Meridiunalata: Villa

Reprinted from Cav. Charles Sant'Elia's Meridiunalata / Southernade, an evocative bilingual collection of poetry written in Neapolitan and translated to English between 1989 and 2010.*

Villa

Villa, piccerenella e abbandunata,
Addò pátemo arrecoglieva piérzeche e mile         annurche,
Nisciuno chiù parla ‘e te,
Nu turrieno úmmele ca ‘a storia
Ha scurdato spisso ‘annummenà,
Ma tu rieste nzerrato int’a stu core mio,
‘A sola casa mia ncopp’’o munno, A
ddò i’ nun ce aggio maje pututo
Stà ‘e casa.
Forze pe chesto vaco giranno senza treva,
Senza ‘e me fremmà, senza ‘e campà,
Ca trovo ‘a vita sulo int’’e suonne
‘E n’ato, ca móreno a un’a uno,
E ca rummáneno comm’a chesta villa,
‘O riesto ‘e nu muro cà, nisciuno titto,
Ma ‘o cielo senza fine ca accumpare ‘o posto sujo.

Villa

Villa, so small and abandoned,
Where my father used to gather peaches and southern apples,
No one speaks of you,
A humble terrain that history
Has often forgotten to mention,
But you remain enclosed in my heart,
My only house in this world,
Where I could never
Be at home.
Perhaps for this reason I go wondering ceaselessly,
For I find life only in the dreams
Of another, that die one by one,
That remain like this villa,
The remnants of a wall here, no roof,
But the endless sky that appears in its place.

* Self-published in 2010, Meridiunalata / Southernade is a treasury of poems gleaned from Cav. Sant'Elia's previous collections (Nchiuso dint''o presente, 'A cuntrora, and 'O pino e l'éllera), which were circulated among friends in New York City and Naples. Special thanks to Cav. Sant'Elia for allowing us to reprint his poetry and translations.

Black Moon Rising

Last night, beneath a cloudy sky where the moon refused to show its face, I found myself enjoying the cool night air. The stars hung distant and aloof, and in their silence I slipped into reverie. The darkness above felt like a blank page, and before long, I had written a sonnet for Alana, an old lover whose memory has stayed with me.

Alana’s life and death left an indelible mark on me; this poem is offered in her memory. The nicknames and slurs in the verses are not mine, but the cruel words she endured. They remain here only to bear witness. The events are rendered in the language of poetry, but the story is true: she lived, she was wronged, and she is remembered. My intent is not to sensationalize her tragedy, but to preserve, in some small way, the truth of her suffering and the dignity of her name.

In the silence of a moonless night, her memory rose like a dark tide—solemn, undeniable, and enduring.

Alana Puttana Baccalà

They called her “bagascia,” with sneering lies,
Cruel whispers tossed by boys in bitter pride;
Their hollow charms could never catch her eyes,
Though each had schemed to take her for a ride.

I burned for her—she knew, and drew me near;
In youthful heat I gave what love could give.
She took, then vanished—cool, remote, severe,
While I remained, still aching to re-live.

Tired of boys, she crossed forbidden lines,
No hint she’d ever stray another way.
Then horror struck—her body bore the crime;
She carried plague no prayer could keep away.

So silence claimed her with its final breath:
A wrist gone white—a red, unspoken death.

Random Thoughts as the Buck Moon Approaches

As the hart panteth after the fountains of water, so my soul panteth after thee, O God. ~ Psalm 41:2 DRB

This year, July’s full “Buck Moon” falls on the 10th. The name comes from the time of year when male deer start to regrow their antlers. Popularized by the Farmer’s Almanac in the 1800s, the term was reportedly adopted by the pioneers from the Native Americans. It is also known as the “Thunder Moon,” due to July’s frequent storms; the “Hay Moon” for the hay harvest; and the “Mead Moon,” marking the season when honey was traditionally gathered to brew mead, an ancient and tasty fermented honey beverage. 

Unable to find real mead in time, I thought we would instead mark the occasion with a few shots of Bärenjäger and Jägermeister, along with a little moon bathing, weather permitting. Traditionally, in Naples, moonlight bathing is believed to cure both physical and spiritual ailments.

Long fascinated by the moon and other celestial bodies, La Luna is a medieval symbol of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Just as the moon reflects the light of the sun, Mary reflects the divine light of her Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ.

The stag, on the other hand, embodies Christ and is a messenger of divine truth. Just as the stag tramples the serpent underfoot, so does Our Lord crush Satan. The shedding of antlers serves as an allegory for renewal and resurrection.

The stag bathing in springs symbolizes baptism and the Church’s role in guiding the faithful to the sacred waters of eternal life. The motif of the hunted stag pierced by arrows, as seen in the hagiographies of Sant’Eustachio Martire and Sant’Uberto di Liegi, represents both the Passion of Christ and, more broadly, the martyrdom of the saints.

With more than a few hours to kill before the astronomical event, I plan to browse my poetry books for a few poems to read to my guests after dinner. I already know I will recite Salvator Di Giacomo’s Luna Nova (New Moon) and Gabriele D’Annunzio’s Il Cervo (The Deer). Hopefully, I will find a couple more suitable for the evening.

An excerpt from D’Annunzio’s Il Cervo:

Udremo a notte le sue lunghe 

muggia, udremo la voce sua di toro; 

sorgerà il grido della sua lussuria

udremo nei silenzi della luna.

At night we will hear his long

bellows, we will hear his voice like a bull’s;

the cry of his lust will rise

we will hear it in the silences of the moon.

And from Di Giacomo’s Luna Nova:

Luna d’argiento, lass’ ‘o sunnà, 

vaselo ‘nfronte, nun ‘o sceta…

Silver moon, let him dream,

kiss his brow, do not wake him…

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 9th, the Feast of Santa Veronica Giuliani

Happy Summer!

The summer solstice, or midsummer, is the longest day of the year and marks the beginning of summer in the northern hemisphere. In celebration of this wondrous cycle, we’re sharing a poem by Vittorio Clemente from Dialect Poetry of Southern Italy: Texts and Criticism (A Trilingual Anthology) edited by Luigi Bonaffini, Legas, 1997, p.38. The accompanying photo of The Royal Palace of Apollo by Girolamo Starace Franchis (Napoli c.1730-Napoli 1794) comes courtesy of Andrew Giordano. It's from the elliptical double vault overhanging the Grand Staircase at the Royal Palace of Caserta, Campania.

Bliss

Golden days of summer, facing the sun,

facing the sea, delighted, and content.

Days spent eavesdropping on the wind,

mindful of words whispered in secret.

Words I'd unravel; listening, alone,

for the voice of the world, the nothing beyond,

alone, while my nimble heart took flight

for untold trysts and destinations.

Perhaps for the very edge of the world,

where Our Lady of the Mariners

trims white roses in the morning.

And to find myself here, again, eyes

like a boy's, quick and bright, seeing, upon

the lace of waves, roses ride to shore...

(Translated by Anthony Molino)

Happy Father's Day!

Requiescat in pace

In celebration of Father's Day I'm sharing a poem by Achille Serrao from Cantallèsia: Poems in the Neapolitan Dialect (1990-1997), edited and translated by Luigi Bonaffini, Legas 1999, p. 68-69.

My Father Never Left...

My father never left

the last mouthful in the plate
and didn’t throw away half a cigarette, ever.

I do, times have changed
and so have sayings…
as for instance:
tell me who your father is
I’ll tell you who you are.

Pàtemo nun lassava...

Pàtemo nun lassava
'o muorzo d''a crianza dint' ô piatto
e nun jettava 'a meza sigaretta, mai.

I' si, 'e tiempe só ccagnate
e 'nzieme 'e ditte càgneno...
tanto pe' mme n'ascì:
'e chi sì ffiglio, dimme
e te dico chi sì.

A Poem For Mother's Day

Photo courtesy of The Art Institute of Chicago

In loving memory of my mother I'm posting November 2, a moving poem by the great Neapolitan poet Salvatore Di Giacomo.* The accompanying photo of Charity by Francesco de Mura (1696-1782) was part of a series of Allegories of the Virtues commissioned by Charles Emmanuel III of Savoy. Charity, representing maternal love, is depicted as a nursing mother caring for three children. In the foreground is a pelican feeding her young with her own blood, a symbol of sacrifice.

November 2

When my mother died, I was too stunned
to grieve; at the foot of the bed,
I stared, unseeing, at the drab clad body;
blinding, blunting all living memories.

No, I did not cry, no wail, not a tear,
I imagined her asleep, a halo
of a mother about that worn grey face;
waiting for me to come home, she dozed.

A year now that she is deep in her grave,
in my dreams she appears, her love unslaked,
vanishing, she strands me in a desert.

Suddenly my heart overflows, cascades
with tears, laving these dear remembered walls,
I choke up, tears, tears, are drowning my poem. 

2 de Nuvembre

I’ nun saccio pecché, quanno murette
màmmema bella e, comm’ a nu stunato,
sulo, a tenerla mente io rummanette,
appede de lu lietto addenucchiato;

tanno, io nun saccio pecché, nun chiagnette,
guardannola accussì, zitto, ncantato,
comm’ a na vota ch’ essa s’ addurmette,
mentr’ io vicino lle steva assettato…

Mo ca fa n’ anno ca ii’ aggio perduta,
mo, mo ca nzuonno me sta cumparenno,
mo la necessità nn’ aggio sentuta…

E mo mme vene a chiàgnere, e chiagnenno
sceto sti mmura ca ll’ hanno saputa,
nfonno sti ccarte addó stongo screvenno…

(*) Reprinted from The Naples of Salvatore Di Giacomo: Poems and a Play, translated by Frank J. Palescandolo, Forum Italicum, Inc., 2000, page 65

Meridiunalata: "Aria" by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Reprinted from Cav. Charles Sant'Elia's Meridiunalata / Southernade, an evocative bilingual collection of poetry written in Neapolitan and translated to English between 1989 and 2010.*

Aria

Give me this fine and hot air,
Give me this dream
Of noonday,
Your darkest eyes islands.

Give me this cool thought,
Give this melancholy
All about,
Your wet and salty hair.

Arietta

Rammella chest’aria fina e cávera,
Rammillo chistu suonno
‘E miezujuorno,
Ísole l’uocchie tuoje scure scure.

Rammillo chistu penziero frisco,
Rammella chest’appecundría
A tuttepizze,
‘E capille tuoje nfuse e salate.

* Self-published in 2010, Meridiunalata / Southernade is a treasury of poems gleaned from Cav. Sant'Elia's previous collections (Nchiuso dint''o presente, 'A cuntrora, and 'O pino e l'éllera), which were circulated among friends in New York City and Naples. Special thanks to Cav. Sant'Elia for allowing us to reprint his poetry and translations.

Calabrian Verses for the Occurrences of 1898 in Milan

Illustration of the Bava Beccaris Massacre
for Le Petit Journal, 22 May 1898

Submitted by Cav. Charles Sant'Elia

After the unification of Italy through the late 1800s, Italy underwent a tumultuous period marked by profound political, social, and economic changes, from North to South. A well-known event was the so-called “Stomach Protest” of 7 May 1898 in Milan, which represents one of the most tragic and significant episodes of the era. The combination of difficult economic times, shortages, and social tensions led to a series of popular revolts, which culminated in the brutal repression orchestrated by General Fiorenzo Bava-Beccaris, who formerly served in the Piedmontese army in the Crimean War and the Risorgimento. On 7 May 1898, many Milanese crowds of protestors were fired upon by the army. The news quickly went around Europe and the world, reaching the small town of San Fili, in the province of Cosenza, Calabria. The local priest Don Giovanni Gentile, known as Chiacchiara, was moved to write verse in his native Calabrian dialect and publicly denounce a murderous and unjust government. This took true courage in the wake of the brutal repression inflicted on the rebels and fighters in Calabria and the South who were killed by thousands, including women and children, after being dismissed as “brigands” and criminals, often under summary field executions under the Legge Pica, and which continued in an intolerant and punishing posture beyond 1900. This economic downturn, coupled with repressive violence and incarceration, fueled the great emigration from Italy.

Over the centuries, San Fili has experienced its share of upheavals, particularly during the unification of Italy. The townspeople witnessed contracts awarded to politically connected firms, employing workers from outside the area to initially construct a railroad to San Fili. Later, the Ferrovie dello Stato decided to shut down the railroad, effectively removing San Fili from the railway network altogether. This occurred during periods when numerous unemployed young people were emigrating to the United States, Canada, and Argentina, and more recently, to Germany. San Fili remained proudly monarchist through the 1940s and, in fact, voted against the Republic in the referendum of 1946. Many oldtimers remarked over the years how one was better off under the Bourbons. The well-known Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo, who led the Sanfedisti army, raised largely from Calabrian volunteers, against the revolutionary French invading army in 1799, was born in San Lucido, which borders San Fili, Rende, and Paola. Despite San Fili’s monarchist and Catholic ways, it even had some “republicans” and profiteers who attempted to fire upon Cardinal Ruffo during fighting on 6 March 1799 in the Crati Valley, striking his cross. The few criminals were arrested and subdued by the Sanfedisti. During the upheavals, groups from Falconara who had been at odds with the Sanfilesi took the occasion to invade San Fili and violent battles ensued, with the people of neighboring Bucita joining in to defend San Fili. San Fili had its share of carbonari sectarians as well, such as Santo Cesario, who was executed with the famous Bandiera brothers in the Rovito valley in 1844 when they attempted an invasion of the Two Sicilies with other foreign volunteers hoping to foment an insurrection. Sadly, these young idealists would be horrified to see the intentional destruction of half of Italy, which led to millions “voting with their feet”.

San Fili, a baronial town replete with seven churches, including one going back to 1304 and one in the area where Joachim of Fiore preached, was once a center of silk (five mills) and copper production as well as agriculture and yet after the unification of Italy, it found itself relegated to poverty and a loss of its centuries old commerce. Many townsmen died in the First and Second World Wars, and chain migration decimated the population. Nonetheless, this small town produced tough and resilient people and many notable and accomplished people, including Vincenzo Miceli (1858-1928) professor of constitutional law and his brother Alfonso Miceli (1855-1940) president of the Court of Appeals of Naples, and Baron Marcello Miceli, Gentleman of His Holiness Paul VI, John Paul I, and John Paul II, cavaliere di grazia e devozione SMOM.

The poem Pane! written by Don Giovanni Gentile alias Chiacchiara was published in a collection in 1904.

Pane!

Don Giovanni Gentile, alias Chiacchiara

Mentre l’uomini povari e dijuni

Vaû ppe’ le vie gridannu: «Pane! Pane!…» 

Lu Guvernu ce manna battagliuni

E li tratta cchijù pieju de ‘nu cane.

Sparanu sti surdati a li truppuni

E faû ‘na chianca de le carne umane,

Ammazzanu le mamme e li guagliuni: 

Ma “Pane!” torna si grida dumane.

Cari Ministri latri e sprigugnati,

Dintra la crozza cchi cosa ci aviti?

Ccu paddre nun si saziû l’affamati…

Vui stati franchi, mangiati e viviti?

Ma si pue ni vidimu disperati,

Vi facimu la peddra a quantu siti.

Bread!

Don Giovanni Gentile, alias Chiacchiara

While poor and starving men

Go through the streets shouting: «Bread! Bread!…» 

The Government sends them battalions

And treats them worse than dogs.

These soldiers shoot at the crowds

And make a butchery of human flesh,

They kill mothers and children: 

But “Bread!” they continue to shout tomorrow.

Dear shameless thieving Ministers,

What have you got in your noggins?

You don’t satisfy the hungry with bullets…

You’re all set, you eat and drink?

But if then we find ourselves desperate,

We’ll get you all as many as you are.

Meridiunalata: Neapolitan Version of “Les Enfants Qui S'Aiment”

Jacques Prévert (1900-1977)

Dear readers, here is a Neapolitan version of Jacques Prévert's "Les Enfants qui s’aiment" from his collection Spectacle (Paris, Gallimard 1949), which was set to music by Joseph Kosma and recorded first by Yves Montand and featured in the 1946 film Les Portes de la Nuit.

Les enfants qui s'aiment

Les enfants qui s'aiment
S'embrassent debout contre            les portes de la nuit
Et les passants qui passent les        désignent du doigt
Mais les enfants qui s'aiment
Ne sont là pour personne

Et c'est seulement leur ombre
Qui tremble dans la nuit
Excitant la rage des passants
Leur rage, leur mépris
Leurs rires et leur envie

Les enfants qui s'aiment
Ne sont là pour personne
Ils sont ailleurs bien plus loin que la nuit
Bien plus haut que le jour
Dans l'éblouissante clarté
De leur premier amour

'E Guagliune Ca Se Vonno Bene

'E guagliune ca se vonno bene
Se vàsano allerta contra 'e porte d''a notte
E 'e passante ca pàssano 'e sengano cu 'e deta
Ma 'e guagliune ca se vonno bene
Nun stanno là pe nisciuno

E e' sulamente l'ombra lloro
Ca tremma dint''a notte
Suscitanno l'arraggia d''e passante
L'arraggia lloro, 'o disprezzo lloro
'E resate lloro e 'a mmiria lloro

'E guagliune ca se vonno bene
Nun stanno là pe nisciuno
Chille stanno a n'ata parte assaje cchiu' luntano ch''a notte
Assaje cchiu' auto ch''o juorno
Dint''a chiarezza abbagliante
D''o primmo ammore lloro

The Young Who Love Each Other

The young who love each other
Kiss standing against the doors of the night
And the passersby who pass point them out with their finger
But the young who love each other
Are there for nobody

And it is just their shadow
That trembles in the night
Stirring the anger of the passersby
Their anger, their contempt
Their laughs and their envy

The young who love each other
Are there for nobody
They are elsewhere, so much further than the night
So much higher than the day
In the dazzling clarity
Of their first love

Translated by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Meridiunalata: "Pasca e Natale" di Eduardo De Filippo

Eduardo De Filippo (1900-1984)

"Pasca e Natale" di Eduardo De Filippo

Natale e Pasca so’ cumpagne tale
ca vanno sott’ ‘o vraccio eternamente.
Chi Pasca dice annòmmena Natale,
e de Natale Pasca vène a mmente.

Eppure ce sta tanta differenza
comme ‘a casa d’ ‘o Papa e ‘a casa mia.
Natale porta friddo e sufferenza,
Pasca strascina ‘a ggente mmiez’ ‘a via.

«Buon Natale!», te dice ‘o guardaporta,
c’ ‘o naso ‘a for’ ‘a senga d’ ‘o cappotto.
«Buona Pasqua!», te strilla, e nun le mporta
si s’è rotta na lastra d’ ‘o casotto.

«Buon Natale!», te dice ‘o farmacista,
e te cunzegna ‘e pinnole p’ ‘a sera.
«Buona Pasqua!», e te pesa a primma vista
l’essenza ‘e fior d’aracio p’ ‘a pastiera.

«Buon Natale!», te dice ‘o cusetore,
e te cunzegna ‘o piso ‘e nu cappotto.
«Buon Pasqua!», e accummencia nu calore
ca te sfile ‘a cammisa e ‘a maglia ‘a sotto.

«Buon Natale!», sta scritto add’ ‘o barbiere,
e te siente ‘o ssapone friddo nfaccia.
«Buon Pasqua!», e ‘o rasulo è nu piacere.
‘A nnamurata toia nun te ne caccia.

Chi Pasca dice annòmena Natale,
ma pe’ Pasca ce tengo ‘a simpatia.
‘O sole ‘e Pasca nun te po’ fa’ male
e scarfa ‘e puverielle mmiez’ ‘a via.

Pasca porta ‘e pesielle, ‘a ncappucciata,
ll’aglie nuvelle, a cepulluzza, ‘o ggrano;
e porta n’aria fresca e profumata
ca l’ ‘e desiderata n’anno sano.

Te porta ll’uocchie nire ‘e chi vuo’ bene,
ca te veneno a di’: «Facimmo pace»…
Ll’uocchie ca nun cunoscene catene
tu sulamente a Ppasca ‘e ffaie capace.

"Easter and Christmas" by Eduardo De Filippo

Christmas and Easter are such friends
that eternally they go arm in arm.
He who says Easter calls out Christmas,
and from Christmas Easter comes to mind.

And yet there is a lot of difference
as between the Pope's house and mine.
Christmas brings cold and sufferring,
Easter drags people out into the street.

«Merry Christmas!», the doorman says to you,
with his nose peaking out of the crack of his overcoat.
«Happy Easter!», he shouts to you, and doesn't care
if a pane of glass is broken in the vestibule.

«Merry Christmas!», the pharmacist says to you,
and he delivers your pills for the evening.
«Happy Easter!" at first sight measures for you
the orange blossom water for the pastiera.

«Merry Christmas!», says the tailor to you,
and delivers to you an overcoat.
«Happy Easter!», and the heat begins
and you slip out of your sweater and shirt.

«Merry Christmas!», is written at the barber's,
and you feel the cold soap on your face.
«Happy Easter!», and the razor is a pleasure.
Your lover won't chase you away.

He who says Easter calls out Christmas,
but I have sympathy for Easter.
The Easter sun doesn't hurt you
and warms the poor people in the middle of the street.

Easter brings peas, cabbage,
new garlic, shallots, grain;
and brings a fresh and fragrant air
which you've desired for a whole year.

It brings you the sad eyes of the one who loves you,
which come to tell you: «Let's make peace»…
The eyes that don't know chains
only at Easter you make them come to terms.

Translated by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Happy Spring!

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

The March or vernal equinox marks the beginning of spring, a time of rebirth and fertility. In celebration of the new season I would like to share a poem by the acclaimed Sicilian poet and 1959 Nobel Laureate Salvatore Quasimodo from The Night Fountain: Selected Early Poems translated by Marco Sonzogni and Gerald Sawe, Arc Publications, 2008, p. 26-27. 

The accompanying photo of Primavera (Spring), or Flora, the goddess of fertility and springtime, from the Villa Arianna, Stabiae, first century AD, was taken at the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli in 2010.

Wild Flowers

Blood clots hanging over torn green velvet:
the wounds of the fields!
Breathing in the sweet air, spring has broken
the veins of its swollen breasts.
Wind gusts with eager lips: a kiss!
Blood-red wild flowers float on threadlike
and foamless waves.

Primule

Grumi pensili di sangue sul lacero velluto verdognolo.
Oh le ferite dei prati!
La primavera respirando voluttuosamente l'aria soave, ha rotte
le vene del suo seno turgido.
Un fiotto di vento con le labbra avide; un bacio! E le
primule sanguigne galleggiano su l'onde filamentose e
senza spuma.

March — A Poem by Salvatore Di Giacomo

The month of March is named after
Mars, the god of war. Relief from
Villa San Michele, Capri

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

Reprinted from The Bread and the Rose: A trilingual Anthology of Neapolitan Poetry from the 16th Century to the Present, edited by Achille Serrao and Luigi Bonaffini, Legas, 2005 p. 136.

Marzo

Marzo: nu poco chiove

e n' ato ppoco stracqua:

torna a chiovere, schiove,

ride 'o sole cu ll'acqua.

Mo nu cielo celeste,

mo n'aria cupa e nera:

mo d' 'o vierno 'e tempeste,

mo n'aria e primmavera.

N' auciello freddigliuso

aspetta ch' esce 'o sole:

ncopp' 'o tturreno nfuso

suspireno 'e vviole...

Catarì!... Che buo' cchiù?

Ntiénneme, core mio!

Marzo, tu 'o ssaie, si' tu,

e st'auciello songo io.

March

March: there's a bit of rain,

just a bit later it stops:

it starts, then it stops again,

the sun laughs with the drops.

A moment of clear azure,

a moment of clouds threatening:

a moment of winter's fury,

a moment of glorious spring.

A shivering bird nearby

waits for the sun to return,

while all of the violets sigh

over the sodden terrain.

Caterina!... Isn't it clear

from what you've already heard?

You know, you are March, my dear, 

and I am that little bird. 

* English translation by Michael Palma

Meridiunalata: East Village by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Reprinted from Cav. Charles Sant'Elia's Meridiunalata / Southernade, an evocative bilingual collection of poetry written in Neapolitan and translated to English between 1989 and 2010.*

East Village

Freva ‘e nejone ‘e nuttate,
Schizzarielle ‘e sciate
Ncopp’’e vetrate,
E finalemente doppo miezujuorno
Na passejata cu te.

Schiara e schiara
Schiocca ‘a luce e sponta ‘a veretà-
Babbelonia, Bonosário,
Chi sape, che mporta?
Ajere muorto, ogge nascenno, craje nun nato,
È ‘o stesso.

Sunnatore, sunnámbulo, o sunnato,
Nun me ntrico quanno te veco.

East Village

Neon fever the nights,
Little droplets the breaths
On glass,
And finally after noon
A walk with you.

The light
Clears and clears
Bursts and the truth sprouts-
Babylon, Buenos Aires,
Who knows, what does it matter?
Yesterday dead, today birthing, tomorrow not born,
It is the same.

Dreamer, sleepwalker, or dreamt one,
I don’t delay when I see you.

* Self-published in 2010, Meridiunalata/Southernade is a treasury of poems gleaned from Cav. Sant'Elia's previous collections (Nchiuso dint''o presente, 'A cuntrora, and 'O pino e l'éllera), which were circulated among friends in New York City and Naples. Special thanks to Cav. Sant'Elia for allowing us to reprint his poetry and translations.

Happy Groundhog Day

Grousing to myself about the shameful US Senate hearings while doing a little yard work Saturday morning, this little guy was just the pick-me-up I needed to forget the shrieking harpies and corrupt clowns flooding my timeline on X.

Often associated with spring, I took the American Robin’s appearance as a sign that winter was finally coming to an end in anticipation of Groundhog Day. Let’s hope old reliable, Staten Island Chuck, agrees.

Strangely unafraid, the cheerful bird kept pecking the ice around my feet, which brought to mind Winter, a poem I recently discovered by the English poet and writer Walter de la Mare (1873-1956).

Sometimes, a little nature, accomplishing some chores, and culture (in this case, poetry) are the port in the storm one needs to cheer yourself up. Happy Groundhog Day!

Winter by Walter de la Mare

Clouded with snow
The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.

The rayless sun,
Day's journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.

Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.

Buon Natale!

Holy Family by Salvatore di Franco

"The Word became flesh and dwelt among us." - John 1:14 

On behalf of everyone here at Il Regno, I want to wish all of our readers a very Merry Christmas! Peace and joy be with you all.

In celebration, I'm posting "The Old Manger" from Prayers and Devotional Songs of Sicily, edited and translated by Peppino Ruggeri.* 

The accompanying photo of the Neapolitan presepio was taken at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC. 

The Old Manger

I recollect the old manger at Christmas fest
built by my father, his soul in peace may rest,
the grotto, the straw and the baby poorly dressed
attended by Saint Joseph and Mary blest,

The well, the gleaming houses, the grist mill,
the sheep that grazed the grass over the hill,
a frightened man, at center, a blacksmith on the right,
a shepherd standing, with his old shack in sight.

A comet, resplendent brightly like a star
over the cardboard fashioned into a cave,
guided the adoring kings from afar.

And I, enchanted, watching stood, as I was playing,
sweet angels, shining stars, clouds and songs;
I still do now, the old manger my memory recalling. 

* Reprinted from Prayers and Devotional Songs of Sicily, edited and translated by Peppino Ruggeri, Legas, 2009, p. 43

Happy Winter!

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

The winter solstice marks the shortest day of the year in the northern hemisphere. The occasion signifies the coming increase of sunlight and the slow return of spring. In honor of this wondrous cycle I would like to share a poem by Cosimo Savastano (b. 1939 – Castel di Sangro, Abruzzo) from Dialect Poetry of Southern Italy: Texts and Criticism (A Trilingual Anthology) edited by Luigi Bonaffini, Legas, 1997, p.69.

The Kindling

Tied to the packsaddle, my love,
is the firewood, brought down from the mountain.
What hands will loosen the ropes
at dusk, once the north wind settles?

Tonight, we'll stoke the cinders
watch the swirl of sparks.
Hands locked, love rekindled,
spellbound, we will dream.
From the hearth my kindling will lord
over the house, filled with the scent of Christmas.

(Translated by Anthony Molino)