Manual Poesie (Le vele) (Italian Edition)

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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. 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. Legami di sangue. Volume uno. Un mago disperato e un vampiro disilluso e amareggiato possono trovare il modo di costruire un'alleanza che possa salvare il. Alleanza di Sangue Legami di sangue Vol. Download it once and read it on your. 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: Subsequent books include Poemetti Shorter poems, , Canti di Castelvecchio Songs from Castelvecchio, , Poemi conviviali Convivial Poems, , and several others. It is not without fascination, but part of its fascina- tion surely lies in our knowledge that it is based on actual events.

Massimo Rossi

But both also suffer from melodrama that verges on mawkishness. It was such qualities that I tried hardest to convey. Invano le galee panciute a vele tonde, le caravelle invano armarono la prora: Appare talora di lontano tra Teneriffe e Palma, soffusa di mistero: La segnano le carte antiche dei corsari. Radono con le prore quella beata riva: But loveliest of all, the Unfound Isle: The island was not there.

In vain the sails of the stout galleys swelled, in vain they fitted out their caravels: Occasionally it appears between La Palma and Tenerife, beguiling. Their vessels glide along its blessed shore; the dense green sacred forest scents the air; over the nameless flowers, huge palms soar; cardamom weeps, the rubber trees perspire The Unfound Isle, announced by fragrances, like courtesans And like vain semblances, when pilots sail too near it vanishes, turning that shade of blue that distance is.

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Sussurravano i pioppi del Rio Salto. I cavalli normanni alle lor poste frangean la biada con rumor di croste. Con su la greppia un gomito, da essa era mia madre; e le dicea sommessa: The poplars whispered by the Salto River.

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The Norman horses, each in its stall, fed on fodder, crunching it like crusty bread. Beyond them stood the wild mare, who was foaled upon a piney coast, salt-licked and cold; her nostrils carried still that tang of shore, and still her cocked ears heard the ocean roar. This is what she said: The man has left a little boy behind first born of eight who never handled reins. And though your flanks are spurred by hurricanes, heed his small hand. The gray mare turned her bony head to see my mother as she spoke so mournfully: I know you loved him, too! He would have died alone there, but for you.

E tu capisci, ma non sai ridire. Stava attenta la lunga testa fiera. Ma parlar non sai!

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Tu non sai, poverina; altri non osa. Ti voglio dire un nome. E tu fa cenno. You brought him back, reins trailing at your feet. The shot in your ears, in your eyes the flame, along the whispering poplar road, you came.

PDF Poesie (Le vele) (Italian Edition)

You bore him through the dying of the day so we might hear some last word he might say. In her pain, My mother threw her arms around that mane. O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, you bore him home, the man who went away, who never can come home! Good though you be, you cannot others dare not speak to me. You saw the killer, yes, you know him well— who is it? The other huge leap in my picaresque journey was switching from Italian to English after I emigrated.

This is one of those few instances in English where what everybody says is an error and what is correct is pedantic. A year after the end of the war that brought them together, Raymond Payet and Jean Bellaiche have found a balance in their relationship: URL consultato il 20 agosto archiviato dall' url originale il 19 agosto 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?

Give me some signal. God will show you how. The horses were no longer champing meal; asleep, they dreamed the rolling of the wheel. They did not stamp their hooves upon the hay: The editor will select one poem for each poet and provide both the English and the Italian trans- lation thus acting as a bridge between them. In this manner two poets, whose approach to poetry may be quite different, will be conversing through the translator.

In he was awarded the Feltrinelli Prize for Italian poetry. His most recent books are the novel Astoria Guernica , winner of the American Book Award in , a collection of poems: What does it matter that this is a desert? The water is a form of liquidity. The gangsters are my leaders insofar as I am an Italian in America. Desert lakes glitter with pumped cash. In the Biblioteca San Marco I have read manuscript codices.


The water climbs the marble stairs in the entrance halls. We used to go to the Bronx just to make our confessions. The Cadillacs would silently turn the corner of Allerton Avenue. Gangsters in cherrywood coffins would slide into the church. The Island of San Michele in the lagoon is the cemetery. That water eats everything. After a few decades the graves are empty. Venetians one after another have lain in the same graves.

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In America it is the cities we bury. The money eats them the way water eats corpses. I laghi del deserto luccicano di denarocontante pompato. Alla Biblioteca San Marco ho letto codici e manoscritti. Alghe appese a ogni pietra delle fondamenta della biblioteca. Albert Anastasia fu assassinato su una sedia da barbiere allo Sheraton. Aveva un fratello prete alla chiesa di Santa Lucia nel Bronx.

Noi andavamo nel Bronx solo per confessarci. Gangster incapsulati in bare di ciliegio entravano ed uscivano da quella chiesa. Dopo appena qualche decennio le tombe si svuotano.

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  • In theory, the different versions should convey what is known as the kernel meaning, that is, the basic message contained in the original text. This section of Ital- ian Journal of Translation will test this theory by asking our readers to trans- late a text chosen by the editors, using whatever style or approach they consider best. The submissions will then be printed with the original text. We will try to publish as many entries as possible, space allowing.

    For this issue, I selected the following poem by Guido Gozzano.

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    Send your version of this poem and write a paragraph describing your approach. You may submit additional poems or short prose texts that in your estimation pose challenging problems. Sendyour submissions to me or Luigi Bonaffini. Naturalized in , he is the translator of classics of Italian of poetry into English verse, and a poet in his own right. He is the author of collections of verse in English Rind and All, ; The Fifth Season, ; Gente Mia and Other Poems, ; Collected Poems , , in Latin Carmina latina, ; Carmina latina II, , in Italian among others, Il ritorno, , and in his Gargano dialect sixteen titles between and , and of an autobiography in three volumes, La parola difficile , La parola nuova , La parola antica Note on Translation Of the two hundred and more Italian poets I rendered into English, no one posed problems that no translator - so I thought - would ever solve.

    Pulci, Michelangelo, Tasso, and Leopardi seemed at first so untranslatable to me that even the most felicitous approximation would diminish them. Its haunting musicality, in which the subtly shifting dactyls and spondees recreate the magic of the Homeric hex- ameter, is at times so ethereal, so rarefied, so hypnotic as to make the boldest translator utterly afraid of any attempt at a possible rendering of its enchant- ment.