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| Supramonte di Orgosolo - Monte San Giovanni and Monte Fumai, Massiccio del Gennargentu (Gennargentu Mountains, Sardinia) |
Sardinia
Against the languid sky are engraved,
oh Sardinia, your mountains of iron.
A sky that seems as if veiled
by a sickly
pollen, to look at which one is tantalized.
Melancholic Circe,
it is through this recall
that you keep one from leaving,
and standing by the nostalgic mount Limbara.
And it is so that a Sardinian
can never betray his faithful land.
When the cistus no longer scents
and through the ways of the seas,
a message of the mysterious life
that within you is hidden,
the partridge is trustingly nearing,
I traveled, oh Sardinia, your saline
roads of Gallura,
the land of Orosei, white, African,
the granitic and wooded Barbagia,
the red Ogliastra region,
and beyond the Campidano plain, whose women
have bosoms made of stone,
I went further to Teulada,
where fallow deers would prance
on the doorsteps of the host's house.
I stopped amongst the shady
orange groves of Milis. I went up
the windy plateau, towards Mandas,
accompanied by a soldier's song,
the only medicine
for such a melancholy.
And on the course of an assiduous and glad river
I found myself amongst your proud folks
of Barbagia,
who from the Gennargentu Mountains,
where against the white granite
leaf oaks and black ilexes,
once used to came down
to the fertile and muddy plain land.
So that from the mountain to the flat
I ventured, through large paradises
of game
and lands so lonely that by going across them
any simple rider is a knight.
I have come to know you everywhere,
ardent and varied island,
with your customs, your hieratic chants.
And already Summer along the dry pebbly shores
turned the oleander white,
while on the mountains persisted
an inexpressible color
of an island Springtime.
And on your virgin earth emerged
here and there, solicitous,
the first, rough relics of man
which turns you heavy and sullen in so much light.
Fabulous journey
which I made again in a heartbeat,
withdrawing into the evening,
when already you were no other
than a dreamy sky
on the edge of a mountain.
Land of strong wines,
nation of ancient shepherds
and warm women,
flower of the Mediterranean,
bloomed in the time when all was enclosed
within our sea,
you carry within you the scent
of a courteous and adventurous century.
I perceived this in the grace
of your language,
in the winds that you breathe.
And I saw Pisa,
where at once on the alpine hilltop
two castle's old stone walls, horrendous,
recollect of Earl Ugolino.
Yet, tell me what name, if not Rome's,
sends flashes through the eye
of your shepherd.
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.
oh Sardinia, your mountains of iron.
A sky that seems as if veiled
by a sickly
pollen, to look at which one is tantalized.
Melancholic Circe,
it is through this recall
that you keep one from leaving,
and standing by the nostalgic mount Limbara.
And it is so that a Sardinian
can never betray his faithful land.
When the cistus no longer scents
and through the ways of the seas,
a message of the mysterious life
that within you is hidden,
the partridge is trustingly nearing,
I traveled, oh Sardinia, your saline
roads of Gallura,
the land of Orosei, white, African,
the granitic and wooded Barbagia,
the red Ogliastra region,
and beyond the Campidano plain, whose women
have bosoms made of stone,
I went further to Teulada,
where fallow deers would prance
on the doorsteps of the host's house.
I stopped amongst the shady
orange groves of Milis. I went up
the windy plateau, towards Mandas,
accompanied by a soldier's song,
the only medicine
for such a melancholy.
And on the course of an assiduous and glad river
I found myself amongst your proud folks
of Barbagia,
who from the Gennargentu Mountains,
where against the white granite
leaf oaks and black ilexes,
once used to came down
to the fertile and muddy plain land.
So that from the mountain to the flat
I ventured, through large paradises
of game
and lands so lonely that by going across them
any simple rider is a knight.
I have come to know you everywhere,
ardent and varied island,
with your customs, your hieratic chants.
And already Summer along the dry pebbly shores
turned the oleander white,
while on the mountains persisted
an inexpressible color
of an island Springtime.
And on your virgin earth emerged
here and there, solicitous,
the first, rough relics of man
which turns you heavy and sullen in so much light.
Fabulous journey
which I made again in a heartbeat,
withdrawing into the evening,
when already you were no other
than a dreamy sky
on the edge of a mountain.
Land of strong wines,
nation of ancient shepherds
and warm women,
flower of the Mediterranean,
bloomed in the time when all was enclosed
within our sea,
you carry within you the scent
of a courteous and adventurous century.
I perceived this in the grace
of your language,
in the winds that you breathe.
And I saw Pisa,
where at once on the alpine hilltop
two castle's old stone walls, horrendous,
recollect of Earl Ugolino.
Yet, tell me what name, if not Rome's,
sends flashes through the eye
of your shepherd.
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.
Sardegna
Sul languido cielo s'incidono,
Sardegna, i tuoi monti di ferro.
Cielo velato
come da un polline
malsano, che a guardarlo ci si strugge.
Malinconica Circe,
è con questo richiamo
che trattieni il partente,
presso il Limbara nostalgico.
Ed è così che il sardo
mai tradirà la sua terra fedele.
Quando il cisto più odora
e per le vie marine,
messaggio della vita misteriosa
che in te si cela,
s'avvicina fidente la pernice,
io percorsi, o Sardegna, le tue strade
saline di Gallura,
la terra d'Orosei, bianca, africana,
la Barbagia granitica e selvosa,
l'Ogliastra rossa,
ed oltre il Campidano, le cui donne
hanno seni di pietra,
mi spinsi a Teulada
ove il daino saltellava
sui gradini della casa ospitale.
Sostai fra gli ombrosi
aranceti di Milis. Risalii
l'altipiano ventoso, verso Mandas,
in compagnia d'un canto di soldato,
unica medicina
a tanta malinconia.
E sul corso d'un fiume assiduo e lieto
mi ritrovai fra la tua fiera gente
barbaricina,
che giù dal Gennargentu,
dove fra il bianco granito frondeggiano
le querce e l'elce nera,
calava un tempo
alla pianura fertile e fangosa.
Così dal monte al piano
m'avventurai, per folti paradisi
di selvaggina
e terre così sole che a percorrerle
qualunque cavalcante è paladino.
Ti conobbi dovunque,
isola ardente e varia,
coi tuoi costumi, i tuoi canti ieratici.
E già l'estate lungo gli arsi greti
sbiancava l'oleandro,
persistendo sui monti
un colore indicibile
di primavera isolana.
E sul tuo suolo vergine affioravano
qua e là, sollecite,
le prime, rudi reliquie dell'uomo
che ti fan grave e cupa in tanta luce.
Favoloso viaggio
ch'io rifeci in un attimo,
allontanandomi nella sera,
mentre ormai più non eri
che un cielo sognante
all'orlo d'una montagna.
Terra di vini forti,
patria di antichi pastori
e di donne calde,
fior del Mediterraneo,
fiorito al tempo che tutto era chiuso
nel nostro mare,
tu porti in te il profumo
d'un secolo cortese e venturoso.
Lo sentii nella grazia
del tuo linguaggio,
nei venti che respiri.
E vidi Pisa,
là dove a un tratto sull'alpestre cima
due vecchie mura castellane, orrende,
rammentano il conte Ugolino.
Ma dimmi tu qual nome, se non Roma,
fa lampeggiare l'occhio
del tuo pastore.
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