June: Canzone dei dodici mese by Francesco Guccini : Translation

Harvest

Image: Grain Harvest.  Source Archivio Pietro Pensa, http://pietro.pensa.it CC-BY-SA  wikimedia commons

June, for you I thank God
that you are the ripeness of the year
and in one of your days
I was born
under a hot sun
I was born
And with the harvest fields held in your hands
you bring us your treasure
with your ears of corn you give
bread to the man
gold to the women
gold to the women
(chorus)
Days, months, like my life always leaving
Every year different and all the years the same.
The Tarot hand, where you never work out the meaning,
never know what’s the game.

Original from the song canzone dei dodici mese by Francesco Guccini

Giugno, che sei maturità dell’anno, di te ringrazio Dio:
in un tuo giorno, sotto al sole caldo, ci sono nato io, ci sono nato io…
E con le messi che hai fra le tue mani ci porti il tuo tesoro,
con le tue spighe doni all’ uomo il pane, alle femmine l’ oro, alle femmine l’ oro…

O giorni, o mesi che andate sempre via, sempre simile a voi è questa vita mia.
Diverso tutti gli anni, ma tutti gli anni uguale,
la mano di tarocchi che non sai mai giocare, che non sai mai giocare…

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No more walks to the wood

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Five Stick Sam

We stuck to it as long as we could.
Down to the meadow and across to the wood.
Up through the vineyard
in summer green and winter black
our way back.

Always, the sticks
his wooden rats.
The chase and the catch.
The toss and the snatch.
One day, five, clamped in his jaw,
all bought home to the door.

We stuck to it as long as we could.
No more.
No more walks to the wood.

With acknowledgement to John Hollander’s poem “an old fashioned song”.  Still raw with my grief  so I will add/change as time passes

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No more walks in the wood

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We and the trees and the way

Back from the fields of play

Lasted as long as we could.

No more walks in the wood.

from:
John Hollander
Old Fashioned song

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Sam(wellerdog) 2001-2013

sam
Born: November 2001 Leeds England
Sam AKA to Di:
Little Tinker
Cheeky Chops

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Died: 7th June 2013 Calosso Italy
22:35 pm
Sam AKA to Pete:
Trotta Scoffa
Tax Dog
Fatso

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Buried: 8th June 2013
10:30 am

Sam known to us both and above all as
Darling Dog

Addio Amicone and god speed

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May: Canzone dei dodici mese by Francesco Guccini : Translation

800px-Botticelli-primavera

Image: Primavera by Sandro Botticelli. Source

Well, well come May,

well, well come spring,

comrades behind the flag.

In the cool of the evening

your new love throws out the old.

In the cool of the evening

your new new love throws out the old.

Well, well come May,

well, well come the rose

the poets’ flower,

serenaded with my guitar

whilst I raise a toast

to Cenne and to Folgore

to Cenne and to Folgore.

Original by Francesco Guccini from “canzone dei dodici mese” , album radici 1972

Ben venga Maggio e il gonfalone amico, ben venga primavera,

il nuovo amore getti via l’antico nell’ ombra della sera, nell’ ombra della sera…

Ben venga Maggio, ben venga la rosa che è dei poeti il fiore,

mentre la canto con la mia chitarra brindo a Cenne e a Folgore, brindo a Cenne e a Folgore…

Translation notes & motes:

As usual I raise my glass to Prof. Renato Ferro of Calosso for discussion over “il gonfalone amico” and other points.

Ben venga Maggio e il gonfalone amico, ben venga primavera- Guccini’s reference is to the song Ben Venga Maggio by Angelo Poliziano (1454-1494), poet at the court of Lorenzo de Medici in Florence.

Well, well come May. Well, well come spring. I have doubled on well to try and capture the rhythm of  Poliziano’s ballad- which Guccini also echoes in this stanza.  Listen here for a recording of Ben Venga Maggio by Doulce Mémoire.

Il gonfalone amico. Comrades behind the flag.  I have applied a little fancy here – Poliziano has e ‘l gonfalon selvaggio.  This was the branch of blossoms which young Florentine men carried to the door of their beloveds on the festival of May 1st (Calendimaggio) having first paraded it around the town as a flag, a standard. Transposing this to the 20th-21st Century and May Day and I can’t help but see the red flag of comradeship.  I wonder if Guccini is not being a little bit of Cenne to Poliziano’s Folgore. I’ll explain this later!

In the cool of the evening. The Italian is literally in the shade of the evening but you can say andiamo all’ombra and mean let’s get out of the sun and into the cool.

Cenne and Folgore.  If Guccini opens this stanza with a 15th Century Florentine poet he closes it with two even earlier Tuscan poets and their poems both dedicated to the 12 months.   Folgóre da San Gimignano and Cenne da la Chitarra

Folgore wrote a courtly chivalric vision of the 12 months full of noble pleasures.  Cenne’s riposte was a sarcastic realism of cold and mud, bad wine, corruption and greed.  More info on this “poetic tension”  between Folgore and Cenne can be found here . A poetic tension which can also be found in Guccini’s dodici mesi.

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April: Canzone dei dodici mese by Francesco Guccini : Translation

Aprilr, dolce dormire

Image:  April, from a book of miniatures  1385 (library of  Forlì) , probably a miniature originating from Bologna. Source and PD licence:  

Sweet April,

long days given up to languor,

What secrets did the poet find in you

that he called you cruel,

called you cruel

Ah but,through your days,

how fine to drift off after making love

as the soil sleeps at night

after a day of sun,

after a day of sun.

Original by Francesco Guccini from “canzone dei dodici mese” , album radici 1972

Con giorni lunghi al sonno dedicati il dolce Aprile viene,

quali segreti scoprì in te il poeta che ti chiamò crudele, che ti chiamò crudele…

Ma nei tuoi giorni è bello addormentarsi dopo fatto l’amore,

come la terra dorme nella notte dopo un giorno di sole, dopo un giorno di sole…

Translation notes & motes:

Aprile, dolce dormire  Italian proverb

What secrets did the poet find in you that he called you cruel: Guccini must be referring here to the opening lines of the The Waste Land by T S Eliot.

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land….

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Rejoice, rejoice

For Mrs T on the day of her funeral with nods to Auden and Shakespeare

She was my South,

my Basildon and Essex.

She was my white van week, my sunday screws

my house, my pub, my dosh, my booze.

I thought that love would last for ever

climbing to heaven on the never never.

Rejoice

Rejoice.

But she bet the country on the banks

in the end- just tissue and porny wanks.

Stop, stop all the clocks

let the mourners come

where full fathom five the Belgrano lies

and Matias,Lucas,Ignacio hourly ring her knell.

Ding-dong

Ding-dong.

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