Il giorno del ghiaccio, credit Mary Blindflowers©
Mariano Grossi©
Bagni di Lucca, asimmetrie montaliane
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E la tendenza all’asimmetria in Montale si rinnova in un’altra lirica della I sezione, “Bagni di Lucca” dove nelle strofe, dopo una catena corrispondente di 3 ottonari e 1 senario con rime alternate prima nei versi dispari e poi nei pari, ecco che l’omogeneità delle sequenze evapora poiché cuore, clausola del primo senario, richiama albore in chiusura del terzo verso della seconda strofa e nella terza strofa intessuta di un dodecasillabo, un ottonario, un quadrisillabo, un endecasillabo e un altro quadrisillabo in chiusura nel distico finale; la rima viene circoscritta nei quadrisillabi in clausula (fossato/ fiato), mentre l’assonanza (freccia/greggia/nebbia) prende il posto della rima tradizionale. Prima strofa con versi omogeneamente di senso compiuto, le rimanenti tutte omogeneamente ad enjambement.
Bagni di Lucca
Fra il tonfo dei marroni
e il gemito del torrente
che uniscono i loro suoni
èsita il cuore.
Precoce inverno che borea
abbrividisce. M’affaccio
sul ciglio che scioglie l’albore
del giorno nel ghiaccio.
Marmi, rameggi –
e ad uno scrollo giù
foglie a èlice, a freccia,
nel fossato.
Passa l’ultima greggia nella nebbia
del suo fiato.
E “Cave d’autunno”, sempre appartenente alla I sezione de “Le occasioni”, non è da meno nel suo intento poikilistico che ripete e rinnova la duttilità dell’autore nell’alternanza e nell’incrocio di rime ed assonanze che si rincorrono allontanandosi ed avvicinandosi sia in forma di clausola (frastaglio/abbaglio – schegge/saccheggia – mano/lontano) sia acrosticamente (ritornerà/varcherà) che endosticamente (gelo/cielo) in una sequenza di metri costantemente alternati (A-B-B-C D-E-E-C)
Cave d’autunno
su cui discende la primavera lunare
e nimba di candore ogni frastaglio,
schianti di pigne, abbaglio
di reti stese e schegge,
ritornerà ritornerà nel gelo
la bontà d’una mano,
varcherà il cielo lontano
la ciurma luminosa che ci saccheggia.
In “Altro effetto di luna” c’è come la sintesi di quel che siamo andati analizzando finora: rime alternate dispari nella prima strofa (profila/trafila), pari a cavallo tra prima e seconda nel trittico soglie/ scioglie/ spoglie , assonanze in clausula ed endostiche (sonnolento / argento – molo/ volo), eiaculazione di vocali dal timbro più chiuso (carrubo / nuda / azzurro / suono / sulle / piuma / un / sul / feluca) e rotanti in eccedenza:
Altro effetto di luna
La trama del carrubo che si profila
nuda contro l’azzurro sonnolento,
il suono delle voci, la trafila
delle dita d’argento sulle soglie,
la piuma che si invischia, un trepestìo
sul molo che si scioglie
e la feluca già ripiega il volo
con le vele dimesse come spoglie.
Dopo quest’ampia carrellata sulla volontà ecletticamente asimmetrica di Montale, sembrerebbe ardito cimentarsi in un tentativo di levigare e simmetrizzare in una lingua straniera le poesie sopraelencate. A chi scrive l’esperimento pare l’unico possibile, in virtù della considerazione imprescindibile sull’ostacolo prioritario che una lingua straniera frappone allo sforzo, direi titanico, di uguagliare l’estro e la versatilità montaliani nella ricerca delle assonanze e soprattutto delle consonanze fonetiche; trovare in inglese il martellamento di vocali a timbro uniformemente chiuso ovvero aperto e di analoghe occlusive ovvero sonore sarebbe arduo ed improbabile. Il lettore guardi benigno il conato di traslare quelle atmosfere irripetibili mediante l’unica chance poetica percorribile: la simmetria e la rima costantemente clausolare. E’ un tentativo già percorso su queste colonne con lo studio a quattro mani sperimentato con Guglielmo Campione nell’articolo ”Musicalità contigue” che ebbe come target traduttivo non solo gli ermetismi identicamente asimmetrici di Guglielmo, ma anche classici come Foscolo e Leopardi, ognuno con caratteristiche peculiari proprie ed inimitabili e nell’isometria e nell’asimmetria. Nello sforzo comune di trasportare di peso in un idioma così diverso per lo meno il contenuto delle emozioni montaliane comunque sotto altra veste formale e strutturale per il cui transito permane un divieto d’accesso insopprimibile costituito dalla tecnica sublime e sigillante dell’originale.
Di seguito nello stesso ordine in cui son stati dianzi proposti gli originali, i tentativi di traduzione effettuati:
The gondola in strong glare of tar’n’poppies sliding light,
from rigging’s bulks is just arising a song quite sneaking,
laughs of masks swarming out, high doors on you shut.
An evening in a thousand and far deeper is my night!
Tosses over there a lifeless knot quickening and jerking,
making me akin to that eel-fisher on the bank so rapt.
Is there salt or hail what is storming?
Campanulas’ slaughter it is making,
uproots the verbena blowing in the rear.
A subaqueous tolling is just getting near
as though you started it and it is just fading.
Hell’s pianola by itself the registers is speeding,
inside frost’s spheres it is climbing – just like you it is shining
as with your air’s trill Lakmè in bells’ song you was shamming.
Why do you linger? In the pine on the bark
the squirrel beats and beats its torch-tail.
In the out-blowing sun undoing the dark
you half moon with your peak just bail!
The lazy smoke jumps with a soft puff,
defends itself in the point shutting you too.
Nothing ends, or everything does end if you
flash leave the cloud in weather so rough.
When your father entered the shadow far away was I,
very distant and he went in leaving you his good-bye.
What did I know till then? Only the strain,
which beforehand I had indeed to sustain,
saved me. I ignored you and I must not ignore:
now I know it when I’m today’s blows before,
if over there one hour inflects and to me brings
Cumerlotti or Anghèbeni – among fuzes’ springs
and moans through hush
and the squads that rush.
At first light
when all of a sudden railway din
talks me ’bout locked men running
in rock’s tunnel obliquely lit
by skies and waters’ mixed hit.
At first dark
when the burins which the desk worm
strengthen their swings indeed so warm
watchman’s steps in the rear.
do approach and draw near.
In the dark and in the light
still human lulls really bite
if you carry on and go ahead
plaiting them by your thread.
The flower repeating on the edge of the gorge “Please, me don’t forget!”
colours happier or brighter than the blank between you‘n’me doesn’t get.
A squeak breaks loose, moves us away,
the obstinate blue doesn’t appear again.
In almost visible sultriness the funicular that springs,
already dark, to the opposite halt me back brings.
The reeds that so softly fleece and shed
in springtime their flowerspikes so red,
the sunken path and above there in the sky
the black flow which overflies the dragon-fly
and then a breathless dog there underneath
towards home with its bundle in its teeth
today here there’s no point to recognize, my face to turn,
but there where the reflection keeps to scorch and burn
and cloudy weather sinks beyond her by now far away eye
only two light-beams each other crossing.’n’time goes by.
…but so be it. Talks a cornet’s sound
with the swarms the oaks around.
In the half-shell mirrored by the evening
pleased a painted volcano is just smoking.
The coin inside the lava set so stable
indeed is shining too upon the table
holding a few sheets. Life that looked so vast
beyond your small handkerchief slides so fast
Don’t cut, scissors, that face, alone in my voiding memory’s range,
her great listening countenance in my everlasting fog don’t change.
A cutting edge is descending…
really hard the blow is thinning.
And the wounded acacia is just shrugging well
in the early November rain’s mud a cicada’s shell.
The frog, first in tightening again the strings
from the pond which rushes and clouds sinks,
the rustle of carobs where its torches
a sun indeed without heat off switches,
the hum of beetles still sucking saps is slow
to the flowers and country life appears so low
with its last sounds. The hour ends with a blow:
for a rush of skinny horses a blackboard sky
waits: sparks from their hooves are about to fly.
Here it’s the sign! It flutters on the wall gilding so bright.
A palm leaves’ silhouette burnt by the dazzle at first light.
The footsteps which are arriving from the near greenhouse are indeed so light,
not padded by the snow, are still your life. In my veins your blood’s drops bite.
The green lizard under the big heat from the stubbles flicking.
The sail while shuddering at the rock’s fall luffing and sinking.
The gun which at noon more than you heart beat is fainting.
And the stopwatch that without any noise is by now clicking.
Then? Uselessly a lightning flash can you switch
in something strange, in vain in something rich.
Your style used to belong to another kind of pitch!
You know: even though I cannot miss you, yet I must.
As a right shoot every action, shout and the salty blast
which overflows the docks this nightmare shakes,
the same which Sottoripa’s spring usually makes.
Iron-tools and wood trees’ land in evening’s dust,
from the open long buzzes now are coming fast
and like a nail upon the glasses they apart me tear.
I am looking for the mislaid sign, to me once dear,
I once obtained by you as my unique pawn.
And Hell by now is sure. Useless is to fawn.
Your forehead from the icicles clearing am I:
you picked them up crossing nebulas so high.
By hurricanes your feathers torn apart
and you wake up suddenly with a start.
Midday: the medlar in the square lengthening
its black shadow, a chilly sun never softening
in the sky. Other shadows slipping off the lane
your actual presence here indeed ignore plain.
Many years and one far harder upon the foreign lake where sunsets fought.
You descended from the mountains: St George‘n’the Dragon to me brought.
Oh! them in the bunting shaken by North-East wind’s whip could I impress
inside my heart and then for you descend to a fidelity’s whirlpool, deathless.
Hoarfrost on the windows; set aside the sick, down their necks
and upon the tables their long soliloquies upon cards’ decks.
That was your exile. I remember mine and the morning
when among the cliffs I head a dancing bomb crackling.
Just like in a festival Bengal’s night games went on a time so long.
A rude wing passed, skimmed your hands in vain:that card is wrong.
Farewells, whistles in the dark, coughing, hand-wayes,
lowered windows in the doors of carriages in railways.
It’s time! Maybe the robots are right
as they look in the aisles, walled quite!
To the feeble litany of your express-train at full tilt
do you too give this dreadful and faithful carioca lilt?
Was forsaking me the hope to see you again.
If what shuts to me, I asked myself in vain,
every sense of you, as a screen of images,
does hold indeed for me death’s presages
or from the past is inside itself, twisted yet
and become feeble, a dazzle of yours I met.
(at Modena a braided servant full of greed
was dragging two strange jackals on the lead)
The house martins’ black and white rise and fall
to the sea from a telegraph pole indeed quite tall
neither comforts your worries on the pier there,
nor brings you back where you no more were.
Upon the dirt road the elder already thickly smells and perfumes.
Away is the squall! If the glow is a truce, your threat it consumes.
Your soul furlan and rigaudon trying to dispense
at road’s each new season
is fed by the hidden passion,
finds it indeed at every corner far more intense.
Your voice is this spread soul ready to spill
on wires, on wings, on the wind, by chance its walk,
with Muse’s or with a booby-trap’s good-will
it comes back happy or sad. About other thing I talk
to other people ignoring you and their goal
is actually there insisting… do re la sol sol..
It looked an easy game changing the space in a nothing so dire
which was open to me, in an uncertain tedium your certain fire.
Now to that vacuum I’ve joined every reason of mine yet late,
against hard nothing wanes the anxiety for you alive to wait.
Life which gives glimmers is the one only you see bright.
To Her you lean out of this window that doesn’t hold light.
The swallow brings you grass blades,
indeed it doesn’t want that life fades,
but upon the embankments just over there
at night the dead waters the stones impair.
Under the smoking torches some shadow
on the empty shores draws always a bow.
And while the wheel boats just bellowing
in the square’s circle a sarabande’s stirring.
My heart wavers between the thud of the chestnuts just falling
and the groan of the stream that their deep sounds are joining.
The North wind an early winter is now shuddering.
I lean out of the edge day’s twilight in ice melting.
Marbles, branching, shaken leaves down in spirals, arrows into the fosse.
The sheep of the last herd are passing: to the mist their own breaths toss.
Autumn quarries where lunar spring descends on right
and every indentation is just a cloud of brilliant white,
cones’ crashes, drying nets’ dazzle and splinters of wood,
will come back, will come back on the frost a hand’s good,
the distant sky will cross anew
our ravaging luminous crew!
Carob’s woof which naked in the drowsy blue unfolds,
voices’ sound, silver fingers’ die-plate on the thresholds,
the enticed feather, on the jetty you can hear a melting shuffling,
its sails released as corpses, the felucca its flight is just lowering.
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DESTRUTTURALISMO Punti salienti
