GIUSEPPE ALTOBELLO
Giuseppe Altobello was born in Campobasso in 1869, where he died in 1931; doctor, musician, scientist, linguist, poet, he was a versatile figure with a multifaceted culture, as shown by his studies and research on the fauna: Saggio di ornitologia italiana [Essay on Italian Ornithology] has been recently reissued with a preface by Corradino Guacci (Isernia, 1990). Altobello's entire poetic works have been collected in the volume Sonetti molisani [Molisan Sonnets], Campobasso 1966, 2nd ed. 1982, edited by Nina Guerrizio, containing both the published collections, Da lu fronte [From the Front], Campobasso 1918; Poesie dialettali [Dialect Poems] Campobasso 1926 and those unpublished: Trascurrenne de le feste [Talking of Feasts], Minghe e Peppe [Minghe and Peppe].
Criticism: L. Biscardi, La letteratura dialettale molisana fra restauro e invenzione, Isernia 1983; G. Faralli, in Poesia dialettale del Molise. Testi e Critica, Isernia 1993.
Elegy and irony, memorial projection and ludic intention, regret and playful "divertissment" constitute the score of the poetic world of Giuseppe Altobello, doctor, epigone of that aristocratic southern "gentlemanliness," conservative and paternalistic, bound to traditions, to the ethical order, to a "human" measure of living, that was able to reconcile his professional and scientific role (which was significant: Altobello was an ornithologist with a solid national reputation) with the emotions and the simple, spontaneous, archaic, but also "pithy" manifestations of popular life, or rather rural life, since the sources of inspiration for his creativity were the community, work, the seasons, the customs of Molisan farmers in the first decades of this century.
It is on this twofold track that moves the poetic invention of the author from Campobasso, who conferred nothing authentically new and original to "rustic" literary tradition, which had been grounded for centuries on the classic, ambivalent relationship between city and country, urban and rural, civil and instinctive, which entailed the adoption of this double representation of the naturalistic, rustic element (the country as the privileged place of natural harmony, peacefulness and oblivion, bucolic alternative to the chaos and noise of the city, to turmoil and anxiety, but also seedbed of coarseness and awkwardness, over which the knowing auctores of witty, ironic sketches have laughed and made others laugh for centuries). This operation was still possible in the primitive rural world of Molise, which Altobello had observed and "transcribed" with a profuse sense of humanity and empathy, which nevertheless did not exclude the ironic smile, even if it was gentle, benevolent and in good measure complicitous. And from this multitude of feeling towards a reality in the wane and in essence bound to that other reality, of life itself, preserved intact and pure in memory emerges the figure of "Minghe Cunzulette," that lends the title to the collection Minghe e Peppa. Altobello himself explains its origin, with a clear consciousness of his role as sensitive witness of changing times: "Minghe Cunzulette is not a character I made up, but was instead an old dear sharecropper of my family who died about twenty years ago, well known in the county and the city, a primitive farmer, with ancient ways, cheerful and respectful, completely untouched by urbanization; born and raised between the farm and the small house, eating cabbage, onions and corncakes, tied to all the old customs, the good traditions, tied to the soil, like an elm tree in the boundary hedge, always busily at work in the small farm..." (Cf. Altobello, Due parole, introductory comments to Poesie dialettali di Campobasso, 1926, p.109 of the volume edited by Nina Guerrizio, Sonetti molisani, 1966-1982). In fact, times had changed: "urbanization" had undermined traditional ways of life, values, language, style, human relationships. Altobello's memory explores this lost dimension, aiming at "reproducing" it, between melancholy and irony, through the "restoration" (Biscardi) of a language salvaged from the contaminating landslide of modernity.
The poet's memorial tension leads him to a meticulous and guarded linguistic selection aimed at capturing the most archaic and "pure" vernacular, not yet corrupted, with a strongly-felt urgency to bring back to light the true identity of the Campobasso dialect, immune from patched-up modernizations. This operation, which often risks a certain predictable coldness, is carried out with a conscious and studied philologism, precise and sober, neither folkloristic nor academic, balanced between a scrupulous visual/memorial investigation, meticulously transcribed, and the sudden impulse of the most authentic emotion, if rare and controlled.
This is characteristic of Altobello's poetry, poised between the intention to remain very close to the cadences and syntactic rhythms of the popular characters, to the communal intimacy (of both men and nature) of that dying world, and a strictly erudite need to elevate native speech, the "dirty talk," to the literary dignity of Italian lyric tradition. To this end he turns, with considerable risk, to one of the most ancient and rigorous compositions: the sonnet. In essence this "workshop" operation of fine linguistic craftsmanship is Altobello's poetic challenge; and it is not superfluous to underline that, aside from a few rare, inevitable misses, inherent in the difference of expressive levels (the popular and the cultured), the Author is able to achieve a natural symbiosis, all the more precious for this reason, between the spontaneous, instinctive cadences of vernacular usage and the rigorous metric codification of the sonnet. Nor should it surprise us, on the other hand, that he chose a "classic" expressive structure like the sonnet, in a period rife with Twentieth-Century experimentation that reached the province as well, as witnessed by the abundance of articles in the Molisan press in the aftermath of W.W.I, since this choice is in keeping with his conservative ideas and the Eighteenth-Century origin (in imitation of Carducci's classical style) of his intellectual development.
Giambattista Faralli
La festa de le muorte
I.
Ngopp'a ogne rame d'arbere ngiallite
na lacrema la negghia ci ha pusata
e a chiagne pe la gente seppellite
lu ciele è fatte scure sta jurnata.
Na vranca 'e passarielle appecundrite
pe dente a nu frattone z'è menata
e n'hanne cchiù cantate, hanne funite
quann'hanne viste chesta matenata.
Senz'esse da lu viente manche smuosse
ogni cepriesse fute che z'è nfusse
cala nu chiante amare pe le fosse:
e lu cepriesse fute cumme fusse
de chesta terra nu spressorie gruosse
la benedice senza che lu usse.
da Sonetti molisani, Rist. 1982
La festa dei morti I. Sopra ogni ramo d'albero ingiallito / la nebbia una lacrima ha posata, / e a pianger per la gente seppellita / il ciel si è fatto scuro sta giornata. / Uno stormo di passeri intristiti / dentro una grossa fratta s'è buttato / e non ha più cantato, hanno finito / quando hanno visto questa mattinata. / Senza essere dal vento manco mosso / ogni cipresso folto ch'è bagnato / manda giù un pianto amaro per le fosse: / ed il cipresso folto, come fosse / di questa terra un grosso aspersorio, / la benedice senza che lo scuoti.
(Traduzione di Nina Guerrizio)
All Souls' Day
I.
On every branch of every yellow tree
the fog has left a single tear behind
the sky's so dark today it's hard to see,
it wants to weep for all those in the ground.
A band of melancholy little sparrows
flew inside a heavy thicket all together
and did not sing again, they suddenly stopped
as soon as they had seen the morning weather.
Without being even jiggled by the wind
every thick cypress tree that felt the rain
trickles with bitter tears down in the ditches
and the thick cypress tree, as if it were
a giant aspergillum for this earth,
blesses it without needing to be shaken.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)
Primavera
III
Eme accuscì passate Marze e Abbrile
ciacianijanne assieme, tra cumpagne,
tenenne sempe mmane lu fucile,
menanne sempe l'uocchie a ste campagne
quann'ecche Magge e da le cannarile
de le cannune, senza ma' sparagne,
esce ogni botta quante nu varile
a scapuccià le cime 'e ste muntagne.
Senz'allentà migliara 'e battarije
arresbegliate leste qua pe' ffore
fanne lu vere nferne, ira de Ddije,
cumme quanne, cuntinue, pe' ore e ore,
tu te truvasce sempe nferruvie
strascenate pe' dent'a le trafore.
da Sonetti molisani, Rist. 1982
III. Abbiam così passato Marzo e Aprile / chiacchierando tra noi, tra compagni, / tenendo sempre in mano il fucile, / volgendo sempre gli occhi alla campagna, / quand'ecco arriva Maggio e dalle gole / dei cannoni, senza tregua/ esce ogni botta come un barile / a frantumar le cime delle montagne. / Senza allentar, migliaia di batterie / risvegliate ben presto di qua fuori / fanno un inferno vero, ira di Dio, / come se di continuo, ore ed ore, / tu ti trovassi sempre in ferrovia / via trascinato per le gallerie.
(Traduzione di Nina Guerrizio)
Spring
III.
And so we passed the time both March and April
yammering together, among friends,
always with our hands holding the rifle
always turning to look toward the fields
when May suddenly arrives, and from the mouth
of the cannons, without ever a rest,
big as a barrel every shell shoots out
and blows to pieces the near mountain crest.
Without a let up, a thousand batteries
that are awakened soon enough out here
strike up the wrath of God, a dreadful hell,
as if for hours on end you found yourself
always on railroad tracks, and if you were
endlessly being dragged inside the tunnels.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)
L'acqua de la Fota
VIII.
Ventima cara e doce de l'Abrile
fatta tupella da lu prime sole,
tu manne abbasce pe le cannarile
l'addore de le toppe de vijole;
tu cante ent'a le chiuppe misse nfile
canzone ch'hanne doce le parole,
tu va pe le caute e sbiglie arile,
mitte a le cielle scenna p'ogne vuole.
Tutte le chiante stanne a farte nchine,
te mannene salute de sfujta
appena che tu passe o t'avvecine;
ogne terra pe te deventa zita
ch'aspetta a vraccia aperte che le mine
le sciure d'ogne fratta ch'è sciurita.
da Sonetti molisani, 1982
VIII. Zefiro caro e dolce dell'aprile / intiepidito dal primo sole, / se spiri mandi giù per la gola / il profumo dei ciuffi di viole; / tu canti dentro i pioppi messi in fila / canzoni che hanno dolci le parole, / vai per le buche a risvegliare i ghiri, / metti agli uccelli l'ala p'ogni volo. / Tutte le piante stanno a farti inchini, / ti mandano saluti di sfuggita / appena che tu passi o t'avvicini; / ogni terra per te diventa sposa / che aspetta a braccia aperte che le getti / i fiori d'ogni fratta ch'è fiorita.
(Traduzione di Nina Guerrizio)
The Water of the Fota
VIII.
Gentle and caressing April breeze
already warmed by early morning sunlight,
you send us, trickling down our throat, the sweet
fragrance of a myriad tufts of violets;
you sing amid long rows of poplar trees
songs that fill the air with soothing words
you go among the ditches and wake dormice
for every flight you put a wing on birds.
All the plants and trees bow down to you
and send you greetings with a fleeting nod
as soon as you go by them or approach;
every land for you becomes a bride
waiting with open arms for you to drop
the flowers stolen from each blooming bush.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)
XVIII.
Che tiempe, ch'allegrija, e che canzune
sentive a Sant'Antuone o pe la Fota
quanne cuntiente fatijave ognune
cu la paccija mmocca a bota a bbota!
Chi steva a sciuppà lacce a une a une,
chi sradecava tante na carota,
chi pigliava le torte, chi le fune,
chi rresciacquave fronne da la lota.
E doppe vintun'ore ognune sciva
pe z'assucà le piede a la chianura
e p'acchiappà lu ciucce che fuiva...
E sotte a na muntagna de verdura,
rraglianne pe' l'addore che sentiva
spedetijava alegre la vettura.
da Sonetti molisani, 1982
XVIII. Che tempi, che allegria, e che canzoni / sentivi A Sant'Antonio o per la Fota / quando contento faticava ognuno / con la battuta in bocca a volta a volta! / Chi sedani strappava ad uno ad uno / chi tanto sradicava una carota / chi pigliava ritorte, chi le funi / chi dal loto le foglie risciacquava. / E dopo ventun'ora ognuno usciva / per asciugarsi i piedi alla pianura / ed acchiappare il ciuco che fuggiva... / E sotto a una montagna di verdura, / ragliando per l'odore che sentiva, / allegra trombettava la vettura.
(Traduzione di Nina Guerrizio)
XVIII.
What times, what fun, and what happy songs
you heard around the Fota or at St. Anthony
when all worked in good cheer the whole day long
always with a wisecrack or a story!
Some people tore off celery one by one,
some people pulled a carrot from its roots,
some people picked up ropes, some gathered withes,
some people washed the mud around the leaves.
And after twilight everyone went out
down in the darkened plain to dry their feet
and try to catch the donkey running off...
And underneath a huge mountain of greens,
braying for the strong smell in the air
the carriage went on blaring happily away.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)
Minghe a Peppa
II.
A la sulagna stea na funtanella
che deva la cchiù fresca acqua suttila,
nu sperchie d'acqua fatte a scatulella
cu quatte lisce all'erta a capefila.
L'acqua scurreva pe na fussatella
cumme a na capesciola che ze sfila
facenne cresce la mentuccia bella
e la chiantima d'erva cchiù gentila.
Pe nnu era nu spasse la matina
a j a struscià llà dente le peducce
e i te vede ancora llà vecina,
e addurente te sente de mentucce
cu lu nasille lustre, mbusse, china
a veve ent'a na fronna de cappucce.
da Sonetti molisani, 1982
Minghe a Peppa II. - A solatìo stava una fontanella / che dava la più fresca acqua sottile, / d'acqua uno specchio a scatoletta fatto / con quattro pietre lisce dritte a incastro. / L'acqua scorreva per un fossatello / come trina di lana che si sfila / facendo crescer la mentuccia bella / e la piantina d'erba più gentile. / Per noi era uno spasso la mattina / andar su e giù là dentro coi piedini / ed io ti vedo ancora là vicino / e odorosa ti sento di mentuccia, / lustro il nasetto, gocciolante, china / a bere in una foglia di cappuccio.
(Traduzione di Nina Guerrizio)
Minghe to Peppa
II.
There was a little fountain in the sunlight
that gave the freshest and most limpid water,
a pool of water looking like a crate
with its four smoothed stones wedged in upright.
The water flowed down through a narrow ditch
like a slowly unraveled woolen lace
nourishing the lovely plants of mint
and the small tufts of the most tender grass.
For us it was great fun early in the morning
to go and wade in it with our bare feet
and I still see you there as you stood near
and I can smell the fragrant mint on you
as you bent over, your nose shiny and wet,
to take a sip in a cupped cabbage leaf.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)
Minghe a Peppa
XX.
La massaria, z'arrecanosce, è chella
ch'appare a la sulagna ghianchijata,
che te' ent'a l'uocchie de la rumanella
na cocchia de pecciune apparegliata.
Na preulata d'uva sangenella
scorre ngoppa lu puzze maretata
a nu cièuze ghianche e a na prunella
ddò vanne cielle tutta la jurnata.
Na specanarda a mure nfaccia a sole,
chiena de mille spiche a primavera
sta llà pe fa addurente le lenzole,
e ngoppa a la funestra vide dritte
le meglie chiante roppie de vijole
nate e cresciute dent'a ddu marmitte.
da Sonetti molisani, 1982
Minghe a Peppa XX. La masseria, si riconosce, è quella / che appare a solatìo, lì, biancheggiata, / e tiene entro quell'occhio sottotetto / di colombi una coppia apparigliata. / Una pergola d'uva sanginella / scorre disopra al pozzo maritata / a un gelso bianco ed un pruno selvatico / dove per tutto il giorno vanno uccelli. / Una pianta di nardo in faccia al sole, / piena di mille spighe a primavera / sta lì per profumare le lenzuola, / e sopra la finestra vedi dritte / le meglio piante di viole a ciocca / nate e cresciute dentro due marmitte.
(Traduzione di Nina Guerrizio)
Minghe to Peppa
XX.
The farmhouse, you can tell, is the one there
that appears brightly whitened in the sun
and holds within that eye under the ledge
two coupled doves that make a happy pair.
A pergola of Sanginella grapes
now runs over the well, wedded to a white
mulberry tree and to a blackthorn hedge
where birds go in and stay the whole day long.
A spikenard on the wall against the sunlight
full of a thousand blooming spikes in spring
is there to lend its fragrance to the sheets
and on the window sill you see upright
the finest plants of violets grown in clusters
all born and raised inside two earthen pots.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)