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NED CONDINI

Ned Condini is a writer, translator, and literary critic. His short stories and poems have appeared in The Mississippi Review, Prairie Schooner, Italian Americana, The Partisan and The Village Voice among others. He is the recipient of two awards for translation: the PEN/Poggioli Award for his translation of poet Mario Luzi; and the Bordighera Prize for his translation of Jane Tassi's Andsongsongsonglessness. His selection of Giorgio Caproni's poems was published in 2004. He has just completed an anthology of Modern and Contemporary Italian Poetry (1855-1955) for the MLA. He has written two collections of poetry: Rimbaud in Umbria (1996) and quartettsatz (1996).

ZANZOTTANGO

(wherein den pound competes with a Zanzótt

in a disturbing tango)

In the illustrious house of sculpted ivories,

of precious coats of arms, glass leaves and flowers,

among the dreamy feasts a troubadour

praises in song laid tables on which vases,

filled with tea roses, groan,

the orange tree’s aroma

resonates, hearty food

calls for more and more cups.

But the guests, gathering

noble pains to their hearts,

look through wondrous triforia

at the far blue and the gold

of their hair burns their faces.

Coal embers hover,

candles animate walls,

under the tables death

is a mute splendid dog.

nothing therefore I understood

of the eager groping of animals insects

flowers and suns, and nothing I detected

of the work whispered, spread out in the fields

or wizened in the nest,

nor did I notice sweat, my neighbor’s vigil

exertion: lost in lavish tropes

of my marvelous self--master of nothing

My soul, be snow now, cleanse

my unlearned forehead.

Lift me. This the charisma

in whose scent I say Yes.

You have justly diminished me

and with you I enter this year’s spring.

Now, not quite happy, in utter poverty,

I do not savor your gifts yet

but in a little while you will

grant me all things I hoped for.

How long between the grain and wind

of those attics more high

and more extended than the sky;

how long I left you words of mine

my by now dried up risks.

With angels and chimeras,

with ancient instruments,

with diaries and the drama nights enact

taking turns with the sun,

I left you up there so that you might

save from the scorching sun my unsure roof,

disoriented chimneys, terraces

where tempestuous hail rides...

From sad rains and depressing ice,

from endless waits for strawberries and poppies,

from empty ridges, snow

whose echo brings no glory,

from sticky larvae of storms and arid streams,

from rocky desolation,

pushing beyond all those calamitous

horrors and stony distances

only you love erupt, transcend--

you falling evermore

on our curtailed days,

over entire woods of spring.

I know I’m nothing but her suasive nodding.

Closed in her I shall live

like the drop shining in the rose then scattering,

before the shadow of the lonely guest

touches--Atlantean like the world--the earth.

My house of cherry, my

April bark, my bride’s veil,

flavor spiced in the dark,

ripe honeydew, my sail

be my not taken prisoner

just as in merriment

lips without effort glean

a face’s lineaments.

And I’ll bury my rage,

embroider drought with spring,

pour drinks into your mouth,

set your heart on the wing.

. . . a gush of melody welling from the earth,

a liquid ditty floating to the skies,

& chrysanthemums, dahlias, daffodils,

bromelias, roses, lilies & hyacinths,

apple orchards sitting silently in the sun

miles from the nearest town, America,

the awaking hills and the luxuriant fields,

the wind raising horsetails from rushing water,

the roar of the Pacific, golden dunes,

pals sipping wine with us, a chemistry

of stars our minds merrying over the sea....

Brother, Luke, Claude, Mady, Roberta & Mark,

Donata & Marty, Tony & Alexis B.,

gourmand Tirr(ll, Reno & Rich Puzio, Frank,

Deborah and Johnny, fabulists Jack & Mike,

you all I summon through the wide, wide acres

of my resonant memory

Maybe I speak in a language that dies.

But I will live off you until distracted

your numen takes possession of the already

extinct meaning of me,

until in other terrors you burst forth

in ever new evanescences.

Beyond the grey edge of the world,

enjoying the full tonnage of its gold

the sun advances with light, bold steps where

the mind that follows it is certain to reach fire.