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| Michael Martin's Mythologies of the Wild God, resting on the tanned hide of a deer hunted by my father |
After reading my recent piece, Pilgrimage Postponed, in which I used an excerpt from the poem as an epigraph, Charles decided to offer this thoughtful gift. Knowing my passion for poetry and my disappointment at missing this year's trip to Napoli, he hoped the translation might lift my spirits.
It certainly did. Such gestures remind me that friendship, like poetry, can transcend distance and bring a little beauty into even our disappointments.
Grazie di cuore, caro amico!
~ Giovanni di Napoli
The Huntsman
By Michael Martin
Orion rises with the fall of the dark
For this is the season of the hunt
And when the moon is quite full
All the forest is washed white with her milk
And the crisp air kisses the skin
Delicate as a faerie's wing.
On such a night I venture out
On a quest of my imagining
In search of wonders or at the least for
The roar of the wind through the trees
The prayers of coyotes at their preying
A congregation at the sacrament of blood and bone.
Deep in the beech woods beyond the silent bog
I found a glade on the sleeping giant of
The moraine's back: a wide circle of bent grass
Of moss and of lichen, of oak leaves and of standing stones.
In the center stood a cross made from a young oak
Still green and rooted in the teeming earth
Whereupon hung a man transfixed and shimmering
His head that of an ancient and terrible stag
Antlers branching and twining, tines reaching through all Things
The dry leaves, the hedgerows, the gardens and the ponds
And at last to a place where elemental fires and stars sing
The greenness, the life and the dark, the light and the hearing
Of all that can be and ever shall be, forever. Amen.
‘O Cacciatore
Orion rises with the fall of the dark
For this is the season of the hunt
And when the moon is quite full
All the forest is washed white with her milk
And the crisp air kisses the skin
Delicate as a faerie's wing.
On such a night I venture out
On a quest of my imagining
In search of wonders or at the least for
The roar of the wind through the trees
The prayers of coyotes at their preying
A congregation at the sacrament of blood and bone.
Deep in the beech woods beyond the silent bog
I found a glade on the sleeping giant of
The moraine's back: a wide circle of bent grass
Of moss and of lichen, of oak leaves and of standing stones.
In the center stood a cross made from a young oak
Still green and rooted in the teeming earth
Whereupon hung a man transfixed and shimmering
His head that of an ancient and terrible stag
Antlers branching and twining, tines reaching through all Things
The dry leaves, the hedgerows, the gardens and the ponds
And at last to a place where elemental fires and stars sing
The greenness, the life and the dark, the light and the hearing
Of all that can be and ever shall be, forever. Amen.
‘O Cacciatore
Translated into Neapolitan by Cav. Charles Sant'Elia
Orione se sose quanno cade ‘o scuro,
Ca chest’è ‘a staggiona d’’a caccia
E quanno ‘a luna sta assaje chiena
Tutt’’o vuosco sta pittato c’’o latte sujo
E l’aria fresca vasa ‘a pella,
Dellicata comm’’a scella ‘e na fata.
A tale notte i’ ghiesco
Pe na cerca tutta d’’a mia mmaggenata
Truvanno a maraveglie o ammeno
‘O rùggito d’’o viento mmiez’a l’árvule
‘E prejarie d’’e lupe p’abbuscà ‘a preda
Na cungrega ‘o’ sacramiento ‘e sango e d’ossa.
Mpietto ‘o faìto nfì ‘o pantano zitto
Aggio truvato a na schiarata ncopp’’o gialante addurmuto
D’’e rocce: nu chirchio gruosso d’évera chiejata
‘E musco e lippo, ‘e fronn’’e cércola e prete all’erta,
Lloco mmiezo steva na croce fatta ‘e na cércola giòvene
Ancora verde e radecata int’’a terra a zeffunno
Addò steva n’ommo affatturato e lucenno
‘A capa soja era chella ‘e nu ciervo antico e terrìbbele
Corna spannénnose e ntrezzánnose, ‘e vrocche spontanno pe mmiez’a tuttecose
‘E fronne secche, ‘e sepale, ‘e giardine e ‘e padule
E po a finale a nu luoco addò fuoche elementare e stelle cántano
‘O verde, ‘a vita e ‘o scuro, ‘a luce e sentenno
Tutto chello ca pò éssere e ca maje sarrà, pe sempe, amen.
Orione se sose quanno cade ‘o scuro,
Ca chest’è ‘a staggiona d’’a caccia
E quanno ‘a luna sta assaje chiena
Tutt’’o vuosco sta pittato c’’o latte sujo
E l’aria fresca vasa ‘a pella,
Dellicata comm’’a scella ‘e na fata.
A tale notte i’ ghiesco
Pe na cerca tutta d’’a mia mmaggenata
Truvanno a maraveglie o ammeno
‘O rùggito d’’o viento mmiez’a l’árvule
‘E prejarie d’’e lupe p’abbuscà ‘a preda
Na cungrega ‘o’ sacramiento ‘e sango e d’ossa.
Mpietto ‘o faìto nfì ‘o pantano zitto
Aggio truvato a na schiarata ncopp’’o gialante addurmuto
D’’e rocce: nu chirchio gruosso d’évera chiejata
‘E musco e lippo, ‘e fronn’’e cércola e prete all’erta,
Lloco mmiezo steva na croce fatta ‘e na cércola giòvene
Ancora verde e radecata int’’a terra a zeffunno
Addò steva n’ommo affatturato e lucenno
‘A capa soja era chella ‘e nu ciervo antico e terrìbbele
Corna spannénnose e ntrezzánnose, ‘e vrocche spontanno pe mmiez’a tuttecose
‘E fronne secche, ‘e sepale, ‘e giardine e ‘e padule
E po a finale a nu luoco addò fuoche elementare e stelle cántano
‘O verde, ‘a vita e ‘o scuro, ‘a luce e sentenno
Tutto chello ca pò éssere e ca maje sarrà, pe sempe, amen.
