Circe
You walked into my garden
and shook your head at the
Parliament of swine
there assembled.
You cursed my name,
called me witch,
meddled with my drinks
for fear of poison.
Yet, you had the
taste to love me first.
How I lost my appeal
seems unfathomable
now. Were you afraid
of my powers? No doubt.
You knew I held infinity
in the palms of my hands.
Circe
Ti addentrasti nel mio giardino
e scuotesti il capo alla vista
del Parlamento di maiali
lì radunato
Maledicesti il mio nome,
Mi chiamasti strega,
rovistasti tra i miei drink
per paura del veleno.
Eppure avesti il
gusto di amarmi prima.
Come persi il mio appeal
sembra inconcepibile
adesso. Temevi
i miei poteri? Senza dubbio.
Sapevi che tenevo l’infinito
tra le palme delle mie mani.
Dream
I dream giraffes on fire, but the walls of my room are made of asbestos and the black hyena laughs looking so smug. The hobby horse nailed to the wall impatiently stamps its hoof hoping to gallop afield. Sitting on a blue Victorian armchair, my thoughts carve the air. My mane whirls voraciously. As the mind ponders new evolutions, the soul paints ablaze.
(after Leonora Carrington’s Self-Portrait)
Sogno
Sogno giraffe che vanno a fuoco, ma le pareti della mia stanza son fatte di amianto e la iena nera ride e sembra così compiaciuta. Il cavallo a dondolo appeso al muro pesta il suo zoccolo con impazienza sperando di galoppare lontano. Seduta su questa poltrona vittoriana blu, i miei pensieri intagliano l’aria. La criniera turbina voracemente. Mentre la mente pondera nuove evoluzioni, l’anima in fiamme dipinge.
(ispirato all’Autoritratto di Leonora Carrington)
Joan of Arc at the Stake
I see the magma of your creed erupting from deep within
towards the crater of your mouth, collapsing, so pink,
in a deafening cry of charred robes and burnt lilies.
Praying mantis turning to lapels and ash,
silenced by fire but never extinguished.
Giovanna d’Arco al rogo
Vedo il magma del tuo credo che erutta dalle profondità interne
verso il cratere della tua bocca, che collassa, così rosa,
in un urlo assordante di vestiti carbonizzati e gigli bruciati.
Mantide religiosa trasformata in cenere e lapilli,
ridotta al silenzio dal fuoco, ma mai estinta.
A Note from the Poet and Translator
Translating is a great opportunity if one is also a writer. It is a constant full immersion in words. It is a very stimulating task that requires not only linguistic skills but great patience and love for writing. I use the word task because it is a demanding activity that requires a lot of work. Rewriting into your mother tongue a text from another language is a very delicate job and there has to be a great balance because one needs to be as faithful as possible to the original while at the same time one has to convey another writer’s style, lexical choices and emotions in one’s own language. I often compare translation to tightrope walking. You walk on a thin line all the time and you must feel comfortable there.
I translate from English and from French into Italian. I attended American and British school as a kid/teenager when my family lived abroad, in Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, so I think I have a quite good command of the language. I also studied English and French at University (I have a Master in American Literature) and I love poetry. Poetry is where I feel more at home. This is why I hardly ever shy from translating it. Yet, translating poetry is perhaps the hardest task for a translator. The texts are so concentrated that the thin line becomes narrower and all choices matter.
When I translate poetry I first read the text over and over. I need to absorb the English much like a sponge. When I have mastered the original, I then write a first draft into Italian. I usually end up writing at least 4 drafts. There are so many things I must pay attention to (from alliterations to vocabulary) and then I have to say the same thing in my own language. But, I have often longer words and different line breaks to cope with too. So, I spend quite a long time over each piece. Conveying emotions from English into Italian is what I aim to as a translator. It is hard but certainly worth walking all the way to the other end of the line.
Last but not least, I also translate my own poems into my mother tongue too. In fact, I often write in English because it is a language that is very close to my heart. I know I am not the only poet writing in more than one language, but it does make me feel privileged. Having two Muses instead of one is such a great thing!
– Alessandra Bava
When she is not translating, is writing the biography of a contemporary American poet. Her poems have appeared in Plath Profiles, THRUSH, Empty Mirror and Left Curve. Her first US chapbook, They Talk About Death, is available from Blood Pudding Press; her second, Diagnosis, was published by Dancing Girl Press in ealy 2015.
