Acquainted with the Night - Robert Frost

Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

Io sono uno che ben conosce la notte.
Ho fatto nella pioggia la strada avanti e indietro.
Ho oltrepassato l'ultima luce della città.

Sono andato a frugare nel vicolo più tetro.
Ho incontrato la guardia nel suo giro
Ed ho abbassato gli occhi, per non spiegare.

Ho trattenuto il passo e il mio respiro
Quando da molto lontano un grido strozzato
Giungeva oltre le case da un'altra strada,

Ma non per richiamarmi o dirmi un commiato;
E ancora più lontano, a un'incredibile altezza,
Nel cielo un orologio illuminato

Proclamava che il tempo non era né giusto, né errato.Io sono uno che ben conosce la notte.

The Road Not Taken

The Road Not Taken

Robert L. Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

La strada non presa

Divergevano due strade in un bosco
ingiallito, e spiacente di non poterle fare
entrambe uno restando, a lungo mi fermai
una di esse finché potevo scrutando
là dove in mezzo agli arbusti svoltava.

Poi presi l'altra, così com'era,
che aveva forse i titoli migliori,
perché era erbosa e non portava segni;
benché, in fondo, il passar della gente
le avesse invero segnate più o meno lo stesso,

perché nessuna in quella mattina mostrava
sui fili d'erba l'impronta nera d'un passo.
Oh, quell'altra lasciavo a un altro giorno!
Pure, sapendo bene che strada porta a strada,
dubitavo se mai sarei tornato.

lo dovrò dire questo con un sospiro
in qualche posto fra molto molto tempo:
Divergevano due strade in un bosco, ed io...
io presi la meno battuta,
e di qui tutta la differenza è venuta.

Ρωτούσε για την ποιότητα He Asked about the Quality

Ρωτούσε για την ποιότητα— Αναγνωρισμένα Aπ’ το γραφείον όπου είχε προσληφθεί σε θέσι ασήμαντη και φθηνοπληρωμένη (ώς οκτώ λίρες το μηνιάτικό του: με τα τυχερά) βγήκε σαν τέλεψεν η έρημη δουλειά που όλο το απόγευμα ήταν σκυμένος: βγήκεν η ώρα επτά, και περπατούσε αργά και χάζευε στον δρόμο.— Έμορφος· κ’ ενδιαφέρων: έτσι που έδειχνε φθασμένος στην πλήρη του αισθησιακήν απόδοσι. Τα είκοσι εννιά, τον περασμένο μήνα τα είχε κλείσει. Εχάζευε στον δρόμο, και στες πτωχικές παρόδους που οδηγούσαν προς την κατοικία του. Περνώντας εμπρός σ’ ένα μαγαζί μικρό όπου πουλιούνταν κάτι πράγματα ψεύτικα και φθηνά για εργατικούς, είδ’ εκεί μέσα ένα πρόσωπο, είδε μια μορφή όπου τον έσπρωξαν και εισήλθε, και ζητούσε τάχα να δει χρωματιστά μαντήλια. Pωτούσε για την ποιότητα των μαντηλιών και τι κοστίζουν με φωνή πνιγμένη, σχεδόν σβυσμένη απ’ την επιθυμία. Κι ανάλογα ήλθαν η απαντήσεις, αφηρημένες, με φωνή χαμηλωμένη, με υπολανθάνουσα συναίνεσι. Όλο και κάτι έλεγαν για την πραγμάτεια — αλλά μόνος σκοπός: τα χέρια των ν’ αγγίζουν επάνω απ’ τα μαντήλια· να πλησιάζουν τα πρόσωπα, τα χείλη σαν τυχαίως· μια στιγμιαία στα μέλη επαφή. Γρήγορα και κρυφά, για να μη νοιώσει ο καταστηματάρχης που στο βάθος κάθονταν. (Από τα Ποιήματα 1897-1933, Ίκαρος 1984)

 SI INFORMAVA SULLA QUALITÀ  

Costantinos Kavafis

Dall’ufficio, dove si era impiegato
– un posto da poco e mal retribuito
(sulle otto lire al mese, con gli straordinari) –
uscì appena finito quel lavoro squallido
che lo teneva piegato tutto il pomeriggio;
uscì alle sette e prese a camminare,
senza fretta, indugiando per strada. – Era
bello, un tipo interessante: dava l’impressione
netta d’essere nel pieno della maturità dei sensi.

Si attardava per strada, per quei vicoli
miserabili che portavano a casa sua.

Passando davanti ad un negozietto
dove si vendeva merce
dozzinale e di poco prezzo, roba da operai,
scorse lì dentro un viso, una figura
che lo spinse a entrare, fingendo
di voler vedere fazzoletti colorati.

Si informava sulla qualità dei fazzoletti
e sul prezzo, con voce soffocata,
quasi spenta per il desiderio.
Tali anche le risposte,
sbadate, appena sussurrate,
con sottintesa complicità.

E continuavano a discutere della merce –
ma solo per sfiorarsi le mani
sopra i fazzoletti, per accostare
i visi e le labbra, come per caso:
un fulmineo contatto di corpi.

Lesti e furtivi, prima che s’accorgesse
il padrone, seduto in fondo al magazzino.

---

(Tratto da Costantinos Kavafis – Poesie, Fabbri editori, Milano, 1993, a cura di Tino Sangiglio)

He Asked about the Quality

The Canon

He left the office where he’d taken up a trivial, poorly paid job (eight pounds a month, including bonuses)— left at the end of the dreary work that kept him bent all afternoon, came out at seven and walked off slowly, idling his way down the street. Good-looking; and interesting: showing as he did that he’d reached his full sensual capacity. He’d turned twenty-nine the month before. He idled his way down the main street and the poor side-streets that led to his home. Passing in front of a small shop that sold cheap and flimsy things for workers, he saw a face inside there, saw a figure that compelled him to go in, and he pretended he wanted to look at some colored handkerchiefs. He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs and how much they cost, his voice choking, almost silenced by desire. And the answers came back the same way, distracted, the voice hushed, offering hidden consent. They kept on talking about the merchandise—but the only purpose: that their hands might touch over the handkerchiefs, that their faces, their lips, might move close together as though by chance— a moment’s meeting of limb against limb. Quickly, secretly, so the shopowner sitting at the back wouldn’t realize what was going on.

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

(C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Edited by George Savidis. Revised Edition. Princeton University Press, 1992)