Sulle Onde del Mediterraneo

A thought went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish, some way back,
I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely, what it was,
Have I the Art to say.

But somewhere in my Soul, I know
I've met the Thing before;
It just reminded me - t'was all -
And came my way no more.

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

Walt Whitman

Song of Myself

(2)

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides.
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

"Sto seduto. Fantastico. E brame e sensazioni
portai nell'Arte mia - appena intravveduti
visi, vaghi contorni; di non compiuti amori
poche memorie labili. A lei voglio concedermi.
Forme della Beltà delinea, esperta; e colma
tutta la vita, quasi inavvertitamente:
associa percezioni, associa le giornate."

Portai nell’arte mia

Konstandinos Kavafis
(Alessandria d’Egitto 1863 – 1933)

Intendo di postare in questa sezione "i miei poeti" i versi dei poeti che mi sono piu` cari, italiani e non. E come potete vedere nella descrizione del blog c'e` appunto scritto "Il mio mondo, le mie lingue" con le quali intendo principalmente l'arabo e l'italiano. Quindi, come inaugurazione di questa categoria, ho pensato di proporvi questi versi di un poeta arabo, scritti durante l'esilio a Londra. Vi ho portato qua il testo arabo e un mio tentativo modesto di tradurlo.

Ps: Per visualizzare bene il testo arabo, fate right click, scegliete "Encoding" poi selezionate "Arabic (Windows)"! Almeno cosi` avrete idea che forma ha la scrittura araba. Buona lettura a tutti:)

أنا من طينٍ و دمع
و الذين ابتسموا حولى
من ثلجٍ..... و شمع
فإذ ا متدت بىَ النار
سأغدو حجرًا
و الآخرون
وحدهم ينصهرون

           جواد جميل                            

Di terracotta e lacrime sono
E quelli che mi sorridono attorno
Di ghiaccio e di cera
Prendessi fiamme,
Diventerò più forte, più duro
Solo loro si dissolveranno!

                                                   Jawàd Jameel