(ritratto di Marco Reviglione)
Riproduco, per iniziativa e con la collaborazione di
Elisabetta Brizio, una lettera
di Guido Gozzano ad Amalia Guglielminetti,
che del poeta dei Colloqui fu amante
sfuggente, confidente finissima, in certa
misura (malgrado l'estetismo dannunziano
da cui ella, a differenza dell'amico, non
seppe mai svincolarsi del tutto) compartecipe
di un destino letterario.
Destino not only steeped in literature, but even it
resolved almost entirely, done, dissolved, also reflected by the letters
(
themselves purely literary and aesthetic, filled with misgivings
, allusions, winks,
unfulfilled longings and logs, traces
vibrant yet opaque desire
given to the word and the paper in
so far, almost Lucretius,
could not find full satisfaction
in the intertwining of the limbs, the union
breaths), which, almost as in a humanistic
correspondence, they never know split
authenticity (if ever there was) the feeling
from fiction, from stylized,
dall'infingimento, from installation art.
We take this opportunity to mention some of the lyrics
Guglielminetti, which certainly has not helped
label dannunziana
aesthetic, and that proves the contrary, a careful reading
and free from bias, relevant voice
in view of aestheticism and symbolism
Italian, able to conceptualize and stylize
with great clarity, in the lyric
same name, the "silence", reticence,
the unspeakable, the dumb and refined
psychic veil of censorship, and turbidity, which wrapped
fascinatingly unresolved impulses, and for the time
unmentionable a chiare lettere.
In pari tempo, la fantasmagoria di gemme,
gigli, perle, veli e guanti filigranati,
il mormorio ombroso di mute armonie,
preghiere sussurrate, segreti auspici,
l'intrico ingegnoso e quasi mai goffo
delle analogie e delle metafore, gli audaci
desideri non detti, ma ancor più intensi,
amplificati, nell'indiretta e remota
evocazione, rivelano una frequentazione
non banale, e abilmente dissimulata nel
gioco allusivo, della moderna
poesia francese, da Baudelaire a Mallarmé.
GUIDO GOZZANO Amal Guglielminetti
Have you ever wondered what would happen if I had not
exile? I do. Something like this would happen.
One day, one day, I'd be at home,
in your living room, with you
would be a twilight, a twilight
the first spring, in February, we have made.
many hours I'd be with you;
we talked a lot, we would have exhausted every excuse not
vulgar conversation. For some instant
tacerebbe. The shadow would
denser. You will alzereste
to light the lamp. I beg you no,
tratterrei sitting there with a gesture. It would
night, no night in the square
the window, guilloche by curtains, the
your profile will appear soon.
Only at times, the auction of a glittering
bandwagon
electric light the shadows for a second. And in that second
your face appear and disappear like a vision
unsustainable.
Then I, that I
your hands in my hands, thought he was dreaming, unconscious and irresponsible
like a dream, I lean on your toes, the phalanges
go up along with their lips, until
to bite the veins of the wrist. You raise me
forehead, telling me with indulgent rebuke
: We are wise!
But for an unfortunate event, my face rising
would
height of your shoulder, and I, in the shadows,
I do not notice it: and believing that the abandon
cheek against the back of the sofa, instead
meet the softness of a lace or frost
d 'a chain. Instinctively, as always
in a dream, my mouth would
behind your ear, at the root of
fine hair, and you bite the neck
(the bite is my favorite vice). So there you
alzereste shooting, turn out the light
:
and two things could happen. Or would you dismiss me from your
woman, as in comedies,
with the traditional "will accompany the Lord." And I'd stay
evil.
O forgive me after long terms.
and you'll be hurt, too.
(November 12, 1907)
POEMS OF AMALIA
The ancient plants
then continue to walk shady
to whisper
modulating a song that for me the other night I dialed.
Because sometimes I do not cry my tears,
the song, and some of my sad song
was like the blood of my broken heart.
time was that my strength in stremai
more good songs to 'walk of a Lord who
M'ARS as much passion vain.
I was crying so well known love, like the blind
in the crossroads,
time in the sun, singing his pain
dark and not realize that no one listens.
THE SEA The sea casts of dreams and loves
as his other lover's lonely
builds between two clouds, flowers and gold.
And laughs with his soul varies
while foams in fabulous open them
fioriscon lilies made of water and air. She throws
Sea Jewelry
all of them, to please himself, he para
the foolishness of young hearts.
And he laughs again, but with bitter mouth. On
well she is no longer - seem a
foams blossoms
a coffin and a little of itself is already there.
UN ADDIO
Folle è lasciarci, tutti accesi ancora
di desiderio, ancor pronti a godere
di tutto ciò che l'un dell'altro ignora.
La volontà che tiene prigioniere
le nostre giovinezze le flagella,
per farle in solitudine tacere.
Ma più le volge incitatrice a quella
gioia non mai gioita, che la morte
pur ci farebbe nel suo riso bella.
Più dolce sorte è la comune sorte :
darsi con umiltà l'un l'altro, ciechi.
Abbandonarsi al vortice più forte
e dirsi dopo un breve addio, senz'echi.
SILENZIO
Ogni pensosa vergine si cinge
of her silence, as if by a curtain,
and shadows waving a small and thin it with imagination
various paints. Or you
s'impietra, stiffened
sphinx in silent enigma. Or her lonely heart sings
inviolable shroud of oblivion aromatic
between the forces there.
Grave is the shroud of silence, and the heart that is wrapped
desiosamente
no longer wakes up from his slumber that.
Yet, if this out, very cautious with his fingers, she
venture To even see the dormant
moan blood from his wound.
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