Two
poems by Cesare Pavese (from Lavorare
Stanca)
Morning
Star (Lo Steddazzu)
The
lonely man gets up when the sea is still dark
and
the stars tremble. A warm breeze
rises
from the shore, where the seabed is,
and
soothes the breath. This is the time in which
nothing
can happen. Even the pipe in his mouth
dangles
unlit. Nocturnal is the quiet swash.
The
lonely man has already lit a bonfire of branches
and
he watches as it reddens the soil.
The
ocean too
will
soon surge like the fire.
Nothing
is more bitter than the dawn of a day
in
which nothing will happen. Nothing is more bitter
than
uselessness. A greenish star
hangs
tired in the sky, surprised by the sunrise.
It
sees the ocean still dark and a patch of fire
where
the man, to kill time, keeps warm;
it
sees and falls asleep amidst the gloomy mountains
in
a bed of snow. The slowness of time
is
atrocious for those who have nothing to wait for, any longer.
Is
it worth it for the sun to rise from the sea
and
for the long day to begin? Tomorrow
the
warm dawn will return with its diaphanous light
and
it will be like yesterday and nothing will ever happen.
The
lonely man wishes only to sleep.
When
the last star in the sky vanishes,
the
man slowly prepares his pipe and lights it.
Instinct
(L'istinto)
From
his doorstep in the warm sun,
the
old man, disillusioned with everything,
watches
the dog and the bitch unleash their instinct.
Flies
crawl
around his
toothless mouth,
his
wife died long ago.
She
too, like all bitches, did not
want
to hear of
it,
but
the instinct was there.
The
old man, not yet toothless,
could
smell it; the night would
come,
they
would
go
to bed. The instinct was good.
What
he likes about dogs is the immense freedom.
Prowling
the streets from morning to night;
eating a little, sleeping a little, mounting bitches a little:
eating a little, sleeping a little, mounting bitches a little:
without even waiting
for the night. They reason
the
way they sniff, and whatever they smell is theirs.
The
old man remembers how
once in the daytime
he
did it like the
dog
in a field of wheat.
He
no longer knows
who the bitch was, but he remembers the hot sun
and
the sweat and his desire never to stop.
It
was like being
in bed.
If he were young again
he
would always do it in a field of wheat.
A
woman walks down the street and
stops to
watch;
the
priest goes
by and turns
around. Everything is allowed
in
the public square.
Even
the woman, who restrains
herself from turning around
for
a
man, stops.
Only
a boy can't
tolerate
the game
and
begins to pelt stones. The old man resents it.
- The end -
