WELCOME! BENVENUTI!

WECOME! BENVENUTI

Benvenuti nel blog traduzione di la poetessa Americana Jenne 'R. Andrews. Please scroll down for current post! Scorrere verso sotto per il post per oggi! Please note that this is a bilingual blog. Si prega di notare che questo è un blog bilingue.

Fin dalla sua nascita ho postato poesia in inglese al blog. Ma io sono venuto da un meraviglioso cornucopia di amicizie con scrittori e intellettuali italiani, la maggioranza dei quali Siciliana. Questi meravigliosi gente è stata così gentile da leggere il mio lavoro. Anzi la mia poesia è stata tradotta nel italiano dal Il professore Signore Marco Giuffrida, Vicenza, Italia e siciliano di nascita. Egli è un brillante gentiluomo; uno scienziato, umanitaria e pensatore e voglio mostrare il mio recente lavoro nel suo linguaggio e attraverso entrambi i nostri occhi. Anche se possa usare il “gadget” di tradurre via Google sulla destra. Anche si possa leggere il mio "memoir" della mia viagge a Italia si chiama Nightfall in Verona...Il Crepusculo Nella Verona-- prego usare il link to translate the chapter..per tradurre il capito.....

Quindi, per il momento sembra che questo blog, La Parola Vivace, è l'luogo perfetta per i nostri sforzi congiunti. Spero che ti piace l'esperienza della lettura del lavoro in una o entrambe le lingue.

Welcome to the translation blog of Colorado poet Jenne’ R. Andrews. Since its inception I have posted drafts in English to the blog. But I have come by a wonderful cornucopia of friendships with Italian writers and intellectuals, the majority of whom are Sicilian. These wonderful, warm people have been kind enough to read my work. My poetry has been translated into Italian by Professor Marco Giuffrida, Vicenza, Italy and Sicilian by birth. He is a brilliant gentleman; a scientist, humanitarian and thinker and I want to showcase my recent work in his language and through both our eyes.

Hence, for the time being it seems that this blog, La Parola Vivace, is the perfect home for our joint efforts. I hope that you enjoy the experience of reading the work in either or both languages.


Tuesday, September 16, 2014

They Know All, the Stars/ Sanno Tutto Le Stelle by the Italian Poet Maria Esposito




Immagine di Maria Esposito

Caro Amici:  questa nel Italiano e sotto.  It is with great pleasure that I post what will surely not be the first of guest poems by an Italian "poetessa," with my humble effort at a translation into English beneath it.

I had no idea there were a number of gifted Italian women poets--throughout mainland Italy and especially, on Sicily, in the spectacular communities of like-minded people on that storm-tossed island that has been home to the Greeks, the Romans, the Normans, the Spanish, the Arabs-- multiple bel epochs,  each leaving its spectrum of influences.

I gladly offer the opportunity to the reader to try his or her own hand at a better translation, one that brings forth more of the intense lyrical mysticism that pervades this poem.  Please note that there is a translation link on the sidebar where you can insert as much as a stanza at a time to compare my translation to your own or others'.

Without further ado, a beautiful poem by Maria Esposito.  Thank you, beautiful Maria!
. . . . . . . . . .
È con grande piacere che vi do la che sicuramente non sarà il primo di poesie di un Italiano "poetessa", con il mio umile sforzo di una traduzione in inglese sotto di essa.

Non avevo la idea che fosse un numero di  poeti dotti Italiani chi anche sono donne--in tutta l'Italia continentale e, in particolare, in Sicilia, nella spettacolare comunità di persone che la pensano in quella  isola bellezza che è stata la casa per i Greci, i Romani, i Normanni,  gli Arabi-- più bel epoche, ogni lasciando il suo spettro di influenze.

Sono lieto di potervi offrire la possibilità al lettore di provare la propria mano in una migliore traduzione, quello che porta via più intensa misticismo lirica che caratterizza  questa poesia. mysticism

Senza piu de mi , una bella poesia di Maria Esposito. Grazie, bella Maria! Si prega di notare che c'è un collegamento di traduzione sulla barra laterale dove è possibile inserire quanto una stanza in un momento di confrontare la mia traduzione al proprio o altri".

Sanno Tutto Le Stelle

Sanno tutto le stelle
Sanno tutto loro...
Come indicarci con esattezza
le attese o imparare a maneggiare
il niente.
Come scavare nelle speranze
e andare avanti.
Sanno tutto le stelle
come raccogliere le ore
ed essere fedele ai segreti
a come amare con grazia
e senza egoismo o come
attendere il destino oppure
inventarselo.
Sanno tutto le stelle
finché restano somposte e
sparse nel cielo per la gioia di Dio
e sanno anche a come sognare
un immortalità ma che
non sia ben ancorata alla terra
quell'ordine scandito
che veglia come un guardiano
le sorti degl'uomini dall'universo.

They know all the stars

They know all, the stars.
They know all.
How to tell us in exactitude
our suppositions or how to manage
nothingness.
How to excavate our longing
and how to keep on.

They know all, the stars
how to collect the hours
and be faithful to their secrets;
how to love with gratitude
and without egotism;
how to attend to fate
or invent it into being.

They know it all, the stars,
how to remain affixed yet scattered
to the delight of God

and they also know how to dream
in an immortality
that is unanchored to the earth--
that order set forth
that watches like a guardian,
over humanity's fate in the universe..

Maria Esposito, Napolitana - translation, Jenne' R. Andrews, M.F.A.


Image provided by Maria Esposito

Forthcoming: poetry from the masterful Siciliana/Termitana Rita Elia, Rosalba di Vona, Prof. Santina Cundari, "Alla Pescatora" of beautiful Scilla, Italia, and others...

Monday, September 1, 2014

Recent Poem: Faultlines


This translation is a compromise between my own, done with the help of a translation program, and that of Sr. Marco Giuffrida.  Watch for his in full.  The original and English version of the poem appear below it.  Thank you.

Questa traduzione è un compromesso tra la mia, fatta con l'aiuto di un programma di traduzione, e quella Signore Marco Giuffrida. Guarda per il suo intero. La versione originale e in inglese del poema appare sotto di esso. Grazie.

La Frattura

Sputa la pioggia,
è dopo, del radio, avviso di tempesta.
Adesso qualcosa che ho fatto e venduto
comincia a incrinarsi,
frantumarsi, allargarsi

come colei che osservo nello specchio
nelle acque vorticose della notte.

E adesso, che le ragazze nigeriane
non sono tornate alle famiglie.
Così, ora vi sono linee di faglia, fratture,
in molti cuori.

ii

Chi può riparare a tutto questo.
quale prodotto straordinario
per uso domestico
che riempie tutte le incrinature.

Che vaso di decoupage colla,
lo progettato sembra un’ craqueleur-

Cosa propinquità e di decenza,
quale vicinanza o opportunità,
o segretario di Stato
o dottrina antica vieta la guerra?

 iii

Questi cose frantumati, si allontanano
l’un l’altro,
nonostante la loro archiviazione lucida
o polvere di vetro--
.
Ciò che non dovrebbe accadere, ma accade…

Che non posso spiegare io stesso per me.
Che la nostra affiliazione è inspiegabile
dopo la frammentazione delle anni domestici.

Che qualcuno che conosco
Che vive vicino al fiume
or’ va su una bicicletta nel diluvio
con cappello fradicio,
il suo cagnolino affamato
trotto di lato.


iv

Queste sono le cose che aderiscono a me
ed a voi, queste cose
che rubano la nostra attenzione:

Come al crepuscolo,
un libro di un amico
si cade aperto
alle pagine giallo e disintegrano:

dove le sue parole salgono
come nebbia ed entrano in me
dalla ombre frammentazione
della scatola archivio.


Inglese/English

Fault Lines

Spitting rain, a tornado warning.
Something I made and sold
suddenly begins to crack, peel,
fall apart--

like she whom I behold
in the bathroom mirror
in the eddying waters of night.

That the Nigerian girls
have not been returned
so that there are now fault lines
in many hearts.

ii

Who can repair any of this,
what remarkable product
for wide household use
that fills all cracks.
What pot of decoupage glue,
itself designed to intimate
craqueleur--

What propinquity or propriety,
what secretary of state,
or fading doctrine
against war?

iii

These things cracking, peeling,
pulling away from each other,
despite their archival gloss, or
dust-coated glass--

That which should not, yet does:

That I cannot explain myself
to myself.
That our affiliation
is inexplicable
after the splintering
household years.

That there is someone I know
riding by on a bike
in a sodden hat
with a trotting pitbull at side,
that these two live in all weather
on the river flat.

iv

These are the things that adhere to me,
to you,
that claim our attention,

how a friend’s book falls open at dusk
to yellow and disintegrate pages,
where his words then rise like mist
and enter me
from the fragmented shadows
of the archive box.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2014  jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Poesia Nuova-- Meditazioni del Giorno, trans. Signore Marco Giuffrida, Vicenza, Italia

DAY GATHERING

MEDITAZIONI DEL GIORNO

Mezzanotte, primi di agosto
ed è tempo di riordinare le Cose,
lavori delle mani, creazioni della Mente.

Per portare la giornata al seno
come fiori piegati
o morbido tessuto fresco di bucato,
è l’unione di piccoli oggetti
con altri della stessa specie.
Sale con il miele. Gusci d’uovo
con i fondi del caffè,
scorze d’arancia e frammenti d’osso.

Poi, alla Chiusa il corpo chino,
a togliere il sudore rappreso
per il pomeriggio febbrile,
così come le piogge hanno donato
il verde, con generosità,
ai giardini nella fine estate.

**

E’ l’ora
di piccole verifiche:
come la casa sembra apparire
in fondo al viale
fiancheggiato da pioppi ricurvi
o come il vecchio canile, all’ombra,
ora vuoto,
senza le ultime dorate cucciolate,
o per il crescere di teneri alberi
che coprono la vista del torrente
che circonda la casa
al pari di una folla di Gheise
coperte da fruscianti manti
di seta verde,
la stessa casa in una cauta serenità
si abbandona, dondolandosi e chinandosi,
alla pioggia e all’umidità,
verso la Terra.

**

Si fa davvero poco
per mettere ordine,
ed anch’io a mezzanotte, adagio,
mi abbandono  all’interiorità,
Donna sola,
chinandomi e riflettendomi
nella Danza delle Nutrici.
Ancestrali paure dell’Esistere
mi afferrano per un braccio
trascinandomi semincosciente
verso compiti più semplici,
forgiando un’alleanza
fra un’ora e la successiva,
tra il consumato per il piallato delle tavole
della panca dove noi ci sediamo,
nella ciotola cobalto del tramonto;
e come i deboli venti grigi del Tempo
noi rendiamo le cose lisce come cote,
cuscino fra noi e quel Paese lontano,
al di là del Miraggio,
di verdi campi infiniti.

Jenne' R. Andrews, trans.  Marco Giuffrida

Inglese:

Day-Gathering

Midnight, early August
and it is time
for the centering of things,
hands’ work, mind’s drift.

To gather the day to the breast
like the folding of flowers,
the soft fabric of the laundry,
the reuniting of small objects
with others of their kind.
Salt to honey.  Eggshells
unto coffee grounds,
orange rind and wishbone.

Then, to sluice the body down,
rinse away the dried sweat
of the fevered afternoon,
how the rains have imparted
a green generosity
to the late summer garden.

ii

It is the hour
of small recognitions:
how the house seems ever
appearing, at the end of the long
lane flanked by leaning
poplars, how the old kennel,
barren now of gilded litters
in shaded runs,
belongs to the overgrowth--

of advancing leggy trees, each year
coming in closer from the creek,
encircling the house like a throng
of geishas in rustling green silk,
house itself in a circumspect quietude,
yielding to the rain and damp,
rocking back against the earth.

iii

Little truly gives itself
to the making of order,
but even as I freefall inward
in midnight adagio--
woman alone,
bending and reflecting
in the nurturer’s dance,
old fears at existence
pulling at my arm,

this half-conscious way of giving oneself
to plain tasks forges an alliance
between one hour and the next,

between the wearing away of the hand-planed
boards of the deck where we sit
in a cobalt bowl of twilight--

and how the low grey winds of time
hone us like whetstone,
bearing us on toward that far country
beyond the mirage
of infinitely green fields.


Jenne' R. Andrews  August 2014


Sunday, July 13, 2014

New Poem: My Mother Carpets the Stairs -- for Magpie Tales!






My Mother Carpets the Stairs

She, one of three sisters,
was the first to carpet the stairs with a true
Lavar Kerman with bound
edges--spending its carmine
"open field" on heaviest treading,
so that over the years the center of each
swatch unraveled, became worn
from her nightly treks 
to and from our basement lair,
weeping. 

Such rugs graced hand-packed sand
floors in the villages outside
Tehran
and as Americans
discovered them
in their way of waving the desultory
hand at the market in Marakesh,
rendered the more elegant,
the towering homes fronting the lake—

our specimen wide and luminous, 
central incarnadine flower, fading,
thick pile superbly shorn.

I remember when the starter castles
sprang from the mountain,
their front windows tricking geese
into impact and freefall.

We shouldn’t so colonize
the remaining wilds, that savannah
where the Bonabo
washes her face in the stream
after making love,
tail still kinked with pleasure.

But Mother would have done well
in Borneo, bivouacking a garrison
of skeptical apes, martialing
a hurried route tree to tree,
the one-arm swinging to take cover--

If she could have brought one thing,
only to the jungle
it would have been the scarlet
Kerman; tucked by now into the crook
of an acacia—nearly indiscernible
as something made by a human hand.

She could not know how it would smell
of civilization and ruin
or in what benign tongue
the compliments of the canopy
would be proffered at a safe remove.
,

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2014



Monday, November 4, 2013

New Poem: Guild

Many thanks to Tess Kincaid for the meme up at Magpie Tales...


Ressurection II 1945, Sir Stanley Spencer 
Guild

Mouthing delight
at the patchwork fervor of September leaves,
piety's handmaidens meet to piece;
giddy with ambition,
they splay the Star of Bethlehem quilt out
with its half-built rainbow of spokes.

Each voluble quilter wants to go to heaven;
stitching, several speak the Word.
Then they break bread,
faces etched with Old World craqueleur,
suffused chatter fading into dusk
like the Tenebrae of dreaming doves.

With their brethren in laity
they throng the unschooled choir
and rehearsing the requiem foreign
to their plain mouths,
whisper enmity at an arriviste--
a young lyric soprano in the front row.

How much they hate her
for the larksong she has bestowed
upon the congregation and the clan!

So it is they put away
their piecing, the luminous quilt embroidered
with Episcopal Women of Hastings,
to be presented in a ribbon-cutting
for the new children’s clinic on Raintree Road.

Spotting the willowy thing praying
alone in the nave,
they group, waiting for her,
fingering the sterling crosses at their throats,
their dark straw hats skewered through
with faux-pearl pins,
casting her out of Babylon
with envy's ruthless stones.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013



Monday, September 9, 2013

New Poem: Dining Car, for The Mag and Beyond.....


Please note that my newest collection of poetry, Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, Finishing Line Press, with endorsements from literary luminaries Jim Moore, Dawn Potter and Patricia Kirkpatrick and cover art by John Sokol, may be ordered now; books will be shipped in October. Signed copies may be purchased from me directly; e-mail jenneandrews2010@gmail.com . To read an advance review by the lovely Tess Kincaid, click here.  My new poem follows.





Dining Car

Mother’s old notes say we took the train
to Flagstaff  my second summer—
that we sat in the dining car and I looked out
mouthing vowels at the desert--  
even then in awe of it, the blue seas of sand,
red sandstone buttes jutting at heaven.

She said the black conductor took our tickets,
his face mooney and beaming;
that we had a Sterling service at breakfast
monogrammed RGL--Rio Grande Line—
poached eggs, quartered cantaloupe
for just the two of us.

Father was off in khaki in the woods
at the foot of San Francisco peak,
moving with the others like indolent
ghosts penciled into the Ponderosa,
harvesting them of the dwarf mistletoe
that lay popping in Petrie dishes
like fractured pearls.

But it was the train, the thunderous rolling on
like a cinematic dream, wheels
throwing off sparks, long high whistle
warning Black Angus cows to move
or be flattened, out on the Pajarito Plateau
where the tracks lengthened
to a vanishing point.

All of it kept me sleepless
that a body could be in motion, arise,
float and fly.
That there could be holidays and reunions--
escape, the imagination winging
alongside keeping pace with the locomotive’s
kite of steam,
smelting a mirage of freedom down
to palpable world.



 copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013

Monday, August 26, 2013

New Poem for Magpie Tales and Beyond: No Passing Zone


As noted above, my first collection in thirty years, Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, due out in October from Finishing Line Press, may be preordered; visit the blog I've set up for it here....

Photo - Steven Kelly 
No-Passing Zone

That winter, cabin fever
drove us out of Albuquerque,
so that after eight hours
on Route 66, we found ourselves
on a half-tarred road notched
into the mountain,

small family grafted to one another
by need and grief
like an ebony four-leaf clover
pendant, pieces that would never
break away from the whole.

In full-blown DT’s our mother
rode shotgun,
young brother with me in the back
of the US Forest Service Chevy sedan
leased to our father

for such forays through high country
to tally beetle-killed trees,
and collect the unwelcome dwarf mistletoe
gleaming in the clefts
of the ponderosa.

We nosed up into the season
of deep snow
on icy switchback shoulders
you didn’t dare pass slower traffic on;

chain-smoking, my mother clung to my father
and I held my brother’s hand on the back seat,
now and then looking down
at the slate drop-off
where buzzards rode the downdraft
in their gyre over mule deer carrion.

Down the other side
Navajo country, the Rez:
and the government cabin
we had provisioned ourselves
for, unpeeled tongue and groove,
hand-hewn and welcoming,
rocking back against red cliffs:
the nearby fields were pocked with lamb-heavy
woolly Churro ewes, heads down
in December’s diffident wind.

A fire burning high with a pinon knot,
a roast leg of mutton
left for us in the freezer by the ranger
would lift our spirits;
we, the brave children,
issue of territorial stock,
tumbled into the cabin’s gloom,
but she, slamming down scotch,
held up for a mere hour.                 

Like the last aspen leaf of an early autumn,
she shook at the hearth, sparks snapping
up the chimney,
clawing at her own arms;

You have to take me back.
I have to go back.

This was every year’s gift,
new ordeal tied up with a ribbon
sangre de Cristo red--
a junket ruined
by her fear, this ungrown thing
we had for a mother

no one had been able to fix,
not even with vaunted shock treatments
at Nazareth Sanitarium
on the edge of the city
so that we could be the children again,

not the parents, not the ones
holding our breath over an ice-slick pass
at dusk, boring through a blizzard
homeward,

my father back on duty
at his other job, putting out fires from
the ashes she left like bread crumbs
wherever she wandered the night long
in weeping disarray.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013




The old Route 66, and the Painted Desert Trading Post ruin...


Route 66 into the Navajo Reservation