Eugenio Montale was one of the giants of 20th century poetry, standing along side the likes of T.S. Eliot, Yeats, Rilke, Pasternak, Wallace Stevens, etc... He was most certainly the most important Modern Italian poet... probably THE most important Italian poet since Leopardi. At a time when Italian poetry had slid into a sort of decorative effete mannerism not unlike the worst indulgences of Victorian poetry and Symbolism, Montale brought about a new clarity... a new muscularity... a new Modernism. Montale brought an international awareness to his poetry. As an avid autodidact he was well read in Shakespeare, browning, Donne, Gerald Manley Hopkins, Henry James, Baudelaire, Mallarme, Valery, Rilke. Montale also was a voracious but selective reader of Italian classics. The three major poets to inspire and challenge Montale were D'Annunzio, Leopardi, and Dante. Inspired by the example of T.S. Eliot, who Montale realized was greatly responsible for bringing about a muscular new manner of English poetry while maintaining a profound debt and admiration for the achievements of the past, Montale confronted his Italian predecessors... especially Dante... head on.
In limine
Rejoice when the breeze that enters the orchard
brings you back the tidal rush of life:
here, where dead memories
mesh and founder,
was no garden, but a reliquary.
That surge you hear is no whir of wings,
but the stirring of the eternal womb.
Look how this strip of lonely coast
has been transformed: a crucible.
All is furor within the sheer wall.
Advance and you may chance upon
the phantasm who might save you:
here are tales composed, and deeds
annulled, for the future to enact.
Find a break in the meshes of the net
that tightens around us, leap out, flee!
Go, I have prayed for your escape- now my thirst
will be slaked, my rancor less bitter...
Eugenio Montale
from Cuttlefish Bones
tr. William Arrowsmith
Godi se il vento ch'entra nel pomario
vi rimena l'ondata della vita:
qui dove affonda un morto
viluppo di memorie,
orto non era, ma reliquiario.
Il frullo che tu senti non è un volo,
ma il commuoversi dell'eterno grembo;
vedi che si trasforma questo lembo
di terra solitario in un crogiuolo.
Un rovello è di qua dall'erto muro.
Se procedi t'imbatti
tu forse nel fantasma che ti salva:
si compongono qui le storie, gli atti
scancellati pel giuoco del futuro.
Cerca una maglia rotta nella rete
che ci stringe, tu balza fuori, fuggi!
Va, per te l'ho pregato, - ora la sete
mi sarà lieve, meno acre la ruggine ...

