April showers, yes. Here in the Lucchesia, however, it’s more like April deluges: we’ve had more rain in the past few days than in all the time since the start of 2019.
It may be an interval to stay indoors and play a game of cards or the piano. However, stepping outside there are refreshing benefits: the smell of the damp earth, the thirst-quenching of the parched soil, the more vivid colours of the flowers and, near us the sound of rushing waters, amplified by the newly fallen drops.
As Wordsworth would have it:
Unfathom’d dells and undiscover’d woods;
Where rocks and groves the power of waters shakes
In cataracts, or sleeps in quiet lakes.
Here is our local waterfall, just ten minutes away from our house, yesterday.
Approaching the falls we were surprized by the huge bushes of white heather. Our cats, Carlotta and Cheekie were very curious about the water cascading into the hidden canyon. Fortunately, they were sensible enough not to fall down. We, however, would not have ventured so close to the edge.
Talking of waterfalls, here is a poem on the subject by my late uncle, Giuseppe Brunelli who died in 2016. The original is followed by my English translation:
LE CASCATE
12 Agosto 1943
Per balzi strapiombanti fra le rocce
dal fianco aperto del monte boscoso
si disserra il torrente, sparsi massi
scavalcando con gioco di gigante
che scordare non sa la sua potenza.
Figlio d’alti ghiacciai, le tetre forre
illumina in candore di scalee
nevose, vive qual frementi groppe
di cavalli selvaggi, archi iridati
tracciando fragili al piegare del vento.
Davanti alla cascata lo stupore
sacro ritrovo dell’antico uomo,
riapparso con la spoglia d’una fiera
a ripararsi i forti òmeri ignudi
nell’ebbrezza del gelido pulviscolo.
Fra l’inquieto agitarsi delle fronde
stillano i soliloqui di Tristano,
d’Amleto, la demenza di Chisciotte,
di Margherita, il pianto d’Ermengarda:
e si mesce nel vento un nuovo affanno.
Come ciottolo in fondo alla cascata
sotto il getto precipite fa gorgo
di se stesso, e sé rode, e a sé discava
nella roccia una nicchia senza pace,
così il mio cuor nel suo carcere inquieto
in un perenne turbine si volge.
Sopra il dosso insidioso, sull’abisso,
tu posi immota fisa sorridendo
alle acquatiche luci, che sul viso
tranquille si riflettono
Io miro
le alte masse che irrompono verdastre
infrangersi nel volo in bianchi nimbi
e in un tuono dibattersi sul fondo
con lotta irosa sempre risorgente.
Sui tuoi sciolti capelli un ramo muove
un aleggiare d’ombre e il verde piove
con ali lievi sopra il volto bruno,
su gli occhi chiari e il bianco tuo sorriso.
Alta sul gorgo col pensier ti libri
com’aquila impetuosa? A questa roccia
roccia io mi sento a frangere quell’urto,
urto io stesso, immoto nel tumulto.
Né più so di me stesso e invano un grido
levo a tratti al fragore dell’ignoto:
sento ed esito, e ancora faccio miei
sogni e presagi e brividi e terrori.
Prometeo incatenato un rostro invoco
a dilaniarmi in cuore quest’angoscia.
WATERFALLS
12 August 1943
Leaping precipitately among rocks
the torrent releases itself
from the wooded mountain’s riven side,
bounding over scattered boulders like a playful giant
unable to forget his own power.
Child of the high glaciers, lighting dark ravines
with a flare of snowy steps:
iridescent rainbows delicately traced by the wind,
like the shuddering backs of wild horses.
By the waterfall I re-live
the primal wonder of ancient men
returning clad in bearskins
protecting their nakedness
in a wild and freezing wasteland.
Tristan’s and Hamlet’s soliloquies,
Quixote’s madness, Margaret’s folly,
and Ermengarde’s lament
fall among the unquiet rustle of leaves
and a new anguish flows into the wind.
My restlessly imprisoned heart turns
on itself in a never-ending whirlpool
like a pebble underneath the waterfall
consumed by eroding a restless hollow
in the rocks below the rushing jet.
Motionless and smiling, you consider
the water’s light calmly reflected in your face
above the perilous bank upon the abyss.
I see lofty greenish forms breaking through,
shattering into white mists in flight,
thunder-like beating down onto the deep
and ever rising again in violent conflict.
A branch casts a soaring of shadows
on your loosened hair and greenness showers down
with light wings upon your olive face,
onto your bright eyes and your pure smile.
Will you fly away high above the gorge
like an impatient eagle? Before this rock
I, rock-like, feel like breaking that shock
I, in shock myself, remain unmoved in the turmoil.
I no longer know myself and vainly
raise a fleeting cry to the alien tumult;
I feel and exist and my dreams and forebodings,
my fears and terrors come to me again.
I call on Prometheus Bound for strength
to tear away this anguish from my heart.
Interestingly, I presented a translation of my own poem on the subject of waterfalls – this time a vanished one – for the Bagni di Lucca national poetry competition of 2012 where it won second prize. Here is the original English version written in the form of a villanelle and my Italian translation presented for the competition:
THE VANISHED WATERFALL
This tract of world’s eternal round struck proud:
hurled loose from rock into the forest’s void
relentless waters pounded sheer and loud.
Like giant’s veilèd scarf or ogre’s shroud
they leaped and sprang unbound and overjoyed:
this tract of world’s eternal round struck proud
celebrating descent from haloed cloud.
With shattered pines and dashing rocks destroyed
relentless waters pounded sheer and loud.
Precipitous, the waters fell unbowed
and crashed on stones, all energy deployed.
This tract of the eternal round struck proud,
aslant drowned hills and on the liquid-ploughed
ravines; with consummation fast-enjoyed
relentless waters pounded sheer and loud
while falls rushed past as nature’s force endowed,
their joyful sound not maddened or annoyed;
this tract of world’s eternal round struck proud:
relentless waters pounded sheer and loud.
LA CASCATA SVANITA
Questo tratto del tondo eterno del mondo colpì orgogliosamente:
lanciate, sciolte dalla pietra nella lacuna della foresta,
le acque implacabili s’infrangevano a picco e fortemente.
Come la sciarpa velata di un gigante o il sudario di un orco
saltavano e balzavano, slegate e pazze di gioia:
Questo tratto del tondo eterno del mondo colpì orgogliosamente
celebrando la loro discesa dalle nubi aureolate.
Con pini fracassati e pietre audaci distrutte
le acque implacabili s’infrangevano a picco e fortemente.
Erte, le acque abbatterono indomite
e crollarono sulle pietre, ogni energia schierata.
Questo tratto del tondo eterno del mondo colpì orgogliosamente
attraverso le colline affogate e sugli orridi
arati limpidamente; con una consumazione goduta rapidamente
le acque implacabili s’infrangevano a picco e fortemente
mentre le cascate s’affrettavano e la forza della natura dotò,
il loro suono gioioso mai esasperato o importunato;
questo tratto del tondo eterno del mondo colpì orgogliosamente:
le acque implacabili s’infrangevano a picco e fortemente.