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| Dusk in Venice, San Giorgio Maggiore by Twilight, or Sunset in Venice, by Claude Monet, between 1908 and 1912. |
Presented below is "Autunno veneziano" (Venetian Autumn), one of the most well known lyrics by Italian poet Vincenzo Cardarelli (pseudonym of Nazareno Caldarelli, May 1, 1887 - June 18, 1959.)
Venetian Autumn
Upon me is the humid
and cold breath
of autumnal Venice.
Now that Summer,
sultry and touched by Sirocco,
like magic has gone,
a stern moon of September
shines, full of dire forebode,
on the city of waters and stones
which reveals her features of Gorgon,
contagious and wicked.
Dead is the silence of the canals which reek,
under the watery moon,
in any one of them seems to
rest the corpse of Ophelia:
tombs covered with rotten flowers
and other green wastes,
where passes by, with a swash,
the ghost of the gondolier.
Oh Venetian nights,
without the crow of roosters,
without voices of fountains,
somber laguna-nights,
that no tender whisper soothes,
sinister houses, jealous,
vertical on the canals,
asleep without breath,
you weigh on my heart more than ever.
Here, no impetuous and funereal winds
of a September in the mountains,
no odor of grapes's harvest, no wash-basins
of tearful rains,
no crash of leaves that fall.
A tussock that turns yellow and dies
on a window's ledge
is all it is a Venetian Autumn.
of autumnal Venice.
Now that Summer,
sultry and touched by Sirocco,
like magic has gone,
a stern moon of September
shines, full of dire forebode,
on the city of waters and stones
which reveals her features of Gorgon,
contagious and wicked.
Dead is the silence of the canals which reek,
under the watery moon,
in any one of them seems to
rest the corpse of Ophelia:
tombs covered with rotten flowers
and other green wastes,
where passes by, with a swash,
the ghost of the gondolier.
Oh Venetian nights,
without the crow of roosters,
without voices of fountains,
somber laguna-nights,
that no tender whisper soothes,
sinister houses, jealous,
vertical on the canals,
asleep without breath,
you weigh on my heart more than ever.
Here, no impetuous and funereal winds
of a September in the mountains,
no odor of grapes's harvest, no wash-basins
of tearful rains,
no crash of leaves that fall.
A tussock that turns yellow and dies
on a window's ledge
is all it is a Venetian Autumn.
Thus, in Venice seasons are delirious.
Throughout her fields of marble and her canals
all is but disoriented lights,
lights which dream of a good earth
that is fragrant and fruitful.
Only a winter shipwreck convenes
to this city which lives not,
which blooms not,
other than like a ship does in the bottom of the sea.
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 touch, on NOOK Book, on Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.
Autunno Veneziano
L'alito freddo e umido m'assale
di Venezia autunnale.
Adesso
che l'estate,
sudaticcia
e sciroccosa,
d'incanto
se n'è andata,
una
rigida luna settembrina
risplende,
piena di funesti presagi,
sulla
città d'acque e di pietre
che
rivela il suo volto di medusa
contagiosa
e malefica.
Morto
è il silenzio dei canali fetidi,
sotto
la luna acquosa,
in
ciascuno dei quali
par
che dorma il cadavere d'Ofelia:
tombe
sparse di fiori
marci
e d'altre immondizie vegetali,
dove
passa sciacquando
il
fantasma del gondoliere.
O
notti veneziane,
senza
canto di galli,
senza
voci di fontane,
tetre
notti lagunari
cui
nessun tenero bisbiglio anima,
case
torve, gelose,
a
picco sui canali,
dormenti
senza respiro,
io
v'ho sul cuore adesso più che mai.
Qui
non i venti impetuosi e funebri
del
settembre montanino,
non
odor di vendemmia, non lavacri
di
piogge lacrimose,
non
fragore di foglie che cadono.
Un
ciuffo d'erba che ingiallisce e muore
su
un davanzale
è
tutto l'autunno veneziano.
Così
a Venezia le stagioni delirano.
Pei
suoi campi di marmo e i suoi canali
non
son che luci smarrite,
luci
che sognano la buona terra
odorosa
e fruttifera.
Solo
il naufragio invernale conviene
a
questa città che non vive,
che
non fiorisce,
se
non quale una nave in fondo al mare.
Tratte da "Poesie", 1942
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