{"id":3165,"date":"2015-07-12T14:30:50","date_gmt":"2015-07-12T21:30:50","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=3165"},"modified":"2015-07-12T14:32:51","modified_gmt":"2015-07-12T21:32:51","slug":"montales-lemon-trees-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=3165","title":{"rendered":"Montale’s Lemon Trees"},"content":{"rendered":"

Hear me on this: poets laureate<\/span>
\ndelight in growths of erudite<\/span>
\nname \u2014 ligustrum, acanthus, box.<\/span>
\nMy own path leads to overgrown<\/span>
\nditches where boys fish stray eels<\/span>
\nout\u00a0of half dried-up puddles,<\/span>
\ndown lanes skirting their banks,<\/span>
\nbearing past tufted cat-tails<\/span>
\ninto orchards of lemon trees.<\/span><\/p>\n

Better that the chatter of birds<\/span>
\nbe swallowed by the empty blue sky.<\/span>
\nThen you hear the gracious\u00a0rustle<\/span>
\nof branches in air barely astir,\u00a0the drift<\/span>
\nof smells indistinct from\u00a0the earth<\/span>
\nwhich fall like soft restless rain within.<\/span>
\nThe distracting strife\u00a0of the\u00a0passions<\/span>
\nis miraculously quelled. Even we<\/span>
\npoor receive\u00a0our share\u00a0of\u00a0common<\/span>
\nwealth:\u00a0the scent of lemon trees.<\/span><\/p>\n

See, in these tacit moments<\/span>
\nwhen things seem ready<\/span>
\nto own up their deepest secrets,<\/span>
\nhow sometimes we expect to seize<\/span>
\nupon an inner flaw of nature,\u00a0the hinge<\/span>
\nof everything, a link\u00a0that gives way,<\/span>
\na thread to unravel to conduct<\/span>
\nus back to the crux of a truth.<\/span>
\nThe eye casts about, the mind\u00a0inquires,<\/span>
\nreconciles, dissociates in\u00a0the fragrance<\/span>
\nspreading as\u00a0the day drags on.<\/span>
\nIn these silences we sense in each passing<\/span>
\nhuman shade a provocative divinity.<\/span><\/p>\n

But the illusion falters. Time returns us<\/span>
\nto noisy streets where the\u00a0same blue sky<\/span>
\nis reduced to fleeting patches above fa\u00e7ades.<\/span>
\nRain again pummels the earth.<\/span>
\nWinter\u2019s\u00a0tedium hangs over the houses.<\/span>
\nLight turns grudging. Spirits are embittered<\/span>
\nuntil one day, through a courtyard gate left<\/span>
\ninadvertently ajar, the lemons\u2019\u00a0yellows\u00a0glisten.<\/span>
\nThe heart\u2019s frozen floe\u00a0cracks,\u00a0pouring<\/span>
\nforth\u00a0the\u00a0radiant peal\u00a0of the sun.<\/span><\/p>\n

After Eugenio Montale,\u00a0I Limoni<\/i><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Ascoltami, i poeti laureati
\n<\/i>si muovono soltanto fra le piante
\n<\/i>dai nomi poco usati: bossi ligustri o acanti.
\n<\/i>Io, per me, amo le strade che riescono agli erbosi
\n<\/i>fossi dove in pozzanghere
\n<\/i>mezzo seccate agguantano i ragazzi
\n<\/i>qualche sparuta anguilla:
\n<\/i>le viuzze che seguono i ciglioni,
\n<\/i>discendono tra i ciuffi delle canne
\n<\/i>e mettono negli orti, tra gli alberi dei limoni.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Meglio se le gazzarre degli uccelli
\n<\/i>si spengono inghiottite dall’azzurro:
\n<\/i>pi\u00f9 chiaro si ascolta il susurro
\n<\/i>dei rami amici nell’aria che quasi non si muove,
\n<\/i>e i sensi di quest’odore
\n<\/i>che non sa staccarsi da terra
\n<\/i>e piove in petto una dolcezza inquieta.
\n<\/i>Qui delle divertite passioni
\n<\/i>per miracolo tace la guerra,
\n<\/i>qui tocca anche a noi poveri la nostra parte di ricchezza
\n<\/i>ed \u00e8 l’odore dei limoni.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Vedi, in questi silenzi in cui le cose
\n<\/i>s’abbandonano e sembrano vicine
\n<\/i>a tradire il loro ultimo segreto,
\n<\/i>talora ci si aspetta
\n<\/i>di scoprire uno sbaglio di Natura,
\n<\/i>il punto morto del mondo, l’anello che non tiene,
\n<\/i>il filo da disbrogliare che finalmente ci metta
\n<\/i>nel mezzo di una verit\u00e0.
\n<\/i>Lo sguardo fruga d’intorno,
\n<\/i>la mente indaga accorda disunisce
\n<\/i>nel profumo che dilaga
\n<\/i>quando il giorno pi\u00f9 languisce.
\n<\/i>Sono i silenzi in cui si vede
\n<\/i>in ogni ombra umana che si allontana
\n<\/i>qualche disturbata Divinit\u00e0<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Ma l’illusione manca e ci riporta il tempo
\n<\/i>nelle citt\u00e0 rumorose dove l’azzurro si mostra
\n<\/i>soltanto a pezzi, in alto, tra le cimase.
\n<\/i>La pioggia stanca la terra, di poi; s’affolta
\n<\/i>il tedio dell’inverno sulle case,
\n<\/i>la luce si fa avara – amara l’anima.
\n<\/i>Quando un giorno da un malchiuso portone
\n<\/i>tra gli alberi di una corte
\n<\/i>ci si mostrano i gialli dei limoni;
\n<\/i>e il gelo del cuore si sfa,
\n<\/i>e in petto ci scrosciano
\n<\/i>le loro canzoni
\n<\/i>le trombe d’oro della solarit\u00e0.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

***
\nThere is much more here than meets the eye. For example, the\u00a0<\/i>acanthus\u00a0rejected in the first lines as symbol of the fusty poets of the past returns implicitly in the\u00a0<\/i>fa\u00e7ades\u00a0in the third line of the last stanza (<\/i>cimace, cornices). Acanthus leaves were a frequent ornament on the capitals of Greek and Roman architecture. In that last stanza they are a dismal feature of a noisy industrial city, since cornices are invariably smudged with smog and cenders.\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n

I won\u2019t go on.<\/i><\/p>\n

Recited in Italian<\/a>\u00a0\/\u00a0On translation<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Hear me on this: poets laureate delight in growths of erudite name \u2014 ligustrum, acanthus, box. My own path leads to overgrown ditches where boys fish stray eels out\u00a0of half dried-up puddles, down lanes skirting their banks, bearing past tufted cat-tails into orchards of lemon trees. Better that the chatter of birds be swallowed by … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Montale’s Lemon Trees”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

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