Archibald Higbie – Spoon River – poesia n°180 – testo e traduzione in italiano

 

@ foto di William Willinghton
@ foto di William Willinghton

 

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Archibald Higbie – poesia n°180 – traduzione in italiano del testo in inglese dell’Antologia di Spoon River:

I LOATHED you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you,
Non ti sopportavo, Spoon River. Provai a innalzarmi al di sopra di te,
I was ashamed of you. I despised you
mi vergognavo di te. Ti disprezzavo
As the place of my nativity.
come luogo di nascita.
And there in Rome, among the artists,
E là a Roma, fra gli artisti,
Speaking Italian, speaking French,
parlando italiano, parlando francese,
I seemed to myself at times to be free
a volte mi sembrava di essere libero
Of every trace of my origin.
da ogni traccia dalle mie origini.
I seemed to be reaching the heights of art
Mi sembrava di raggiungere le vette dell’arte
And to breathe the air that the masters breathed,
e di respirare l’aria che i maestri respirarono,
And to see the world with their eyes.
e vedere il mondo con i loro occhi.
But still they’d pass my work and say:
Ma ancora guardavano il mio lavoro e dicevano:
“What are you driving at, my friend?
“A cosa stai mirando, amico mio?
Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s,
qualche volta la faccia sembra come quella di Apollo,
At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”
e altre volte ha le sembianze di Lincoln.”
There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River,
Non c’era cultura, sai, a Spoon River,
And I burned with shame and held my peace.
e bruciavo di vergogna e stavo al mio posto.
And what could I do, all covered over
E cosa potevo fare, tutto ricoperto
And weighted down with western soil,
e appesantito dalla terra del west,
Except aspire, and pray for another
se non desiderate, e pregate per un’altra
Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River
nascita nel mondo, che tutta Spoon River
Rooted out of my soul?
mi fosse radicata dall’anima?

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Archibald Higbie – poesia n°180 – testo in inglese antologia di Spoon River

I LOATHED you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you,
I was ashamed of you. I despised you
As the place of my nativity.
And there in Rome, among the artists,
Speaking Italian, speaking French,
I seemed to myself at times to be free
Of every trace of my origin.
I seemed to be reaching the heights of art
And to breathe the air that the masters breathed,
And to see the world with their eyes.
But still they’d pass my work and say:
“What are you driving at, my friend?
Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s,
At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”
There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River,
And I burned with shame and held my peace.
And what could I do, all covered over
And weighted down with western soil,
Except aspire, and pray for another
Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River
Rooted out of my soul?

<<< torna al libro completo online di Spoon River

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