tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36272772300378388452024-03-13T12:47:33.463-07:00Bocca, Voce, Delirio - Poems of Italy and Amore A Bilingual Collection by Jenne' R. Andrews,
Translations by Author & Friends...Jenne' R. Andrews http://www.blogger.com/profile/15744946229300234443noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627277230037838845.post-21887433672180380652018-10-13T13:53:00.000-07:002018-10-13T13:55:00.724-07:00New Poem: Love After Yeats Jenne' R. Andrews http://www.blogger.com/profile/15744946229300234443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627277230037838845.post-83496661735247112812017-04-07T01:26:00.000-07:002017-09-11T07:27:27.781-07:00Book Launches Soon: Order Now! <span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Dear Friends -- Very soon I will be posting the entire manuscript of my collection of "Italiana"-- Poems of Italy and Amore here on my Blogger site. My "consiglieri" for this project include by nomes d'plume 'Enzo Castel di Lama and R. Alba di Sora, two erudite acquaintances to whom I am very grateful for wrestling with my poems. However, it is difficult enough to entrust one's work to translators without the kind of immaturity shown to me by the referenced persons who objected to my effort to restore some of the meaning of certain lines. Now that I have determined to post the work with translations they did willingly for me for the sake of this project, I will simply employ the practice of using noms de plume to accommodate them. I absolutely will not have my First Amendment rights to publish this work contaminated by their vitriol, or that of the original press who accepted this work.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>That press is in chaos and has been described to me to be a "puppy mill" by someone who is aware of the fact that an entire family lives on the backs of novice poets desperate to believe they have published an honest to god collection. I am not sorry that I withdrew this manuscript from the vanity press Finishing Line. Now that all of the toxic b.s. is out of the way, I hope you find the collection a rich and fascinating read. j</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>*Calabrian Garlic</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>In her window, a basket of garlic reaching for the sun.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>She broke off one of its fat cloves and took the knife</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>to it, using the blade’s flat to mash the nub open;</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>then she peeled off the papery rind and there it was,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>sending its quartered objections into the air,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>disempowered and redolent.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I sat back in the shadows with my love, her son Pepe;</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>we sipped Latte di Mandorla and watched Mama</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>in her cooking dance: how she carefully took a knuckle</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>from butcher paper, sliding it into a boiling pot, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>mincing fresh basil, crushing pomodori for the sauce. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>We kissed, and longing surged in us and his tongue</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>was as tensile and searching as the garlic’s green</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>and inquiring foot, and I dared not touch the tendrils</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>of his desire then. But later, spent and laughing after dinner,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I kissed again his garlicky mouth, and much later, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>we wept briny tears of rapture, rising to walk the edge of paradise, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>in the lolling phosphor on the Strait of Messina.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I saw something arcing through the spume and he said</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>it was the pesce spada, the sword-fish in rising-moon ardor. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I said within myself, with my poet’s heart, thinking</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>of Homer’s stunned walk in this very place,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>That is Scylla herself, exulting in the tide that forces</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>garlic-stricken lovers into each other’s arms at all hours.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Soon I boarded a train north, away from Mama, Papa</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>and the babies lolling in everyone’s arms at dusk</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>in the kitchen; many years later, there is no trace</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>of them now, not even anything legible in a book</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>of names, as if I had conjured all of it from thin air,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>my indoctrination into a hard, polished love</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>tinted by a flash in the pan anger, like the pink</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>water-laved stones one finds in the surf,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>la famiglia’s work-weary and serene faces</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>as we walked the garden.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This is what I remember now: all of them cloistered </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>in simplicity and resolve, like the purposeful garlic</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>in the window basket—sublimely impermanent,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>sheathed in undaunted light.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i> ......</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>To translate poetry from one language to another is a daunting and exhausting task. Inevitably it is difficult to come to concensus, especially if one's translation team includes those who do not know the original language and are not poets themselves. This is the case with the collaborative translations in my collection. The team: a bilingual professor who is a native of Italy. An Italian "poetessa" who does not know English, and whose zeal often meant straying from the text to choices that pleased her sensibility and her "ear." </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>And finally, me, semi-bilingual Americana, relying now and then on translation software and my innate language sense, my ear and heart for the Italian language. I am grateful to the other members of the team. Our product is beautiful and imperfect--as it should be and as are we. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Aglio Calabrese</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Alla sua finestra, un cestino di agli </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>raggiungere al sole.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Preso’ uno spicchio e gli avvicinò il coltello </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>usando la lama piatta per schiacciarlo:</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>poi tolse la camicia ed ecco era lì, spezzato, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>inviando le sue obiezioni divisi </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>nell’ aria inerme e profumato.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Mi sono seduto nelle ombre </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>con il mio amore suo figlio Pepe; </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>abbiamo sorseggiato Latte di Mandorla, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>guardando Mama esibirsi nella </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>sua danza culinaria; con cura preso’ </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>lo zampetto avvolto dal macellaio, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>scivolandolo nell’acqua bollente,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>tagliando basilico fresco, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>schiacciando i pomodori per la salsa. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Ci siamo baciati e il desiderio e’ divennato </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>intenso, la sua lingua era tesa e alla ricerca </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>come il piede dell aglio, verde e indagante. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Poi non ho osato toccare i spicchi del suo fame. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Ma più tardi, dopo cena, rilassati e ridendo,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>baciai di nuovo la sua bocca di aglio e più tardi ancora, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>abbiamo pianto lacrime salmastre d’estasi, elevandoci </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>per fare passeggiata sulla soglia del paradiso, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>il fosforo Calabrese che porta pigrizia sullo </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Stretto di Messina.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Ho visto attraverso l’aria qualcosa di arcuato, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>mi disse che era il pesce spada, che si alza </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>con la forza di l’ardore lunare.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Mi sono detta con il mio cuore di poeta, pensando </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>allo sbalorditivo cammino di Omero proprio qui,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Quella è Scilla stessa, esultante nella marea che forza</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>amanti stregati dall’aglio ad abbracciarsi a tutte le ore.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Presto salii sul treno verso nord, lontano da Mamma </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>e Papà e dai bambini che al tramonto si cullavano</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>tra le braccia di tutti nella cucina. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Molti anni dopo, non c’è più traccia di loro,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>nemmeno qualcosa da leggere in un libro di nomi—</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i> come se li avessi evocati tutti dall’aria, ed come mi</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>e stato indottrinato con un duro e splendente amore</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>tinto dalla rabbia dura, come le pietre rosa che si trovano </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>nella spuma del mare-- le facce serene della famiglia </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>segnate dalla fatica mentre camminavo nel giardino.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Questo e’ quello che mi ricordo ora: tutti loro</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>clausura nella semplicita’ e determinazione,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>come l’utile aglio nel cestino alla finestra—</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>sublimamente impermanente, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>coperto da una luce imperterrita.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Traduzione: Author and Friends </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>copyright Jenne' Rodey Andrews 2017</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Calabrian Garlic first appeared in the beautiful publication Vox Populi, editor and publisher Michael Simms.</i></span>Jenne' R. Andrews http://www.blogger.com/profile/15744946229300234443noreply@blogger.com0