“Where a smile is the error of a wrinkle” 5 poems from “The South of Things” Part III – Pasqualino Bongiovanni

TO THE SOUTH OF THINGS

In silence
we return
to where the sea,
in winter,
has the dirty colors
of sand and salt,
and frothy waves,
roughed by a wind from Africa
saturated with dust,
blur your glasses.

Seen from the car windows,
we have arrived
in the south,
where a mother wears out
her youth
at the hearth,
and a child cries
at the slow
and solemn
tolling of the bells.

Where the prayers
are long murmurs
wrapped in black shawls.

Where life is silence
and death, a sin.

Where a smile
is the error of a wrinkle,
and suffering,
drops of sweat in the fields.

In this way
we return to the south,
to the south of things,
where love is mute
and given only to saints.

A SUD DELLE COSE

In silenzio
torniamo
dove il mare,
in inverno,
ha colori sporchi
di sabbia e di sale,
e onde schiumose,
che opacizzano occhiali,
mosse da un vento d’Africa
saturo di polvere.

Dai finestrini
giungiamo
a Sud,
dove una madre consuma
ad un focolare
la sua gioventù,
ed un bimbo piange
al suono lento
e grave
delle campane.

Dove le preghiere
sono lunghi mormorii
avvolti in scialli neri.

Dove la vita è silenzio,
e la morte, una colpa.

Dove il sorriso
è il peccato di una ruga,
ed il pianto,
gocce di sudore nei campi.

Così
torniamo a Sud,
a sud delle cose,
dove l’amore è muto
e si dà solo ai Santi.

PRAYER

Where is the light
that dries
the earth beneath the feet,
the weeds between the fingers?

Where is the sun
that blesses the vines
and scatters
the dust as if it were incense,
and grape mildew
like last rites?

Where are
the soles of shoes,
the stiffened, leathery hands,
dirty nails
to put on the fungicide
as if it were holy oil?

The bride without a veil
is accompanied
in procession
by a single chant,
a long dirge
drummed out
in black
on your chest
or on crosses linked together
worn down
between your fingers
as you murmur.

Holy images
of saints
pinned up with tacks
on whitewashed walls
replenish,
I don’t know exactly how,
my faith.

PREGHIERA

Dov’è la luce
che secca
la terra sotto i piedi,
la gramigna tra le dita?

Dov’è il sole
che benedice le vigne
e sparge
polvere per incenso,
peronospora
come estrema unzione?

Dove sono
le suole di scarpa,
rigide mani di cuoio,
unghie sporche
a dare il verderame
come fosse olio santo?

La sposa senza velo
è accompagnata
in processione
da un solo canto,
un lungo lutto
da battere
nero
sul petto
o su croci inanellate
da consumare
mormorando
tra le dita.

Immaginette
di santi
appese con semenza
a pareti imbiancate a calce
rinnovano,
non so come,
la fede.

OF TRAINS AND STATIONS

Of trains and stations
I know
the desolation
of the faded platforms
the smoke and the liquor
from the waiting room.

I know
men intent
on moving their rags
and remainders
in bags too bulky
for only two hands.

I know
the lament
in dialects
for panhandling.

I know
the spoiled odor
of trains,
sleeping without a blanket
on a pair of seats.

I know
cardboard and newspapers
spread out
as carpets
and bedding.

I know the fear of the soldier,
the terror of the deportee,
crammed into wagons
on a one-way journey
with a single destination.

I know
the anguish
that rises in the throat
in the scorching heat of August,
the smells that come
from the ties and the ballast
it’s the stench of rust
mixed with tar.

I know
the worry of the student
the hopes of the immigrants
of many colors,
and all equal
as they hurry along
the tracks and rails.

I know
the soundless cry
of the mother
for the children born
and gone away
without their family name.

I know
the tears
of every departure
and those
for the homecoming
that always
is late
in arriving.

DI TRENI E STAZIONI

Di treni e stazioni
conosco
la desolazione
di marciapiedi ingialliti,
il fumo e l’alcol
delle sale d’attesa.

Conosco
uomini intenti
a spostare cenci
e avanzi
in buste ingombranti
per due sole mani.

Conosco
il lamento
di dialetti
a mendicare.

Conosco
l’odore guasto
dei treni,
il sonno senza coperta
su sedili appaiati.

Conosco
cartoni e giornali
spiegati
come tappeti
e lenzuola.

Conosco
la paura del soldato,
il terrore del deportato
stipato in vagoni
di sola andata
e con unica destinazione.

Conosco
l’angoscia
che sale alla gola
nell’agosto canicolare,
l’odore che viene
da travi e pietrame:
è tanfo di ruggine
misto a catrame.

Conosco
le ansie dello studente
le speranze dell’emigrante
di colore diverso
e tutte uguali
che si affrettano
su binari e rotaie.

Conosco
il pianto muto
della madre
per figli nati
e andati via
senza cognome.

Conosco
le lacrime
di ogni partenza,
e quelle
del ritorno
che sempre
tarda
a venire.

PADANIA[1]

It’s here
that Italy
spreads out
in green
floodplains
banners
and factories,
forgetting
the mountains,
the Alpine huts,
the constraints
of the passes,
the trees
that challenge
the sky,
the rocks
hanging
on the edge of the sea.

It’s here
that Italy,
like the frog,
swells itself up,
displaying
a face
and a voice
more puffed up
and more raucous
than its customary
style.

PADANIA

È qui
che l’Italia
si distende
in pianure
di bandiere
e di fabbriche
verdi,
dimenticando
i monti,
le malghe,
le costrizioni
dei passi,
gli alberi
che sfidano
il cielo,
le rocce
impiccate
sul mare.

È qui
che l’Italia,
come la rana,
si gonfia
mostrando
una faccia
e una voce
più tronfia
e più roca
del suo verso
abituale.

[1] Padania is an alternative geographical denomination used to indicate the Po river valley. This word has become popular since the early 1990’s, when the separatist party “Lega Nord” began to use this word to name an abstract political and administrative entity corresponding with Northern Italy in general. Now the term is of common use, but it has a strong political connotation tying to the Lega, and used as shorthand for a presumed superiority of the North vis-a-vis the South.

MY SOUTH

My south,
forget
the black
of the endless mourning
and smooth
your wrinkles
into broad
and serene smiles.
Rejoice,
clothing yourself
in all the bright yellow
of your ripened grain.
Bestow
upon your children
new words
from your dialect,
the bridge between Arabic
and Spanish,
and give them
sounds of the guitar
that have only
major scales,
so that once again,
with pride,
they may sing of you.

MIO SUD

Mio Sud,
dimentica
il nero
dell’eterno lutto
e distendi
le tue rughe
in sorrisi ampi
e sereni.
Esulta
vestendoti
di tutta la luce e del giallo
del tuo grano maturo.
Regala
ai tuoi figli
parole nuove
dal tuo dialetto
ponte tra l’arabo
e lo spagnolo,
e donagli
suoni di chitarra
che abbiano soltanto
scale maggiori
affinché ancora
con orgoglio
ti cantino.

Translated by Helen Wickes and Donald Stang, inspired by Giuseppe Villella’s earlier translation for the Canadian edition of To the South of Things – A sud delle cose (bilingual edition) – Institute of Italian Studies Lakehead University – Thunder Bay (Ontario – Canada), 2013.

Pasqualino Bongiovanni, born in 1971 in Lamezia Terme (Calabria, Italy), is an award winning poet and musicologist, with a degree in Humanities from the University “La Sapienza” in Rome. He teaches Italian and classical guitar. As a poet he published his first work, A sud delle cose, in Rome in 2006; a collection of poems with an introductory note by acclaimed Italian writer Mario Rigoni Stern (1921-2008). The collection has been then translated into Spanish by José M. Carcione and published in Argentina in a bilingual edition with the title Al sur de las cosas (Buenos Aires, 2012). In 2013, it was translated into English by Giuseppe Villella and published in Canada in a bilingual edition with the title To The South of Things. Currently, Marie Marazita is working on the French translation. A new edition in Italian accompanied by an audiobook with the voice of the actress Aurora Cancian is under way by Lebeg editions, as is e-book with the English translation made by Giuseppe Villella.
e-mail: info@pasqualinobongiovanni.it web: www.pasqualinobongiovanni.itpublications: http://www.pasqualinobongiovanni.it/pubblicazioni/

Cover image: Photo by Linda Cozzarelli