The poets and the world war: "When We Were Soldiers" by Giacomo Noventa

Let’s try an experiment today. Giacomo Noventa was the pen name of the Italian poet and essayist Giacomo Ca’ Zorzi (Noventa di Piave 1898 – Milano 1960). In Italy he is read mainly for his contributions to the great debate rising after the fall of Fascism, but we cannot forget he was a great poet. A limit to the diffusion of his poetry was probably the use of his dialect, the one spoken in the Venice area, precisely the dialect of the lower course of river Piave. He was a young volunteer in the First World War (like in other parts of the world, also in Italy the youngest generation called to arms was the one born in 1899). The poem we propose today is of course in dialect. That’s why we try to give three versions: English, Italian and the original text that is for sure an interesting example of recollection of memories where all is supported by the simile between older fellows in army and the beloved poets (Giacomo is Giacomo Leopardi, Francesco is Francesco Petrarca). Beside of that, in parenthesis, that aside (“Well, we learnt to die…”) that wedges in as the real, dense nucleus of this short poem.


WHEN WE WERE SOLDIERS

When we were soldiers in the trenches,
resting marching or at the hospital,
and our older fellows talked to us,
no matter if it was about their country,
about the fields and about the unfinished work,
a love story,

a lot of us still did not know
how a woman was, and we listened to them,
we invented a name, and we died,
(well, we learnt to die...)

Reading today, like if they're alive,
in Giacomo, in Francesco, in Dante and in other
beloved poets, no matter if Italian or foreign,
a thought came to my mind:

that we are like the conscripts
in a great war, and the poets
are like those soldiers talking to us,
no matter if it was about their country,
about the fields and about the unfinished work,
a love story.


QUAND’ERAVAMO SOLDATI IN TRINCEA

Quand'eravamo soldati in trincea,
a riposo in marcia o all'ospedale,
e i compagni anziani ci raccontavano,
parlassero pure del loro paese,
dei campi e dei lavori lasciati là,
una storia d'amore,

eravamo in tanti a non sapere ancora
come fosse fatta una donna, e si ascoltava,
ci inventavamo un nome, e si moriva,
(si imparava a morire...)

Leggendo oggi, come fossero vivi,
in Giacomo, in Francesco, in Dante e in altri
cari poeti, italiani o stranieri,
mi è venuto un pensiero:

che noi siamo come i coscritti
in una guerra grande, e che i poeti
siano come quei soldati che ci raccontavano
parlassero pure del loro paese,
dei campi e dei lavori lasciati là,
una storia d'amore.


CÔ SE GERA SOLDAI...

Cô se gera soldai dentro in trincea,
O a riposo o marciando o a l'ospeal,
E i compagni più veci ne diseva,

E parlàsseli pur del so paese,
Dei campi e dei lavori lassài là,
Una storia d'amor,

Gèrimo in tanti a no' saver ancora
Quel che fusse una dona, e se ascoltava,
Se inventàvimo un nome, e se moriva,
(Se imparava a morir...)

Ancùo lesendo, come i fusse vivi,
In Giacomo, in Francesco, in Dante e in altri
Cari poeti, o nostrani o foresti,
Me xé vignùo un pensier:

Che noialtri se sia come i coscriti
In una guera granda, e che i poeti
Sia come quei soldai che ne diseva,
E parlàsseli pur del so paese,
Dei campi e dei lavori lassài là,
Una storia d'amor.