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Italiaanse PoŽzie

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Auteur Bericht

Geregistreerd op: 11-6-2007
Berichten: 7056

BerichtGeplaatst: 12 Okt 2007 21:37    Onderwerp: Italiaanse PoŽzie Reageer met quote

A literary minimalist, Giuseepe Ungaretti is considered by some critics the greatest Italian poet of the 20th Century. He served an infantryman on the lower Isonzo front with the 3rd Army from 1915 until early 1918. In the spring, he was transferred to the Western Front where Italian forces fought with distinction. In his most famous war poem, RIVERS, he alludes to his birth in Egypt, his youth in Tuscany and his service on both fronts during the Great War. Ungaretti's pure style was achieved by condensation to essentials and is in the tradition of the French Symbolists. His works are collected in the 2 volumes of LIFE OF A MAN portions of which are available in English translation.

A whole night long
crouched close
to one of our men
with his clenched
grinning at the full moon
with the congestion
of his hands
thrust right
into my silence
I've written
letters filled with love

I have never been
coupled to life

Cima Quattro, 23-Dec-1915


What regiment d'you belong to

Word shaking
in the night

Leaf barely born

In the simmering air
involuntary revolt
of the man present at his


Mariano, 11-Jul-1916


Like this stone of
San Michele

as cold
as hard
as thoroughly dried

as refractory
as deprived of spirit

Like this stone
is my weeping that can't
be seen

discounts death

Valloncello di Cima Quattro, 5-Aug-1916


Of these houses
but fragments of memory

Of all who
would talk with me not
one remains

But in my heart
no one's cross is missing
My heart is
the most tormented country of all

Valloncello dell' Albergo Isolato, 27-Aug-1916


I am a poet, a unanimous
cry, am
a cleat of dreams

a fruit
of innumerable conflicting grafts
ripened in the hothouse

But the same earth bears
your people
as carries me


In this, the uniform
of your soldier, I rest
as if
it were the cradle
of my father

Cease murdering the dead.
If you hope not to perish, if you
Want sound of them again,
Stop crying out, cease
The crying out of it.

They have a barely heard whispering,
No more than the increase of grass,
Happy where no man passes.


This mutilated tree gives
Me support, left in this pot-hole
It has the bitterness of a circus
Before or after the show.
I watch
The quiet passage of
Clouds over the moon.

This morning I stretched
Myself in an urn of water,
Like a relic, and rested.

The Isonzo scoured
Me like
One of its stones.

I pulled my four
limbs together,
And went, like an acrobat,
Over the water.

Crouched by my clothes
Fouled with war, I inclined
My head, like a Bedouin,
To receive the sun.

This is the Isonzo.
And it is there I
Most see myself
In the universe
A compliant

My pain is
When I do not believe
Myself in harmony.

But those hidden
Hands give as they knead me
A rare joy.

I have relived
The stages of my life.

The Serchio: from
Which have drawn, perhaps
For two thousand years
My country people, my father,
My mother.

This is the Nile
That has seen me be born,
And grow
And burn in ignorance on
Extending plains.

This is the Seine; and I mingled
In that muddiness learning each
Part of all myself.

These are my rivers confluent
In the Isonzo.

This is my nostalgia
That in each
One shines through me, now
It is night, and my life seems
A budding
Off of shades.


Nobel Prize [1975] winning critic and poet. Served in the Trentino as an infantry officer 1917-18. The poetry of the Genovese-born Montale tends to be complex, pessimistic and somewhat obscure. His works appear in many volumes of prose and poetry avaiable in English.

...The time has come, now, to suspend the suspension
of every worldly deception -
wished for by you for me...

Living on memories - I can no longer.
Better the bite of the ice than your sleepwalker's
lethargy, O late awakener!

Scarcely emerged from adolescence,
for half my life I was thrown
into the Augean stables.

I did not find two thousand oxen,
nor did i see any animals - ever -
and yet in the pathways,
thicker and thicker with dung,
walking was difficult,
breathing was difficult -
The human bellowing grew from day to day.

Then from year to year - who counted the
seasons any more in that thick mist? - a hand
feeling for the tiniest openings
worked in its memorial...until from the crevices
the fanning fire of a machine-gun pushed us back,
tired shovellers caught in the act
by the foreign police chiefs of the mud.

And at last the fall - beyond belief!

What did that new mire mean?
and the breathing of other, but similar, stenches?
and the whirlpool-whirling on rafts of dung?
Was that the sun, that filthy grub from a sewer
over the chimney pots?

...(I think
that perhaps you've stopped reading me.
But now you know all of me,
of my prison and my life afterwards;
now you know that the eagle can't be born
of a mouse.)
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Geregistreerd op: 11-6-2007
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BerichtGeplaatst: 11 Sep 2010 11:28    Onderwerp: Reageer met quote


Of all my dreams by night and day,
One dream will evermore return,
The dream of Italy in May;
The sky a brimming azure urn
Where lights of amber brood and burn;
The doves about San Marco's square,
The swimming Campanile tower,
The giants, hammering out the hour,
The palaces, the bright lagoons,
The gondolas gliding here and there
Upon the tide that sways and swoons.

The domes of San Antonio,
Where Padua 'mid her mulberry-trees
Reclines; Adige's crescent flow
Beneath Verona's balconies;
Rich Florence of the Medicis;
Sienna's starlike streets that climb
From hill to hill; Assisi well
Remembering the holy spell
Of rapt St. Francis; with her crown
Of battlements, embossed by time,
Stern old Perugia looking down.

Then, mother of great empires, Rome,
City of the majestic past,
That o'er far leagues of alien foam
The shadows of her eagles cast,
Imperious still; impending, vast,
The Colosseum's curving line;
Pillar and arch and colonnade;
St. Peter's consecrated shade,
And Hadrian's tomb where Tiber strays;
The ruins on the Palatine
With all their memories of dead days.

And Naples, with her sapphire arc
Of bay, her perfect sweep of shore;
Above her, like a demon stark,
The dark fire-mountain evermore
Looming portentous, as of yore;
Fair Capri with her cliffs and caves;
Salerno drowsing 'mid her vines
And olives, and the shattered shrines
Of Pśstum where the gray ghosts tread,
And where the wilding rose still waves
As when by Greek girls garlanded.

But hark! What sound the ear dismays,
Mine Italy, mine Italy?
Thou that wert wrapt in peace, the haze
Of loveliness spread over thee!
Yet since the grapple needs must be,
I who have wandered in the night
With Dante, Petrarch's Laura known,
Seen Vallombrosa's groves breeze-blown,
Met Angelo and Raffael,
Against iconoclastic might
In this grim hour must wish thee well!

Clinton Scollard

"I will die cheering, if I needs must die;
So shall my last breath write upon my lips
Viva Italia! when my spirit slips
Down the great darkness from the mountain sky;
And those who shall behold me where I lie
Shall murmur: 'Look, you! how his spirit dips
From glory into glory! the eclipse
Of death is vanquished! Lo, his victor-cry!'

"Live, thou, upon my lips, Italia mine,
The sacred death-cry of my frozen clay!
Let thy dear light from my dead body shine
And to the passer-by thy message say:
'Ecco! though heaven has made my skies divine,
My sons' love sanctifies my soil for aye!'"

George Edward Woodberry
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BerichtGeplaatst: 17 Sep 2011 13:31    Onderwerp: Reageer met quote

Nel Campo delle Fiandre

Ho viste mia nonna
che ascoltava in silenzio,
Il gemito dell'eroe e il lamento
dell'uome morente.

Egli giace ora immemore sotto,
una coltre d'erba verde,
nel Campo delle Fiandre.

Oggi, domani, il suo nome rimarrŗ
scolpito tra le croci,
in lontana terra fiamminga.

Non c'Ť fiore piý profumato,
non c'Ť amore cosž grande,
che possa ridare la voce al defunto.

Il tempo sommerge ogni ricordo.

E' forse una Dea che muove
i fili sottili di questo strano mondo.

Perchť, credetemi, niente Ť piý
infinitamente distante:

Come la vita e la morte.
Geschreven door Nicola Cortese
Acquaformosa (Calabria - Italia), 18 oktober 2009

Ter nagedachtenis aan zijn overgrootvader Private Nicola Elmo (in 1911 geŽmigreerd naar de VS), Co H, 145th Infantry Regiment, 37th Division.

Deze werd op 31 oktober gewond in het gelaat en aan het rechterbeen door granaatscherven. Hij overleed op 4 november 1918, het einde van WO I in ItaliŽ.
Nicola Cortese bezocht samen met zijn dochter Alessia in 2010 het graf van zijn overgrootvader, Tot enkele maanden voordien wist hij niet waar hij begraven lag.
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