Sicilian Poetry

Terpsichore

Lina La Mattina (1944 - )

portrait La Mattina Lina La Mattina (Michela Rinaudo La Mattina) was born in Palermo on February 13, 1944. She has been writing poetry in her native Sicilian language since 1978 and has published her poems in a variety of reviews, journals, and anthologies. Her first book of poetry, entitled, Chiddu Ca Nun Si Vidi, was published in 1995. The first three poems included here are from her second book of poetry entitled 'Na Vuci A La Scurata, published in 1997 and cited below. The first poem, "A 'Gnaziu Buttitta", "To Ignatius Buttitta" reproduced here was written two days after the passing of Ignazio Buttitta. The second poem, "Lu Suli", "The Sun" is illustrative of her imaginative approach to everyday subjects. The third and last example of her work is the poem "Davanti a 'stu ritrattu", "In Front Of This Picture". It is about Falcone (5/18/39-5/23/92) and Borsellino (1/19/40-7/19/92), two judges who were assassinated by the Sicilian Mafia. The picture of Falcone and Borsellino that precedes the poem was scanned from the book "Excellent Cadavers: The Mafia and the Death of the First Italian Republic" by Alexander Stille, Pantheon Books, ISBN 0-679-42579-9, 1995. For more about this topic see the: Falcone Foundation web page. Here's an excellent biography, in Italian, of Paolo Borsellino as well as a set of useful links. On March 8, 2010, Wiki-Sicula featured her poem Isula. I added it at the end, together with my English translation.
 
A 'Gnaziu Buttitta

To Ignatius Buttitta

'Gnaziu, ti vitti ajeri
e mentri chiancennu ti vasava li manu
'ntisi 'na vuci:
eri tu, assittatu sutta lu cèvusu
e mi parravi, mi cuntavi, m'insignavi,
eri tu, abbrazzatu a l'amanti
ca ti rideva dintra l'occhi,
eri tu, mentri acchianavi la scala
arrampicata a lu muru e t'appuiavi
a lu cori d'Ancilina pri nun cadiri.

Ignatius, I saw you yesterday
and while crying and kissing your hands
I heard a voice:
it was you, seated under the mulberry
speaking, telling stories, teaching me,
it was you, with laughing eyes
embraced with admirers,
it was you, while climbing the stairway
clinging on the wall and leaning against
the heart of Ancilina so as not to fall.

Ma nun c'eranu griddi nè aceddi cantarini
a fari l'ecu a li tò palori,
nun c'era lu mari cu li pisci d'argentu
c'ascutavanu di 'nfacciu
e mancu lu suli e li muntagni d'Aspra
"supra la testa a salutari"!
Cantavi sulu tu nni lu silenziu
e canti nni la menti!

But there were no cheers and no birds sang
to echo the sounds of your words,
no sea with its silvery fishes
listening to you
without the sun or the mountains of Aspra
"to salute you overhead"!
Only you sang in the silence
and you sing within me!

La tò puisia 'Gnaziu, ca pri tutti
è ventu ca sdradica pinzera
zappuni dintra l'arma
punzedda ca pitta 'mmenzu li negghi;
pri mia, è puru ciatu
ca 'nzinu a la morti mi portu;
è carni viva sutta la peddi spirtusata;
è ciumi chi curri, sdirrubba, trascina
è agugghia c'arripezza, arracama,
funtana c'abbivira, bracera chi quadia.

Your poetry Ignatius, which for all
is a wind that blows cares away
tills the soil of the soul
a palette knife that paints among the clouds;
a pure force
that will be with me 'til I die;
it's living flesh under a spiritual skin;
it's a running river that destroys, thrashes
it's a needle that repairs, embroiders
a fountain that waters, a brazier that glows.

Ti vitti ajeri 'Gnaziu
cu lu cappottu novu di la festa
li scarpi e la burritta
prontu a partiri, cu la valigia pisanti
di li jorna, pri l'ultimu viaggiu
ca nuddu ti potti sparagnari.

I saw you yesterday Ignatius
in your new holiday coat
shoes and beret
ready to leave, with a heavy suitcase
laden with your days, for your last journey
from which no one was able to keep you.

Ti visteru di la tò bannera
ma nun vai leggiri 'n Cina o 'n Siberia
e mancu a li pedi di Lenin o di Majakovskij:
la cumèta ca passanu 'mpinciu 'm Palermu
e ti vinni a pigghiari
a cavaddu di lo sò cuda
di stiddi to voli 'mbriacari
mentri aspetti lu bannituri cu la trumma
ca leggi la sintenza.

You were dressed in your sash
but not to do a reading in China or Siberia
nor at the feet of Lenin or Mayakovski:
the passing comet stopped at Palermo
it came to take you
by backwards mounted horse
to be inebriated by the stars
while you await the sound of the trumpet
that announces the sentence.

'Mmenzu jardinu di mennuli e castagni
ti fa sentiri ciarameddi:
a sunari sunnu li pastura ca 'n terra avevanu
panzi schitti e caddi nna li cori.
Tra filera d'ancili d'oru
'mpastati di meli... attrovi
li tò "picciriddi sfardati
'nvidiati di li porci ca li videvanu
vistuti e senza cuda nna lu fangu".

In a garden of almonds and chestnuts
they'll let you hear bagpipes:
whose players are those who on earth had
empty stomachs and injured hearts.
Between lines of golden angels
kneaded with honey... you find
your "bedraggled kids
envied by the pigs that saw them
dressed and not sitting in the mud".

Ti porta vulannu supra lu 'nfernu
a visitari puituculi e nnimici
ca to misiru 'ncruci, appagnati di li versi
ca 'nchiuvavanu fascisti...
e nun sapevanu ca la puisia
abbatti mura, sfunna porti
squagghia cuddari di ferru!

They fly you over the inferno
to view the poet denigrators and enemies
who crucified you, troubled by the verses
that nailed fascists...
they didn't know that poetry
can knock down walls, smash doors
dissolve handcuffs!

Ora, comu agneddi arrustuti
nni la furnaci sempri addumata
cu l'occhi e la lingua di fora
addumannanu aiutu:
vulissiru appinnuliarisi a li tò pedi
o macari a li pinzera.

Now like roasted lambs
in the ever burning furnace
with buggered eyes and hanging tongue
they ask for help:
they would like to stay at your feet
or even in your thoughts

Ti vitti ajeri 'Gnaziu
nna l'occhi ca lassasti apposta a vanidduzza
nni la 'ngagghia di suli c'arrubbasti a lu celu
nni la puisia c'arristò pittata
nni la facci bedda e risulenti comu quannu
cu ali di carta facevi vulari palummi;
capivu ca lu 'ncuntrasti arreri lu Signuri!

I saw you yesterday Ignatius
with eyes you purposely left squinting
in the slit of sunlight you stole from the sky
in the poetry that remained painted
on the beautiful laughing face when
with paper wings you made doves fly;
I could tell you again encountered the Lord!

7 aprile 1997
April 7, 1997

--by La Mattina, Lina, 'Na Vuci A La Scurata,
edizioni ARCI SICILIA, Giarre, 1997. p. 18
--translated by Arthur & Alice Dieli



Lu suli

The Sun

Lu suli 'ntricanti comu l'occhi
ma cchiù di 'na fimmina
senza chiavi trasi d'ogni porta.

The Sun insinuates itself like eyes
but more than like those of a woman
that pass through every doorway without keys.

La matina ancora 'mbriacu
di cantu di sireni nesci di lu mari:
adaciu adaciu acchiana, si 'nfila, 'mpinci, scafunia
trasi dintra li 'gnuni, sfarda ogni velu
ogni filu di fumu, spirannu di 'ncuntrari
qualchi stidda spirduta e trimulina.

The morning rises from the sea
still drunk with the song of sirens:
ever so slowly climbing, it threads itself, intruding, rummaging
reaching every corner, erasing every shadow
every thread of smoke, hoping to encounter
some lost and trembling stars.

Ha 'ntisu spissu parrari di 'na cutra priziusa
arraccamata, di rappi d'argentu, sulitari e domanti
'ntissuta cu lagrimi e storî d'autri tempi
ca lu celu stenni sulu quannu nun c'è iddu.

He's often heard speak of a precious coverlet
embroidered with silver, solitaires and diamonds
woven with tears and stories of times past
that the heavens only display in his absence.

Ci lu cuntò dda sparrittera
di cummari luna pri fallu 'nvidiari
quannu panza a panza s'incuntraru.

When they chanced to meet face to face
dame Moon that old gossip
told him about it to make him jealous.

Però nun ci lu dissi ca ci nn'è puru vecchi
cadenti e morti, comu orbi e niuri pirtusa
muzzicati, arrusicati di camula antica.

But she didn't tell him about the old
the fallen and the dead, orbits and black holes
morsels, gnawed by ancient woodworms.

Nun ci lu dissi pri nun lu 'mprissiunari
sapennu ca puru iddu farà la stissa fini
quannu nun havi cchiù oru d'arrialari!


She didn't tell him so as not to pressure him
knowing even he would come to the same end
with no more time to give away!


12 aprile 1997
April 12, 1997

--by La Mattina, Lina, 'Na Vuci A La Scurata,
edizioni ARCI SICILIA, Giarre, 1997. p. 34
--translated by Arthur & Alice Dieli




portrait Falcone & Borsellino

Davanti a 'stu ritrattu

In Front Of This Picture

Ogni annu nni la staciuni
ca ritorna la vita
'nzinu a quannu si meti lu furmentu
si fa cchiù funnata la pena
taliannu 'sti du'omini forti
comu liuna, appizzati a lu muru.

Every year in the season
when life returns
just when the wheat planting begins
the pain becomes more gripping
as I gaze at these two brave men
strong as lions, hanging on the wall.

Ciuciulianu fittu fittu comu aceddi a la scurata
l'occhi arraccamati di negghi e di ventu
parinu orfani di suli, ma li risateddi complici
ammucciati sutta li mustazzi mi fannu sfirniciari.
Mentri accarizzu cu l'occhi 'sti facci
c'a tutti appartennu, 'nzutta 'nzutta
adaciu adaciu mi pari di sentiri 'na vuci:

They're chattering to each other like birds at nightfall
their eyes embroidered by fog and wind
like orphans from the sun, their shared laughter
hidden under their mustaches makes me pensive.
While I caress with my eyes these faces
that now belong to all of us, a soft whisper
very softly it seems I hear a voice:

"Iddi nun lu sannu ca siddu n'ammazzanu
si dunanu la zappa supra li pedi...
iddi ridinu, currinu, nni pigghianu pri fissa
e si divertinu a jucari, cu botti e tricchi tracchi;
ma iu ti dicu ca siddu Cosa Nostra
nn'ammazza po' chiudiri putia!"

"They don't know that if they kill us
they'll be shooting themselves in the foot...
they're laughing, going on, taking us for fools
and having fun playing, with shots and fireworks
but mark my words if the Cosa Nostra
kills us they can close up shop!"

"Pirchì la nostra morti fussi
'na gnizioni di vita pri la genti 'ntamata c'aspetta
e siddu s'arruspigghianu lu sangu,
siddu ritrovanu l'orgogliu
siddu scusinu vucchi e sacchetti
nenti e nuddu lo po' cchiù firmari!
Li siciliani addiventanu 'na mantria di voja 'nzarbaggiuta
ca sdirruba e trascina tuttu chiddu ca 'ncontra!
Pirchì lu ciaru di la libirta è cchiù friscu
e prufumatu di la morti e di la cumplicità".

"Because our death would be
the beginning of life for the stunned people who wait
and if it sets their blood to boil
and if they rediscover their self respect
if they unzip their mouths and satchels
nothing and no one will ever be able to seal them!
Sicilians will become a herd of wild oxen
that topples and drags everything in its path!
Because the scent of liberty is more refreshing
and perfumed than that of death and complicity".

"Già, macari qualcunu nun havi
lu tò curaggiu e li tò spiranzi
ma siddu comu Buscetta si metti a cantari
farà trimari pilastri di cimentu 'mpastati di sangu
e tuttu lu casteddu di 'nfamità e di 'nganni".

"Yes, and even if someone lacks
your courage and your high hopes
but if like Buscetta they begin to sing
they'll make tremble the bloodied cement pillars
and the entire fortress of infamy and shame".

"Iu mittissi nna li manu di qualcunu
lu picuni di la puisia" -- arrispunni Paulu
cu l'occhi persi a un pinzeru luntanu --
"li pueti si sapi, azzappanu nna li jardina di la menti
allarganu li cori, scotinu cuscenzi
e grapinu l'aricchi a li surdi".

"I'd be putting into someone's hands
the pick axe of poetry". -- answered Paulu
with a faraway look of one lost in thought --
"It's known that poets till the garden of the mind
enlarging hearts, reawakening consciences
and opening the ears of the deaf".

Tistia siddiatu Giovanni ma la sò vuci è ferma e risuluta:
"Nuavutri, sugnu sicuru, nun putemu essiri
a vidiri 'sta festa, ma ti fazzu vidiri ca 'sta guerra
macari 'nzemmula a qualcunu cu li capiddi bianchi
l'avemu a vinciri pirchì caru amicu miu
ogni jocu c'accumincia prestu o tardu havi a finiri".

Giovanni, nods dolefully but his voice is firm and resolute:
"I'm certain we won't be able
to see this celebration, but you'll see that
even together with someone with white hair
we're bound to win this war because my dear friend
every game that is started, sooner or later must end".

Cu l'occhi ancora chiantati a lu quatru
e lu ciriveddu 'nfruscu penzu:
la fantasia mi pigghia la manu o qualcunu mi duna la sua?

With eyes still fixed on the picture
and my mind overflowing I thought:
is fantasy taking my hand or is someone giving me theirs?

27 giugno 1996

June 27, 1996
--by La Mattina, Lina, 'Na Vuci A La Scurata,
edizioni ARCI SICILIA, Giarre, 1997. p. 63
--translated by Arthur Dieli

 

ISULA

Isula nascivu, isula vogghiu moriri.
Isula comu mi fici lu Signuri
cu li turmenti e li dulura
ma sempri abbrazzata a lu mari
e figghia pridiletta di lu suli.
Bedda tra li beddi sugnu
'nghirlannata stati e mmernu di ciuri.
Curtigghiara, baggiana, ciaurusa
mi vestu di milli culura
e cu sta peddi di meli e di rosi
attiru lapuna d'ogni razza e paisi.

ISLAND

Born an island, I want to die an island.
An island, the way the Lord made me
with all its torments and pains
but always embraced by the sea
a favored daughter of the sun.
I'm a beauty among beauties
garlanded in summer and winter.
Plebeian, proud, fragrant
I dress in thousands of colors
and with this blanket of honey and roses
I attract drones from every race and place.
--by Lina La Mattina --translated by Arthur Dieli
  

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