Rain in the
pinewoods: a poem by Gabriele D'Annunzio
La pioggia nel pineto: una poesia di Gabriele D'Annunzio
Be silent. At the
edge
of the woods I do
not hear
the human words you
say;
I hear new words
spoken by droplets
and leaves
far away.
Listen. It rains
from the scattered
clouds.
It rains on the
briny, burned
tamarisk,
it rains on the pine
trees
scaly and rough,
it rains on the
divine
myrtle,
on the bright
ginestra flowers
gathered together,
on the junipers full
of
fragrant berries,
it rains on our
sylvan
faces,
it rains on our
bare hands
on our light
clothes,
on the fresh
thoughts
that our soul,
renewed,
liberates,
on the beautiful
fable
that beguiled you
yesterday, that
beguiles me today,
oh Hermione.
Can you hear? The
rain falls
on the solitary
vegetation
with a crackling
noise that lasts
and varies in the
air
according to the
thicker,
less thick foliage.
Listen. With their
singing, the cicadas
are answering this
weeping,
this southern wind
weeping
that does not
frighten them,
and nor does the
grey sky.
And the pine tree
has a sound, the
myrtle
another one, the
juniper
yet another,
different
instruments
under countless
fingers.
And we are immersed
in the sylvan
spirit,
living the same
sylvan life;
and your inebriated
face
is soft from the
rain,
like a leaf,
and your hair is
is fragrant like the
light
ginestra
flowers,
oh terrestrial
creature
called Hermione.
Listen, listen. The
song
of the flying
cicadas
becomes fainter
and fainter
as the weeping
grows stronger;
but a rougher song
rises from afar,
and flows in
from the humid
remote shadow.
Softer and softer
gets weaker, fades
away.
One lonely note
still trembles,
fades away.
No one can hear the
voice of the sea.
Now you can hear the
silver rain
pouring in
on the foliage,
rain that purifies,
its roar that varies
according to the
thicker,
less thick foliage.
Listen.
The child of the air
is silent; but the
child
of the miry swamp,
the frog,
far away,
sings in the deepest
of shadows
who knows where, who
knows where!
And it rains on your
lashes,
Hermione.
It rains on your
black lashes
as if you were
weeping,
weeping from joy;
not white
but almost green,
you seem to come out
of the bark.
And life is in us
fresh
and fragrant,
the heart in our
chests is like a peach
untouched
under the eyelids
our eyes
are like springs in
the grass
and the teeth in our
mouths
green almonds.
And we go from
thicket to thicket,
at a time together,
at a time apart
(the vegetation,
thick and vigorous,
entwines our ankles
entangles our knees)
who knows where, who
knows where!
And it rains on our
sylvan
faces,
it rains on our
bare hands
on our light
clothes,
on the fresh
thoughts
that our soul,
renewed,
liberates,
on the beautiful
fable
that beguiled me
yesterday, that
beguiles you today,
oh Hermione.
This was an excellent poem to read, and I'm sure that had to do with your translation, which was fluid and clear.
ReplyDeleteThank you very much Miguel. I am glad you enjoyed reading it.
ReplyDeleteI like how here D'Annunzio invites the reader to participate in some sort of initiatory mystery, celebrated by the purifying rain, where people become one with nature.
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ReplyDeleteFine translation, fine poem, fine poet.
ReplyDeleteThank you for stopping by Charles. I am glad you enjoyed it.
ReplyDeletewhat is this about?
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteIt rains on your black lashes as if you were weeping.... Would that a man would notice that in me! Haha. ;)
ReplyDeleteA beautiful translation, very faithful, but also very poetic in English. That is difficult to do!
ReplyDeleteBravissima, traduzione perfetta
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ReplyDeleteTeardrops fall like raindrops in memories of Duse.
ReplyDeleteFinally a translation that does the poem justice. Thankyou...
ReplyDelete