“BUONGIORNO BELL’ANIMA!!” Good morning, beautiful spirit! This ebullient greeting been up for several years, and it always gives me a boost, although I’ll never know how this relationship developed. The two persons involved know who they are. I do hope they’re happy.
There are 20,000 entries under “Venice” on amazon.com. (I’d have thought there were more, actually.) But that’s only the English-language site. Amazon Japan lists “over 6,000.” In any case, whatever your language, Venice is going to be there somehow. Histories, novels, travel guides, poetry, cookbooks, memoirs and, for all I know, limericks and postcards and old flight boarding cards.
Add to that mighty flood the tributary streams of academic studies and research and theses, the reports from national and international committees, the torrents of daily news and opinion pieces and blogs. Anyone during the past millennium with a brain and a pencil seems to have written something about Venice and there is no end in sight. It would appear that you cannot be a warm-blooded, live-young-bearing creature that is alive who has not written something about Venice.
But within this Humboldt Current of ideas and facts and fantasies there are plenty of other thoughts and feelings that flow through daily life here. Letters to the editor are fine, but it’s much simpler (and cheaper) for the vox populi to make itself heard through signs. These come in all sorts of ways, but they’re everywhere.
There are the personal messages from the heart. The heart above is in wonderful shape, but there are many that aren’t.
“Unhappy with a lamentable smile.” I wonder if the smile is easily identifiable as lamentable, or if it’s a cheerful smile hiding a broken heart (thus qualifying as even more lamentable). Cue the music: “Take a good look at my face, you see my smile is out of place, if you look closer it’s easy to trace the tracks of my tears…” Thank you, Smokey Robinson. It would be hard to get all that on a wall, so we’ll hope this person’s smile has improved.On a much less poetic note comes this rage-graffito that has been on this wall for a few years now. “Drug-addicted lesbian slut infected with nymphomania.” I wonder if it made him feel better. I can only hope so. Wow.
Neighborhoods bubble with exasperated reminders of some basic rules of civility, in varying degrees of sharpness. One eternal theme is dog poop.
The offended party has put this where everybody walking north (or, briefly, east) is sure to see it.“The campiello is not your dogs’ toilet. Be ashamed.” A common complaint, always heartfelt, always futile.Same problem expressed a little more elegantly here.“Do you love your dog? Take his crap home. We didn’t throw our kids’ used diapers on the street but we took them home. Think about it.” It seems odd to equate love for your dog with basic politeness to humans; the dog certainly doesn’t equate love and poop. But the emotion is the point and yes, it’s true, it would be just as bad to dispose of diapers in a similar way. But, unhappily, here public spaces don’t belong to everybody, they belong to nobody, so the good times keep rolling. Note also that this neatly printed message has been inserted into a sort of thick plastic envelope that has been nailed to the wall. Not for this person a few strips of tape — this reprimand is intended to last.The notice-leaver has made an equally eloquent point by creating and installing this wedge of wood. It needs no sign to get its message across: “This surface is no longer flat because if it were it would immediately become a mini-garbage heap.” I can promise you that if it were available, it would be stacked with abandoned Coke bottles, gelato-cups, crumpled napkins, half-empty cans of beer, maybe some squashed juiceboxes, a couple of candy wrappers, and whatever else could be made to fit until it fell over. The guardian of this space isn’t appealing to your better angels here, he/she/they are just getting the job done.It just never ends. “It was beautiful but unfortunately it lasted only a little while,” the notice begins. Evidently the previous appeal had some effect, but not for long. “To the owners of dogs … You are prayed” (literally — it’s like “prithee”) “to continue to collect the turds of your dogs. The streets also of Castello will be more dignified! Doing this will bring respect to your beloved dogs because you care for them even outside your house and you also respect the people who lived along your route. Thank you.” And just when you thought that defecation was the dog’s only transgression, just wait.The ladies who have taken our previous doctor’s space for their studio/workshop are also not amused by canine functions. And their approach leaves the homespun “Be ashamed” far behind as they prepare to throw the book at the guilty: “This is not a toilet for dogs!!! To permit your dog to piss on the walls of buildings could qualify as the crime of soiling (public walls) that is punishable under Article 639 of the Penal Code.” That’s quite a cannonball to fire at a dog-owner. The crime referred to here is the one usually committed by hooligans with spray-cans of paint, so yes, one could conceivably draw a certain parallel. But I have to stick up for the dogs here. Where are they supposed to go? I can understand owners needing to carry away their dog’s poop, but must they race to get their pooch to the nearest tree? The normal resolution of the dirty-wall situation is a bucket of soapy water, reinforced with bleach, if you want. I think the Penal Code has bigger problems to solve. Get a life, ladies. And a bucket, like everybody else.
On to the hazards of maintaining a small earthly garden in the street.
Did you know that plants can also create problems? Or rather, the people around the plants. It has not been a good day at the oasis.“Wreck the plants, tear off the flowers, leave the dog crap on purpose outside this door, I feel sorry for your sad life. (If you’re frustrated, I advise you to see a psychologist.”) Too bad the crap had to remain on the list of infractions, but there’s just no getting away from it, even in a dismembered conservatory.These little doorway groves have, not to put too fine a point on it, broken several ordinances, but “live and let live” has been the operating philosophy here for quite a while. Until one day, it wasn’t. Somebody didn’t want to let live.“For the thief (feminine or masculine forms of the word, just to be comprehensive) that steals the plants and flowers outside my house: The flowers can be replaced, but dignity NO! (You are) persons whose spirits are poor” (as in threadbare). I regret the flowers, but at least this time dogs aren’t involved.
On a happier note, there is a little old man named Valerio who continued to work in his carpentry shop for decades, or perhaps eons, considering how extremely old he looks. But he kept at it until one day…
A telltale blue ribbon appeared on his door, next to his workshop. A baby boy!It simply says “Great-grandfather Valerio Vittorio is born.”
Not many days later, a sign appeared on the workshop door:
“Carpenter Valerio is no longer working. PLEASE (literally, “one prays”) do not disturb. Thank you.” Yes, Vittorio was the signal that it was time to clean out the workshop and put away the tools. And Valerio has been doing just that. Great-grandfathering is a full-time job.
Tourists do not pass unobserved.
Not far from the train station is this remark, followed by two rejoinders. It’s probably a political statement of some kind. I can tell you that no one with a hotel, bar, cafe, restaurant, or shop selling anything would be likely to express this thought, especially after the months of pandemic lockdown. But free speech is thriving.If the tourist doesn’t know not to sit on a bridge to eat, this shop will make it clear. “No Pic Nic Area.”The fundamental problem is that there is are too few places except the 436 bridges on which to sit to munch your slice of cold pizza or assorted carry-out comestibles from the supermarket. It is true that many (not all) campos have at least a few benches, though it is also true that bridges are the ideal perching places. But you’re blocking the traffic, for one thing, and for the other, you look like vagrants, huddled on the steps wrestling with prosciutto slices and bags of potato chips.
So much for signs for tourists. For locals, almost no details are necessary for communication:
A few years ago this was posted at the door of the church of San Francesco de Paula. “Finished (or almost) the repair/restoration work. Monday 12 September the patronato reopens at the usual time.” That’s right: The usual time. If you don’t know when that is I guess you don’t belong there. Note: The patronato is what you might call the parish hall/playground/sports area of the parish. Every church has one, and scores of activities take place there for the children of the congregation. Not to have the patronato available after school is a major problem, so this is good news.
On a similar neighborhoodly note:
“On Sunday 30 morning we’re closed. You’ll find that Antonella is open.” There is no sign outside her tobacco shop that says “Antonella.” You just have to know.
Moving into the realm of city government, or lack thereof, the Venetians in our neighborhood (and others, I can assure you) have plenty to say. The comments tend to run along the following lines (and I’m not referring to clotheslines):
I have seen a man wearing a few of these; I am assuming he also made them. All hung out to dry together, they make quite a screed. Written in Venetian (L to R): “After the barbarians came to Venice the politicians arrived to destroy her.” “Long live motondoso thank you mayor.” “Topo Gigio Brigade.” You may recall the little puppet named Topo Gigio who appeared several times on the Ed Sullivan variety TV show. Gigio is the nickname for Luigi, which also happens to be the name of the current mayor, Luigi Brugnaro. He has no fans in Venice, let me just put it that way.Being compared to either a rat or a children’s toy is not what most mayors aspire to, I’m pretty sure.
Continuing with the runic messages delivered by T-shirt: “Venice is an embroidered bedspread.” This one is complicated and I have no hope of clarifying its evidently metaphorical significance. I do know that there is a song that begins “Il cielo e’ una coperta ricamata” — the sky is an embroidered cover, which is lovely. Is the intention to say that Venice is as beautiful as an embroidered cover? I think there is some irony here, but it eludes me. Maybe I’ll run into this person again (I saw him at the fruit-vendor one afternoon) and I can just ask him. Meanwhile, on we go.
“Venice is a casin thanks politicians.” A casin (kah-ZEEN) is a brothel, where gambling also went on, and sooner or later tumult ensued. And not tumult of any polite, Marquess of Queensberry sort. It’s now the usual word for any situation that entails chaos, perhaps danger, racket and rudeness. It appears to many that Venice is speeding downhill with no brakes (again, motondoso comes to mind) and nobody at the wheel. Some people also refer to the city as “no-man’s land.” Literally everybody is doing whatever they want, and the result is pure casin.
Lastly, “Venezia is dead Thanks politicians and Gigio.”
While we’re talking about citizens’ discontent….
A group calling itself C 16 A (abbreviation of Coordinamento 16 Aprile) was formed to condense the general consensus of thoughts regarding the problems of the city. This was in preparation for a vast gathering planned for 16 April this year on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the Special Law for Venice. The common goal was identifying the myriad ways in which the city has wasted its opportunities since then. “AAA cercasi” is the customary code for when you want to place a notice seeking something or someone at the top of an alphabetical list. These notices are looking for: “A mayor of Venice who lives in Venice.” (Luigi Brugnaro lives in Spinea, on the mainland.) “Businessmen who don’t behave like predators.” “Landlords with their hand on their heart and not only on their wallet.”
And this handwritten cri de coeur summarizing the profound crisis in the public health system. The people of lower Castello are persevering in their apparently hopeless struggle to obtain a reasonable supply of doctors:
Residents in Castello: “9354 and only 4 doctors. Age groups over 65 years old. (Note that there are 215 residents who are 90 or older.) People over 65 years old have chronic pathologies, are not self-sufficient, suffer from social isolation, economic distress, lack of family members, defective social services.” There are not enough “basic doctors.” The basic doctor is assigned to you by the public health service and is paid by it. Many doctors are retiring, so a huge hole is opening up in the near future. Let me say that there is a reasonable number of doctors, but the number of those that want to practice for the public health system is too small. A doctor with 1,500 patients assigned to him/her (it’s the case with our doctor) earns roughly 52,500 euros ($56,000) per year. They also usually have private practices, but still. One can see the lack of incentive. Meanwhile, the aging population needs more care than it’s getting. The city is trying to encourage doctors, I don’t know how, to stay on even after they turn 70 years old.
There are also signs without words that hint at approaching events or persons.
In a word: Carnival. It started early last year by the eager tiny hand of a tiny person.Did you know that Christmas is coming? These men know it, because this morning they began to string the holiday lights in via Garibaldi and environs. Exactly two months in advance seems like a lot of time, but if there are only four men assigned to it, better get going early. (If you don’t make them out, the strings of lights are being drawn down the surface of the stone gatepost in a triangular Christmas-tree pattern.)The strings of lights are another reason for the early start. You thought the tangled mass that lives in your basement or attic is an irritating start to the holiday season? These men have quite the little assignment facing them.
An approaching event I never thought I’d see. The city’s greatest housewares/hardware store having its final sale before closing. They tried to keep going after Covid. They stayed open all day (as opposed to closing in the early afternoon, like every reasonable store used to do). Then they stayed open all week. Unheard-of. It wasn’t enough. I can’t tell you how bad this is. I haven’t gone by recently to see what’s taking its physical place; not much can replace something so great. It used to be that useful stores (butcher shop, fruit and vegetables, etc.) would suddenly begin to sell masks or Murano glass. Now they will be either a restaurant or bar/cafe’. That’s my bet for the once-great Ratti.
“Selling everything! Discounts!” They make it sound like something wonderful. It was more wonderful without the “closing” posters. I have been informed by sharp-eyed readers that Ratti has reopened in not one, but two locations not far from the Rialto Bridge. This is news of a goodness one doesn’t receive every day, so I am really glad to know they have found a way to keep going. And yes, I should make a point of buying something there, otherwise all my glad words aren’tt worth the electrons they’re written with.The bar/cafe’ “Magna e Tasi” in Campo SS. Filippo e Giacomo near San Marco used to draw these lines on the wall with a Sharpie. They decided to make these indications of acqua-alta calamity more legible, and elegant. And waterproof.
The arrival of certain foods are reliable harbingers of seasons or events, though seeing clementines for sale in October is not normal. But this is absolutely the moment for torboin (tor-bo-EEN).
This is Venetian for “The torbolino has arrived white and red.” In Italian it would be “E’ arrivato il torbolino.” This is a sign of the progress of autumn, as demijohns arrive from Sant’ Erasmo loaded with the first drawing-off of the new wine (otherwise known as “must”). One expert explains that “It is usually from white grapes, not completely fermented, turbid, lightly sparkling and amiable.” It is the classic accompaniment to roasted chestnuts. So it’s good news!One of my all-time favorites was this sign in a window of a bread bakery in Campo Santa Margherita. The owner is making this retort in Venetian to his cranky customers who annoy him with complaints that he (like many merchants) had begun to charge a pittance for the once-free plastic shopping bag for carrying their purchase. “Notice to my clients: “The shopping bags are terrible-as-the-plague expensive and don’t hold up worth a dry fig. So if you put in your purse a shopping bag that lasts a lifetime, 10 cents here and 15 cents there at the end of the month you’ve saved (money). THANK YOU.”
In a class by itself is this astoundingly inappropriate offer of a room with perhaps an undesirable view.
“A 50-year-old man will share with a girl or working woman a sunlit apartment near the Santa Marta vaporetto stop, a single bed in a small room. The place is made up of a liveable kitchen” (meaning large enough to eat in), “a little living room and two bedrooms of which one is already occupied. Contact Francesco…”. Cringe! Unless you’re a student and really, really need to be near the University of Architecture, which may be what Francesco is counting on. Someone has added the word “porco” — pig. Went without saying but it’s still good to see. I wonder if he just forgot to mention a bathroom, or if it’s down the hall. Of the building next door.
Above the chorus of voices on the walls there come a few magical notes from mysterious poetic souls.
“I dreamt I could say something with words,” wrote someone who either is from England or was taught by someone speaking the King’s English. The answer is strangely poignant. “Yes.” I love this person as much for having to squeeze in the last-minute “g” as I do for the response. One sometimes wonders why certain places are chosen for these messages. Behind a fountain at the Rialto Market doesn’t immediately suggest poetry, but fish and mushrooms don’t seem to clash.“I love you for all of my life.” Dez and Ruez plighted their troth near the Rialto Bridge and while graffiti aren’t to be encouraged, this is really nice. Far better than the “Bomb the multinationals” sort of thing that students like to spread around.On a wall near the church of San Isepo. Not quite this faint in real life, but pretty near. And to the right of the design you can barely make out an important three-word message.“Gioia per tutti.” Joy for everyone.
So by all means stroll through Venice looking at palaces and canals. Just don’t forget the walls.
Seasonal migrations (is that redundant? Sorry) are an excellent way to keep track of the year’s divisions, especially here, where you need a keen eye to discern that there is anything more than one season anymore, which is Tourists.
But at this moment, if you’re paying attention (and if you know, and if you care) you can detect a few important signs of autumn. I don’t mean the drying, yellowing, falling leaves — anybody can notice them, and besides, the drought began drying them before their normal time to drop. So leaves are out.
Torbolino — the first draw-off of the new wine. That’s an excellent indicator, though again, this year it’s somewhat early due to the unusually early harvest (see: “drought,” above).
Ducks are also useful heralds of the season — I saw my first one paddling around two weeks ago, This always makes me happy, except that I had seen my first duck hunter even earlier: The ducks began hitting the water on September 3. So much for enjoying their winter haven.
Seppioline — sepoine (seh-poh-EE-neh) in Venetian — are baby seppie, or cuttlefish. If “baby” anything on your plate upsets you, skip this paragraph. We are now in the period of the fraima, which is the annual passage of the fish which have spent all summer fooling around in the lagoon moving out into the Adriatic (or beyond) for the winter. The cuttlefish spawned months ago, and their small offspring are now in the process of making their first trip out into the world where they will become big, grown-up cuttlefish. Unless they get snagged before they reach the exit, in which case they will be sold at an outrageous price (there I go, being redundant again), grilled and eaten. Short migration.
The ramps are used by thundering racers for a few hours, and by countless humbler folk dragging suitcases, shopping carts, or strollers laden with small heavy tired cranky children for six months. I would bet that the shleppers appreciate the ramps just as much as any Ethiopian champion. Probably more.
But the ramps are back. I saw my first one two days ago and it was like hearing a small, clear trumpet announcing autumn, winter, and early spring. The ramps are set up for the Venice Marathon (this year scheduled for October 23), and they stay up till the end of March. That’s practically half the year. Then they migrate back to hibernate in whatever warehouse keeps them till next October.
They’re only installed on the race route — logically — which conveniently passes the Piazza San Marco and other heavily traveled tourist routes. I bet the people up in Cannaregio and along the northern edge of the city really envy us. I know they don’t envy us the tourists, but we get the ramps.
I realize that a mere ten days have passed since we officially festivized All Saints, which to my literal mind means we’re good for another year with everybody who has ever been beatified or canonized. But of course that isn’t the case, at least not here. Happily, saints often come not only with their often inscrutable life stories, but — as you may have noticed — with their own particular provender.
St. Martin in his greatest moment, here in a relief sculpture on the facade of the eponymous church near the Arsenal.
November 11 is the next case in point: It’s St. Martin’s Day (that would be St. Martin of Tours, if you’re looking for him — not the Caribbean island). And even though you may feel as if what’s left of the year is unspooling in a meaningless way — let’s just get to Christmas — there are several milestones on the way and he is one of the most important.
The man himself (316 to 397 A.D.) was born in what is now Hungary, and although he was drawn to Christianity at the age of ten, he followed his officer father and joined a Roman unit of heavy cavalry. He was pious but that didn’t seem to interfere with the performance of his duties, whatever those might have been. So everything was going along in a normal Roman-cavalry-unit sort of way until one day, near his base at Amiens, France, he had a life-changing experience, followed by a vision, which has become the most famous (usually only) thing which we remember about him. I refer to the Episode of the Cloak.
In the words of his hagiographer, Sulpitius Severus, “In the middle of winter, a winter which had shown itself to be more severe than ordinary, so that extreme cold was proving fatal to many, he happened to meet at the gate of the city of Amiens a poor man destitute of clothing. He was entreating those that passed by to have compassion upon him, but all passed the wretched man without notice, when Martin…recognized that a being to whom others showed no pity, was, in that respect, left to him.
A child's version of events painted on a plate which says "Viva San Martino" (long live St. Martin). I think he might have liked this blithe little version of events.
Yet, what should he do? He had nothing except the cloak in which he was clad, for he had already parted with the rest of his garments for similar purposes. Taking, therefore, his sword with which he was girt, he divided his cloak into two equal parts, and gave one part to the poor man, while he again clothed himself with the remainder. Upon this, some of the bystanders laughed, because he was now an unsightly object, and stood out as but partly dressed. Many, however, who were of sounder judgment, groaned deeply because they themselves had done nothing similar. They especially felt this, because, being possessed of more than Martin, they could have clothed the poor man without reducing themselves to nakedness.”
The first time I heard this story, I was slightly perplexed by the fact that he hadn’t given the man his entire cloak, him being such a good person, and then I figured he’d miraculously be given a new one (or something). Cutting it and keeping half seems so intelligent — hard to believe he became a saint with that approach to problem-solving.
But obviously I don’t know my saint. “In the following night” (Severus continues) …Martin…had a vision of Christ arrayed in that part of his cloak with which he had clothed the poor man…he heard Jesus saying with a clear voice to the multitude of angels standing around — “Martin, who is still but a catechumen, clothed me with this robe.”
Martin immediately went to be baptized, and two years later he left the army to begin a lifetime of good works and miracles. Many of his reported exploits seem somehow generic — no disrespect intended, I have no doubt these occurred or ought to have occurred (converting a robber to the Faith, restoring someone who had been strangled, destroying heathen temples and altars, casting out devils, curing the sick, preaching repentance to the Devil). He wouldn’t have been a saint if he hadn’t done at least two of those things. But clearly others also recognized his intelligence and made him Bishop of Tours, and then he became a national saint of France and also of soldiers. (I think that’s a fine thing to remember on Veterans’ Day.) But what remains fixed in millions of art works, and in most garden-variety minds, is the cloak-and-beggar story.
A wineshop announces (in Venetian) the happy news: The torbolino has arrived!
I can remember much of this because everyone here refers to that brief pause in the oncoming winter weather (known elsewhere as Indian Summer) as “St. Martin’s Summer.” It is underway even as I write, having arrived two nights ago, girt with smiling sunshine, after three days of ferocious cold, wind and rain. I also remember much of this because the kids go a little crazy.
This is an important date (unrelated to Martin, as such) because this is when anyone who made wine in September begins to decant the first stage, or “must,” a barely fermented fluid which here is called torbolino (tor-bo-LEE-no) because it’s turbid, and is born to be consumed with roasted chestnuts. And while the adults may be swallowing turbid wine and burning their fingers, the children head straight for sugar and noise.
The kids appear in approximately organized groups, and go up and down the street banging whatever they've got to bang on or with and wearing certain costume elements. I don't know why the crown is considered an important attribute of St. Martin, but anybody wearing it certainly feels like celebrating.
The tradition is for children to go around the neighborhood banging and clanging on pots and pans with spoons or something, and carrying a small bag (sacco — sack. Sachetin — little sack. Sa-keh-TEEN). They sing at least the lilting refrain of a little song whose verses variously request any adult they stop to give them some kind of treat, and specifying the revenge they wish to see visited on anyone who refuses. “Pimples on your butt” is the best one. These are innocent little maledictions — nothing anyone could actually inflict, unlike Halloween tricks.
The correct term for this activity is “battere San Martino,” or “to beat St. Martin.” This simply means going out to make a racket in his honor. The refrain: “E co nooooooostro sachetiiiiiiiiin, Cari signori xe San Martin.” (And with our little sack, dear sirs it’s Saint Martin’s Day.)
Obviously this kid has reached a whole new level of cool. Nice to get the horse involved, too.
The littlest contingent was the only one which wore something resembling cloaks.
They go in and out of whatever shops may be open — this is a late-afternoon/early-evening project — and may well score some kind of small candy or even bits of money. They are usually accompanied by squadrons of mothers.
Then there are the cookies called “Sammartini.” This is a newfangled post-war invention which played no part in the lives of children of Lino’s vintage. The dense buttery cookie dough is cut out by metal forms of various dimensions in the silhouette of a man on horseback holding his sword aloft. Then the pastry-makers go into a sort of frenzy decorating him with icing of various colors and sticking pieces of candy onto it before it dries. The price of these cookies varies according to size but also, I imagine, according to the elegance of the candy. An M&M is one thing, a Perugina chocolate is another. And then they add up the cost of the ingredients and multiply by, oh, a thousand. For the first time, I just saw some in the ordinary old supermarket, a triumph of economy over romance. It was bound to happen.
Speaking of economy, don’t worry too much about how much money the pastry-bakers could be losing on their unsold cookies the day after. They break them up into pieces and sell them by weight. That is really the triumph of economy over romance and I’m all for it. You know what? Fragments of saint taste just like the whole saint.
A pretty nice "Sammartin," it's true. But 28 euros? That's $40! If Saint Martin found out you had that much extra money to spend on something in his honor, I'm going to step up and say he wouldn't want it to be a cookie. My view of saints is that they're fine with fun, but not with insanity.This was my cookie and it was excellent. I think all horses should have M&M's for hooves.
For the first time the neighborhood hired a local man who put on quite a puppet show. It didn't have anything to do with St. Martin, but it did involve lots of hitting and rude remarks, all in Venetian. The kids loved it.
The Venetian backdrop was nice too.
Back in the days when children were still made to memorize poetry, they were taught “San Martino” by Giosue Carducci ( Nobel Prize for Literature, 1906). It’s a bucolic little ode to this autumnal interlude — nothing about cloaks, saints, or sacks, small or otherwise — but naturally the new wine works its way into it with no trouble at all.
The poem comes rolling out of Lino’s memory even after all these decades; he just started reciting it yesterday as we were walking over the bridge on the way to the vaporetto. It’s more a hymn to the season than anything related to saints or miracles and it reminds me, in a way, of those lines from Stephen Vincent Benet’s “John Brown’s Body” (“Fall of the possum, fall of the ‘coon/And the lop-eared hound-dog baying the moon./Fall that is neither bitter nor swift/But a brown girl bearing an idle gift/A brown seed-kernel that splits apart/And shows the Summer yet in its heart…”). It’s a season that definitely brings out something in poets, maybe even more than spring.
La nebbia agli irti colli/piovigginando sale,/e sotto il maestrale/urla e biancheggia il mar;
Ma per le vie del borgo/dal ribollir de’ tini/Va l’aspro odor de i vini/l’anime a rallegrar.
Gira su ceppi accesi/lo spiedo scoppietando:/sta il cacciator fischiando/sull’uscio a rimirar
Tra le rossastre nubi/Stormi di uccelli neri/Com’esuli pensieri/Nel vespero migrar.
The mist on the bristly hills/rises drizzling/and under the northwest wind/the sea whitens and howls.
But in the village streets/from the fermenting tubs/Comes the pungent odor of the wine/to cheer the spirit.
Above the burning logs/the spit turns, popping;/the hunter whistling in the doorway/takes aim again
Among the russet clouds/flocks of black birds/like exiled thoughts/migrate at vespers.
By the way, Carducci was born in a Tuscan mountain village called Valdicastello (now Valdicastello Carducci, pop. 1000), so he wasn’t some urban creature sitting downtown inventing some fantasy out of the Georgics. He heard and saw (and smelled) what he was writing about. That’s why I like it. I wonder how old he was when the idea of “exiled thoughts” came to him.
Signing off for the Daily Saint and Cookie.
The men in the fish shop thought all this was wonderful.
