'Arch Street', a Poem from the collection 'Jersey Blues'

Arch Street, Philadelphia (West from Broad St.), by James Cremer, 1821-1893

 

Arch Street

How fervent with life is the ephemeral city:
effervescent lives, yet doomed,
so precarious that, if only
awakened, the wind could easily push
aside, shuffling faces and destinies,
on an idle Saturday’s mid-Summer noon.

The sidewalks of China Town,
the alleys, the workshops, the odorous walls,
holding us to their ancient womb;
the fleeting hug of a mother,
already sunk into oblivion, to the
rascal lost on the street.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, July 2005 

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

"The Road not Taken," by Robert Frost, Italian version, translated by LiteraryJoint

Mountain Interval, First edition, Publisher Henry Holt, 1920 La strada non presa Due strade divergevano in un giallo bosco, E dispiaciuto di non poter percorrerle entrambe E viaggiando da solo, rimasi lì lungamente E scrutai l'una più che potei Fin laddove girava nella boscaglia; Allora presi l'altra, che tanto valeva E aveva magari più fascino, Perché era erbosa e chiedeva di esser percorsa; Sebbene per tanto così il passarvi Le aveva consumate entrambe pressapoco lo stesso, E tutte e due quel mattino ugualmente giacevano In foglie che nessun calpestio di passi aveva annerito. Ah, tenni la prima per un altro giorno. Ma sapendo bene come una via conduce ad altra via, Dubitavo che vi sarei mai tornato. Dovrei raccontarlo con un sospiro Da qualche parte tante e tante stagioni or sono: Due vie divergevano in un bosco, ed io— Io presi quella meno percorsa, E ciò fece tutta la differenza. Robert Frost, dalla raccolta "Mountain Interval", 1920.
Versione in italiano a cura di LiteraryJoint. The Road not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. by Robert Frost, from the collection "Mountain Interval", 1920.

Paesaggio Notturno, Night Landscape, by Vincenzo Cardarelli, English version

Starry Night, by Edvard Munch, 1893,  The J. Paul Getty Museum

Night Landscape

It lies up there my childhood.
There upon that hill
that I see again at night,
passing by on the railway,
marked by bright lights.
Smell of burnt stubble
strikes me at the station.
Ancient and diffuse smell
similar to many voices calling me.
But the train flees. I go, not knowing where.
My company is a friend
who is not even awake.
No one thinks or guesses
what it means to me
this motherly land which I overfly
like a stranger, like a betrayer.

by Vincenzo Cardarelli, from the collection "Prologhi", 1916
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.

Paesaggio notturno

Giace lassù la mia infanzia.

Lassù in quella collina
ch’io riveggo di notte,
passando in ferrovia,
segnata di vive luci.
Odor di stoppie bruciate
m’investe alla stazione.
Antico e sparso odore
simile a molte voci che mi chiamino.
Ma il treno fugge. Io vo non so dove.
M’è compagno un amico
che non si desta neppure.
Nessuno pensa o immagina
che cosa sia per me
questa materna terra ch’io sorvolo
come un ignoto, come un traditore. 

Vincenzo Cardarelli, dalla raccolta "Prologhi", 1916

Jersey Blues, Selected Poems, from the Garden State of New Jersey

New Jersey's State Seal

A foreword from the author:

    In my many years in America, 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. These are, in essence, my "Jersey Blues."

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

Indian Summer, a Poem

Landscape with female bathers, Pierre-August Renoir, 1885

Indian Summer

Long, Summer-like days, how shorter
You have all grown!
Yet, look at the sun: boldly
It shines still, in the terse skies:
Yellow, bright, warmer even...
A true deceit!
How a body clings, as it recedes
And sinks, in a sea of mellow memories.
Now that the clouds set to huddle
In the brooding heavens,
Like in a flock they gather,
And grow darker, for a storm
Is foreknown in the sultry air.
Then, one fine evening,
Suspended in await, 
Simply and  inexorably,
Like all earthly things,
The cool breeze that
Settles in afterwards, tells a story
As old as the world.
Then, the tree that was green
Sheds its leaves, and rattles,
And chills.  

Barcelona, Catalunya, October 2013

Check out the Author's Bookstore!

After Apple-Picking, by Robert Frost; Original English version and translation in Italian: Dopo la Raccolta delle Mele (Robert Frost)

Robert Frost, around year 1910

After Apple-Picking

by Robert Frost, from the collection North of Boston, 1915

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

  

For an analysis of the poem's structure, metrics and form, I will refer my amiable readers to a great contribution by PoemShape.

Dopo la Raccolta delle Mele

Robert Frost, da North of Boston, 1915

La mia lunga scala a due punte s'innalza fra un albero
Quasi verso i cieli,
E c'è un cesto che non ho riempito
Giusto accanto, e ci sono forse due o tre
Mele che non ho colto su un qualche ramo.
Ma ho finito di cogliere mele adesso.
Essenza di sonno invernale pervade la notte,
L'odore di mele: mi sto assopendo.
Non posso distogliere dalla mia vista la stranezza
Venuta dal guardare attraverso un vetro
Che ho preso stamane dall' abbeveratorio
E tenuto contro il mondo d'erba e brina.
S'è sciolto, e  io l'ho lasciato cadere e rompersi.
Ma stavo bene
Sul punto di dormire prima che cadesse,
E pareva sapessi
Che forme avrebbe preso il mio sognare.
Mele ingigantite appaiono e scompaiono,
La parte del picciolo e la parte del fiore,
Ed ogni macchiolina rossiccia ben definita.
L'incavo del mio piede non solo duole,
Ma sente ancora la pressione del piolo.
Sento l'oscillare della scala al curvarsi del ramo.
E continuo a udire dal cassone della cantina
Il suono rimbombante
di carichi e carichi di mele che si riversano.
Poiché ne ho abbastanza
Di raccoglier mele: mi sono stancato troppo
Del grande raccolto che io stesso avevo desiderato.
V'erano decine di migliaia di frutti da toccare,
accudire nella mano, staccare, a non lasciar cadere.
Poiché quelle
Che toccavano terra,
Non importa se non ammaccate o ricoperte di sporco,
Finivano di sicuro nel cumulo per fare il sidro
Come se non avessero più valore.
Si può ben vedere cosa disturberà
Questo mio sonno, qualunque esso sia.
Se non se ne fosse andata,
La marmotta potrebbe dire se è cosí  il suo
Lungo sonno, como descrivo il suo approssimarsi,
O semplicemente un po' di umano sonno.

Versione in italiano a cura di LiteraryJoint

After Apple-Picking

  by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19975#sthash.FlT4fMlY.dpuf

After Apple-Picking

  by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19975#sthash.FlT4fMlY.dpuf

'Fratelli', 'Brothers', by Giuseppe Ungaretti, English version

The poet in a trench, on the Italian-Austro-Ungarian war front, ca. 1916, source
http://www.lagrandeguerra.info
http://www.lagrandeguerra.info/links.php

The most comprehensive English translation of the work of Giuseppe Ungaretti (1888 – 1970,) the leading representative of the experimental literary movement called Hermeticism, or Hermeticpoetry. This edition includes poems from all of his major collections: "Porto Sepolto (1916,) “L'allegria di naufragi” (1919,)"L'allegria" (1931,) “Sentimento del tempo” (1933,) and "Il dolore," (1947.)

Available as ebook as Amazon Kindle and Kobo.

Amidst the horrors of WWI, in the darkest night, a word of hope lingers in the air, in this magnificent composition by Hermetic poetry master Giuseppe Ungaretti. Both versions of the poem (the first, originally entitled Soldato, appearing in the 1916 collection Porto sepolto and in the 1919 collection Allegria, as well as the final, entitled Fratelli,  from the 1942 editon of Allegria) are presented below, in English.

Brothers 

 

What's your regiment
brothers?

Trembling word
in the nigh

Leaf that is just born

In the spasmodic air
involuntary revolt
of a man present to his
fragility

Brothers


by G. Ungaretti, final version from the collection "Allegria", 1942

Soldier

What's your regiment
brothers?

Brother
trembling word
in the night
like a tiny leaf
just born


Heartfelt greeting
in the spasmodic air
whispered
supplication
for help
to a man present to his
fragility



By G. Ungaretti, first version, July 1915, as first appeared in the collection "Porto Sepolto", 1916.

Original versions in Italian, full text: