Celebrating Mother’s Day with an Italian Poem.

Buona Festa della Mamma!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Today, my words are not needed . . . I will let a poem speak.

I am sharing another poesia (poem) by Annabella Mele; you can read about this Italian poetess -very close to my heart – in my January and March‘s posts.

You can listen to the poem in Italian while following the text. The English translation is below.

Original Italian Version – Click to listen

https://sharingmyitaly.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/memo-1.mp3

English Translation

An Old Mother

No … I could not look in the eyes

of an old mother;

I could not count the wrinkles on her face

or the tears trickling from the dry eyes;

I could not watch her walking slowly,

dragging her feet in the stuffed boots;

I could not see the light passing through

her transparent hands;

I could not listen to her trembling voice;

I could not hold her to me,

reviving her fragile hair,

returning a gesture so much used

in my tender age.

I could nothing of all this . . .

and I still carry the wounds.

Sending love to all the mothers in this Universe.

NOTE: No blogging this coming week . . .VACATION! I hope you will miss me!

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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.

First snow . . .

I want to celebrate the first snow of 2012 with a poesia (poem) by Annabella Mele.

The Italian poetess Annabella Mele lives in Novara, Italy. Annabella is registered with the board of Writers of the Gruppo Cultura Italia (Italy Culture Group).  In 2000 she published  “Poesie“, a collection of poems. Her poems are also present in several Anthologies. She has been recognized with many literary awards.

Annabella has a very special place in my hearth, she is my sister-in-law and godmother but, she is even more than that.

Through the year I will be posting her beautiful poems. It will be my personal way to thank her to be part of my life.

I am experimenting with audio (I hope it works!),  you can listen to the poem in Italian while following the text and then read the English translation at the bottom of the post.

I hope you will enjoy the poem and the first snow of the year!

Original Italian version

Inverno

L’ho visto arrivare da lontano,

col passo incerto,

la barba rigida dal gelo,

gli occhi lacrimanti,

avvolto in un grigio pastrano,

le cioce ben strette ai polpacci.

Portava con sé un ricco bagaglio

di dolci nenie e soffuse melodie,

di lunghe notti trascorse a raccontare,

di fumi dai comignoli delle case,

di effluvi pungenti di resina bruciata,

di profumi inebrianti di mandorle e

di caldarroste, di passeri zampettanti sul suolo,

di stagni riverberanti e compatti,

di passi frettolosi e voci ovattate,

nei vicoli e nelle strade,

di densi vapori nelle osterie,

di gatti accovacciati accanto ai camini,

di sagome esili,

dietro i vetri appannati,

di anziani e bambini.

Ha soggiornato a lungo, Inverno,

dormendo all’addiaccio,

incurante dei venti e delle bufere,

poi… al calore dei primi raggi,

si è dileguato in silenzio…

come fa al sole un pupazzo di ghiaccio.

English translation

Winter

I saw it coming from far away,

with an uncertain step,

the beard stiff frost,

teary eyes,

wrapped in a gray cape,

the cioce[i] well tied to his calf.

It was bringing a rich baggage

of sweet lullabies and soft melodies,

of long nights spent telling

of smoke coming from the house’s chimneys,

of pungent scents of burned resin,

of heady fragrance of almonds and roasted chestnuts,

of sparrows scampering on the soil,

of reflecting and solid ponds,

of hurried steps and felted voices

in the alleys and the streets,

of dense fumes in the taverns,

of cats squatting by the fireplace,

of slender silhouettes,

of elderly and children,

behind the fogged windows.

It stayed long, Winter,

sleeping in the bivouac,

unmindful of the winds and storms,

then… with the warmth of the first rays,

it has silently faded…

as does an icy snowman in the sun.