{"id":4615,"date":"2022-06-09T16:01:11","date_gmt":"2022-06-09T23:01:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/?p=4615"},"modified":"2022-11-09T16:01:12","modified_gmt":"2022-11-10T00:01:12","slug":"rain-on-pines-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/rain-on-pines-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Rain on Pines"},"content":{"rendered":"

Almost twenty years after I began it, I finished this translation of Gabriele D’Annunzio’s<\/em> La pioggia nel pineto. Or, perhaps with a nod to Val\u00e9ry, I should say I’ve abandoned it.\u00a0<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Shh! On the verge<\/span>
\n of this thicket I hear<\/span>
\n no human words.<\/span>
\n The voices I hear
\n<\/span>emerge<\/span>
\n as droplets loom<\/span>
\n on leaves.<\/span>
\n Listen. Rain<\/span>
\n strewn from scattered clouds<\/span>
\n falls on brittle<\/span>
\n pods<\/span>
\n of tarmarind,<\/span>
\n on needles<\/span>
\n of scabrous pine,<\/span>
\n on myrtle divine.<\/span>
\n Rain wets the effulgent<\/span>
\n bloom<\/span>\u00a0of broom,<\/span>
\n fragrant tufts of juniper,<\/span>
\n our idyllic faces,<\/span>
\n our bare<\/span>
\n hands.<\/span>\u00a0Rain
\nsoaks<\/span>\u00a0the spare<\/span>
\n fabric with which our flesh<\/span>
\n is clad, thoughts here<\/span>
\n disclosed afresh,<\/span>
\n the alluring fable<\/span>
\n which deluded you,<\/span>
\n Hermione,<\/span>
\n now deluding me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Do you hear? Rain falls<\/span>
\n on lonely growth,
\n<\/span>its sound
\n<\/span>upon boughs both<\/span>
\n thick and sparse<\/span>
\nvarious in the air.<\/span>
\n Listen. Cicada calls<\/span>
\n respond to this lament,<\/span>
\ntheir cry<\/span>
\n quelled neither by heat<\/span>
\n nor this ashen sky.<\/span>
\n The pine<\/span>
\n has one sound, myrtle<\/span>
\n another, juniper<\/span>
\n yet another, each<\/span>
\n an instrument<\/span>
\n ployed by numerous<\/span>
\n plangent fingers.<\/span>
\n Immersed in this choir<\/span>
\n we sylvan sprites<\/span>
\n live out similar,<\/span>
\n vital branching lives.<\/span>
\n And like a leaf<\/span>
\n your exalted<\/span>
\n face is soft<\/span>
\n with rain, \u00a0your head<\/span>
\nof hair as odorous<\/span>
\n as the lambent broom,<\/span>
\nO creature so earthly<\/span>
\n who bears the name:<\/span>
\n Hermione ….<\/span><\/p>\n

Listen, listen:
\n<\/span>the polyphony of
\n<\/span>cicadas in the air
\nbit by bit subsides
\nas weeping rain
\nswells into
\n<\/span>plangent dirge
\nemerging
\nfrom distant dark
\n<\/span>damp depths.
\nThat churr dwindles.
\nOnly a trembling
\nsostenuto hangs,
\n<\/span>wavers, swells,
\n<\/span>quavers, fades.
\nNot the sea\u2019s voice
\nbut the silver rain\u2019s
\n<\/span>cleansing thrum,
\nits patter’s timbre
\n<\/span>treble or bass
\ndepending on the leaves.
\nListen.\u00a0The daughter
\nof air\u00a0is hush
\nbut the\u00a0daughter
\nof distant silt,
\n<\/span>a frog, croaks
\n<\/span>from deep shadows
\n— who knows where,
\nwho knows where?
\nAnd rain falls
\non your lashes,
\nHermione ….<\/p>\n

Rain falls on
\n<\/span>your dark lashes,
\n<\/span>as if you weep,
\n<\/span>but from pleasure,
\ndrops of sap
\nseeping through bark.
\nFor the fresh scent\u00a0
\n<\/span>of life dwells within us,
\n<\/span>your heart
\n<\/span>an untouched peach
\n<\/span>within your breast,
\neyes within their lids
\nsprings stirring in grass,
\nteeth green almonds
\nin their sockets.
\nSo we pass from patch to patch,
\nnow bound, now not.
\nTenuous green
\nshoots\u00a0entangle our ankles,
\n<\/span>entwine our knees
\n— who knows where,
\nwho knows where?
\nAnd rain keeps falling
\non\u00a0our idyllic
\nfaces, our bare
\n<\/span>hands. Rain soaks
\n<\/span>the spare
\n<\/span>fabric with which our flesh
\n<\/span>is clad,
\n<\/span>thoughts here
\ndisclosed afresh,
\nthe alluring fable
\nwhich deluded me
\n<\/span>and now deludes you,
\nHermione.<\/p>\n

(After Gabriele D’Annunzio. The original Italian can be found <\/span><\/em>
\n by searching for\u00a0<\/span><\/em>Taci. Su le soglie.<\/span>)<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

D’Annunzio<\/span><\/a> was a mad poet who lived at the turn of the century, the one before last — a moment in time I increasingly feel myself to be better fit for than this one, even if <\/span><\/em>fit means being a bit mad like the poet.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

This strange affinity prompted me to this post. I began working through versions of the poem during the short months I was based in Cortona, in Tuscany, teaching Canadian students the rudiments of life and culture in Italy and, it goes without saying, speaking and reading as much Italian as I could manage. This took place at the last turn of a century. <\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

It was a millennial moment. I was fifty-five. So I didn’t experience a mid-life crisis then and there. Had been there, done that. Instead, I suffered an abrupt and surprising shift in perspective. Suddenly I realized, years after the mathematical fact, that there were more yesterdays behind me than tomorrows ahead, that I should seize what I could from the latter as they become todays, a banal enough resolution but one which the beseeching words of D’Annunzio seemed to anticipate, augur.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The vocative mode is not grammatically marked in many of the world’s languages. It always lies beneath speech, especially in lyric. Though the aim of the poet may well be the self-satisfying internal beauty of the words themselves, poetry is often cast into dialogue or dialogic form, a scenario played out in two voices, a first person calling out to a second usually mute other, appealing, berating, regretting, going without response.\u00a0<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Alas, that internal beauty, a poetic memory of the flesh, is all that remains, once time moves on.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Almost twenty years after I began it, I finished this translation of Gabriele D’Annunzio’s La pioggia nel pineto. Or, perhaps with a nod to Val\u00e9ry, I should say I’ve abandoned it.\u00a0 * Shh! On the verge of this thicket I hear no human words. The voices I hear emerge as droplets loom on leaves. Listen. … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Rain on Pines”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

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