Franz Kafka

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Sunday, July 26, 2015

"Maternità" by Vincenzo Cardarelli; "Maternity," by Vincenzo Cardarelli, English version, translated in English by LiteraryJoint

Pablo Picasso 's Maternity (Mother and Child), 1905.


Poor woman with turgid breasts,
your only wealth
is your milk.
And how much of it have you lavished, 
those days of a Summer that is almost defunct,
to your florid child.
With unexhausted vein you nourished him,
glad to bloom again
in his blooming.
At the slightest snivel was the bosom exposed
free and bare with chaste easiness.   
Albeit not pretty, you felt
healthy and attractive in the cheerful mystery: 
the baby was shaping himself,
mother and son were growing together.
It is so that for you a whole Summer passed by.
Now the Autumn wind mortifies you. 
Sorrowful is your appearance, 
helpless mother,
indigent bearer,
until now so oblivious.
What crosses your mind?
Is it melancholy for the accomplished work 
or the black cortege
of miseries and woes
drawing nearer, that is turning mournful your face?

Vincenzo Cardarelli, from the collection "Poesie," 1942.  
From "Vincenzo Cardarelli: The Forgotten amongst the Great. A Collection of the Best Poems by Vincenzo Cardarelli, Translated in English," available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touchon NOOK Bookon Koboand as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.


Misera donna dal turgido seno,
tu non sei ricca d’altro
che del tuo latte.
E quanto ne hai prodigato,
nei giorni dell’estate ormai defunta,
al tuo florido bimbo.
Con inesausta vena lo nutrivi,
lieta di rifiorire
nel suo fiorire.
A ogni lieve frignare il petto usciva
libero e nudo con casto impudore.
Tu che non bella sei ti sentivi
sana e piacente nel gaio mistero:
il bimbo si formava,
madre e figliolo crescevate insieme.
Così è passata per te un'estate.
Ora il vento d’autunno ti mortifica.
Dolente è il tuo aspetto,
madre indifesa,
generatrice indigente,
finora così smemorata.
Che passa nel tuo pensiero?
E’ la malinconia dell’opera compiuta
o il nero corteo
di miserie e di mali
che s’avvicina, a far mesto il tuo viso?

Dalle raccolta "Poesie," 1942. 

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