Four Poems of Gabriele D’Annunzio
Translated from the Italian by
Michael Shindler (June 2019)
Gabriele D’Annunzio could be described as an Italian nationalist, politician, and an eccentric literary artist. He was an officer and pilot of the First World War and later influenced Italian politics and literary culture to such a degree that Mussolini is said to have considered him a rival. Although his ideas were formative in the rise of Fascism, D’Annunzio’s popularity remains strong with multiple museums and public structures in Italy dedicated to his life and works.
Arcano!
In faith I hear a whisper in the trees,
a bitter odor billows toward my face;
but in the open azure there is not a breeze,
the peaks all sleep in a hazy light’s embrace.
Alike a veil of dreams it falls
in beams and into my vigil breaks;
a sweet languor within me sprawls…
My heart itself—it wakes!
In faith I hear a whisper in the air as it sweeps:
secrets sparkling from the waters unto the shore;
but the wind does not stir upon the deeps,
the poets’ mandolas play no more.
Io credo udir tra li alberi un susurro,
tutte dormon le cime entro il chiarore.
Come un velo di sogni, ecco, discende
È il mio cor che si sveglia!
ma vento non aleggia sopra il mare,
tacciono le mandole de i poeti.
Un sogno
I hear not my step as the path unfurls,
hushed, by which the dream leads yet my sight.
Now is come the hour of silence and light.
And the sky seems a veil of pearls.
Each cypress skyward looms,
and yet they are sad—but not quite so
sad as are the cypresses of the tombs.
The countryside seems strange,
almost shapeless, sheltering a mystery
most ancient, whereby my scrutiny
indeed, all my life is but a shadow:
vague, uncertain, indistinct—without a name.
Io non odo i miei passi nel viale
muto per ove il Sogno mi conduce.
Un velario di perle è il cielo, eguale.
Attingono i cipressi con oscure
ma sono tristi, ma non sono tanto
tristi i cipressi de le sepolture.
quasi informe, abitato da un mistero
antichissimo, dove il mio pensiero
Io non odo i miei passi. Io sono come
vaga, incerta, indistinta, senza nome.
Lascami! Lascia chio respiri
Leave me, leave me! Let me breath, let
me get up! In my veins I feel ice flowing.
Let me not look upon it! Press your lips
to my lashes, your heart to my heart!
And when they flood—life itself slips.
Full with frets I die, but not slain by you.
My chest drains itself, painlessly.
The dawn, weeping, washes over me.
Ahimè, Signore, è il giorno! Il giorno viene!
La vita se ne va, quando trabocca.
Trafitta muoio, e non dalla tua spada.
Mi si vuota il mio petto, e senza schianto.
Non è sangue? Ahi, Signore, è la rugiada!
La statua
who wait? They stretch up silently
their tall necks, ever and anon, and intently,
Glower through wild eyes of blackened bronze.
The waters within the circle of stone
A statue, a remembrance of long-dead
gods, amid the old cypresses stands alone.
What mystery from the gesture of a great
statue standing alone in a wildwood mid spring
silently sprawls as the hour grows late!
over the mountains, loosens a last flower from her plait.
And the sky seems now a higher and holier thing.
aspettanti? Protendono silenti
riguatano dai neri occhi ferigni.
muscosi ride ai bianchi solchi lenti.
numi, grandeggia fra i cipressi insigni.
statua solitaria in un giardino
silenzioso al vespero si spande!
E il cielo è più lontano e più divino.
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Michael Shindler is a writer living in Washington, DC. His work has appeared in publications including The American Conservative, The American Spectator, National Review Online, HillRag, and Providence Magazine. Follow him on Twitter @MichaelShindler.
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