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Songbook: The Selected Poems of Umberto Saba
A beautifully translated selection of poems by one of the greatest Italian poets of the twentieth century
Umberto Saba’s reputation in Italy and Europe has steadily grown since his death in 1957, and today he is positioned alongside Eugenio Montale and Giuseppe Ungaretti as one of the three most important Italian poets of the first half of the twentieth century. Until now, however, English-language readers have had access to only a few examples of this poet’s work. This bilingual volume at last brings an extensive and exquisitely translated collection of Saba’s poems to English-speaking readers.
Both faithful and lyrical, George Hochfield’s and Leonard Nathan’s translations do justice to Saba’s rigorous personal honesty and his profound awareness of the suffering that was for him coincident with life. An introductory essay, a translation of Saba’s early manifesto, “What Remains for Poets to Do,” and a chronology of his life situate his poetics within the larger context of twentieth-century letters. With its publication, this volume provides the English-speaking world with a momentous occasion to rethink not just Italian poetry but also the larger European modernist project.
Umberto Saba’s reputation in Italy and Europe has steadily grown since his death in 1957, and today he is positioned alongside Eugenio Montale and Giuseppe Ungaretti as one of the three most important Italian poets of the first half of the twentieth century. Until now, however, English-language readers have had access to only a few examples of this poet’s work. This bilingual volume at last brings an extensive and exquisitely translated collection of Saba’s poems to English-speaking readers.
Both faithful and lyrical, George Hochfield’s and Leonard Nathan’s translations do justice to Saba’s rigorous personal honesty and his profound awareness of the suffering that was for him coincident with life. An introductory essay, a translation of Saba’s early manifesto, “What Remains for Poets to Do,” and a chronology of his life situate his poetics within the larger context of twentieth-century letters. With its publication, this volume provides the English-speaking world with a momentous occasion to rethink not just Italian poetry but also the larger European modernist project.
592 pages, Paperback
Published April 24, 2012
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438 people want to read
About the author
Umberto Saba
121 books48 followersUmberto Saba was an Italian poet and novelist, born Umberto Poli in the cosmopolitan Mediterranean port of Trieste when it was the fourth largest city of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Poli assumed the nom de plume "Saba" in 1910, and his name was officially changed to Umberto Saba in 1928.
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Displaying 1 - 24 of 24 reviews
September 5, 2023
Samba for Umberto Saba
August morning
Sun shining through my window
Wife out walking in the woods
Son reading quietly next door
Young horses galloping in nearby field
Mischievous mice playing in the attic
Furious flies buzzing against the windowpane
Fat spiders sleeping at the centre of worlds
Coffee cup steaming
Lawnmower mowing
Apples growing
Cherries falling
Insects crawling
Kestrels calling
Blue skies everywhere
Summer far from over
And I just got paid
Yippee!
I feel like dancing the samba
With Umberto Saba
But Saba will not dance the samba
With me
I feel like dancing the Saba
With Umberto Samba
But Samba will not dance the Saba
With me…
Arrivederci
Augusto
Amico mio
August 30, 2008
Among the 20th c. triumvirate of great Italian poets -- Saba, Ungaretti, Montale -- Saba is my favorite for the simple reason that he seems more open with his emotions, more curious in seeing the contradictory sides of life, at times more joyful and celebratory, than the other two. Ungaretti tends toward monochromatic bleakness and Montale, though a beautifully lyrical writer, is just too dense and enigmatic for me (which may expain why he won a Nobel Prize and the other two didn't?)
Compare Saba's "The Pig" and "Eros" to get a sense of his range and emotional directness.
Compare Saba's "The Pig" and "Eros" to get a sense of his range and emotional directness.
August 14, 2021
"Una strana bottega d'antiquario
s'apre, a Trieste, in una via secreta.
D'antiche legature un oro vario
l'occhio per gli scaffali errante allieta.
Vive in quell'aria tranquillo un poeta.
Dei morti in quel vivente lapidario
la sua opera compie, onesta e lieta,
d'Amor pensoso, ignoto e solitario.
Morir spezzato dal chiuso fervore
vorrebbe un giorno; sulle amate carte
chiudere gli occhi che han veduto tanto.
E quel che del suo tempo restò fuore
e del suo spazio, ancor più bello l'arte
gli pinse, ancor più dolce gli fe' il canto." (Autobiografia, 15, p. 269 del Meridiano)
-
"Del divino per me milleottocento
amate figlie, qui dalla lontana
Inghilterra venute, di voi dico,
pinte tazzine, vasellame usato
dagli avi miei laboriosi, al tempo
che la vita più degna era e più umana,
e molto prima che nascessi, io so
la vostra istoria, che ai vecchi la chiese
il poeta ch'è pio verso il passato." (La vetrina, p. 312)
-
"Piccolo lago in mezzo ai monti - il giorno
le calde mucche bevono ai tuoi orli;
a notte specchi le stelle - mi sento
oggi in un brivido la tua chiarezza.
La giovanezza ama la giovanezza.
Due fanciulli qui vennero una volta.
Ti scoprirono insieme occhio di gelo." (Lago, p. 459)
-
"Avevo una città bella tra i monti
rocciosi e il mare luminoso. Mia
perché vi nacqui, più che d'altri mia
che la scoprivo fanciullo, ed adulto
per sempre a Italia la sposai col canto.
Vivere si doveva. Ed io per tanto
scelsi fra i mali il più degno: fu il piccolo
d'antichi libri raro negozietto.
Tutto mi portò via il fascista inetto
ed il tedesco lurco." (Avevo, p. 510)
s'apre, a Trieste, in una via secreta.
D'antiche legature un oro vario
l'occhio per gli scaffali errante allieta.
Vive in quell'aria tranquillo un poeta.
Dei morti in quel vivente lapidario
la sua opera compie, onesta e lieta,
d'Amor pensoso, ignoto e solitario.
Morir spezzato dal chiuso fervore
vorrebbe un giorno; sulle amate carte
chiudere gli occhi che han veduto tanto.
E quel che del suo tempo restò fuore
e del suo spazio, ancor più bello l'arte
gli pinse, ancor più dolce gli fe' il canto." (Autobiografia, 15, p. 269 del Meridiano)
-
"Del divino per me milleottocento
amate figlie, qui dalla lontana
Inghilterra venute, di voi dico,
pinte tazzine, vasellame usato
dagli avi miei laboriosi, al tempo
che la vita più degna era e più umana,
e molto prima che nascessi, io so
la vostra istoria, che ai vecchi la chiese
il poeta ch'è pio verso il passato." (La vetrina, p. 312)
-
"Piccolo lago in mezzo ai monti - il giorno
le calde mucche bevono ai tuoi orli;
a notte specchi le stelle - mi sento
oggi in un brivido la tua chiarezza.
La giovanezza ama la giovanezza.
Due fanciulli qui vennero una volta.
Ti scoprirono insieme occhio di gelo." (Lago, p. 459)
-
"Avevo una città bella tra i monti
rocciosi e il mare luminoso. Mia
perché vi nacqui, più che d'altri mia
che la scoprivo fanciullo, ed adulto
per sempre a Italia la sposai col canto.
Vivere si doveva. Ed io per tanto
scelsi fra i mali il più degno: fu il piccolo
d'antichi libri raro negozietto.
Tutto mi portò via il fascista inetto
ed il tedesco lurco." (Avevo, p. 510)
August 16, 2024
What a wonderful discovery this book has been! One of those very rare volumes of works by one poet where virtually every page offers something truly memorable. Saba is the most autobiographical poet I've encountered. There are so many delightful little gems: most appealing are those that speak to the poet's own experiences, first in his early youth and later in old age in his native city of Trieste. He is at times whimsical as in his account of a white dog and yellow butterfly in "Fable" or droll as in "To My Wife" or tender as in "Portrait of My Daughter". His lines are remarkably straightforward, never obscure. His style in the original Italian is quite traditional, usually metric, sometimes rhymed; and yet in his choice of subject matter and his philosophy he is very much a modernist, as a modernist would be defined in the first half of the 20th century. At all times he is above all, honest; and that commitment to honesty is central to Saba's beliefs.
A word of thanks and congratulation to the translator, Stephen Sartarelli on having succeeded in capturing the flavor, subtlety and even the rhythm of the original.
An update, Aug 2024:
One of the delights of reading (and sharing thoughts with Goodreads friends) is the way that one discovery leads to another. Recent commentaries on the works of Jan Morris reminded me that it's her I have to thank for having discovered the work of Saba, prompting me to revisit his poetry now. Very enjoyable stuff, never grows stale.
A word of thanks and congratulation to the translator, Stephen Sartarelli on having succeeded in capturing the flavor, subtlety and even the rhythm of the original.
An update, Aug 2024:
One of the delights of reading (and sharing thoughts with Goodreads friends) is the way that one discovery leads to another. Recent commentaries on the works of Jan Morris reminded me that it's her I have to thank for having discovered the work of Saba, prompting me to revisit his poetry now. Very enjoyable stuff, never grows stale.
Read
September 14, 2025Impossibile recensirlo o dargli un voto: sarebbe dare un voto a un uomo.
October 1, 2014
What is honest poetry? Does poetry need to be honest to be good? The answer to this question dominated Umberto Saba’s work. In “What Remains for Poets to Do?” he decries writers of anything other than what he terms “honest” poetry. “Whoever writes poems not because he sincerely needs the help of rhythm in expressing his passion, but out of mercenary or ambitious intentions, and for whom publishing a book is like seeking a decoration or opening a shop, cannot even imagine what stubborn force of intellect and disinterested greatness of soul are necessary to resist every sort of pandering and to keep oneself pure and true, even though dishonest verse, taken in isolation, may be superior.” In short, the form must fit the honest purpose. No artifice unrequired shall be permitted. Tall order.
Saba did not consider himself a revolutionary poet. His theory of poetry and art centered on the honesty of the writer or artist. The poems should be expositions of the poet’s character, and not an invention or fabrication.
From the collection 1944, the poem I Had is a melancholy representation of loss, tremendous loss. It is my favorite poem in the collection and I would encourage any reader of poetry or twentieth century history to look upon this poem as a representation of its human impact. It is as heartbreaking a poem as it appears Saba’s heart has been broken. It strikes me as the honest lament of a man who has seen horror, and is only left with memory.
More relatable are some other works in the collection. Most are tinged with sadness, and they are brilliant. The collection itself is not going to force itself into the reader’s memory with witty or beautiful turns of phrase. It is the ideas themselves that are memorable.
The Wife (from Trieste and a Woman)
When I come home sad, she awaits me
at the window; if my beautiful and dear
wife, at a gesture, guesses my distress,
if she reads disgust in my face, or something else,
at once she throws her loving arms around my neck
like two strong serpents,
only her bitter voice accuses me.
“And this,” she says, “is how you come to me.
Not one kiss for me, not one smile
for your daughter; you stand there mute, aloof;
one might say, seeing you, you have the knack
of ruining yourself. And I…look me in the face,
if you don’t believe my words, look
at these furrows tears have left there.
I was here alone waiting for you; meanwhile,
do you see? I’ve put our house in order
as on the first day.
But already you’re not listening. What misery
and what rage you stir in me!
One who lives with others does not
have the right to keep his sufferings to himself;
they must be talked about, shared
with our dear ones who live in us and through us.”
“How much, how much you weary me,”
I answer her to myself. And I think:
How to make my angel understand
that there is nothing in the world I would not
share with her, except this single thing,
this mute sorrow, and that my hurts
are mine, belonging to my soul alone;
I won’t surrender them for wife and daughter,
I won’t share them with those I love. (113)
The Station (from Poems Written in Wartime)
Remember the stations at night, filled with
last good-byes and ill-restrained tears,
mobbed by the troop train about to pull out?
A bugle in the distance signaled
departure,
and your heart, your heart turned to ice. (173)
Second Leave-Taking (from Prelude and Fugues)
O my heart divided in two at birth,
how much pain I endured to make them one!
How many roses to hide an abyss! (355)
Ashes (from Words)
Ashes
of dead things, of lost hurts,
of ineffable encounters, of muted
sighs,
your intense
flames beset me
as from anxiety to anxiety I draw near the threshold
of sleep,
and to sleep,
with bonds passionate and tender,
like those of child and mother, and to you, ashes,
I unite myself.
Anguish
forces a passage, I disarm it. Like
a blessed soul on the path to paradise,
I climb a stairway, stop at a door
where I used to ring. Time
has suddenly stopped.
I feel myself
with the clothes, and the soul, of that moment,
in a lightning flash; a joy
batters my heart whirling
like the end.
But I don’t cry out.
Mute
I depart for the vast empire of shadows. (393)
Saba did not consider himself a revolutionary poet. His theory of poetry and art centered on the honesty of the writer or artist. The poems should be expositions of the poet’s character, and not an invention or fabrication.
From the collection 1944, the poem I Had is a melancholy representation of loss, tremendous loss. It is my favorite poem in the collection and I would encourage any reader of poetry or twentieth century history to look upon this poem as a representation of its human impact. It is as heartbreaking a poem as it appears Saba’s heart has been broken. It strikes me as the honest lament of a man who has seen horror, and is only left with memory.
More relatable are some other works in the collection. Most are tinged with sadness, and they are brilliant. The collection itself is not going to force itself into the reader’s memory with witty or beautiful turns of phrase. It is the ideas themselves that are memorable.
The Wife (from Trieste and a Woman)
When I come home sad, she awaits me
at the window; if my beautiful and dear
wife, at a gesture, guesses my distress,
if she reads disgust in my face, or something else,
at once she throws her loving arms around my neck
like two strong serpents,
only her bitter voice accuses me.
“And this,” she says, “is how you come to me.
Not one kiss for me, not one smile
for your daughter; you stand there mute, aloof;
one might say, seeing you, you have the knack
of ruining yourself. And I…look me in the face,
if you don’t believe my words, look
at these furrows tears have left there.
I was here alone waiting for you; meanwhile,
do you see? I’ve put our house in order
as on the first day.
But already you’re not listening. What misery
and what rage you stir in me!
One who lives with others does not
have the right to keep his sufferings to himself;
they must be talked about, shared
with our dear ones who live in us and through us.”
“How much, how much you weary me,”
I answer her to myself. And I think:
How to make my angel understand
that there is nothing in the world I would not
share with her, except this single thing,
this mute sorrow, and that my hurts
are mine, belonging to my soul alone;
I won’t surrender them for wife and daughter,
I won’t share them with those I love. (113)
The Station (from Poems Written in Wartime)
Remember the stations at night, filled with
last good-byes and ill-restrained tears,
mobbed by the troop train about to pull out?
A bugle in the distance signaled
departure,
and your heart, your heart turned to ice. (173)
Second Leave-Taking (from Prelude and Fugues)
O my heart divided in two at birth,
how much pain I endured to make them one!
How many roses to hide an abyss! (355)
Ashes (from Words)
Ashes
of dead things, of lost hurts,
of ineffable encounters, of muted
sighs,
your intense
flames beset me
as from anxiety to anxiety I draw near the threshold
of sleep,
and to sleep,
with bonds passionate and tender,
like those of child and mother, and to you, ashes,
I unite myself.
Anguish
forces a passage, I disarm it. Like
a blessed soul on the path to paradise,
I climb a stairway, stop at a door
where I used to ring. Time
has suddenly stopped.
I feel myself
with the clothes, and the soul, of that moment,
in a lightning flash; a joy
batters my heart whirling
like the end.
But I don’t cry out.
Mute
I depart for the vast empire of shadows. (393)
January 2, 2018
🧡 Immensamente Saba.
May 7, 2020
Una voce sommessa eppure grandiosa della poesia italiana. Vive di ritmo, di illuminazioni nei singoli versi, di rapporti tra un verso e l'altro che rendono la lettura diversa nel colore a seconda di come cada l'accento.
Una voce ormai consegnata alla storia.
Una voce ormai consegnata alla storia.
June 5, 2025
I picked this book from a shelf in a bookshop called Bookman's Corner, on the North Side of Chicago, IL. That was some ten years ago. (I am an old woman now, 22). All I remembered from that first reading was the poem "The Youth," about a girl in a game of soccer, and that, when a fellow seventh grade classmate of mine spotted the heading "Trieste and a Woman," he said, "That's so you."
So here I am, 22, rereading this work, somehow, of my childhood. I found Saba's verses full but plain, unassuming - and yes, honest. In the way he theorizes poetry and in the way he writes it, Saba strives for the true, the unpretentious, the un-ornate. He succeeds mightily at this goal of producing lines that hold within them a simple and undeniable candor - but, and perhaps this too is Saba's aim, they are not particularly interesting.
400 pages drone on, and Saba has more and still more to say about his soul, his wet nurse, despair, desire - and none of it feels like it complicates or enhances any of the previous times in the volume that he wrote on those same subjects.
But there is an incredible sweetness to this work. One feels themself fall into and linger in, only very briefly, Saba's lines. He graces us with beautiful if unremarkable (beautiful because unremarkable?) images of the azure sky, and slow walks through the garden, and boats bobbing on the sea. I found myself quietly and quickly enchanted by thoughts like the one that Saba is "enchanted" by the "azure" of the name, Mediterranean. In this season of early summer, I am grateful for the dreamy, airy quality of Saba's verses - though I must guess that if not for the nostalgia I harbor for Songbook, and the warm impression of its diction, I would be far more harsh.
So here I am, 22, rereading this work, somehow, of my childhood. I found Saba's verses full but plain, unassuming - and yes, honest. In the way he theorizes poetry and in the way he writes it, Saba strives for the true, the unpretentious, the un-ornate. He succeeds mightily at this goal of producing lines that hold within them a simple and undeniable candor - but, and perhaps this too is Saba's aim, they are not particularly interesting.
400 pages drone on, and Saba has more and still more to say about his soul, his wet nurse, despair, desire - and none of it feels like it complicates or enhances any of the previous times in the volume that he wrote on those same subjects.
But there is an incredible sweetness to this work. One feels themself fall into and linger in, only very briefly, Saba's lines. He graces us with beautiful if unremarkable (beautiful because unremarkable?) images of the azure sky, and slow walks through the garden, and boats bobbing on the sea. I found myself quietly and quickly enchanted by thoughts like the one that Saba is "enchanted" by the "azure" of the name, Mediterranean. In this season of early summer, I am grateful for the dreamy, airy quality of Saba's verses - though I must guess that if not for the nostalgia I harbor for Songbook, and the warm impression of its diction, I would be far more harsh.
October 10, 2022
Unico poeta del novecento a realizzare un’opera dal titolo Canzoniere, una ripresa dell’opera del grande Francesco Petrarca. È un’opera dove L’Unità, l’autobiografismo trovano parte e si sviluppano in maniera armoniosa nelle pagine de Canzoniere. Un’opera basta che raccoglia 50 anni di poesia che racconta la vita di Umberto Saba, una vita fatta di dolori come la perdita del padre e il forte binomio tra la madre e la nutrice. A mio parere la parte più interessante è quella dedicata alla psicoanalisi, Saba andrà in giro da uno psichiatra ma non troverà giovamento, lo farà da solo e si studierà intensamente al proprio interno per capire la causa del suo male. La completa realizzazione del suo male lo porterà a non essere più autobiografico nelle sue poesie. Una raccolta corposa, divisa in varie raccolte scritte in un lessico semplice e non sempre scurrile, Saba non amava esserlo.
Voto: 8/10
~Michele~
Voto: 8/10
~Michele~
June 30, 2020
Se leggi questi versi e se in profondo
senti che belli non sono, son veri,
ci trovi un canarino e TUTTO IL MONDO.
Poesie di tutta una vita. Per forza di cose, la raccolta è altalenante, ma i versi ispirati sono la maggior parte. Semplicità e malinconia, ma l’umorismo non manca. Pochi temi, ma sviscerati da qualsiasi prospettiva.
Un classico non per niente.
La gallinella che ancor qui si duole,
e raspa presso alla porta funesta,
mi fa vedere dietro la sua cresta
tutta una fattoria piena di sole.
senti che belli non sono, son veri,
ci trovi un canarino e TUTTO IL MONDO.
Poesie di tutta una vita. Per forza di cose, la raccolta è altalenante, ma i versi ispirati sono la maggior parte. Semplicità e malinconia, ma l’umorismo non manca. Pochi temi, ma sviscerati da qualsiasi prospettiva.
Un classico non per niente.
La gallinella che ancor qui si duole,
e raspa presso alla porta funesta,
mi fa vedere dietro la sua cresta
tutta una fattoria piena di sole.
January 27, 2025
Una biografia in versi che narra, tra le tante cose, della sensazione del sentirsi dissimile agli altri, l' «onta d'essere solo e diverso», e il desiderio di immergersi nella «calda vita» e poter essere un semplice uomo come tanti.
Un'opera la cui organicità si fonda su una fittissima rete di riecheggiamenti che
collegano tra di loro componimenti diversi in un'unica trama, nell'opposizione continua tra un "dentro", da cui il poeta si protende verso il mondo, e un "fuori", ignoto e spaventoso ma che attrae con grande potenza.
Un'opera la cui organicità si fonda su una fittissima rete di riecheggiamenti che
collegano tra di loro componimenti diversi in un'unica trama, nell'opposizione continua tra un "dentro", da cui il poeta si protende verso il mondo, e un "fuori", ignoto e spaventoso ma che attrae con grande potenza.
May 11, 2021
The good, the wonderful Lina
opens the window wide so that I can see
the immense sky.
Here in this quiet retreat where I think
that I gave in vain, that the end draws near,
the more I like this sky, these swallows,
these clouds. I'm not asking for anything else.
To smoke
my pipe in silence like an old man
sea wolf.
July 17, 2023
harolds blūms nejokojās
July 21, 2023
Indifferente gioventù s'allaccia;
sbanda a povere mète.
sbanda a povere mète.
September 19, 2024
mistico
August 7, 2025
Personale. Sincero. Meditativo.
Read
August 23, 2025Infranta, ma sempre viva tensione alla vita.
October 28, 2025
Una poética agreste, cotidiana, sensible y breve. Vale revisarlo.
October 4, 2014
Umberto Saba rodio se 1883. godine u Trstu, gradu koji će postati jedan od najsnažnijih motiva njegove poezije. Svoj rodni grad napuštao je rijetko, i uvijek mu se brzo, sa ljubavlju vraćao. Imao je naizgled jednostavan i običan život. U dvadeset sedmoj se oženio djevojkom koju je upoznao u ranoj mladosti. Prve godine braka dobili su ćerku. Kasnije, Saba otkupljuje nekadašnju knjižaru i pretvara je u antikvarnicu. Knjižarstvom će se baviti do kraja života, istrajno, tiho i posvećeno. Umrijeće ubrzo posle smrti svoje žene, blizu Trsta, 1957. godine.
Saba je rano počeo da objavljuje poeziju, ali je dugo ostao nepoznat. Mnoge objavljene zbirke ostajale su gotovo bez odjeka. Prosto, Sabin stil nije išao u korak sa tadašnjim književnim stremljenjima. Osim toga, njegovi stihovi se nisu nametali. U njima nije bilo buke i suvišnih riječi, nasilnih jezičkih eksperimenata i bilo kakvih povlađivanja. Naprotiv, njegove pjesme bile su neposredne i jasne, dosledne sebi, jedinstvene, obasjane iznutra spokojnom i neokaljanom ljepotom. I mada je izgledalo da takvu poeziju malo ko čita, Saba je nastavljao da piše i traga za najboljim izrazom. Stil mu je postajao jednostavniji; njegove sve kraće pjesme težile su da zadrže tek trenutke, tek prolaznu radost, tugu ili povrijeđenost. Činilo se da njegovo pisanje i život postaju sve bliži nečemu apstraktnom i neuhvatljivom, ali prisutnom, kao svjetlost; da njegova poezija dostiže vrhunac i kruni se, prezasićena sopstvenom ljepotom. Saba se približavao kraju. Tada je došla i slava, nepodijeljeno poštovanje i divljenje.
Sve Sabine pjesme zajedno čine "Kanconijer", intimnu i poetizovanu autobiografiju. Donekle su u pravu oni koji tvrde da bi se mogle čitati kao roman o pjesnikovom životu. Zaista, sve je tu: sjećanja na djetinjstvo; pjesme sa rijetkih mladalačkih i bezbrižnih putovanja; uspomene iz vojničkog života; šetnje Trstom; upoznavanje sa Linom, njegovom suprugom, njihova ljubav i nesuglasice, njihova bračna kriza; brižne i razigrane pjesme koje je Saba pisao za svoju ćerku; u pozadini, opasna i prijeteća istorija, nastupajući fašizam, Sabina ugroženost zato što je dijelom Jevrejin; nemoć da se bilo šta učini; otpor. Ima tu i dostojanstvenih i divnih posveta majci, porodičnoj istoriji, ženi koja ga je čuvala dok je bio mali; slučajnim prolaznicima, lijepim i nedostižnim ženama; na plaži ugledanim, dalekim i naizgled bezgrešnim mladićima. Svemu se u ovoj poeziji pristupa sa plemenitim zanimanjem, ništa nije odbačeno i osuđeno, ništa prezreno i zanemareno. Sve postoji sa nekim razlogom, sve je dostojno poštovanja, a možda i ljubavi.
"Kanconijer" u velikoj mjeri određuju dva motiva: žena i Trst.
Žena je najčešće Lina, pjesnikova supruga. U pojedinim pjesmama opisan je njen život i njena porodica, u drugim – Sabino divljenje i zahvalnost. Lini je posvećena i jedna od najljepših pjesama u "Kanconijeru" - "Mojoj ženi". Ova vedra i veoma nježna pjesma poredi Lininu skromnost i otmenost sa hirovitošću i spokojem prirode, oličene u različitim životinjama. Pjesnik je kasnije za tu pjesmu tvrdio da je napisana "kao što bi neko izgovorio molitvu". Postepeno u Sabinoj poeziji, lik stvarne Line preobraziće se u veličanstvenu i donekle mitsku sliku, ideal; privid savršenog u kojem je uvijek barem jedan detalj stvaran, detalj u koji je nemoguće ne zaljubiti se.
Trst je za Sabu svijet, veliko kretanje, praznik u nastajanju, misterija i okrilje, utočište. Trst je gotovo uvijek prisutan u ovim pjesmama, čak i onda kada se uopšte ne spominje; on je u odbljescima, bojama, vazduhu i mirisima, u šumovima i tišinama, u svemu. On je iskušenje, obećanje i sijaset propuštenih prilika; nepomirljivi uzlet koji se ne završava i kojem se pridružujemo, zabrinuti, uplašeni od sopstvene propasti. Trst – jedini grad koji voli.
Ipak, iako je strasno volio život i ljude, Saba je uglavnom bio introvertan i melanholičan čovjek. Tako je ovaj "Kanconijer" i prikaz čovjeka koji se nikada nije zaista srodio sa svijetom, iako je često upravo to najviše želio. U pjesmi "Predgrađe" kaže da bi volio da bude "kao svi ljudi, svakoga dana". Njegov stvarni život ostaje nekako nepotpun, čak neostvaren i tužan. Pomalo ga otaljavajući, uvijek po strani, Saba je sve što mu se dešavalo prevodio u poeziju. U njoj je Sabin istinski život, potpuni izraz njegovog srca. Čovjek koji je hodao Trstom kao sve stariji vlasnik jedne antikvarnice, predao je ono najbolje u sebi riječima, zaptivajući u njih svoje vedro očajanje, svoju intimnu istinu i svoje patnje. U bespućima jezika i pisanja sijenka postaje nalik svjetlosti i usamljenik postaje heroj. Kada pomislimo na to, kada to zaista shvatimo, savladaće nas plemenita i sveobuhvatna ljubav.
Poezija, u koju se uranja kao u more, sa kojom se more postaje.
Saba je rano počeo da objavljuje poeziju, ali je dugo ostao nepoznat. Mnoge objavljene zbirke ostajale su gotovo bez odjeka. Prosto, Sabin stil nije išao u korak sa tadašnjim književnim stremljenjima. Osim toga, njegovi stihovi se nisu nametali. U njima nije bilo buke i suvišnih riječi, nasilnih jezičkih eksperimenata i bilo kakvih povlađivanja. Naprotiv, njegove pjesme bile su neposredne i jasne, dosledne sebi, jedinstvene, obasjane iznutra spokojnom i neokaljanom ljepotom. I mada je izgledalo da takvu poeziju malo ko čita, Saba je nastavljao da piše i traga za najboljim izrazom. Stil mu je postajao jednostavniji; njegove sve kraće pjesme težile su da zadrže tek trenutke, tek prolaznu radost, tugu ili povrijeđenost. Činilo se da njegovo pisanje i život postaju sve bliži nečemu apstraktnom i neuhvatljivom, ali prisutnom, kao svjetlost; da njegova poezija dostiže vrhunac i kruni se, prezasićena sopstvenom ljepotom. Saba se približavao kraju. Tada je došla i slava, nepodijeljeno poštovanje i divljenje.
Sve Sabine pjesme zajedno čine "Kanconijer", intimnu i poetizovanu autobiografiju. Donekle su u pravu oni koji tvrde da bi se mogle čitati kao roman o pjesnikovom životu. Zaista, sve je tu: sjećanja na djetinjstvo; pjesme sa rijetkih mladalačkih i bezbrižnih putovanja; uspomene iz vojničkog života; šetnje Trstom; upoznavanje sa Linom, njegovom suprugom, njihova ljubav i nesuglasice, njihova bračna kriza; brižne i razigrane pjesme koje je Saba pisao za svoju ćerku; u pozadini, opasna i prijeteća istorija, nastupajući fašizam, Sabina ugroženost zato što je dijelom Jevrejin; nemoć da se bilo šta učini; otpor. Ima tu i dostojanstvenih i divnih posveta majci, porodičnoj istoriji, ženi koja ga je čuvala dok je bio mali; slučajnim prolaznicima, lijepim i nedostižnim ženama; na plaži ugledanim, dalekim i naizgled bezgrešnim mladićima. Svemu se u ovoj poeziji pristupa sa plemenitim zanimanjem, ništa nije odbačeno i osuđeno, ništa prezreno i zanemareno. Sve postoji sa nekim razlogom, sve je dostojno poštovanja, a možda i ljubavi.
"Kanconijer" u velikoj mjeri određuju dva motiva: žena i Trst.
Žena je najčešće Lina, pjesnikova supruga. U pojedinim pjesmama opisan je njen život i njena porodica, u drugim – Sabino divljenje i zahvalnost. Lini je posvećena i jedna od najljepših pjesama u "Kanconijeru" - "Mojoj ženi". Ova vedra i veoma nježna pjesma poredi Lininu skromnost i otmenost sa hirovitošću i spokojem prirode, oličene u različitim životinjama. Pjesnik je kasnije za tu pjesmu tvrdio da je napisana "kao što bi neko izgovorio molitvu". Postepeno u Sabinoj poeziji, lik stvarne Line preobraziće se u veličanstvenu i donekle mitsku sliku, ideal; privid savršenog u kojem je uvijek barem jedan detalj stvaran, detalj u koji je nemoguće ne zaljubiti se.
Trst je za Sabu svijet, veliko kretanje, praznik u nastajanju, misterija i okrilje, utočište. Trst je gotovo uvijek prisutan u ovim pjesmama, čak i onda kada se uopšte ne spominje; on je u odbljescima, bojama, vazduhu i mirisima, u šumovima i tišinama, u svemu. On je iskušenje, obećanje i sijaset propuštenih prilika; nepomirljivi uzlet koji se ne završava i kojem se pridružujemo, zabrinuti, uplašeni od sopstvene propasti. Trst – jedini grad koji voli.
Ipak, iako je strasno volio život i ljude, Saba je uglavnom bio introvertan i melanholičan čovjek. Tako je ovaj "Kanconijer" i prikaz čovjeka koji se nikada nije zaista srodio sa svijetom, iako je često upravo to najviše želio. U pjesmi "Predgrađe" kaže da bi volio da bude "kao svi ljudi, svakoga dana". Njegov stvarni život ostaje nekako nepotpun, čak neostvaren i tužan. Pomalo ga otaljavajući, uvijek po strani, Saba je sve što mu se dešavalo prevodio u poeziju. U njoj je Sabin istinski život, potpuni izraz njegovog srca. Čovjek koji je hodao Trstom kao sve stariji vlasnik jedne antikvarnice, predao je ono najbolje u sebi riječima, zaptivajući u njih svoje vedro očajanje, svoju intimnu istinu i svoje patnje. U bespućima jezika i pisanja sijenka postaje nalik svjetlosti i usamljenik postaje heroj. Kada pomislimo na to, kada to zaista shvatimo, savladaće nas plemenita i sveobuhvatna ljubav.
Poezija, u koju se uranja kao u more, sa kojom se more postaje.
August 8, 2021
"A mia moglie", la poesia che resta nel cuore. Tra queste righe ho sentito tutto l'amore di Saba.
January 15, 2025
Saba è un cucciolo.
September 22, 2021
Si tratta di una raccolta di poesie da diverse opere.
Centrali sono i temi dell'infanzia e della giovinezza passate, della moglie e di Trieste. Il poeta è sempre come isolato nel mezzo delle persone e proprio per questo alla ricerca di una comunione con il popolo povero e la gente comune.
Il linguaggio è complesso, non troppo di mio gusto.
Centrali sono i temi dell'infanzia e della giovinezza passate, della moglie e di Trieste. Il poeta è sempre come isolato nel mezzo delle persone e proprio per questo alla ricerca di una comunione con il popolo povero e la gente comune.
Il linguaggio è complesso, non troppo di mio gusto.
April 1, 2013
Beautiful translation!
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