Harmon Whitney – poesia n°139 di Spoon River – traduzione in italiano e testo inglese

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@ foto di William Willinghton

Harmon Whitney – poesia n°139 di Spoon River

Testo tradotto in italiano e testo in inglese della poesia:

OUT of the lights and roar of cities,
Fuori dalle luci e dal frastuono delle città,
Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River,
sospinto come una favilla a Spoon River,
Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken,
bruciato col fuoco dell’alcol, e distrutto,
The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt,
l’amante di una donna che presi per auto-degradarmi,
But to hide a wounded pride as well.
ma anche per nascondere un orgoglio ferito.
To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds—
Essere giudicato e disprezzato dalle menti ristrette del villaggio-
I, gifted with tongues and wisdom,
io, col dono delle lingue e della saggezza,
Sunk here to the dust of the justice court,
sprofondato qui nella polvere d’un tribunale,
A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs,—
ridotto a frugare nell’immondezza di offese e rancori,-
I, whom fortune smiled on! I in a village,
io, a cui la vita sorrideva! Io, in un villaggio,
Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse,
a declamare per dei bifolchi boccheggianti, pagine di versi
Out of the lore of golden years,
frutto dell’erudizione dei miei anni d’oro,
Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit
o a provocare una risata con uno sprazzo di spirito scurrile
When they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind.
quando mi pagavano da bere per risvegliare la mia mente morente.
To be judged by you,
Essere giudicato da voi,
The soul of me hidden from you,
che ignorate quale sia la mia anima,
With its wound gangrened
con la sua ferita in cancrena,
By love for a wife who made the wound,
a causa dell’amore per una donna che mi ferì,
With her cold white bosom, treasonous, pure and hard,
col suo freddo seno candido, traditore, puro e duro,
Relentless to the last, when the touch of her hand,
implacabile fino all’ultimo, quando il tocco della sua mano,
At any time, might have cured me of the typhus,
ad ogni istante, avrebbe potuto guarirmi dal tifo,
Caught in the jungle of life where many are lost.
preso nella giungla della vita dove molti sono persi.
And only to think that my soul could not re-act,
E il solo pernsare che la mia anima non poté reagire,
Like Byron’s did, in song, in something noble,
come quella di Byron, col canto, con qualcosa di nobile,
But turned on itself like a tortured snake—
ma s’attorcigliò su se stessa come una serpe straziata-
Judge me this way, O world!
Giudicami in questo modo, O mondo!

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Testo solo in inglese della poesia:

OUT of the lights and roar of cities,
Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River,
Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken,
The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt,
But to hide a wounded pride as well.
To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds—
I, gifted with tongues and wisdom,
Sunk here to the dust of the justice court,
A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs,—
I, whom fortune smiled on! I in a village,
Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse,
Out of the lore of golden years,
Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit
When they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind.
To be judged by you,
The soul of me hidden from you,
With its wound gangrened
By love for a wife who made the wound,
With her cold white bosom, treasonous, pure and hard,
Relentless to the last, when the touch of her hand,
At any time, might have cured me of the typhus,
Caught in the jungle of life where many are lost.
And only to think that my soul could not re-act,
Like Byron’s did, in song, in something noble,
But turned on itself like a tortured snake—
Judge me this way, O world!

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