First snow. A Picture And A Poem.

First Snow

I want to celebrate the first snow of 2012 with a poesia (poem) by Annabella Mele.

The Italian poetess Annabella Mele lives in Novara, Italy. Annabella is registered with the board of Writers of the Gruppo Cultura Italia (Italy Culture Group).  In 2000 she published  “Poesie“, a collection of poems. Her poems are also present in several Anthologies. She has been recognized with many literary awards.

Annabella has a very special place in my hearth, she is my sister-in-law and godmother but, she is even more than that.

Through the year I will be posting her beautiful poems. It will be my personal way to thank her to be part of my life.

I am experimenting with audio (I hope it works!),  you can listen to the poem in Italian while following the text and then read the English translation at the bottom of the post.

I hope you will enjoy the poem and the first snow of the year!

Original Italian version


L’ho visto arrivare da lontano,

col passo incerto,

la barba rigida dal gelo,

gli occhi lacrimanti,

avvolto in un grigio pastrano,

le cioce ben strette ai polpacci.

Portava con sé un ricco bagaglio

di dolci nenie e soffuse melodie,

di lunghe notti trascorse a raccontare,

di fumi dai comignoli delle case,

di effluvi pungenti di resina bruciata,

di profumi inebrianti di mandorle e

di caldarroste, di passeri zampettanti sul suolo,

di stagni riverberanti e compatti,

di passi frettolosi e voci ovattate,

nei vicoli e nelle strade,

di densi vapori nelle osterie,

di gatti accovacciati accanto ai camini,

di sagome esili,

dietro i vetri appannati,

di anziani e bambini.

Ha soggiornato a lungo, Inverno,

dormendo all’addiaccio,

incurante dei venti e delle bufere,

poi… al calore dei primi raggi,

si è dileguato in silenzio…

come fa al sole un pupazzo di ghiaccio.

English translation


I saw it coming from far away,

with an uncertain step,

the beard stiff frost,

teary eyes,

wrapped in a gray cape,

the cioce[i] well tied to his calf.

It was bringing a rich baggage

of sweet lullabies and soft melodies,

of long nights spent telling

of smoke coming from the house’s chimneys,

of pungent scents of burned resin,

of heady fragrance of almonds and roasted chestnuts,

of sparrows scampering on the soil,

of reflecting and solid ponds,

of hurried steps and felted voices

in the alleys and the streets,

of dense fumes in the taverns,

of cats squatting by the fireplace,

of slender silhouettes,

of elderly and children,

behind the fogged windows.

It stayed long, Winter,

sleeping in the bivouac,

unmindful of the winds and storms,

then… with the warmth of the first rays,

it has silently faded…

as does an icy snowman in the sun.

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