Salvatore Quasimodo Day -- 2025 !

 
Salvatore Quasimodo (Kaw-SEE-mo-do) was born this day in 1901, in Modica, Sicily.  Salute!  

When his first book (Acque e Terre / Waters and Lands)  appeared in 1930, Quasimodo was grouped with the Italian hermetic poets.  His early poems did indeed have their share of difficult and subjective  images, though the work’s strongest points, to me, are its details, often in the form of direct or implied memories, from his childhood in Sicily — for example, the sea, its pebbled shore, the wind, and name-checked locales such as Tindari and the Necropolis of Pantalica -- and its Quasimodo-ian aloneness.

Quaismodo’s insistence on our aloneness can be profound, even when lightened by the occasional ecstastic moment, such as, for example, the declaration in Specchio (“Mirror”)  – spurred by buds on a seemingly dead branch and the reflection of sky in a puddle – that “E tutto mi sa di miracolo” (“And everything seems to me a miracle”).  Here’s Quasimodo’s best-known poem, first published in 1930 as the concluding tercet of Solitudini, then subsequently (and ever since) as a stand-alone work (and a no-doubt classic too):

Ed è subito sera

Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra
trafitto da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera

+++++

And Suddenly It’s Evening

Everyone stands alone on the heart of the earth
pierced by a ray of sunshine:
and suddenly it’s evening   

Living (and resisting) in Milan during World War II, Quasimodo’s poems took a turn towards what critics call the civic, directly engaging with the brutal realities of life.   This is reflected in the titles of his late 1940s collections: Giorno dopo giorno (Day After Day) and La vita non è sogno (Life Is Not Dream).  The imagery in these war-time poems can sear, as in the opening lines of Alle fronde dei salici (“Under the Willow Branches”):

E come potevamo noi cantare

con il piede straniero sopra il cuore,

fra i morti abbandonati nelle piazze

sull’erba dura di ghiaccio, al lamento

d’agnello dei fanciulli, all’urlo nero

dalla madre che andava incontro al figlio

crocifisso sul palo del telegrafo?

+++++

And how could we sing

with a foreign foot on our hearts,

among the dead abandoned in the squares

on the grass hard with ice, to the lamb-like wail

of the children, to the black scream 

of the mother who went to meet her son

crucified on the telegraph pole?

Quasimodo was awarded the 1959 Nobel Prize in Literature.  Many suggest the award came on the strength of his unflinching WW-II era poetry.  That may be so, but Quasimodo wrote plenty of great poems both before and after that era.  He was  also an accomplished translator, including a masterful collection of ancient Greek lyrics first published in the early 1940s.  He was clearly a giant of 20th century poetry, for his native Sicily, his homeland of Italy, and the world.

Today – the 124th anniversary of his birth – I celebrate Quaismodo by remembering a love poem  published in 1948.  It’s set in Milan, where Quasimodo lived for much of his adult life.  More specifically, its set in the Cerchia dei Navigli (Circle of the Navigli), a district with interconnected canals that, in the post-WWII years were still used for transport and industry, though many had been filled (today, a few canals remain and the area is known for what the guidebooks call its quirky charm and beauty, including the views along the water at dusk, particularly at the Darsena Basin, where two canals meet and trees line the bank).    

Quasimodo’s poem, two stanzas, each  of twelve lines, is a gem.  The English translation used below draws from versions by Allen Mandelbaum (1960) and Jack Bevan (1983), plus my own interpolations:

 Quasi un madrigal

Il girasole piega a occidente
e già precipita il giorno nel suo
occhio in rovina e l’aria dell’estate
s’addensa e già curva le foglie e il fumo
dei cantieri.  S’allontana con scorrere
secco di nubi e stridere di fulmini
quest’ultimo gioco del cielo.  Ancora,
e da anni, cara, ci ferma il mutarsi
degli alberi stretti dentro la cerchia
dei Navigli.  Ma è sempre il nostro giorno
e sempre quel sole che se ne va
con il filo del suo raggio affettuoso.

Non ho più ricordi, non voglio ricordare;
la memoria risale dalla morte,
la vita è senza fine. Ogni giorno
è nostro. Uno si fermerà per sempre,
e tu con me, quando ci sembri tardi.
Qui sull’argine del canale, i piedi
in altalena, come di fanciulli,
guardiamo l’acqua, i primi rami dentro
il suo colore verde che s’oscura.
E l’uomo che in silenzio s’avvicina
non nasconde un coltello fra le mani,
ma un fiore di geranio.
 
+++++

Almost a Madrigal

The sunflower bends to the west
and already the day falls in its
ruined eye, and the summer air
thickens and already curves the leaves and the smoke
of the construction sites.  This last play of the sky 
fades away with flowing dry clouds
and a screech of lightning.  Still, 
and for years, my dear, we’re stopped by the changing
of the trees crowded within the Circle
of the Navigli.  But it is always our day
and always that sun that goes
with the thread of its affectionate ray.

I’ve no more memories, I do not want to remember;
memory rises from death,
life is without end.  Every day
is ours.  One day will stop forever,
and you with me, when it seems late.
Here on the canal bank, our feet
swinging, like children,
we watch the water, the first branches within
its darkening green color.
And the man who approaches silently
is not hiding a knife in his hands,
but a geranium flower.

Madrigale (madrigal) is an Italian term for a short lyrical poem of amatory character.  Why, per the title, it this “quasi” (“almost”) such a poem?  I think there’s a philosophical element at work here (discussed below) that almost (but not quite) overtops the love lyric, and there’s also the concern, raised in the final lines, that criminal conduct (not uncommon in post-war Italy, as I understand it), could intrude on the lovers’ scene.  That sociological-type fact does cloud the amatory  mood, if only for a moment.   

As for the poem itself, its first six lines, comprising two sentences, marvelously set the scene.  The first sentence, with its four uses of “and” and two of “already,” neatly conveys the rush of observations at the quickly approach end of day –  its compound structure and length make it  literally almost breathtaking.   I like too how the “ruined eye” of the sunflower, and the active construction sites seem true to – reflects – what the historical record says about post-war Milan (the city had been heavily bombed, and there was a diligent efforts to rebuild).  The second sentence’s “last play of the sky” brings a sense of theatrical drama to the scene, while the described action of the clouds and screech of lightning adds movement and sound.  

In the final lines of the first stanza the poet’s subjective view becomes primary.  I love how  Quasimodo here says change – the transitory day’s end –  is stopped (in the implied minds and hearts of the lovers) by change itself (that which they observe in the trees) itself.   The changes seen could be the summe Of course, it’s the  act of noticing that frames the moment and powers this halt of time.  These lines also further anchor the scene by referencing the Naviglia district.  This a very local poem with – as you see from reading it – a most universal subject.   

The declaration that begins the first stanza’s final sentence – “è sempre il nostro giorno” (“it is always our day”) – is an ardent and concise (and thus brilliant) affirmation of the lovers’ togetherness and – think more importantly – ability for a moment to conquer time.  It’s totally convincing, and  – looking ahead – clearly becomes, with its almost reptition in the second stanza - -the poem’s fulcrum principle.  

The first stanza’s final image – a thread of affectionate sun-ray – provides a noteworthy  contrast to the not-entirely-friendly piercing sun-ray in  Ed è subito sera.  I’d love to know whether  anything Quasimodo had in mind this twist on his earlier image.  I’ll bet he did.   As the second stanza begins, Quasimodo asserts  he has no memories, or even desire to remember, suggesting that such arise from death. The abjuring of memory here is remarkable.  In a poem just two pages later than this one, he flatly declared “I poeti non dimenticano” (“Poets do not forget”).  That  Quasimodo posits the exact opposite here suggests that he knew that sometimes there should be or is only the NOW, and that life should be, or is sometimes is, only an endless series of NOWs.  

The sentence the follows – Ogni giorno / è nostro (“Every day / is ours”) echoes the almost identical statement in the first stanza (“è sempre il nostro giorno” / “it is always our day”), which again emphasizes the lovers’ unity.  But the repeated “nostro” here, I suggest, also brings together the poet and the reader.  Yes?  Yes!  In this way, we are now in the poem – in the moment – with Quasimodo and his partner.      

The poem then reminds that one day, the day – the  moment – as well the two now occupying it, will be truly gone.  But the moment persists, gloriously: the image th at follows, of the two sitting at the canal’s bank, feet swinging as if children, looking at branches reflected in the water, is marvelous, and the use of commas in that sentence neatly mimics the physical action.   

The final image, of course, with the threat of harm or violence superseded by a flower is sweet, and lovely.  I’ll suggest the geranium bloom could come off as too cloying, but for the implied threat of the knife. It’s a wondrous conclusion to a most memorable poem.   

map: la Cerchia dei Navigli

Darsena Basin, Navigli Canal

 

 

 

un fiore di geranio