Two Poems
Original by Antonia Pozzi
Translated, from the Italian, by Amy Newman
Lamp
Little lantern, maybe you were
inside a child’s tomb
near the earthenware toy
and the jars
holding tiny seeds —
or maybe a late-night boatman
carried you
to the temple
of Venus Ericina —
the Aegadian Islands dark in the sunset —
the open sea cerulean blue —
maybe at dawn
a goat herder carried you
leading his herds
up to the village
to sell fresh milk —
Little lantern, you still smell of earth –
and it’s worn into you
too much shadow
you’re nearly translucent
like a soul from deep within
or is it that through your pale clay
something gleams there
beyond the human?
Monte S. Giuliano (Erice), 12 April 1933
Sketch
Tonight I’m thinking
about the legend of The Firebird —
its appearance in the thicket —
its song of liberation —
everyone tells the story
of the young prince
and of his sleeping enemies
and his salvation —
no one thinks about the dark tree
where the bird appeared
the first evening —
no one thinks of the life of that tree
after that evening
the blaze of those magic wings
no longer there —
I alone understand
how that tree lives
full of longing, of waiting —
seeing people all around,
milling about —
but none of their colorful robes
are anything like
the splendor
of the vanished bird —
the tree doesn’t know anymore
for whom it flowers —
it writhes inside with the birth
of each new leaf —
the tree doesn’t know for whom
it might offer its spring torment—
and it waits for night —
black night without stars without fountains —
the hour of dark silence —
when from deep roots
in an utter blinding flash
surging through its torso
to the very tip of the leaves,
rises its only possession —
the blazing memory of the Firebird
March-August 1933
ΛYXNOΣ
Lucernina, forse tu stavi
dentro un sepolcro di bambino
presso il balocco di terracotta
e gli orci
con i piccoli semi –
o forse ti recò un navigatore
a tarda ora
nel tempio
di Venere Ericìna –
scure le Egadi nel tramonto – cèrulo
l’aperto mare –
forse all’alba
un capraro ti reggeva
portando le sue greggi
su verso il borgo – a vendere
il fresco latte –
Lucernina, tu odori
tutta di terra
ancora –
e t’ha corroso
la troppa ombra –
così diafana sei –
piccola lampada –
come un’anima che venga dal profondo –
O non traluce in te –
nella tua creta
pallida –
un chiarore oltreumano?
Monte S. Giuliano (Erice), 12 aprile 1933
abbozzo
Io penso questa sera
alla leggenda dell’Uccello di Fuoco –
al suo apparire nel folto –
al suo canto liberatore –
e tutti narrano
del giovane principe
e del sonno dei nemici
e della sua salvezza –
nessuno pensa all’albero oscuro
dove l’uccello apparì
la prima sera –
nessuno pensa alla vita dell’albero
dopo quella sera
senza più la vampa
delle ali magiche –
io sola so
come l’albero viva
di nostalgia e d’attesa –
e intorno veda
la gente che si aggira –
ma nessuna veste variopinta
vale per lui
lo splendore
dell’Uccello scomparso –
l’albero non sa più
per chi sia il suo fiorire –
e per ogni foglia che nasce
si torce nelle intime fibre –
l’albero non sa più
a chi offrire
il suo strazio primaverile –
e attende la notte –
la notte nera senza stelle senza fontane –
l’ora del buio silenzio –
quando dalle profonde radici
in un balenio estremo accecante
sorgerà correrà per il fusto
sino alla cima delle fronde –
unico bene suo –
il ricordo infuocato dell’Uccello
marzo-agosto 1933
The copyright for the poems of Antonia Pozzi belongs to the Carlo Cattaneo and Giulio Preti International Insubric Center for Philosophy, Epistemology, Cognitive Sciences and the History of Science and Technology of the University of Insubria, depositary and owner of the whole Archive and Library of Antonia Pozzi.
Born in Milan in 1912, Antonia Pozzi took her life in 1938, leaving behind notebooks containing over 300 poems; none of her poetry was published during her lifetime. After her death, Pozzi’s poetry was severely altered by her father, who scrubbed evidence of his daughter’s passion and her doubts about religion. In 1989, editors Alessandra Cenni and Onorina Dino restored the poems to their original form in Parole.
Amy Newman’s sixth book of poetry is An Incomplete Encyclopedia of Happiness and Unhappiness (Persea Books, 2023). Her translations of the poems and letters of Antonia Pozzi appear in The Hopkins Review, Poetry, Harvard Review, Blackbird, and elsewhere. Her awards include a MacDowell Fellowship, numerous state art grants, and The John Frederick Nims Memorial Prize for Translation from Poetry.
Translator’s Note:
It’s unconventional for Pozzi to have used the Greek word, “ΛYXNOΣ” rather than her customary Italian (of the nearly 300 poems in Parole, including the “inediti,” this is the only poem that appears with a title in Greek). I’d love to speculate about why this is so, because I have just completed translating the Graziella Bernabò biography of Pozzi, Per troppa vita che ho nel sangue. It’s a marvelous biography! She has Antonia traveling to Greece in April of 1934, and I’m inspired to imagine that that Antonia was already, in 1933, quite obsessed with Greek culture and language, studying and reading about Greece and what might be found there. The title sets the lantern’s origins in Greece without mentioning it directly, and poetically, this may be her way of placing that lantern in that context overall, without having to mention it directly in the poem.
Further (but more subjectively, just from my reading): her first love was her Greek and Latin tutor, Antonia Maria Cervi, and 1933 is a pivotal year for them, as she was earlier forced to give up this relationship with him. Her powerful father would not approve the quiet scholar’s request for his daughter’s hand in marriage. They tried in 1931 to “renounce” their relationship, but kept seeing each other in secret; however, 1933 is the year the two finally did renounce their commitment. It was tragic and life-altering for them both. As so much of what she knew about Greece came from her early studies with Cervi, I have little doubt that there is some connection there as well.