Today we read Natale, by Giuseppe Ungaretti.
Christmas happens every year, even when we are at war. This poem by Ungaretti is introduced by the indication “Napoli il 26 dicembre 1916”: he was on temporary leave from the front of WW1, and visiting his friend’s house in Naples.
If we didn’t know that, we could read these verses as just a statement of laziness: the poet explains he isn’t in the mood to go out to celebrate in the loud, cold, busy streets of the city (and describing Naples’ roads as a ball of yarn is a nice euphemism). He’d rather rest and lie in front of the fire, like a “forgotten thing.”
But we do know he was fighting in the war, and so we attach a whole different meaning to the weariness he complains about. He’s so tired that even punctuation is too much, so that he ends up using none at all. His signature broken verses are even shorter than usual, as if stringing words required too much effort.
The original:
Natale
Non ho voglia
di tuffarmi
in un gomitolo
di strade
Ho tanta
stanchezza
sulle spalle
Lasciatemi così
come una
cosa
posata
in un
angolo
e dimenticata
Qui
non si sente
altro
che il caldo buono
Sto
con le quattro
capriole
di fumo
del focolare\
