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"Oh! com'è bello sentirsi libero cittadino, solo, nel cuore di un giardino." -- Aldo Palazzeschi
The Flowers(a translation of "I Fiori" by Aldo Palazzeschi)
That evening, I don't know why-- maybe too many smells from the table, spring fever-- an undefinable heaviness burdened my chest, I felt a vast emptiness in my heart, I was tired, discouraged, in a vile mood. I don't know why... I hadn't eaten, and though I felt as sated as a king, I was fasting like a beggar, who knows why? I hadn't joined in the high-spirited laughter, the ordinary chatter of gay, cheerful friends; it all struck me as smutty, it all seemed obscene, not because of a vain sense of morality out of character for me... and nobody cared how I was, who knows-- either the indecency was within myself, or it was the last shred of purity. That evening it seemed to me, who knows why, that the leg the nice woman on my right held against mine till the soup arrived was awfully heavy. And after all... it was just an old custom, old as the world. And the lady on my left, who knows why, only dealt me a tiny tap at the end of supper, over coffee; and stuffing half a bon-bon in my mouth, she turned to someone else, almost as if to say: "Oh! so you're here too." When everyone got up and scattered to corners, window-seats, or the sofas in some secluded sitting-room, I slipped, unnoticed, into the garden to take a bit of air. And right away I felt liberated, refreshment flooded my lungs resolutely, and my breast was eased of its vague, unknown trouble after the supper's many aromas. Beautiful shining evening! The freshness of springtime, pure and serene. Millions of stars seemed to smile affectionately from the heavens, almost an immense silver dome. I felt so contented! Sturdy, branching trees so generous of shade, beneath you to stroll, under your healthy protection to forget, to rediscover cherished thoughts, to dream of chaste ideals, to hope, to hope, to put from mind all the ills of the world, of mankind, the sins and failings, misery, depravity, all the turpitudes; amongst you flowers to smile, amidst your sweet perfumes, angelic caress of coolness, nature's pure beings. Oh, how beautiful! to feel like a free citizen, alone, in the heart of a garden. "Psst. Psst." "What's that?" "Psst. Psst." "Who's there?" I approached where the hist came from; at the turn of the path an overblown rose was pulling her décolleté scandalously low on her shoulders. "I wasn't talking to you. I was just giving the high sign to that bunch of buds up there on the trellis, but it's not worth the trouble. Slim pickings tonight, these great guys aren't in the mood." "But who are you? What are you doing?" "That's a good one! I'm a rose, can't you see straight? I'm a rose making like a hooker." "You?" "Right, me. Something wrong with that?" "A rose!" "A rose, why not? I hang out on the corner of the path earning my bread, am I doing any harm?" "Oh!" "What the devil is your hang-up? You believe flowers are better off in the bosom of the family? Turn around, behind you, you see that bush with the four cuties, two adults, two children? Two roses and two buds? That's dad, mom, and the kids. They've got a heavy thing going between brother and sister, daddy does it with his daughter, mommy with her son. What a nice little family! It's a better scam by far to charge for love by the hour than get knocked about by some swine of a husband. That dim-wit of a hydrangea, without making any profit, just gives it all away to that prick of a sunflower. See those two carnations on the side of the lane? How elegant! They live off their girlfriends, who are sluts just like me." "Oh! Oh!" "Oh my! what a queer pair, two carnation pimps! And can you see that lily, there, by the trunk of the lime-tree? What a cunning look, so innocent and chaste! Haha! did you spot him? He's a pederast." "No! No! No more! That's enough!" "Honey, what can I do about it if the lily's a pederast, if the rose is a whore?" "Flowers, even you!" "Dear me, what a surprise! The vanilla's a lesbian. And the narcissus, that mirror of candor, masturbates when he's on a lady's breast." "Flowers, you too! Snow-white, sky-blue, blush-pink, velvety, scented flowers--" "And the gillyflower does certain little jobs with her mouth." "--in the fleeting hour granted you--" "And the oh-so-modest violet, the bigot among us flowers? She makes long, devotional processions to the Lord, then, in the shade of the grass, guess what she shows the cyclamen, poor little squirt; and it's the worst disgrace to corrupt a kid." "--a wretched feeding of the passions!" I raised my head to heaven to try and catch my breath; I felt as if malefic whispers came stinging me from the stars and the firmament was about to fall on me like a pall of pins. I threw myself prone on the earth, seeking entrance with my whole dejected body: "Enough! Enough! I'm afraid. God, have mercy on the last of thy children. Open a hiding place for me outside nature! "Translation © Carl Selph, 1999(a translation of "Sera nel Giardino" by Sandro Penna)
The evening has stolen from me the tussling boys. Their voices of angels at war. Now in the bosom of new lights they dwell in the houses across the way. On the clear sky remains a hero on horseback etched mute stain under the first star.Translation © Carl Selph, 1999Lesson in Aesthetics(a translation of "La Lezione di Estetica" by Sandro Penna)
"But what's beautiful about poetry?" Listen, when you see a husky friend swarmed by women, when you're carried away by the band and in the spotlight the sequins are sparkling on a half-nude goddess swaying down into the orchestra, startling you, and you're hidden among the crowd! when on a dark, still night in a piazza friends dance without women to the sound of an accordian and you aren't one of them; well now, isn't this beautiful to you? It's also beautiful for an old gentleman called a critic who finds many things beautiful, who's gone even further in finding in the world and perhaps outside it beautiful things still more beautiful; and yet you say with love: "how beautiful this poetry is." And you look at me and don't even give me a kiss?Translation © Carl Selph,1999All text on this page is copyrighted by Carl Selph and appears here by permission. All rights reserved. It may not be archived beyond one personal electronic copy for offline reading; such a copy must include the entire text of the present notice and the author's name. It may not be printed, posted on a web-site, distributed publicly or privately, used or quoted in whole or in part, or published in any manner or form whatsoever without the author's explicit permission. E-mail Wordreign to contact Carl Selph and your request will be promptly forwarded.
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