{"id":4139,"date":"2018-09-01T14:17:11","date_gmt":"2018-09-01T21:17:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=4139"},"modified":"2018-10-08T20:14:41","modified_gmt":"2018-10-09T03:14:41","slug":"montales-lemon-trees","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=4139","title":{"rendered":"Montale’s Lemon Trees"},"content":{"rendered":"

How do poems get us, like this one did me \u2014 to the point I put it over into English?<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Here, as best as I recollect, it was the lines translated as: …\u00a0<\/em>the overgrown \/ ditches where boys fish stray eels \/ out\u00a0of half dried-up puddles …..<\/span><\/p>\n

They were eerily reminiscent of a still unfinished poem of my own about my bayou-centric boyhood in Houston: <\/em>the stagnant pools where kids with bacon \/ tied on strings coax crawdads out the lips \/ of underwater mud-clump mounds < “Gladiola”, forthcomng.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

For \u00a0an instant I thought Montale’s poem was my own.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Such a experiential coincidence is really all it takes. True, it is sometimes hard then to prize those crawdads and eels out \u00a0of the muck of another language, even one as luminous as Italian. But there is delight in the process and if you are lucky, as reader or as translator, coming out of gloom you taste\u00a0<\/em>joy akin to suddenly glimpsing clusters of lemons \u00a0glistening behind a garden gate inadvertently left ajar and hearing, synesthesiac, the\u00a0<\/em>radiant peal of the sun\u00a0— though \u00a0the pun with peel works solely in English.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

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

Better that the chatter of birds<\/span>
\n be swallowed by the empty blue sky.<\/span>
\n Then you hear the gracious\u00a0rustle<\/span>
\n of branches in air barely astir,\u00a0the drift<\/span>
\n of smells indistinct from\u00a0the earth<\/span>
\n which fall like soft restless rain within.<\/span>
\n The distracting strife\u00a0of the\u00a0passions<\/span>
\n is miraculously quelled. Even we<\/span>
\n poor receive\u00a0our share\u00a0of\u00a0common<\/span>
\n wealth:\u00a0the scent of lemon trees.<\/span><\/p>\n

See, in these tacit moments<\/span>
\n when things seem ready<\/span>
\n to own up their deepest secrets,<\/span>
\n how sometimes we expect to seize<\/span>
\n upon an inner flaw of nature,\u00a0the hinge<\/span>
\n of everything, a link\u00a0that gives way,<\/span>
\n a thread to unravel to conduct<\/span>
\n us back to the crux of a truth.<\/span>
\n The eye casts about, the mind\u00a0inquires,<\/span>
\n reconciles, dissociates in\u00a0the fragrance<\/span>
\n spreading as\u00a0the day drags on.<\/span>
\n In these silences we sense in each passing<\/span>
\n human shade a provocative divinity.<\/span><\/p>\n

But the illusion falters. Time returns us<\/span>
\n to noisy streets where the\u00a0same blue sky<\/span>
\n is reduced to fleeting patches above fa\u00e7ades.<\/span>
\n Rain 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>
\n inadvertently ajar, the lemons\u2019\u00a0yellows\u00a0glisten.
\n<\/span>The heart\u2019s frozen floe\u00a0cracks,\u00a0pouring
\n<\/span>forth\u00a0the\u00a0radiant peal\u00a0of the sun.<\/span><\/p>\n

After Eugenio Montale, I 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

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

How do poems get us, like this one did me \u2014 to the point I put it over into English? Here, as best as I recollect, it was the lines translated as: …\u00a0the overgrown \/ ditches where boys fish stray eels \/ out\u00a0of half dried-up puddles ….. They were eerily reminiscent of a still unfinished … <\/p>\n

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

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