Franz Kafka

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

A Night at San Siro, Notte a San Siro, (FC Internazionale, Inter Milan)

The Founders of Football Club Internazionale, Milano, March 9, 1908

Official pledge of the founders' fathers:

--"Nascerà qui, al ristorante "L'orologio", ritrovo di artisti e sarà per sempre una squadra di grande talento. Questa notte splendida darà i colori al nostro stemma: il nero e l'azzurro sullo sfondo d'oro delle stelle. Si chiamerà Internazionale, perchè noi siamo fratelli del mondo".--

--"Born here, at the restaurant "L'orologio", gathering of artists, it will always be a team of superb talents. This magnificent night will give its colors to our shield: the black and the blue on the golden background of the stars. Its name will be Internazionale, for we are brothers to the whole world".--

Milano, March 9, 1908

Notte a San Siro

“Ganar: felicitar a todos.
Perder: no criticar, pedir amistad”. 
H. Herrera

Le erbe verdeggian come diamante, 
nella buia notte nera di pece 
rifulge San Siro di luce abbacinante.

Azzurre arcate di cielo ci sovrastano ignare, 
oltre il muro di volti, cuori, mani 
e occhi strabuzzati nel trepido sognare.

Dipanando le ragnatele del giuoco 
l’amata casacca follemente  schierata 
nel rettangolo crepitante come fuoco.

Princeton, May 2006 
Copyright © Alessandro Baruffi

A Night at San Siro 

The verdant grass is diamond: 
in the pitch-dark night 
San Siro glows with dazzling lights.
Blue arches of sky - unaware - hang over us, 
beyond the wall of faces, hearts, hands, 
and dreamy eyes, wide open in trepidation.
Unwinding the game's cobwebs 
- folly of formations! - stand the beloved
jerseys, as the turf crackles like fire.

Princeton, May 2006 
Copyright © Alessandro Baruffi

Friday, June 14, 2013

June, a Poem, from "Jersey Blues, Selected Poems"

"A Garden in Montmartre", oil on canvas, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, c. 1880-1890



In the low, reddening sun,
the sweet smelling fields lay bare,
and the wind caresses them as a mother.

I smell the young Summer,
a child-like hypothesis of woman.

It quivers your hand in mine
and your laugh is a soft
whisper that finds no peace.

Princeton, New Jersey, June 2005

From the collection Jersey Blues, also available on Amazon KindleiBookstore and NOOK Book.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

Das nächste Dorf, from "Ein Landarzt", by Franz Kafka. Version in English (The next village, from "A Country Doctor") e in italiano (Il villaggio vicino, dalla raccolta "Un medico di campagna"), 1919

 "A Country Doctor" (Ein Landarzt), Pic: Yamamura Animation, Inc.
"Thin, without fever, not cold, not warm, with empty eyes, without a shirt, the young man under the stuffed quilt heaves himself up, hangs around my throat and whispers in my ear, "Doctor, let me die."

from Franz Kafka's "A Country Doctor"
My grandfather used to say: "Life is astonishingly short. Now, in my remembrance, it dwindles itself to such an extent, that for example, I can hardly comprehend how a young man can decide to ride to the next village without fearing that - notwithstanding unfortunate accidents - even the time of an ordinary, happy life is for such a ride far from sufficient."
Version in English, by LiteraryJoint

Original German text: 

Mein Großvater pflegte zu sagen: »Das Leben ist erstaunlich kurz. Jetzt in Erinnerung drängt es sich mir so zusammen, daß ich zum Beispiel kaum begreife, wie ein junger Mensch sich entschließen kann, ins nächste Dorf zu reiten, ohne zu fürchten, daß - von unglücklichen Zufällen ganz abgesehen - schon die Zeit des gewöhnlichen, glücklich ablaufenden Lebens für einen solchen Ritt bei weitem nicht hinreicht.«

F. Kafka, Ein Landarzt, 1919

Versione in Italiano, by LiteraryJoint:
Il villaggio vicino, dalla raccolta "Un medico di campagna", 1919

Saturday, June 1, 2013

À minha mãe, To My Mother, by Antônio Álvares de Azevedo, in English (Lira dos Vinte Anos)

Antônio Álvares de Azevedo (1831-1852) was a Brazilian Romantic poet and writer, playwright and essayist.


To my mother

by Antônio Álvares de Azevedo, 1853
Published posthumously in the collection Lira dos Vinte Anos.

Like the flowers of a sylvan tree
Shed their petals on the furrow that gave life
To its fruitless branches,
Oh my sweet mother, onto your breast
Allow that from this pale
Corolla of my fantasies
I too shed the cold, scentless,
Flowers of my existence, wilted flowers
Whose dew is only weeping!

Translated in English by LiteraryJoint

Original version in Portuguese: