
L’ANGOLO DELLA POESIA
Guido Gozzano was born to a well-to-do family in Turin in 1883 and died there of tuberculosis in 1916 after suffering poor health for much of his short life. He was a poet and writer. His main publications were the poetry collection I colloqui and the book Verso la cuna del mondo – Letters from India, written in prose during a trip to India and Colombo undertaken for health and cultural reasons. He also wrote some children’s short stories and the script for a film on S. Francis of Assisi, which however was never made.
Gozzano belonged to a group of poets called ‘crepuscular’ – with their poetry characterised by musical tones and melancholic feelings. Musicality is apparent in the following poem, though hope prevails over moodiness.
L’assenza
Un bacio. Ed è lungi. Dispare
giù in fondo, là dove si perde
la strada boschiva che pare
un gran corridoio nel verde.
Risalgo qui dove dianzi
vestiva il bell’abito grigio:
rivedo l’uncino, i romanzi
ed ogni sottile vestigio…
Mi piego al balcone. Abbandono
la gota sopra la ringhiera.
E non sono triste. Non sono
più triste. Ritorna stasera.
E intanto declina l’estate.
E sopra un geranio vermiglio,
fremendo le ali caudate
si libra un enorme Papilio…
L’azzurro infinito del giorno
è come una seta ben tesa;
ma sulla serena distesa
la luna già pensa al ritorno.
Lo stagno risplende. Si tace
la rana. Ma guizza un bagliore
d’acceso smeraldo, di brace
azzurra: il martin pescatore.
E non sono triste. Ma sono
stupito se guardo il giardino…
stupito di che? non mi sono
sentito mai tanto bambino…
Stupito di che? Delle cose.
I fiori mi paiono strani:
ci sono pur sempre le rose,
ci sono pur sempre i gerani…
Here is a translation by Valeriu Raut I found on Google. I think it’s pretty good.
Absence
A kiss. And she’s far off. She disappears / down there, where the wooded / road, which seems to be a great corridor / in the green, is lost.
I go back there again, where before / she wore her beautiful grey dress: / I see her crochet needle again, her novels / and every subtle trace …
I lean on the edge of my balcony. I abandon / my face over the railing. / I am not sad. I am not / sad any more. She’s coming back tonight.
And all around the summer is declining./ And above a scarlet geranium, / its quivering wing tips, shaped like tails, / an enormous Butterfly flutters in the air …
The infinite blue of the day / is like a well-stretched silk; / but on the serene expanse / the moon is already thinking about its return.
The pool is shining. The frog / is hushed. But a flash of fiery / emerald, flickers of blue / embers: the kingfisher.
And I am not sad. But I am / astonished if I look at the garden … / astonished at what? I have never / felt so much like a child …
Astonished at what? At things. / The flowers appear strange to me: / the roses are still here, / the geraniums are still there …
Yvette Devlin