A Poem For My Father

I read this poem, by Gianna Patriarca, both in English and, hesitatingly, in Italian, at my father’s committal ceremony. Corrado Paina, a good friend, identified it for me. Notwithstanding its title – “Compleanno”, which means birthday - I thought it captured a part of my father’s spirit.

I have included the English translation after the end of the poem.

Voglio mangiare un fico maturo
voglio rubare cachi
dagli alberi del vecchio Alfredo
farmi cogliere sul fatto
vederlo inciampare sul forcone
mentre cerchi di afferrarmi
la mia bocca impiastrata d’arancio
dalla dolce polpa del frutto proibito

voglio nascondermi dietro
le montagne di paglia secca
mentre assaporo la fresca brezza
dai polmoni dell’autunno
voglio arrampicarmi sull’albero di castagne
a proteggere I tetti
sul paesaggio
ascoltando
le dolci voci che cantano
stornelli romani

voglio far scorrere le mie mani sul
cespuglio di rosmarino vicino al cancello
dove cresce il giglio di mia nonna
sedermi vicino al muro di pietra
mentre aspetto mamma
che ritorna pedalando dal paese
sulla vecchia bicicletta near
le tashe piene di caramelle

e poi dormire
tra lenzuola di lino
riscaldate da mattoni caldi
avvolti nella flanella
per poter sognare fichi mature
color porpora
su pane appena sfornato.


Here is the English transalation.

I want to ripe a fig
I want to steal a persimmon
from old Alfredo’s tree
have him catch me in the act
watching him stumbling over the pitchfork
as he tries to grab me
my mouth smeared orange
from the sweet flesh of
the forbidden fruit.
I want to hide between the
mountain of dry hay
feeling the cool breath of
autumn’s lungs.
I want to climb the chestnut tree
and guard the rooftops over the
countryside, listening to the
soft voices singing Roman songs,
I want to run my hands through
the rosemary bush by the gate
where my grandmother’s iris grows
to sit by the stone wall
waiting for mamma
as she pedals from town
on her old, black bike
her pockets full of chocolates
and then to sleep
in linen sheets
warmed by hot bricks
wrapped in flannel
to dream of ripe purple figson freshly baked bread.