Johann Wolfgang Goethe “Faust II” – Atto III

Sun, 18 Dec 2011 18:13:40 +0100

HELENA. Vielfache Wunder seh ich, hör ich an. Erstaunen trifft mich, fragen möcht ich viel. Doch wünscht ich Unterricht, warum die Rede Des Manns mir seltsam klang, seltsam und freundlich: Ein Ton scheint sich dem andern zu bequemen, Und hat ein Wort zum Ohre sich gesellt, Ein andres kommt, dem ersten liebzukosen.  FAUST. Gefällt dir schon die Sprechart unsrer Völker, O so gewiß entzückt auch der Gesang, Befriedigt Ohr und Sinn im tiefsten Grunde. Doch ist am sichersten, wir übens gleich: Die Wechselrede lockt es, rufts hervor.  HELENA. So sage denn: wie sprech ich auch so schön?  FAUST. Das ist gar leicht: es muß von Herzen gehn! Und wenn die Brust von Sehnsucht überfließt, Man sieht sich um und fragt –  HELENA.

Giovanni Strozzi/Michelangelo “La notte”

Thu, 8 Sep 2011 23:45:16 +0200

La Notte, che tu vedi in sì dolci atti
dormir, fu da un angelo scolpita in questo sasso,
e perché dorme ha vita:
Destala, se nol credi, e parleratti.

Caro m’è ’l sonno, e più l’esser di sasso,
mentre che ’l danno e la vergogna dura:
Non veder, non sentir, m’è gran ventura;
però non mi destar, deh! parla basso.

Emily Dickinson, “The World – feels Dusty”

Thu, 2 Jun 2011 13:15:13 +0200

The World – feels Dusty
When We stop to Die –
We want the Dew – then –
Honors – taste dry –

Flags – vex a Dying face –
But the least Fan
Stirred by a friend's Hand –
Cools – like the Rain –

Mine be the Ministry
When thy Thirst comes –
And Hybla Balms –
Dews of Thessaly, to fetch –

Anne Bradstreet, “Contemplations XVIII”

Sat, 28 May 2011 23:36:21 +0200

When I behold the heavens in their prime,
And then the earth (though old) stil clad in green,
The stones and trees, insensible of time,
Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen;
If winter come, and greeness then do fade,
A Spring returns, and they more youthfull made;
But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.

Michele Ranchetti, da Verbale

Sun, 30 Jan 2011 12:45:57 +0100

Bassa e alta marea tu muori
e risorgi distrutta e liberata
dall’acqua e resa viva
e morta ad intervalli
secondo il flusso di cesura del giorno
e della vita: io ti guardo in preda
a un movimento d’essere
che ti percorre
come fosse tuo compito: ma è
solo risacca e deriva.

Giorgio Caproni, “Epilogo III”

Fri, 21 Jan 2011 13:03:27 +0100

Sentivo lo scricchiolio,
nel buio, delle mie scarpe:
sentivo quasi di talpe
seppellite un rodio
sul volto, ma sentivo
già prossimo ventilare
anche il respiro del mare.
Era una sera di tenebra,
mi pare a Pegli, o a Sestri.
Avevo lasciato Genova
a piedi, e freschi
nel sangue i miei rancori
bruciavano, come amori.
M’approssimavo al mare
sentendomi annientare
dal pigolio delle scarpe:
sentendo già di barche
al largo un odore
di catrame e di notte
sciacquante, ma anche
sentendo già al sol, rotte,
le mie costole, bianche.
Avevo raggiunto la rena,
ma senza avere più lena.
Forse era il peso nei panni,
dell’acqua dei miei anni.

T.S. Eliot, “Journey of the Magi”

Thu, 30 Dec 2010 18:44:18 +0100

‘A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter’.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped in away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no imformation, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

Giacomo Leopardi, “Imitazione”

Sat, 30 Oct 2010 21:43:46 +0200

Lungi dal proprio ramo,  povera foglia frale,  dove vai tu? Dal faggio  là dov'io nacqui, mi divise il vento.  Esso, tornando, a volo  dal bosco alla campagna, dalla valle mi porta alla montagna. Seco perpetuamente vo pellegrina, e tutto l'altro ignoro. Vo dove ogni altra cosa, dove naturalmente va la foglia di rosa, e la foglia d'alloro.

Eva Taylor, “Ekdysis”

Fri, 8 Oct 2010 20:43:23 +0200

Una squama della tua pelle
in fondo al corridoio
là dove il mare finisce
e nessuno a traghettare
aspetta.

Sarai andato via, sarai mai arrivato
il mare non porta notizie di te o di altri
solo Flaschenpost lingua imbottigliata
a cena, pranzo
a colazione.

Parole sciolte,
parole con la pelle rovesciata
e tutto sa di tappo, di traduzione.

Heinrich Heine, “Lebensgruß” (Stammbuchblatt)

Wed, 25 Aug 2010 10:36:37 +0200

Eine große Landstraß ist unsere Erd
Wir Menschen sind Passagiere;
Man rennet und jaget, zu Fuß und zu Pferd,
Wie Läufer oder Kuriere.

Man fährt sich vorüber, man nicket, man grüßt
Mit dem Taschentuch aus der Karosse;
Man hätte sich gerne geherzt und geküßt,
Doch jagen von hinnen die Rosse.

Kaum trafen wir uns auf derselben Station,
Herzliebster Prinz Alexander,
Da bläst schon zur Abfahrt der Postillion,
Und bläst uns schon auseinander