tears? He has published articles on Luzi, Montale, Tobino, and film.

His translation focuses on Paolo Ruffilli and Davide Rondoni. In these ca- pacities, Rondoni has his finger on the pulse of Italian poetry. Three problems present themselves. First, as a translator, I feel humbled and unnecessary: Second, in this lyric unpretentiousness, cultural- linguistic differences arise. How does one reproduce the cadences that follow a rhythm found somewhere between thought and dialogue?

How does one translate a word that simultaneously exists as the beginning of a new thought as much as it exists as a continuation of a previous thought? Central Park, fine autunno, alberi di seta elettrica e color sangue nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono si aprono poi piano che si spengono, ombra che sta venendo, aria che si oscura.

Io chiedo a Oonagh: Senti che grida di barche invisibili. Cosa succede in questa poesia? And it starts, the frosty crown of the skyscrapers, to glisten on the more somber throng in the streets. You hear the shouts from invisible boats. In the dark bay. What is it that happens in this poem? Ripartirai con un lieve turbamento, quasi un ricordo e i silenzi delle scansie di oggetti, dei benzinai, dei loro berretti, sentirai alle tue spalle leggero divenire un canto.

Non ho avuto gradoni di pietra su cui disteso perdere sotto il sole il lume della mente, addormentando. My son, my traveler, your hell, your virtue might be your dog-like or angel-like hearing that detects the turning of the planets and a pill falling into a cup two floors below, where two seniors citizens attend to each other. This roaring love will be your father, your real one. Stop off for a spell in this highway rest-area, from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again I had avenues, wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories of by-passes, the open arms of a poor mother veins through which all sorts of things come into the city.

I had tree-lined avenues or swift bouts of vertigo between steel walls and tinted glass. But during the night, when night does come, they recast themselves, new avenues shadowy, lonely avenues, when tall streetlamps illuminate them and the latest adverts fade out. Then they move delicately, branching, perhaps the whole city turns on itself; some end at a castle, others at a cathedral, others dissolve beneath the orange lights of a highway junction — the avenues breath in the night with their wide black plane-trees, their subway gates and sad, singsong lullaby sleeping over the children.

E mentre lui cadeva tu bruciavi maternamente. And as he fell you burned maternally. But your arms on the windowsill before turning back to carbon and in a recollection were comets, Brooklyn bridges of love in the night outside of Milan. And I have taken them [from you, lady, leave those arms to this faraway dance, to the music that I and you from two shores in the shadows eternally share. The guy who for the whole trip stares at the sealed bag in front of him, the girl with the dyed hair and a pierced lip who wants to tell her life story to a stranger.

Leggo nella rivista delle Ferrovie: Materia che non crede a se stessa — come questi viaggiatori, nel sonno che ingigantisce i vagoni nella sera. I read in the Railway magazine: Matter that does not believe in its own being — like these travelers, in a slumber that amplifies the train cars in the evening. She was also awarded an NEA in translation. Raffaele Carrieri was born in Taranto, and lived a vaga- bond life in his teens and early twenties.

He was only 15 when he was wounded, a serious injury to his left hand. He went back to Taranto, but after a brief stay, he sailed again around the Mediterranean visiting various ports including those along the coast of Africa. He worked at many jobs to support him- self, and on his return to Italy, worked as tax collector for two years.

It was during these two years that he started writing poetry, the poems that were collected in Lamento del gabelliere In he went to Paris where he lived for several years among the poets and painters of the time, and where he started writing articles about his travels. He settled for good in Milan , and worked as art critic. In addition to several books of poetry, some of which won awards, including the Premio Viareggio, he wrote many books of art criticism, and biographies and studies of poets, sculptors and painters.

Translating Carrieri In the poems that I translated Carrieri uses many of his briefly in- habited identities as masks, creating a multiplicity of selves: At times, he even identifies with the inanimate. The adolescent search for identity is given body, substance, voice. And all the personae have some- thing in common but are also different. In translating his work, the challenge was in creating a voice that sounded like the Carrieri in my head: A man who often looks over his shoulder, and narrowly escapes; who comes face to face with death and is seriously wounded, his wounded, damaged hand giving him yet another identity.

But also a weary man of no age, or even old, who expects nothing, wants nothing. The challenge was to create this voice, but also to preserve the variation in tone from poem to poem, the simplicity or complexity of narrative, the muted mu- sic. Their short takes and sharp images. Their impatient, hurried runs. Also, the shade and connotations are slightly different in English. In poems such as these, there is no room to move.

Like the poet, I put my trust in the image. Vedevo sul comodino La ciotola di latte Riempirsi di tenebra E questo ancora vedere E distinguere il bianco Dal nero mi dava piacere. Altro non ricordo Di quella sera. Piccola morte So questo, era un soldato Con un paio di scarpe nuove Che accanto gli stavano A vegliarlo giorno e notte.

Each of us knew It was the last evening. My eye and the bowl Were links In the same chain. The day after I survived the other. Small Death I know this: He was shot in the chest And every time he coughed He turned his sky-blue eyes To look at the shoes That watched like dogs The infirmary cot. He died at five in the morning Saying only these words: Non ho niente Non ho niente Proprio niente Che sia mio. Anche le mani Hanno cessato Di essere mie. Even my hands Have ceased to be mine.

They belong to this bony gun which in the dark resembles me. Waiting for Nothing Light has not been my friend On the earth nor water my sister. The amiable rain water That like a mother puts to sleep The old tax collector And the young frog. I would have liked to close the sky Like a simple door To remain all day Hidden in the grass Waiting for nothing. Journal of Italian Translation Poems in English by Rina Ferrarelli translated into Italian Dreamsearch I was back in that other country again last night those narrow streets familiar and strange.

I walked on the worn stone in the shadow of houses looking for a door looking for a face and again I woke up too soon. Back to the Source Granite and river stone worn by walking, wide sloping steps with short rises the steep descent but not the straight path of a torrent sharp turns and small wide bends where walls jut out alleys come in I always go up in my dreams upstream back to the source.

At your features, your expression. She wanted you to smile off the frame, inside the frame and sometimes you did. Divestiture She unpinned the folds of white linen eloquent of place, loosened the loops and braided knots, and combed her hair into a bun. She untied her apron, took off one by one the pleated skirts, the black jacket with wide velvet cuffs, the padded camisole, the long shirt articulate with lace.

Then stepped into a dress skimpier than a slip, and naked, exposed like that, my grandmother came to America. Linens Plain weaves, twills and herringbones, woven at home linen on linen, linen on cotton. Some are still uncut—a band of warp threads separating one napkin, one towel from the other—but most are decorated with needlepoint lace.

Nei tuoi lineamenti, la tua espressione. Gli altri sono tutti ricamati ad intaglio. My mother, the more delicate one, the one who wanted to get away, sat where the light fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads her sister had worked into a tight fabric, restructured the space with floss, white on white openwork borders, arabesqued windows. Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving were meant to survive soaking in hot water and ashes, milling on the rocks. I machine wash them and when the weather is good, hang them outside, the way women still do over there, stretching them into shape while damp.

Most are holding up well; a few show signs of wear, but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk for so many years that weakened the fabric. The Bridge Progress has finally come to the forgotten South. A new superstrada wide and straight as none before bypasses the shelf of road the sharp-angled bridge. The cross by the roadside reminds the few of us who remember fewer all the time of the men who died there hitting the rocks of the stream when their truck went off the road.

Seven men who knew how to do without how to turn in a small place taking nothing for granted. The bridge is crumbling purple flowers grow out of the wall. Ruvidi o fini, i panni che conservavo erano fatti per superare le prove del ranno e delle pietre. Sette uomini che sapevano far senza, che si muovevano nello stesso piccolo spazio senza prendere niente per scontato. Il ponte si sta sgretolando, fiori viola spuntano dal muro. Broomflowers Chrome yellow against green stems in bunches on the reddish dirt even-spaced rows like a pattern on a quilt.

Is this new or have I forgotten as I forgot the nightingale singing in the trees below the wall— what did I know then about nightingales— the row of stones holding the tiles down at the edge of the roof? On the breeze a whiff of their scent, delicate pleasing. The sun is down now, the sky turning indigo, but their yellow endures on the slope below the parapet. Inside rough bouquets in earthenware jars.

Le ginestre Luccicano gialle contro i fusti verdi a mazzi sulla terra rossiccia file diritte e uguali come i disegni delle coperte nostrane.

Dentro casa mazzi alla buona in vasi di terracotta. Italian Translation of Poems by W. Ha lavorato per 30 anni presso la Inland Steel Com- pany di Chicago. Dal al ha lavorato come tutore in Francia, Portogallo e Majorca. Ma soprattutto rimane un poeta che ci sorprende, che continuamente sorpassa le frontiere di una facile ammirazione. Montale , Litania del perduto Prato , testo a fronte in inglese. Life, when all has been lost and the blame falls on the one who did not throw the rock, the blind man who without that singular limb the leg ripped from the belly in spite of the others, all three straight and strong cannot make his own dog return.

Echo falling from the past whale beached upon the future, maybe remedy to an everyday life such conditional going in peace at the end of the rite. Musicista, traduttrice, scrittrice in italiano, inglese e francese, ha pubblicato racconti e soprattutto poesie: Variazioni belliche , Serie ospedaliera , Documento , Impromptu , Sleep , in inglese. Conto di farla finita con le forme, i loro bisbigliamenti, i loro contenuti contenenti tutta la urgente scatola della mia anima la quale indifferente al problema farebbe meglio a contenersi.

Giocattoli sono le strade e infermiere sono le abitudini distrutte da un malessere generale. Toys are streets and nurses are habits destroyed by a general sickness. Estinguere la passione bramosa! Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon without passion or wanting to forget it I who burned with passion the passion extinguished in the burning I who burned with pain at seeing passion thus extinguished. To extinguish covetous passion! To distinguish passion from the true yearning for extinguished passion extinguish everything that is extinguish everything that rhymes with is: Extinguish the passion for self!

She is also profoundly interested in poetry and has published three vol- umes: On occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Vajont tragedy, she edited the commemorative volume Vajont. I corpi allungati Salgono le voci al Dio piangente lamento, anime e lance sotto la gola, inchiodano corazze e morsi nel violetto senza pace. Voce solitaria la parola del mondo mi grida dentro, quasi urla. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon The Long Bodies Voices lift up to the plangent God lament, souls and lances beneath the throat, nailing breastplates and clamps in the violet without peace.

The mists wrap around the hills prayers, drops of water on the stones. A lonely voice the word of the world that rips me within, almost yells. Others populate the echo of human depth feeding itself on the time and the place, without end. Dressed in black the long bodies are almost lost in the drawn faces of a people consumed by the look of one who is begging for justice no longer in the hour of death but of forgiveness. Grottesco come stare seduti sul ramo di un albero a parlare da soli.

Non so se vale la pena fingere che tutto sia ideale. Forse esclude la ragione ma il campo si allarga ovunque ci sia una misura di grandezza, e mentre ci si illude si perdono le radici. Vorresti il tuo albero quercia di luce con le radici strette nella terra. It is so incredibly distant maybe never a part of this world across what fissure will the camel come to pass?

Reality unravels sleepwalking across a surreal landscape, bugs everywhere — blossoming lies with an overview in perspective ascetic glaciers, surviving lymph. Oak Tree or Leaf August flies off like a leaf across the tree tops with someone who blows beneath it to make it fly. That silvery filament binding spirits to the earth fades away into thin air.

You would like your tree as an oak made of light with roots dug deep into the ground. Insistente il falsetto si fa stridulo sapendo di mentire io tu e gli altri. Mattone su mattone costruisci il castello invisibile con le tante serrature a manico. Non rimane che un feticcio di polvere. Voragine di corvo strapiomba il sereno ma non spezza le radici. Il gesto sonoro segna soltanto una melodia malata.

The half-lie scratches insistently aware of its falsehood me you and the others. You pronounce the promise: Brick on brick you build the invisible castle filled with handles and latches. Not even one cloud. What to believe in if all is smoke that pertains to pale longitudes to implausible structures like eddies in the storms?

A fetish of dust hangs behind. The musical touch signals no more than a sickened note dissonance that does not frighten the donkey, its bray makes no sense even if nightly the moon lights up its pelt. In the end what can happen? His translation of Giovanni Raboni will be published this year by Chelsea Editions. Giovanni Raboni, born in Milan in , worked as an editor and critic. His many volumes of poetry are gathered in Tutte le poesie , which was followed by a final collection, Barlumi di storia, in He died in September Giovanni Raboni T he more I have read, thought about, and translated the poetry of Giovanni Raboni, the more convinced have I become that he is one of the great poets, and perhaps the single greatest Italian poet, of our time.

Raboni, I believe, more than fulfills all of these expectations, and it is this depth and variety in his work that I have tried to communicate, both in the book-length selection I am preparing and in the cross-section of that manuscript presented here. In keeping pace with it, I have tried also to keep pace with the smaller effects on which the larger ones often depend—not just the hendecasyllabic undercarriage and the rhymes where they occur , but also the parallelisms, the alliteration, the abrupt tonal shifts, the restless enjambment that characterizes so many of the sonnets, and so on.

Technique, of course, is merely a means to an end, and it is the ends that I have tried most to reflect—the striking and often quirky angle of insight peculiar to his vision and now and then simply peculiar ; the passionate moral, social, and political concern; the preoccupation, at times almost an obsession, with illness and death; the tenderness of late love. These are the things that impress us most forcefully and remain with us most deeply as we watch Raboni bear witness to the private pains and joys of his life and to the public shames and outrages of his times.

Qui, diceva mio padre, conveniva venirci col coltello Ma quello che hanno fatto, distruggere le case, distruggere quartieri, qui e altrove, a cosa serve? Se mio padre fosse vivo, chiederei anche a lui: Lezioni di economia politica Cosa vuoi che ti dica. Uno come lui, capisci, era per forza il nostro uomo con i suoi colletti rotondi e duri, la spilla, le scarpe da vampiro. E ti ricordi, non ne perdevamo una: Down here, my father said, you were well advised to carry a knife with you Ah yes, the Canal is just a few steps away, the fog was thicker back then, before they covered it Does it seem good to you?

Is this the way? Lessons of Political Economy What do you want me to tell you? Bambino morto di fatica ecc. Little Boy Dead of Exhaustion Etc.



And you, if by some chance you were to faint, if no one else was there then you might bleed to death. For which behavior, you sentimentally suggest, he really should be thanked, no amiable or brutal quack having lifted a single finger there to willingly according to our will scrape it away. Personcina Quando dorme se lo chiami muove un orecchio solo. Succhia latte nei sogni dalla sua mamma morta. Con le zampe assapora scialli e maglioni.

Meaning of "destrocardia" in the Italian dictionary

Usa un libro per cuscino. With love, do you see? He adores the taste of coffee grounds. He savors with his paws shawls and thick pullovers. He sleeps on leaves. He uses a book for a head cushion. Gli addii Ogni tanto mi sforzo di ricordarli: Strano gioco, ho paura, e assai poco redditizio. He quivers, green eyes marking the to and fro of pigeons.

The Farewells Every once in a while I try to recall them all, the vegetable thief, the madman, and la servante au grand coeur, the physican, etc. How much time has gone by! It hardly serves to swallow sedatives, to numb the nerves and brain, the problem really is the soul, the soul that wants no peace, the stubborn soul insatiable in its burning swoops and swerves through ever more laughably difficult drops and curves in chasms or labyrinths, and we know the soul is not just immortal but immortally immature.

I feel them, lighter than the air, as they graze me, split the goodness of the air, not exiles but commuters of the air in transit between fog and gold. Yes, it is true the curtain is still raised, and every evening there is still a show— but now there are no winners in our plays, no losers, and no blood, and no bouquets. And while you appear preoccupied by a variety of more innocuous tasks, you still permit your eyes to charm and warm themselves in it, brave and foolish as they are What am I saying?

Was he a Fascist?

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Of course he was—the way that those who pounded him were one of them from Masnago and the rest from Induno: Never would those of us who were from those parts be so atrociously innocent again. He is a poet and essayist whose interests range from contem- porary poetry to photography, to cinema and music. He teaches at the Uni- versity of California, San Diego. Most of his life was however spent in Rome, where he was a teacher.

Synonyms and antonyms of destrocardia in the Italian dictionary of synonyms

His works, carefully exploration into the sparcity of language and expression, generally have dealt with human relations resultant from war, deracination, existential and spiritual conflict. His poetry has been recognized with major prizes in Italy: His literary activity included translation from the French of the works of Proust, Baudelaire, Celine, de Maupasant, Genete and Apollinaire. He came to me deliberately of this I am certain to make a gift of it. I can no longer find trace of it. I see again in the leaving day the thin face whitefluted.

The sleeve in lace. The grace, so gentle and germanic in its offering. A wind of impact - an air almost siliceous chills now the room. Is it the blade of a knife? Torment beyond the glass and wood - closed - of the shutter? I can no longer find sign of it. I ask the morgana. Conosco le cretacee porte che danno sul mare. Ma i cardini della nascita? I cardini della morte? Parts - remote - the dawning mouth, but does not speak.

She cannot - nothing can - anwer. I no longer hope to find her. I have too jealously irrecoverably hidden her. Reasons The reasons for light. I know the cretaceous doors that lead to the sea. But the reasons for birth? The reasons for death? Era, la sua ragione eversa, la sola Cosa non persa? Was, his ruined reason, the only Thing not lost?

Unaware He was under the illusion, having found the accurately lost object again, of having gained something. It was a momentary joy. And he was left troubled. Almost like someone who suddenly finds himself stripped of an income. He, unaware that anything found again is - always - a loss.

But the hard living bodies? The two compact masses taut - almost steelescent? Where the two projecting people?. It is therefore - the place of every conjunction - perpetual parallax? Inventions Those impalpable voices almost transparent. The blue of all those black eyes - non existent? Distant - always more distant - from itself, the mind has lost the name of it. Incorporeal - aphonic - couriers of extinguished notes.

A former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the recipient of recent fellowships from the NEA and the Guggenheim Foundation, he teaches creative writing and translation at the University of Arkansas. His website is www. Guido Gozzano was born in Turin in and died there in , after a long battle with tuberculosis. That label, coined by a critic as a slight, suggests a particular attitude toward the past, as if the long day of Italian culture were winding down and nothing remained but dim and fading traces, twilight pieces.

In a land that had produced Rome and the Renaissance, Dante and Leopardi, such an attitude was perhaps inevitable and was, in any case, pervasive; it was precisely this sort of passatismo against which the futuristi would shortly rebel. Though not typical of his best- known work, it is profoundly beguiling. The final line also suggests parallels with another famous journey: Giovanni Pascoli was born in in San Mauro di Romagna a town later renamed San Mauro Pascoli in his honor and died in Bologna, where he had followed Carducci as professor of Italian literature, in His personal life was famously full of tragedy: In he published his first collection of poems in Italian and also won the first of thirteen gold medals for his Latin poetry from the Royal Dutch Academy.

The title of his first book, Myricae, is neatly emblematic of this aspect of his poetics: La destrina si utilizza nella preparazione di prodotti farmaceutici come ' eccipiente e di medicazioni chirurgiche. ECG di paziente con situs viscerum inversus e destrocardia. Il vettore di attivazione atriale ha anch'esso un orientamento speculare ed appare Grasset, Alauz, Crispino, Garel- Veray , tal' altra a versamenti pleurici nel cavo di Un caso di dostrocardia per raggrizzamento del polmone di destra.

Moizard — Destrocardia per sclerosi plettro pulmonale. Il cuore batte a destra del torace; in sotto ed in sopra del capezzolo destro si percepisce M Destrocardia Presente Presente Non vis. M Levocardia Presente Presente Non vis. M Levocardia Presente Presente Italian words that begin with d.