Transmodernism
12-08-2010, 10:55 PM
I don't know what you all will think about this and I'm not sure if it's appropriate; but here's a interpretive translation of Giacomo Leopardi's A Silvia, translated out of Italian into English by yours truly.
Although it isn't original poetry per se, there is a degree of artistic interpretation involved in translation. This is my rational for posting it. I would also note that this poem rhymes in the original, but doesn't in here. For the original text of this exquisite poem go to http://www.claudiocarini.it/silvia.htm.
Silvia, do you yet remember
That time in your mortal life
When, with marvelous beauty
In your smiling and elusive eyes,
You, happy and pensive, left
Behind the threshold of youth?
The quiet rooms
And roads around listen
To your perpetual song,
Now that, laying down female
Works, you were very much content
With that vague future which you had in mind.
It was May aromatic: and you were in the habit of
Leading your days thus.
I, leaving the studies of grace
And sweaty papers,
In which I spent most of my time
And in which I spent the better part of myself,
Within the halls of the fatherly hostel
I incline my ears to the sound of your voice,
And the swift hands
Which travel the weary canvas.
There, the serene sky,
The golden streets and orchards,
And there, the sea from afar, and there the mountains.
Mortal tongue cannot describe
What I felt in my heart.
What lovely thoughts,
What hopes, what choirs, oh my Silvia!
Yet human life and fate
Now appear!
When you hold such dreams,
A feeling takes me,
Bitter and disconsolate,
And turns me to the ache of my misadventure.
Oh nature, oh nature,
Why do you not render now
That which you promised then? Why must you
Cheat your children?
You withered like the arid grass in winter,
In the end the disease fought and vanquished,
You perished, oh tender one. And you did not see
The flower of your years;
Your heart never knew
The sweet praise of the black tresses,
Or the enamoured and bashful looks;
Neither would you go with your companions on the festival days,
Praising love.
Also, before long, my sweet hope,
Will perish: to my years
I also deny youth
To fate. Alas, just as
You are passed,
Dear companion of my young age,
So also are my tear-stained dreams!
Is this the world? Are these
The delights, the love, the works, the events
Over which we philosophize together?
Is this the lot of human beings?
It appears in truth that
You, wretch, are fallen: and with the hand,
Cold death, and a naked tomb
You beckon from afar.
Although it isn't original poetry per se, there is a degree of artistic interpretation involved in translation. This is my rational for posting it. I would also note that this poem rhymes in the original, but doesn't in here. For the original text of this exquisite poem go to http://www.claudiocarini.it/silvia.htm.
Silvia, do you yet remember
That time in your mortal life
When, with marvelous beauty
In your smiling and elusive eyes,
You, happy and pensive, left
Behind the threshold of youth?
The quiet rooms
And roads around listen
To your perpetual song,
Now that, laying down female
Works, you were very much content
With that vague future which you had in mind.
It was May aromatic: and you were in the habit of
Leading your days thus.
I, leaving the studies of grace
And sweaty papers,
In which I spent most of my time
And in which I spent the better part of myself,
Within the halls of the fatherly hostel
I incline my ears to the sound of your voice,
And the swift hands
Which travel the weary canvas.
There, the serene sky,
The golden streets and orchards,
And there, the sea from afar, and there the mountains.
Mortal tongue cannot describe
What I felt in my heart.
What lovely thoughts,
What hopes, what choirs, oh my Silvia!
Yet human life and fate
Now appear!
When you hold such dreams,
A feeling takes me,
Bitter and disconsolate,
And turns me to the ache of my misadventure.
Oh nature, oh nature,
Why do you not render now
That which you promised then? Why must you
Cheat your children?
You withered like the arid grass in winter,
In the end the disease fought and vanquished,
You perished, oh tender one. And you did not see
The flower of your years;
Your heart never knew
The sweet praise of the black tresses,
Or the enamoured and bashful looks;
Neither would you go with your companions on the festival days,
Praising love.
Also, before long, my sweet hope,
Will perish: to my years
I also deny youth
To fate. Alas, just as
You are passed,
Dear companion of my young age,
So also are my tear-stained dreams!
Is this the world? Are these
The delights, the love, the works, the events
Over which we philosophize together?
Is this the lot of human beings?
It appears in truth that
You, wretch, are fallen: and with the hand,
Cold death, and a naked tomb
You beckon from afar.