LILIA SLOMP

Elio Fox


Lilia Slomp was born in Trento on April 2, 1945. She studied business and was a mother and housewife for most of her life, becoming a state employee later in life. A meditative and reflective poet, she began writing dialect poetry in the early Eighties and published her first book in 1987, followed by two more. She alternates between poetry in dialect and in Italian, and published two volumes (Nonostante tutto and Controcanto) between 1991 and 1993.
Lilia Slomp has had a seminal influence, and has brought in the dialect poetry of Trentino, but also in that of the neighboring regions, a breath of expressive freshness that has made a profound mark in recent years, to the extent of creating what could be defined as the "Lilia style," almost always unmistakable in its ethereal and delicate poetic phrasing, and therefore prone to not always felicitous (or easy) imitations.
There is a "demarcation line" in Lilia Slomp's poetry, before which the "Lilia style" was only Lilia's, and after which a great deal of contemporary poetry, especially by women, displays the gracefulness and embroidery that belong to Lilia's soul and creativity.
Her poetry shows a strong personality and suggestiveness, but that would not be enough to explain the phenomenon of the substantial emulation she has inspired recently. Her poetry, in fact, has created the enchantment of abstraction, has suggested the reality of the unreal, has given a voice to the wind, the stars, the flowers, the forests, and the dew as actors and at the same time spectators of "Lilia's recital." One can no doubt imitate the diction, the expressions, the single line, but not the moral underpinning and the depth of Lilia's words, which become empty if applied by others to different conditions and situations.
In this sense, her kites, her schiramèle, her mìgole, her ensògni 'ngardiadi, her còr malà de malinconia, her fiori ennamorati, the òci 'mbriaghi de stèle, the swallows' flight, her turning into a seashell (a maternal and at the same time sensual attitude); her wandering on the cornisoni, her being a crystal where se spegerà de nof in fiordalisi, are chords that only Lilia Slomp is able to play with total authenticity. Having opened new grounds for herself and others, she perhaps felt that she needed to find still new ways.
In fact, the novelty of Lilia Slomp's poetry, which in her first book (En zerca de aquiloni) is only touched upon with a few beautiful poems, consists in the necessity of "understanding," beyond words, the inner images that the poet wants to represent. Her poetry moves on different levels and requires attention. Sometimes it is necessary to dig deeply in order to identify the various layers, almost taking the veils off what is being told, one by one, in the hope of discovering the true essence of this poetry under the last layer.
There are abundant metaphors, which the poet shows only in transparency, halfway between a desire of being understood and the wish to maintain the enigma of the spirit. many poets have played the card of mimicry either through modesty or fear of appearing defenseless, at the reader's mercy. It might seem a flight from herself and others, but in reality in her poetry Lilia Slomp represents her strength and her fragility simultaneously, and therefore does not create illusions. Instead it creates new images, strengthened by the dramas that have marked her life, often driving her toward an exasperated, rending dialog with the Absolute. There a desire for identity, but also a need to identify with a world that leaves her in solitude. Her poetic cries, her longing for the sublime are part of a journey of suffering, perhaps the ancient heritage of cultures in which pain was the obligatory toll to be paid for the fragile serenity of a moment. A sort of law of retaliation runs through her poetry, by which Lilia Slomp sees or imagines herself as both huntress and prey, sacrificed and sacrificial. Lilia Slomp's poetry is also a poetry of solitude, due not only to the lack of company, but the inability to find someone on the same wavelength.
It is difficult to squeeze a poetic judgment in a few lines. Lilia's Slomp poetry is a poetry of the imagination, of dreams, of reflection, of introspection. At times it almost seems, to those familiar with it, a "poetic diary" in which she speaks of herself and her things, maybe in the third person. Or she lets her loved ones speak. her poetry is for the most part austere, but without sadness (at least not always). It is a poetry that offers various interpretive keys, because in it there is pain, disappointment, even anguish, but never desperation. In fact, there is always an opening, a tiny door leading to hope and which makes us think that for her too tomorrow will be another day.

Bibliography
En zerca de aquiloni, preface by Elio Fox, Trento: Luigi Reverdito Editore, 1987
Schiramèle, preface by Elio Fox, Trento: La Grafica Mori, 1990
Amor póret, preface by Renzo Francescotti, Trento: La Grafica Mori, 1995

Criticism
E. Fox, "Lilia dei fiordalisi," in En zerca de aquiloni; E. Fox, "Il mondo di Lilia, atto secondo," in Amor póret; E. Mazzoleni, "Consapevolezza del linguaggio," in Amor póret di Lilia Slomp Ferrari, an essay which appeared in the local press (1996).


Poems translated by Rina Ferrarelli

Quando narò via

Quando narò via,
narò en ponta de péi.
No lasserò le péste
su la me scortaròla.
Me girerò a ogni pass
per comodar na viola,
na primola stremìda,
'ntrà l'erba spatuzzàda.
Sarò grombial de vènt
lizér de primavera
coi busi 'n le scarsèle
per corer pu lizéra.

Quando andrò via - Quando andrò via, / andrò in punta di piedi. / Non lascerò orme / sulla mia scorciatoia. / Mi girerò ad ogni passo / per accomodare una viola, / una primula spaventata, / fra l'erba spettinata. / Sarò grembiule di vento / leggero di primavera / con i buchi nelle tasche / per volare più leggera.



When I Go Away

When I go away,
I will go on tiptoe.
I will not leave footprints
on my shortcut.
I will swerve at every step
to oblige a violet
a frightened primrose
in the disheveled grass.
I will be an apron of wind
as light as a breeze
with holes in my pockets
to run with ease.


En font ai me ôci

No sta zercar el prà
- en font ai me ôci.
L'è 'n prà zamài segà
de tuti i pu bei fiori.
Zérca demò i colori
scarmenàdi da 'n ziél
coi grópi de róndole
tacàdi al capèl.
No sta zercar el prà
en font ai me ôci.
L'è 'n prà tripolà
da mili pensieri.
Ma propri pu 'n font
ride ancor na cesùra
seràda per tuti.
E lì sol per mi
mando a spass la paura
e balo descólza
sul fià dei me dì.

Nel profondo dei miei occhi - Non cercare il prato / nel profondo dei miei occhi. / un prato ormai tagliato / di tutti i più bei fiori. / Cerca solo i colori / sparpagliati da un cielo / con frotte di rondini / attaccate al cappello. / Non cercare il prato / nel profondo dei miei occhi. / È un prato calpestato / da mille pensieri. / Ma proprio sul fondo / sorride ancora una radura / chiusa per tutti. / E lì, solo per me / mando a passeggio la paura / e ballo scalza / sul fiato dei miei giomi.


In the Depths of My Eyes

Don't look for the meadow
in the depths of my eyes.
It's a meadow shorn, now,
of its most beautiful flowers.
Look only for the colors
scattered by a sky
with flocks of swallows
attached to its hat.
Don't look for the meadow
in the depths of my eyes.
It's a meadow trodden
by a thousand thoughts.
But at the deepest end
smiles still a clearing
closed for everyone.
And there
just for me
I send fear on a walk
and I dance barefoot
on the breath of my days.

Mi per ti

Ombrìa entrà le ombrìe
per le to nòt. Gnanca
en fizzòl de luna desgartià
da la pazienza dei dì, mi.
E fò 'nventà i colorì, l'àrfi
de le af sul còr dei fiori,
la rosada 'ntéi òci del vènt
e tut ci so lamént spandù
al sol en grìngola.
Mi, demò mi. per ti,
senza gnanca na sbrìndola
de seda su la pèl: brasa
per i to dedi che i sgóla
come quei de 'n pòpo
davanti al prim fòi bianch da piturar...
Mi ci sol, mi la luna, mi
na casota sbilenca, forsi ancora
mi en riz de fum che 'l trema
e 'l se smarìss entrà le stéle
de na nòt mai vista ensema.

Io per te - Ombra tra le ombre / per le tue notti, Nemmeno / una matassina di luna dipanata / dalla pazienza dei giorni, io. / E ti ho inventato i colori, il respiro / delle api sul cuore dei fiori, / la rugiada negli occhi del vento / e tutto il suo lamento sparso / al sole in ghingheri. / Io, solo io, per te, / senza nemmeno un brandello / di seta sulla pelle: brace / per le tue dita che volano / come quelle di un bimbo davanti / al primo foglio bianco da pitturare... / Io il sole, io la luna. io / una casetta sbìlenca, forse ancora / io un ricciolo di fumo che trema / e si sbiadisce tra le stelle / di una notte mai vista insieme.

Ero en fior

Mi ero en fior,
de quei che sbòcia ogni qualtràt
per chi che li sa véder
e binar co' le man zónte.
Càpita i orbi e i sordi
sul sintér, i senzadio.
No serve a gnènt
la giostra dei colori,
le af, lori i le sghizza
manaman 'n enté la corsa.
E gnanca i se nascòrze
de la vita che s'enmucia
come na vècìa stria
dessigual che i dì
i ràmpega enté l'aria.
Mì ero en fior da no binar
co' le man sporche,
da carezzar, da piturar,
da 'ncornisar, magari da secar
entrà le pagine de 'n libro...
Mi, ero en fior.

Ero un fiore - Io ero un fiore, di quelli / che sbocciano ogni tanto / per chi li sa vedere / e raccogliere con le mani giunte. / Capitano gli orbi e i sordi / sul sentiero, i senzadio. / Non serve a niente / la giostra dei colori, / le api, loro le schiacciano / man mano nella corsa. / E nemmeno si accorgono / della vita che si accascia / come una vecchia strega / intanto che i giorni / arrampicano nell'aria. / Io ero un fiore da non raccogliere / con le mani sporche, / da carezzare, da pitturare, / da incorniciare, magari da seccare / tra le pagine di un libro... / Io, ero un fiore.


I for You

Shadow among shadows
for your nights. I, not even
a narrow skein of moon
unraveled by the patience of days.
I have invented the colors
for you, the breath of bees
on the heart of flowers,
dew in the eyes of the wind
and all its lament scattered
in a sun dressed to the nines.
I, only I for you,
without a stitch of silk
on my skin: hot coals
under your fingers that fly
like a child's before his first
blank sheet of paper to paint . . .
I the sun, I the moon, I
a crooked little house, maybe too
I a curl of trembling smoke
that fades in the stars
of a night never seen together.


I Was a Flower

I was a flower, of those
that bloom once in a while
for the one who knows
how to see, how to gather them
hands together.
The blind and deaf
chance to walk
on the path, the godless.
The gamut of colors
is useless to them, the bees
get crushed as they run.
And they donÕt even notice
life collapsing
like an old witch
while the days climb the air.
I was a flower
not to be picked
with dirty hands,
a flower to caress, to paint,
to frame, even to dry
between the pages of a book . . .
I was a flower.


Ero mi

Anca se no te 'l sai,
ero mi che te 'nventavo
i 'nsògni reménghi
enté le nòt, che somenavo
en le bine stréte de le ore
le stéle robade. Ero mi,
pèl de rosada che balavo
ensema a le saiéte
l'angóssa deì tòni
che ariva massa tardi
per empizzarse ensèma
sul fià dei temporài.
E ero ancora mi, descólza,
ombra de luna,
entéi òci de l'aurora,
entéi sgrìsoi del sol,
en le tonde del vènt
ai buti che se sgiónfa
scarmenando i pudori.
E gò na vesta larga
che gira come na giostra
per embriagarte de colori.

Ero io - Anche se non lo sai, / ero io che ti inventavo, / i sogni malandrini /nelle notti, che seminavo / nei solchi stretti delle ore / le stelle rubate. Ero io, / pelle di rugiada che ballavo / insieme ai fulmini /l'angoscia dei tuoni / che arrivano troppo tardi / per accendersi insieme / sul respiro dei temporali. / E ero ancora io, scalza, / ombra di luna, / negli occhi dell'aurora, / nei brividi del sole, / nelle tonde del vento / ai germogli che si gonfiano / spargendo i pudori. / Eho una gonna larga / che gira come una giostra / per ubriacarti di colori.

It Was Me

Even if you don't know,
it was me who invented
your wicked dreams at night,
who sowed stolen stars
in the slim furrows of the hours.
It was me, skin of dew
who danced with lightning,
the anguish of thunder bolts
that arrive too late
to ignite together
on the breath of storms.
And it was still me, barefoot,
shadow of moon
in the eyes of dawn,
in the shivers of the sun,
the twirlings of the wind
around the buds that swell
scattering shame.
And I have a full dress
that wheels like a merry-go-round
to intoxicate you with color.