What We Work At
What we work at
never falls
nor splinters,
is forever.
Joyful or sad,
enthused, manifold,
it remains immutable
to the strokes of time,
testifies
to immortal time.
Its naked brow
stays hard and firm
under the sunlight gilding it
between the unmoving thumbs of the universe.
Now and then sparks fall
and gild the brown hair
of little children going to school,
awakening from drowsiness
to their first excitement.
L’opera
L’opera
non cade mai,
non si frantuma,
rimane eterna.
Gioiosa o mesta,
entusiasta e molteplice,
rimanendo immutata
ai colpi del tempo,
è testimone
di un tempo immortale.
La sua nuda fronte
rimane ferma, soda
sotto i raggi del sole che l’indora
fra i pollici fissi dell’universo.
Da essa a volte cadono scintille
che indorano la bruna chioma
dei fanciulli che vanno a scuola
svegliandoli dal letargo
nel primo entusiasmo.
from Parole del tempo [Words of Time], 1933-1935.
Look to the Side
Look to the side. The yellow plinth
resounds no more. No longer young
the noise gets bitter. In the grass
the painted crystal gravestone, mindful,
stands useless.
From here the origin no longer
slowly sonorously flows
with a loud voice or the summit
and the hyacinths lose their leaves.
You’re coming! The fleeting hour,
the starry scent, these little
ideas like talismans
on the islands and the bare essentials
are all dropping down.
A flute rots
at the weak end of a year,
the breast’s laughter in the voracious wing
at the sharp sudden thud of time
of the lowered air.
Yesterday like today were drowsy
and panting while in their dry,
scattered, confused faces
was the firm ethereal end of another day.
Guarda a lato
Guarda a lato. Non più risuona
il plinto giallo. S’inacerba
il rumore non più giovane.
Non giova più sull’erba la memore
dipinta lapide di cristallo.
A partire da qui non più lenta
sonora scorre l’origine
ad alta voce o la cima
e si sfogliano i giacinti.
Tu giungi! L’ora veloce,
l’odore a stella, queste piccole
idee come un talismano
nelle isole e lo stretto necessario
cadono.
Marcisce un flauto
alla fine debole di un anno,
il riso del seno nell’ala vorace
al brusco secco tonfo del tempo
dell’aria abbassata.
Ieri come oggi sonnolente
anella erano e, nel viso sparso
secco confuso, la fine aerea
ferma di un’altra giornata.
from Ma questo [But This], Opere Poetiche, volume 2, 1966.
Translator: John Taylor usually translates contemporary French poetry (Jaccottet, Dupin, Calaferte, Tappy, Jourdan, Chappuis), but, ever since winning the 2013 Raiziss-de Palchi Translation Fellowship from the Academy of American Poets, he has been translating a major representative selection of the work of the Italian poet Lorenzo Calogero. He also writes the “Poetry Today” column in the Antioch Review. His most recent personal books are The Apocalypse Tapestries (Xenos, 2004) and If Night is Falling (Bitter Oleander Press, 2012). He lives in France.
