Old Age. . . A Poem

Today, March 8th, is International Women day. In Italy we call it  Festa della donna (Women’s day) and the fragrant yellow mimosa flower is the symbol of this holiday.

Today, one year ago, my madre (mother) was laid to rest, coincidentally, on the same day that my father was born. I keep thinking that she didn’t want him to spend another birthday alone and I comfort myself thinking that today, they must be celebrating in Paradise.

So, on this day I celebrate all women, and in memory of the strong woman who my mother was, I will share with you another beautiful poesia (poem) by Annabella Mele. I have introduced you to this Italian poetess in my January’s post, First snow, and today’s poem is a testament to her talent and her heart.

You can listen to the poem in Italian while following the text and then read the English translation at the bottom of the post.

Mimosa flower, courtesy of cepolina.com

Original poem in Italian

SENETTUTE

Negli occhi. . . il disegno

di un nido. . .

sognato la notte, bramato

di giorno. . .

La pelle odorosa di cibo

e di bucato. . .

profumo di sano, di buono,

d’antico. . .

Vita vissuta. . .

affolla la mente, gioca con le ombre,

abbatte i contorni. . .

Crescono nodi di gomitoli di lana

tra fragili fili d’argento. . .

mentre sorridi, ascoltando

echi festosi dietro aquiloni

o sulle spume di un mare

lontano,

e lentamente ti abbandoni

al tuo mondo

dell’uguale e del diverso,

del noto e dell’ignoto,

dove il giorno si confonde

con la notte e le stagioni,

i mesi e i giorni s’inseguono,

volitivi e capricciosi,

senza alcun rispetto

per quegli occhi velati

che aspettano, invano,

anche solo per un atimo,

piccoli barlumi della luca

di un tempo.

English translation

OLD AGE

In the eye. . . the shape
of a nest. . .
dreamed the night, coveted
during the day. . .
The skin smelling of food

and laundry. . .

scent of healthful, good,

of antique. . .

Life lived. . .

crowds the mind, plays with shadows,

breaks down the boundaries. . .

Yarn’s knots grow

between fragile threads of silver. . .

while you smile, listening

gaily echoes running with kites

or the foam of the sea

away,

and slowly you abandon yourself

to your world

of equal and different,

of known and unknown,

where day merges

through the night and the seasons,

the months and days follow each other,

volitive and capricious,

with no respect

for those veiled eyes

waiting, in vain,

even for a moment,

little glimmers of the light

that once was.

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2 comments on “Old Age. . . A Poem

  1. Bill Fehlinger says:

    Professoressa: I would not have written this comment as I would not want you to think I am merely writing to you without a purpose, so, please accept this response. Your sincere tribute to your mother has great significance to me.

    You see, my mother also died last year, also in March (5/3/2011). And, she died on her birthday.

    Life presents many ironies. While the death of our mothers was heart breaking, in some small way the personal significance of the day they died was both heartwarming and comforting to each of us.

    Thank you for sharing your story.

    Thoughts and prayers,

    Bill Fehlinger

    • Bill: I always cherish comments and yours, today, is particularly appreciated because it shows that I have been able to touch someone’s heart. So, THANK YOU for sharing your story with me.

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