[Enjoy some images from Magna Graecia (basically the Italian South) and listen to some songs in the Griko language]
As promised in the previous post here are some of the oral Greek poems collected on the field from the Griko people – South Italians who still speak Greek.
It is a selection from the book Il tesoro delle parole morte (Argo, 2009, Lecce) by Brizio Montinaro which regards the Griko poetry from Salento, Apulia. Some of these poems were collected by Montinaro himself, whose mother is Griko.
My translation is inadequate and in progress. Any suggestion is welcome. I’ll provide the Greek text of the first poem only.
Mαχάιρι ᾽ναι τὰ μάτια σου,
σπαθιὰ τὰ δυό σου φρύδια
καὶ παὶζουνε με τὴν καρδιὰ
πολλῶ λογιῶ παιχνὶδια.
Knife your eyes
Swords your eyebrows:
They play with the heart
Games of great art.
ψ
That curl so fair
That is bending under your ear
Woven with silk thread,
The most beautiful of your whole head.
Ah had I that curl in my hand!
Out of joy I would fly to heaven’s land.
ψ
Here comes the sun, the moon, the star,
Here comes the maiden who breaks my heart apart.
Here is she who points a knife at me
And chases me away but I cannot but stay.
ψ
Your bosom hides two lemons
That send such a sweet scent.
Give at least one of them to us
To turn over in our hands.
“I hoe, I water, I do not offer lemons.
Go to the gardener, maybe there will be grace.”
ψ
Wherever you go, young man,
May the sun not burn you, and a cloud
May appear in the sky to protect you.
ψ
The wind came
And took away your scarf
And it removed my hat
Uncovering your fair neck.
That night happily I slept.
ψ
ψ
When you see me, as a viper you hide in the bush:
I am he who put your breasts upside down.
ψ
Girl of mine, it was night when we kissed.
By whom were we seen?
By the night, by the dawn, by the star and the moon.
The star bowed and told the sea,
The sea told the oar, the oar told the sailor,
And the sailor sang it at the door of his love.
ψ
I kissed red lips and they dyed my own,
I cleaned them with a cloth
And they dyed the cloth.
I washed the cloth in the river and it dyed the river
Which dyed the beach shore and it dyed the sea floor.
An eagle came down to drink and dyed its wings,
And the sun was half dyed and the moon in the full.
ψ
May I become a swallow and enter your room
And make my nest in your pillow.
ψ
And I wish I were a flea from here
To get like a hawk into your bed,
And nibble all that flesh,
And you’d let down your hand and catch me!
ψ
Martano, one of the Griko towns of Salento. A poem below refers to it. Click for credits
ψ
I sigh and burn,
And my heart drips blood.
But the pain is sweet
When I suffer for you.
ψ
As maiden I loved you, as woman I had you not,
Soon the time will arrive when as widow you’ll be mine.
ψ
Foolish was I to love you!
Like the wind you never stop.
Better had I loved a wall,
It would perhaps have stopped a moment.
Better had I loved a stone,
It would have softened and something I’d have had.
But I have loved you instead, the Galanto,
Who enchanted Martano with his canto.
ψ
I sent you four apples,
One with a bite,
And in the mid of the bite
I placed a kiss.
Related posts:
Epharistopoly.
You are welcome. It was my pleasure.
And I already told you there’s a chance you and T.C. are relatives
I’m not sure he would appreciate that.
Why would he not. It is an honour to have some Greek blood. We have to teach him this, having, the 2 of us, more experience
I really mean it. Italian Southerners are very proud of such heritage, and he is one of them, despite his Canadian-ness.
Hi MoR,
This Greek love poem is exceptionally beautiful. I enjoyed reading it immensely. Thank you for translating it for your blog.
It reminds me of the Afghan poet, Rumi.
Grazie Geraldine. I have little knowledge of Rumi. You make me want to know more.
Oh, I now see it is not one poem but many. All with the same thread.
Pardon.
Don’t worry dear Geraldine. They could all have well been part of the same poem. That you like my translation thrills me (given the mastery you’ve got of your own language) but I know you’re inclined toward my translation it being a year or more we’ve met on the web.
I am always happy when you pop up, Geraldina, simpatica bambina.
I second Geraldine’s motion. I am always a little stunned when I encounter poetry that suggests a woman could really capture that much of a man’s attention. I suspect that is why I love Graves and Yeats — you never see that kind of thing in real life.
And these fragments do remind me of both Graves and Yeats, but they have a whole-hogging zest that even those two never achieved. The red dye: I keep reading that one over. These must be quite intense people.
Sledpress, the ‘red dye’ got me too. The ‘whole-hogging zest’ must be due to the sun, alas.
Yeats was always warming himself by the fire.
@Geraldine
Well, then the fire must be as powerful as the sun since Celtic people are very passionate as well!
To passion you people add this romantic patina that make things delightful. Yeats has been a discovery to me.
Ta me abhaile i Eire. Nollaig shona duit, MoR.
You are at home in Eire for Christmas? (Google translator)
Merry Christmas to you too sweet Geraldine. May your days at home be pure and shiny as your soul is.
Buon Natale a te e ai tuoi cari!
@Sledpress
Yes, very intense people they are, the Grikos. Not that I met many, but Apulians and Calabrians, I met quite a lot, and they retain many Greek traits despite their having forgotten Greek mostly.
I am always a little stunned … that …a woman could really capture that much of a man’s attention.
We’ve discussed this topic ad nauseam, Sled. Man is totally captured by The Woman. As you once said, I/we believe he just needs time for his ‘hobbies’ (trains, buildings, work, you name it).
Many South Italians, both the men and the women, are very passionate. Their passions are violent, their blood extremely hot. With pros and cons. To a Roman’s (or central Italy’s) taste, they appear a bit too jealous, for example. It’s like they were overpowered by their passion.
I know you keep telling me that men are captured by women, but I just never see it in front of my face. It may have something to do with Americans (and possibly Brits) vs. Europeans.
I admit that someone who was extremely jealous would make me nervous, but there must be a middle road out there somewhere. Until it’s found I can enjoy the poetry. I like the verses about the lemons, too (I had to read that twice before I was sure the young lady’s breasts were not being compared to lemons, which would be alarming).
“Alarming”: THAT made me laugh.
It’s not sure they are just lemons. Layered meanings – it’s the beauty of poems, which triggers richer reactions in the reader’s mind.
Culturally, it’s the mutual teasing which may characterize flirting here (it can be noticed in Boccaccio, for example, more typical though of the lower classes today here). Of course the woman withdraws at first but she may at times tease back bluntly.
The lemons poem is in the classic (ie classical antiquity) style, where intense poetry is mixed with a bluntness we modern (sexually inhibited by Christianity) though finding it too osé we’re like surprised it amplifies poetic intensity so much – I’m repeating myself.
As for males, I cannot believe ‘Anglo-Saxon’ men are so different.
Undoubtedly there’s a streak of Puritanism in English-speaking countries, stemming from England perhaps.
As Kate Fox observes at page 326 of her ‘Watching the English’ (a book advised by Richard):
The Americans may be puritanical but their flirting – ‘the process of getting there’ – seems not that inhibited.
I remember a song from some 40 years ago, an American song, that went:” A boy chases a girl until SHE catches him”. Not bad eh?
Yes, Paul. And men are often too stupid to realize when a woman is actually trolling.
The thing that the Brits/Americans do (given that they are the compass of my experience) is not so much about awkwardness with flirting (there is much preening of the purported male prowess) as about the discount — the blatant message that women are very low on the list of the things a man could want and that women in the individual or collective are laughable and even contemptible — at the kindest, pitiable — for imagining that men would place any serious value on them. “Of course,” the message runs, “we care more about the game/our birth families/our jobs/the good opinion of other men than anything you could offer us, even if it might be fun for a moment.”
Anyone who compares my knockers to lemons needs a refresher in horticulture. What can I say.
I don’t know Sled. The American males I met – not so many as you, of course – didn’t seem very different from us as far as their (great) appreciation of the other gender.
Possibly there’s a difference (talking about flirting) between the Brits and the Americans, but here I am just reporting Kate Fox’s opinion.
And your ehm knockers … you made me laugh sooo much, what can I say
Maybe it’s REALLY a local issue (the men around DC, who are huge narcissists because the town attracts people like that). Maybe whom you meet. I don’t know — I just find great appreciation of women to be the exception rather than the rule in my experience, to the point that things like these songs from the Grikos make me unsuitably wistful. The lemons in the bosom remind me, by the way, of Catullus’ girlfriend’s sparrow. But less unruly, and not so much to clean up after.
Tomorrow Sled. Time now for me to hit the sack. After your words I wish I could translate more for you, but it would take too long (not to mention copyright violations if I translated too many of them).
@Sledpress
I cannot know if it is a DC area issue. But console yourself. In areas of many western countries women have taken a domineering role (especially after feminism, but not only because of that) and men are seen as useless furniture. It is not my case I hope, but I have friends blah blah
I think any gender has its reasons to complain. But the notion of ‘gender’ in itself is great. I’ve always btw wondered whether hermaphroditic parthenogenesis would be more (or less) fun. Such are the stupidities that cross my mind.
Now seriously, that these poems make you wistful is a romantic image. Try this time to have sound fun during the Winter Saturnalian festival, my friend.
Christmas 2001 we spent in Umbria, in a farmhouse near Tavernelle. I’ll never forget the name of the town because my husband insisted on accenting the second syllable as if it were a Yiddish word with the diminuntive “ele” ending.
On Christmas day, somewhere around there, we saw an advertisement for a play. We arrived (about ten of us) just in time for the 7:00 curtain. The stage hands, actors, etc. are all standing around talking, hanging out. No indication that the show is about to start. Things are running a bit behind schedule, they say. And, we ask how long it’s likely to be because we missed dinner and we’re starving. Not a problem, they tell us. Go, have dinner, we won’t start the show until you come back. And we do. When we return (at least an hour later, probably more), someone shouts: OK, we can start the show, the Americans are here.
And it was a terrific show.
Christmas in Italy. Charm. Charm. Charm.
Merry Christmas!
(As for these poems: Who can resist?)
Thank you for your great comment Jenny. I’ll be with you when I can. We are in the middle of Christmas preparations.
Merry Christmas to you too and to all your family!
@Jenny
I checked in a map. Tavernelle is a small village a bit away from everything – south of Lake Trasimeno -, certainly less touristy than other locations – smart of you people to go there. We have good friends in Perugia so we often go (went) to Umbria. I have more roots in Tuscany, but the Arezzo area, where I go, north of that same lake, is not that different as far as habits.
Charm is in the eye of the beholder.
Merry everything Jenny!
I imagine that Tuscany is swimming with Americans since Frances Mayes wrote “Under the Tuscan Sun.” That’s why we went to Umbria. And in the winter. Perfect.
There is no reason for you to have read Mayes’ book about Tuscany, but I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Here’s an idea that (sadly) is funny only to me and a handful of people: to parody FM’s book by writing about buying and living in a dacha in provincial Russia. Oh, the sun-drenched days! What romance! What charm! What fabulous food and wine!
And merry everything to you, too (I meant to say.)
@Jenny
I have instead read that book and enjoyed most of it, although I found some parts a tad exaggerated (and slightly irritating? “The pampered Italian children” adagios? Not too far from truth unfortunately lol).
Write that book! ‘Under the Russian sun!’.
Jenny, Russia has such a great culture, I was so impressed, and so many people recognize it, here and everywhere. They only need more democracy. I now hope that the anti Putin protests will lead to something positive for the people.
Ciao, glad you popped up again!
Writing to you (just before New Year) about my Christmas in Umbria reminded me of Pandoro, which I had for the first time that year.
So, we found some at an Italian grocery and served it at our party on New Year’s Eve. With champagne, to our guests’ giddy delight.
And, then, the next morning, it makes a killer French toast. If that is not customary usage in Italy, I really recommend that you try it.
With maple syrup, it’s an Old World meets New World treat!
I have Pandoro, Jenny, (that I prefer to Panettone), so tomorrow I’ll try your killer French toast. What an idea! I think I also have maple syrup somewhere. Old World meets New World treat – what a cute expression (and the spirit of this blog after all). Ciao simpatica Americana!
I tried your killer recipe yesterday, Jenny. THANK YOU. Not a treat one can have every day (given our climate) but a real treat nonetheless.
More cool stuff happening in Rome. The Russia/Italy connection:
http://www.aarome.org/news/features/dmitry-kaminkers-improbable-creation-achieves-unanticipated-heights
A connection happening via the *American Academy in Rome*.
I find Dmitry Kaminkers’s tower amazing. As the article observes there was a long tradition of Russian artists coming to Rome for inspiration (Gogol and Dostoyevsky among the rest) and it is sad we don’t have a Russian Academy in Rome today.