"Soul, take thy risk" by Emily Dickinson

Soul, take thy risk.
With Death to be
Were better than be not
With thee

         "Poems by Emily Dickinson," Published by Roberts Brothers, Boston (1891)


          Italian Version:

A Christams Gift: Free Book Promotion on Amazon! Today and only until December 26th (Italian Edition)

 Free Book Promotion on Amazon: today and only until December 26th, 2018 (Italian Edition)

Cover of "L'inverno e il Re triste, una Favola," published by Literary Joint.

Alle soglie dell'inverno, al limitare dei suoi giorni, un Re si spinge fin nei meandri del bosco, ove una creatura delle foreste gli confiderà un segreto fuggevole e misterioso...

"Sogno" (Dream) by Giovanni Pascoli. English translation, with original Italian text. "Sogno" (Dream) from the collection "Myricae" (1896)

Museo Casa Pascoli in San Mauro di Romagna (Fc)

The following translation of "Sogno" (Dream) by Giovanni Pascoli is from the book "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!)  and also on Kobo.

Dream

For a moment I was in my hamlet at home,

in my house. Nothing had changed.

I had come back tired, as from a journey;

tired, to my father, to my dead, I was back.

I felt a great joy, a great sorrow;

a sweetness, and a mute anguish.

—Mom? — She's there reheating supper for you—

Poor mom! and her, I did not see. 

Sogno

Per un attimo fui nel mio villaggio,

nella mia casa. Nulla era mutato.

Stanco tornavo, come da un vïaggio;

stanco, al mio padre, ai morti, ero tornato.

Sentivo una gran gioia, una gran pena;

una dolcezza ed un’angoscia, muta.

— Mamma? — È là che ti scalda un po’ di cena —

Povera mamma! e lei, non l’ho veduta.

From the collection “Myricae” (1891-1900)

Emily Dickinson, "The Sky is Low," from "Complete Poems" (1924)

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.

Emily Dickinson (1830–86).  Complete Poems.  1924. See Italian Translation

"Der Nachbar," by Franz Kafka: "The Neighbour," translated in English. "Der Nachbar," by Franz Kafka, with Original Text in German

 

From "The Tales of Franz Kafka: English Translation With Original Text In German," available as e-book on AmazonKindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch, on NOOK Book, on Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through  Amazon and Lulu.

The Neighbour 

My business rests entirely on my shoulders. Two lady with typewriters and account books in the hall, my room with desk, counter, conference table, club chair and telephone, that's all I need for my work. So easy to survey, so easy to run. I am quite young and the business goes well. I do not complain, I do not complain. As of the new year, a young man has rented the small, vacant neighboring apartment, which, blunderingly, I had for too long hesitated to rent myself.  It is also a room with a front room, and furthermore a kitchen. Room and hall I could have used – my two young ladies have felt already overloaded, at times – , but what would the kitchen have served for? These petty thoughts to be blamed, I let the apartment go. Now there sits this young man.  
Harras is his name. What he actually does there, I do not know. On the door it says “Harras, Office.” I have made inquiries, I have been told it is a business similar to mine.  Before lending one could not be  advised, involving a young, ambitious man, whose business may have a future, but one can not really advise on credit, since presently no fortune seems to exist. The usual information which one gives when nothing is actually known. Sometimes I meet Harras on the stairs, he must always be in an extraordinary hurry, as he scurries carefully past me. As a matter of fact, I have never exactly seen him; he always has the office keys ready in his hand. In the blink of an eye he has opened the door. Like the tail of a rat, he has slipped in and I am standing again in front of the board “Harras, Office,” which I have already read more often than it deserves.
The miserable thin walls, which betray the honest, active man, cover the dishonest. My telephone is attached on wall of the room, which separates me from my neighbor. But I do emphasize that merely as an especially ironic fact. Even if it sat on the opposite wall, you would hear everything in the neighboring apartment. I've given up mentioning the name of the customer on the telephone. But it obviously does not take much shrewdness to guess the name by some characteristic, inevitable turns of the conversation.  Sometimes I dance around, the receiver to the ear, spurred by unrest, on tiptoe, and yet that can not prevent that secrets are revealed.
Of course, by my business decisions will become insecure through that, my voice uncertain. What is Harras doing while I'm on the  telephone? I would like to really exaggerate – but you must do that often, to obtain clarification –  so I could say: Harras does not need a telephone, he uses mine, he has moved his sofa against the wall and listens, I must run to the telephone when it rings, accept the customer's wishes, take serious decisions to run large-scale persuasions – but above all, involuntarily making a report to Harras through the wall of the room. It may be that he doesn't even have to wait until the end of the conversation, but rather he rises after that point of the conversation which has enlightened the case enough for him, then he flits through the city as it’s his habit, and before I have even hung up the receiver, he is already there, working against  me.

Der Nachbar

Mein Geschäft ruht ganz auf meinen Schultern. Zwei Fräulein mit Schreibmaschinen und Geschäftsbüchern im Vorzimmer, mein Zimmer mit Schreibtisch, Kasse, Beratungstisch, Klubsessel und Telephon, das ist mein ganzer Arbeitsapparat. So einfach zu überblicken, so leicht zu führen. Ich bin ganz jung und die Geschäfte rollen vor mir her. Ich klage nicht, ich klage nicht.
Seit Neujahr hat ein junger Mann die kleine, leerstehende Nebenwohnung, die ich ungeschickterweise so lange zu mieten gezögert habe, frischweg gemietet. Auch ein Zimmer mit Vorzimmer, außerdem aber noch eine Küche. - Zimmer und Vorzimmer hätte ich wohl brauchen können - meine zwei Fräulein fühlten sich schon manchmal überlastet -, aber wozu hätte mir die Küche gedient? Dieses kleinliche Bedenken war daran schuld, daß ich mir die Wohnung habe nehmen lassen. Nun sitzt dort dieser junge Mann. Harras heißt er. Was er dort eigentlich macht, weiß ich nicht. Auf der Tür steht: ›Harras, Bureau‹. Ich habe Erkundigungen eingezogen, man hat mir mitgeteilt, es sei ein Geschäft ähnlich dem meinigen. Vor Kreditgewährung könne man nicht geradezu warnen, denn es handle sich doch um einen jungen, aufstrebenden Mann, dessen Sache vielleicht Zukunft habe, doch könne man zum Kredit nicht geradezu raten, denn gegenwärtig sei allem Anschein nach kein Vermögen vorhanden. Die übliche Auskunft, die man gibt, wenn man nichts weiß.
Manchmal treffe ich Harras auf der Treppe, er muß es immer außerordentlich eilig haben, er huscht formlich an mir vorüber. Genau gesehen habe ich ihn noch gar nicht, den Büroschlüssel hat er schon vorbereitet in der Hand. Im Augenblick hat er die Tür geöffnet. Wie der Schwanz einer Ratte ist er hineingeglitten und ich stehe wieder vor der Tafel 'Harras, Bureau', die ich schon viel öfter gelesen habe, als sie es verdient.
Die elend dünnen Wände, die den ehrlich tätigen Mann verraten den Unehrlichen aber decken. Mein Telephon ist an der Zimmerwand angebracht, die mich von meinem Nachbar trennt. Doch hebe ich das bloß als besonders ironische Tatsache hervor.
Selbst wenn es an der entgegengesetzten Wand hinge, würde man in der Nebenwohnung alles hören. Ich habe mir abgewöhnt, den Namen der Kunden beim Telephon zu nennen. Aber es gehört natürlich nicht viel Schlauheit dazu, aus charakteristischen, aber unvermeidlichen Wendungen des Gesprächs die Namen zu erraten. - Manchmal umtanze ich, die Hörmuschel am Ohr, von Unruhe gestachelt, auf den Fußspitzen den Apparat und kann es doch nicht verhüten, daß Geheimnisse preisgegeben werden.
Natürlich werden dadurch meine geschäftlichen Entscheidungen unsicher, meine Stimme zittrig. Was macht Harras, während ich telephoniere? Wollte ich sehr übertreiben - aber das muß man oft, um sich Klarheit zu verschaffen -, so könnte ich sagen: Harras braucht kein Telephon, er benutzt meines, er hat sein Kanapee an die Wand gerückt und horcht, ich dagegen muß, wenn geläutet wird, zum Telephon laufen, die Wünsche des Kunden entgegennehmen, schwerwiegende Entschlüsse fassen, großangelegte Überredungen ausführen - vor allem aber während des Ganzen unwillkürlich durch die Zimmerwand Harras Bericht erstatten.
Vielleicht wartet er gar nicht das Ende des Gespräches ab, sondern erhebt sich nach der Gesprächsstelle, die ihn über den Fall genügend aufgeklärt hat, huscht nach seiner Gewohnheit durch die Stadt und, ehe ich die Hörmuschel aufgehängt habe, ist er vielleicht schon daran, mir entgegenzuarbeiten.

From "The Tales of Franz Kafka: English Translation With Original Text In German," available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch, on NOOK Book, on Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through  Amazon and Lulu.

"The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," LiteraryJoint Press (2017)

 The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli, Translated in English, next to their Original Italian Text. 

Giovanni Pascoli (b. at San Mauro Romagna, December 31, 1855, d. at Barga April 6, 1912) was a classical scholar and one of the greatest European poets of his times. The work of Giovanni Pascoli is considered the beginning of modern Italian poetry. Amidst the thick fog, in the rough seas and the rugged shores of a country divided by historic, cultural, and linguistic barriers, Pascoli become the lighthouse to point to, in order to find a common language and a way to unity. In appearance, he often simply spoke of “little things:” bucolic scenes, small images of nature, peasants and their everyday chores; even animals, birds, plants, and flowers with mystical names found their cozy spot under the beaming sun of Pascoli’s marvelous pen.

The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli, Translated in English, next to their Original Italian Text.

"The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!)  and also on Kobo.

"Memoirs of a Madman" from "The Mantle and Other Stories," by Nikolai Gogol, translated by Claud Field

Portrait of Nikolai Gogol

MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN

 _October 3rd._--A strange occurrence has taken place to-day. I got up
fairly late, and when Mawra brought me my clean boots, I asked her how
late it was. When I heard it had long struck ten, I dressed as quickly
as possible.

To tell the truth, I would rather not have gone to the office at all
to-day, for I know beforehand that our department-chief will look as
sour as vinegar. For some time past he has been in the habit of saying
to me, "Look here, my friend; there is something wrong with your head.
You often rush about as though you were possessed. Then you make such
confused abstracts of the documents that the devil himself cannot make
them out; you write the title without any capital letters, and add
neither the date nor the docket-number." The long-legged scoundrel! He
is certainly envious of me, because I sit in the director's work-room,
and mend His Excellency's pens. In a word, I should not have gone to the
office if I had not hoped to meet the accountant, and perhaps squeeze a
little advance out of this skinflint.

A terrible man, this accountant! As for his advancing one's salary once
in a way--you might sooner expect the skies to fall. You may beg and
beseech him, and be on the very verge of ruin--this grey devil won't
budge an inch. At the same time, his own cook at home, as all the world
knows, boxes his ears.

I really don't see what good one gets by serving in our department.
There are no plums there. In the fiscal and judicial offices it is quite
different. There some ungainly fellow sits in a corner and writes and
writes; he has such a shabby coat and such an ugly mug that one would
like to spit on both of them. But you should see what a splendid
country-house he has rented. He would not condescend to accept a gilt
porcelain cup as a present. "You can give that to your family doctor,"
he would say. Nothing less than a pair of chestnut horses, a fine
carriage, or a beaver-fur coat worth three hundred roubles would be good
enough for him. And yet he seems so mild and quiet, and asks so amiably,
"Please lend me your penknife; I wish to mend my pen." Nevertheless, he
knows how to scarify a petitioner till he has hardly a whole stitch left
on his body.

In our office it must be admitted everything is done in a proper and
gentlemanly way; there is more cleanness and elegance than one will ever
find in Government offices. The tables are mahogany, and everyone is
addressed as "sir." And truly, were it not for this official propriety,
I should long ago have sent in my resignation.

I put on my old cloak, and took my umbrella, as a light rain was
falling. No one was to be seen on the streets except some women, who had
flung their skirts over their heads. Here and there one saw a cabman or
a shopman with his umbrella up. Of the higher classes one only saw an
official here and there. One I saw at the street-crossing, and thought
to myself, "Ah! my friend, you are not going to the office, but after
that young lady who walks in front of you. You are just like the
officers who run after every petticoat they see."

As I was thus following the train of my thoughts, I saw a carriage stop
before a shop just as I was passing it. I recognised it at once; it was
our director's carriage. "He has nothing to do in the shop," I said to
myself; "it must be his daughter."

I pressed myself close against the wall. A lackey opened the carriage
door, and, as I had expected, she fluttered like a bird out of it. How
proudly she looked right and left; how she drew her eyebrows together,
and shot lightnings from her eyes--good heavens! I am lost, hopelessly
lost!

But why must she come out in such abominable weather? And yet they say
women are so mad on their finery!

She did not recognise me. I had wrapped myself as closely as possible in
my cloak. It was dirty and old-fashioned, and I would not have liked to
have been seen by her wearing it. Now they wear cloaks with long
collars, but mine has only a short double collar, and the cloth is of
inferior quality.

Her little dog could not get into the shop, and remained outside. I know
this dog; its name is "Meggy."

Before I had been standing there a minute, I heard a voice call, "Good
day, Meggy!"

Who the deuce was that? I looked round and saw two ladies hurrying by
under an umbrella--one old, the other fairly young. They had already
passed me when I heard the same voice say again, "For shame, Meggy!"

What was that? I saw Meggy sniffing at a dog which ran behind the
ladies. The deuce! I thought to myself, "I am not drunk? That happens
pretty seldom."

"No, Fidel, you are wrong," I heard Meggy say quite distinctly. "I
was--bow--wow!--I was--bow! wow! wow!--very ill."

What an extraordinary dog! I was, to tell the truth, quite amazed to
hear it talk human language. But when I considered the matter well, I
ceased to be astonished. In fact, such things have already happened in
the world. It is said that in England a fish put its head out of water
and said a word or two in such an extraordinary language that learned
men have been puzzling over them for three years, and have not succeeded
in interpreting them yet. I also read in the paper of two cows who
entered a shop and asked for a pound of tea.

Meanwhile what Meggy went on to say seemed to me still more remarkable.
She added, "I wrote to you lately, Fidel; perhaps Polkan did not bring
you the letter."

Now I am willing to forfeit a whole month's salary if I ever heard of
dogs writing before. This has certainly astonished me. For some little
time past I hear and see things which no other man has heard and seen.

"I will," I thought, "follow that dog in order to get to the bottom of
the matter. Accordingly, I opened my umbrella and went after the two
ladies. They went down Bean Street, turned through Citizen Street and
Carpenter Street, and finally halted on the Cuckoo Bridge before a large
house. I know this house; it is Sverkoff's. What a monster he is! What
sort of people live there! How many cooks, how many bagmen! There are
brother officials of mine also there packed on each other like herrings.
And I have a friend there, a fine player on the cornet."

The ladies mounted to the fifth story. "Very good," thought I; "I will
make a note of the number, in order to follow up the matter at the first
opportunity."

                   *       *       *       *       *

_October 4th._--To-day is Wednesday, and I was as usual in the office. I
came early on purpose, sat down, and mended all the pens.

Our director must be a very clever man. The whole room is full of
bookcases. I read the titles of some of the books; they were very
learned, beyond the comprehension of people of my class, and all in
French and German. I look at his face; see! how much dignity there is in
his eyes. I never hear a single superfluous word from his mouth, except
that when he hands over the documents, he asks "What sort of weather is
it?"

No, he is not a man of our class; he is a real statesman. I have already
noticed that I am a special favourite of his. If now his daughter
also--ah! what folly--let me say no more about it!

I have read the _Northern Bee_. What foolish people the French are! By
heavens! I should like to tackle them all, and give them a thrashing. I
have also read a fine description of a ball given by a landowner of
Kursk. The landowners of Kursk write a fine style.

Then I noticed that it was already half-past twelve, and the director
had not yet left his bedroom. But about half-past one something happened
which no pen can describe.

The door opened. I thought it was the director; I jumped up with my
documents from the seat, and--then--she--herself--came into the room. Ye
saints! how beautifully she was dressed. Her garments were whiter than a
swan's plumage--oh how splendid! A sun, indeed, a real sun!

She greeted me and asked, "Has not my father come yet?"

Ah! what a voice. A canary bird! A real canary bird!

"Your Excellency," I wanted to exclaim, "don't have me executed, but if
it must be done, then kill me rather with your own angelic hand." But,
God knows why, I could not bring it out, so I only said, "No, he has not
come yet."

She glanced at me, looked at the books, and let her handkerchief fall.
Instantly I started up, but slipped on the infernal polished floor, and
nearly broke my nose. Still I succeeded in picking up the handkerchief.
Ye heavenly choirs, what a handkerchief! So tender and soft, of the
finest cambric. It had the scent of a general's rank!

She thanked me, and smiled so amiably that her sugar lips nearly melted.
Then she left the room.

After I had sat there about an hour, a flunkey came in and said, "You
can go home, Mr Ivanovitch; the director has already gone out!"

I cannot stand these lackeys! They hang about the vestibules, and
scarcely vouchsafe to greet one with a nod. Yes, sometimes it is even
worse; once one of these rascals offered me his snuff-box without even
getting up from his chair. "Don't you know then, you country-bumpkin,
that I am an official and of aristocratic birth?"

This time, however, I took my hat and overcoat quietly; these people
naturally never think of helping one on with it. I went home, lay a good
while on the bed, and wrote some verses in my note:

    "'Tis an hour since I saw thee,
       And it seems a whole long year;
     If I loathe my own existence,
       How can I live on, my dear?"

I think they are by Pushkin.

In the evening I wrapped myself in my cloak, hastened to the director's
house, and waited there a long time to see if she would come out and get
into the carriage. I only wanted to see her once, but she did not come.

                   *       *       *       *       *

_November 6th._--Our chief clerk has gone mad. When I came to the office
to-day he called me to his room and began as follows: "Look here, my
friend, what wild ideas have got into your head?"

"How! What? None at all," I answered.

"Consider well. You are already past forty; it is quite time to be
reasonable. What do you imagine? Do you think I don't know all your
tricks? Are you trying to pay court to the director's daughter? Look at
yourself and realise what you are! A nonentity, nothing else. I would
not give a kopeck for you. Look well in the glass. How can you have such
thoughts with such a caricature of a face?"

May the devil take him! Because his own face has a certain resemblance
to a medicine-bottle, because he has a curly bush of hair on his head,
and sometimes combs it upwards, and sometimes plasters it down in all
kinds of queer ways, he thinks that he can do everything. I know well, I
know why he is angry with me. He is envious; perhaps he has noticed the
tokens of favour which have been graciously shown me. But why should I
bother about him? A councillor! What sort of important animal is that?
He wears a gold chain with his watch, buys himself boots at thirty
roubles a pair; may the deuce take him! Am I a tailor's son or some
other obscure cabbage? I am a nobleman! I can also work my way up. I am
just forty-two--an age when a man's real career generally begins. Wait a
bit, my friend! I too may get to a superior's rank; or perhaps, if God
is gracious, even to a higher one. I shall make a name which will far
outstrip yours. You think there are no able men except yourself? I only
need to order a fashionable coat and wear a tie like yours, and you
would be quite eclipsed.

But I have no money--that is the worst part of it!

                   *       *       *       *       *

_November 8th._--I was at the theatre. "The Russian House-Fool" was
performed. I laughed heartily. There was also a kind of musical comedy
which contained amusing hits at barristers. The language was very broad;
I wonder the censor passed it. In the comedy lines occur which accuse
the merchants of cheating; their sons are said to lead immoral lives,
and to behave very disrespectfully towards the nobility.

The critics also are criticised; they are said only to be able to find
fault, so that authors have to beg the public for protection.

Our modern dramatists certainly write amusing things. I am very fond of
the theatre. If I have only a kopeck in my pocket, I always go there.
Most of my fellow-officials are uneducated boors, and never enter a
theatre unless one throws free tickets at their head.

One actress sang divinely. I thought also of--but silence!

                   *       *       *       *       *

_November 9th._--About eight o'clock I went to the office. The chief
clerk pretended not to notice my arrival. I for my part also behaved as
though he were not in existence. I read through and collated documents.
About four o'clock I left. I passed by the director's house, but no one
was to be seen. After dinner I lay for a good while on the bed.

                   *       *       *       *       *

_November 11th._--To-day I sat in the director's room, mended
twenty-three pens for him, and for Her--for Her Excellence, his
daughter, four more.

The director likes to see many pens lying on his table. What a head he
must have! He continually wraps himself in silence, but I don't think
the smallest trifle escapes his eye. I should like to know what he is
generally thinking of, what is really going on in this brain; I should
like to get acquainted with the whole manner of life of these gentlemen,
and get a closer view of their cunning courtiers' arts, and all the
activities of these circles. I have often thought of asking His
Excellence about them; but--the deuce knows why!--every time my tongue
failed me and I could get nothing out but my meteorological report.

I wish I could get a look into the spare-room whose door I so often see
open. And a second small room behind the spare-room excites my
curiosity. How splendidly it is fitted up; what a quantity of mirrors
and choice china it contains! I should also like to cast a glance into
those regions where Her Excellency, the daughter, wields the sceptre. I
should like to see how all the scent-bottles and boxes are arranged in
her boudoir, and the flowers which exhale so delicious a scent that one
is half afraid to breathe. And her clothes lying about which are too
ethereal to be called clothes--but silence!

To-day there came to me what seemed a heavenly inspiration. I remembered
the conversation between the two dogs which I had overheard on the
Nevski Prospect. "Very good," I thought; "now I see my way clear. I must
get hold of the correspondence which these two silly dogs have carried
on with each other. In it I shall probably find many things explained."

I had already once called Meggy to me and said to her, "Listen, Meggy!
Now we are alone together; if you like, I will also shut the door so
that no one can see us. Tell me now all that you know about your
mistress. I swear to you that I will tell no one."

But the cunning dog drew in its tail, ruffled up its hair, and went
quite quietly out of the door, as though it had heard nothing.

I had long been of the opinion that dogs are much cleverer than men. I
also believed that they could talk, and that only a certain obstinacy
kept them from doing so. They are especially watchful animals, and
nothing escapes their observation. Now, cost what it may, I will go
to-morrow to Sverkoff's house in order to ask after Fidel, and if I have
luck, to get hold of all the letters which Meggy has written to her.

                   *       *       *       *       *

_November 12th._--To-day about two o'clock in the afternoon I started in
order, by some means or other, to see Fidel and question her.

I cannot stand this smell of Sauerkraut which assails one's olfactory
nerves from all the shops in Citizen Street. There also exhales such an
odour from under each house door, that one must hold one's nose and pass
by quickly. There ascends also so much smoke and soot from the artisans'
shops that it is almost impossible to get through it.

When I had climbed up to the sixth story, and had rung the bell, a
rather pretty girl with a freckled face came out. I recognised her as
the companion of the old lady. She blushed a little and asked "What do
you want?"

"I want to have a little conversation with your dog."

Poem "Autumn" (Autunno) by Vincenzo Cardarelli (1949)

Garden in Autumn by Vincent Van Gogh, ca. 1889

From the collection "Opere Complete" 1962, 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.   

 

Autumn  (Autunno)

Autumn. We felt its coming

in the wind of August,

in the rains of September

torrential and weeping

and a shiver ran through the earth

which now, bare and sad,

welcomes a bewildered sun. 

Now passes and declines,

in this Autumn progressing

with unspeakable slowness,

the best time of our life

and lengthily bids us farewell.

From the Collection "Poesie," 1949, by Vincenzo Cardarelli

From the collection "Opere Complete" 1962, 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.
 

"Amongst All Things I Cherish You Most," from "Midnight 30, American Poems"

Claude Monet, Autumn Effect at Argenteuil, oil on canvas, 1873, The Courtauld Gallery, London, UK

Amongst All Things I Cherish You Most

Amongst all things I cherish you most:

silent, deserted tracks,

paths winding steeply up

to the hazy tops, murmurs of footsteps

muffled by silent slopes,

ascensions to sylvan hermitages.

When the first snow

shuts all man within their weary

dwellings, then even the timid fox

sticks its head out of the woods,

sniffing with its pointed nose the air

in the scant November dusk.  

Similarly a vagrant finds some peace

and no longer despairs in his wandering,

when the blackening earth closes the corolla

of the horizon, and like ancient weeping,

the oblivious, sooty sky

is a mute blanket, unutterable.      

(The Appalachians, November 2013)

"Midnight 30, American Poems," is available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iBookstore, NOOK Book, Kobo, and Lulu.

Jersey Blues: Selected Poems

A still from the film version of 'On The Road' 

 

"...Like a pilgrim, or a spiritual vagrant, crisscrossing the country—always rolling on the very fabric of the continent: westwards and eastwards, to the eternal oceans, and from the northern vast plains down through the Appalachian, to the deep recesses of the lowlands, to the swamps—infallibly enough I would always return to my dwelling in Princeton. Many a time the lonely night was devoted to the contemplation of the moon of New Jersey, as I licked the wounds of a sore soul. I always wondered, how different that pale, ghostly circle of a moon was, from the one I encountered elsewhere above the magnificent land that I had been scampering about, and from the lost moon of my childhood. Yet, with adulthood—or maturity—seeing at last the rise and fall of earthling matters, I would flinch, my heart recoiling, as from something unpleasant. Thus, through the jaundiced, estranged buoy in the sky, I would recall past memories, and hold out my quivering hand to reach over to the always-receding mysteries of existence..."

"Jersey Blues: Selected Poems", also available on iBookstore, NOOK Book, and Amazon Kindle.

"La tessitrice" (The Weaver Girl) by Giovanni Pascoli. English translation, with original Italian text. "La tessitrice" (The Weaver Girl) from the collection "Canti di Castelvecchio"(1903)

Vincent Van Gogh, Woman Sewing (Etten - Scheveningen, 1881-1882)

The following translation of ""La tessitrice" (The Weaver Girl) by Giovanni Pascoli is from the book "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!)  and also on Kobo.

The Weaver Girl

I sat on the small bench

as I used to...how many years back?

As she used to, she squeezed up

on the small bench.

And not the sound of a word;

only a smile that was all pity.

The pale hand leaves the spool.

I cry, and say to her: How could I,

my dear sweetness, part from you?

She cries, and says to me with a silent nod:

How could you?

Then, the chamber with a sigh

draws back the silent comb.

The silent spool again and again passes by.

I cry, and ask her: then, why does the

keen comb make no more sound?

Shyly and good-heartedly she stares at me;

Why no more sound, you ask me?

And cries, cries she - Sweet love sweet,

did no one tell you? don't you know?

I'm not alive but in your heart and soul.

Dead! Yes, dead! If I still weave, it is

for you alone; how, I have no clue:

in this cloth, under the cypress,

I’ll finally sleep next to you.

La Tessitrice

Mi son seduto su la panchetta

come una volta... quanti anni fa?

Ella, come una volta, s’è stretta

su la panchetta.

E non il suono d’una parola;

solo un sorriso tutto pietà.

La bianca mano lascia la spola.

Piango, e le dico: Come ho potuto,

dolce mio bene, partir da te?

Piange, e mi dice d’un cenno muto:

Come hai potuto?

Con un sospiro quindi la cassa

tira del muto pettine a sè.

Muta la spola passa e ripassa.

Piango, e le chiedo: Perchè non suona

dunque l’arguto pettine più?

Ella mi fissa timida e buona:

Perchè non suona?

E piange, e piange - Mio dolce amore,

non t’hanno detto? non lo sai tu?

Io non son viva che nel tuo cuore.

Morta! Sì, morta! Se tesso, tesso

per te soltanto; come non so:

in questa tela, sotto il cipresso,

accanto alfine ti dormirò.

From the collection “Canti di Castelvecchio”

"Lavandare" (Laundresses) by Giovanni Pascoli. English translation, with original Italian text. "Lavandare" (Laundresses) from the collection "Myricae" (1896)

Laundresses by a Stream, about 1885-90, Eugène Boudin

The following translation of "Lavandare" (Laundresses) by Giovanni Pascoli is from the book "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!)  and also on Kobo.

Laundresses 

 

In the field half black and half gray remains a plow without oxen that seems forgotten, in the steamy air.

As a cadence, from the irrigation ditch comes the washboard's swash of the laundresses with thick splashes and long lullabies:

The wind blows and the leaves fall like snow, and yet you have not returned to your home! since you departed, I have remained so!
like the plow amidst the fallow.

Lavandare

Nel campo mezzo grigio e mezzo nero resta un aratro senza buoi che pare dimenticato, tra il vapor leggero.

E cadenzato dalla gora viene
lo sciabordare delle lavandare
con tonfi spessi e lunghe cantilene:

Il vento soffia e nevica la frasca,
e tu non torni ancora al tuo paese! quando partisti, come son rimasta! come l’aratro in mezzo alla maggese.

From the collection “Myricae” (1891-1900)