Giuseppe Gioachino
Belli
This site is devoted to the vernacular romanesco sonnets of Belli, one of Italy's greatest poets, 50 of the 429 translated by Michael Sullivan.
1774
Er còllera mòribbus 26
Inibbí le commedie?! E in che maggnera
v’immagginate sta lèggiaccia infame?
Tanto bbene, sor faccia de tigame,
s’opre er teatro, e sta notizzia è vvera.
Un povero garzon de faleggname
che ciabbusca du’ pavoli pe ssera,
pe nnun morí ddomani de collèra
s’averebbe oggi da morí de fame?
Nun ve pòzzo negà cc’ar zor Paterno
je fa er culo un tantin de lippe-lappe,
io però ddico che cce vince un terno.
Perché, famo er collèra che vvienisse,
co ttutta la pavura in ne le chiappe
chi rresta vivo vorà ddivertisse.
Title: Er còllera mòribbus: cholera morbus. There are thirty four sonnets with this title, conversations and discussions, among the habitués of the osteria della Gensola in Trastevere, on the world-wide epidemic of cholera that struck in India in 1817 and reached Italy in 1835. In Rome it reached its height in 1837, the year following the conclusion of this cycle of sonnets, where it killed 10,000 in two months. The linguistic deformation of còllera hints that it resulted from the wrath of God, as that of mòribbus brings in the idea of death.
l. 9 zor Paterno: Belli’s note: “Giovanni Paterno, impresario of the opera”.
1931
La toletta de la padrona
Li congressi de lei co Ppetronilla
sò ppropio un ride da slocasse l’ossa.
Ce vò ppiú arte pe appuntà una spilla
che ppe rregge li bbarberi a la smossa.
E ffa ttrippa, e sbrillenta, e nun attilla,
e strozza, e ffa bboccaccia, e cc’è ’na fossa...
Er color verde sbatte, er giallo strilla,
er rosso? è ttroppo chiasso: er bianco? ingrossa...
Eppoi, ggira e rriggira, se finissce
co l’andriè nnero, o de lana o de seta,
perché er nero, se sa, ddona e smagrissce.
Smagrissce? Uhm, parerà in un tippe-tappe;
ma ttu vva’ ccor passetto a mmente quieta,
e ssi ssò cchiappe trovi sempre chiappe.
L. 4 li bbarberi a la smossa: the riderless horses at the start of the annual Shrovetide race along the Corso from Piazza del Popolo to Piazza Venezia.
1959
La sartora scartata
Dove vado? a ppescà ’n’antra sartora
pe la padrona; che cquanno se ficca
quarch’ideaccia cqui, tanto lammicca
e ttanto fa cche la vò vvede fora.
Cor tajjo de Rosina la siggnora
disce che ir zuo bber petto nun ci spicca.
Lei la robba davanti la vò rricca
pe ssoverchià le zzinne de la nora.
Si nun z’ajjuta a ccuscinetti e a zzeppe
lei vò stà agretta assai: su le su’ coste
sc’è ppassato coll’asscia san Giuseppe.
Tiè ddu’ pellacce che ppàreno gozzi
de pollastri, e, a ssentìlla, a zzinne toste
drento Roma nun c’è cchi cce la pòzzi.
2028
Le ficcanase
Cosa vedi, eh? cche ffa?... ddi’, scopri ggnente?
Traòpri un antro po’ cquelo sportello.
Che? cc’è un paino? indov’èllo? indov’èllo?
Mannaggia! nun ze vede un accidente.
Ecco, ecco, viè avanti: e cquant’è bbello!
Chi ddiavolo sarà?... Ma cche pparente!
Uh, vva’, vva’, lui je stuzzica un pennente...
Lei je dà ssu le deta er mazzarello...
Che ffiandra! e nnun ce fa l’innoscentina?
Sta ffresco er zor milordo! oh llui scià ddato!
Vederà llui si è ssemmola o ffarina!
S’è ccacciat’er cappello!... mó sse caccia...
Statte zzitta, nun ride... Uh!... cche ppeccato!
Ciànno serrata la finestra in faccia.
2038
A oggnuno er zuo
Ma inzomma, de che ccosa se lamenta?
Da che pparte j’ho pperzo de rispetto?
Ch’edè st’inzurto che llei pijja a ppetto
che ne vò ammazzà vventi e fferì ttrenta?
Tutt’è cche mmarteddì, ggiù ppe la sscenta
de la Salita de Cresscenzi, ho ddetto
ch’è ’na cristiana che nnegozzia in Ghetto
de carnaccia, de tinche e de pulenta.
Disce: “Ma cquesto me viè a ddì mmiggnotta”.
Bbe’, cquann’anche arrivassimo a sto nome,
io nun pòzzo capì pperché jje scotta.
Chi a mmé mme disce Oste, io me ne grorio.
E er dí pputtana a llei sarebbe come
chiamà Ssu’ Santità Ppapa Grigorio.
2054
Mastr’Andrea vedovo
Ripijjà mmojje tu?! Ddoppo le pene
diliggerite co cquel’antra vacca?!
Dunque la tu’ pascenza nun è stracca
de pagà le tu’ corna a ppranzi e ccene?
Eppoi, ne l’età ttua, te sta mmó bbene,
cardèo mio bbello, de sposà una stacca?
Sai c’a cquesta je bbruscia la patacca,
e ttu ppoco ppiú ssangue hai ne le vene.
Ggiudizzio, mastr’Andrea: nun curre er risico
d’aribbuttatte in d’un inferno uperto
pe vvive disperato e mmorí ttisico.
Annà a impicciasse co rregazze un boccio!
Zzitto, nun t’inquietà: lo so de scerto
c’hai ggià vvotato er tu’ primo cartoccio.
l. 14 primo cartoccio: Belli’s note: “the expression derives from the wrapped rolls containing fifty coins”.
2133
L’appartamento de la padrona
La mi’ padrona è vvedova da un anno,
e sse gode sto po’ dd’appartamento,
che cc’entrería magara un riggimento
coll’arme e li bagajji ar zu’ comanno.
Questa è la sala: cqui sto io: llí stanno
le cammoriere e er pupo: de cqui ddrento
se va a ssei stanzie nobbile, che ssento
che li re cche sò rre mmanco scell’hanno.
Poi viè er zalone der bijjardo, poi
quello der ballo, poi ’na gallaria
pe spasseggio, pe ggioco e cquer che vvoi.
Là ccanteno e cqua ddorme la padrona:
e accusí, amico, senza dí bbuscia
pòi dí cche llà sse canta e cqua sse sona.
2162
Er guazzarolo sbiancato
Quant’ar dí cch’io me sposo sta regazza,
sor piripicchio mio, la fate franca!
Vacca o vvitella poi, bbiocca o ppollanca,
questo a mmé nun me smove una pennazza.
Ma rrara o nnò ccom’una mosca bbianca,
vienghi de bbona o de cattiva razza,
si ccredessivo mmai dàmme la guazza,
bello mio, me ve ggioco a ssottocianca.
Pe ccojjonella tanto, io ve soverchio;
e, ppe rregola vostra, io nun ciappizzo
co cchi ccerca marito pe ccuperchio.
Già la pascenza me sta in pizz’in pizzo:
e, un carcio che vve do, vv’allargo er cerchio
e vve spiano la punta ar cuderizzo.
2203
Er poverello de mala grazzia
Però, cquer benedetto poverello
fàsse trovà sdragliato pe le scale
der palazzo d’un conte cardinale,
come sott’a un bancone de mascello!...
Eppoi, sibbè cche sse sentissi male,
nun avé mmanco un deto de scervello
de tirasse un po’ in là mmentre che cquello
se strascinava sú ccoda, e ccodale!...
E avé ccoraggio in faccia a ssu’ Eminenza
de fà ppuro la bbava da la bocca
e de lassajje llí cquela schifenza!...
E mmorijje, pe ggionta, ar zu’ cospetto
come si stassi in de la su’ bbicocca,
nun ze chiama un mancajje de rispetto?
l.8 ccoda, e ccodale: of a horse, tail and crupper; of a cardinal, train and undertrain.
2240
Er zampietrino nîobbe
Era un pezzo, ma un pezzo assai lontano
ch’io fascevo la caccia a una regazza
giú ppe li colonnati, pe la piazza,
pe le logge, pe ttutto er Vatigano.
E ddiscevo tra mmé: «Sò un gran gabbiano!
Sta strega me cojjona, me strapazza...».
Quanto jjeri ecco un panno che svolazza,
e mme vedo fà un zegno da una mano.
È llei! Appizzo allora sott’ar portico,
da la parte che gguarda Bborgo Novo,
pe ccombinà l’affare de lo scòrtico.
Ma cquanno sò a la porta de San Pietro...
cazzo! è un Domenicano! e mm’aritrovo
cor una man’avanti e un’antra dietro.
Title: nîobbe: myopic. Belli’s note: “sampietrini is the name given to the maintenance workers of St Peters basilica”. It is also the name given to the paving cobbles that were laid first in the Square, now giving way throughout the city to rough asphalt as the art of laying them disappears.
2259
Er tempimpasce
E ancora nun ritorna co sta tela!
Nun c’è ccaso: chi vvò le cose leste
basta in un logo de mannacce Oreste,
ciarivedemo a llume de cannela.
Ma ssi un giorno me sarteno le creste,
oggi o ddomani che mme pìa de vela...
Eccolo er zor-don-Dezzio-co-le-mela!
Se ne viè ccor passetto de le feste!
Ôoh bben tornat’a llei, caro sor moncio:
lei è scarmato assai: pijji una ssedia:
commanna vino? gradirebbe un pòncio?
E cche nnove sci dà, sor cul-de-piommo!
È stato forzi a vvede la commedia
der viaggio di Cristofeno Colommo?
1774
A plague on their lives 26
Shut ve feeiters?! ’Ow an’ in wot way
wud they be shapin’ this sod awful law?
Absolute fact, it is, Mistah Lockjaw,
ve curtain goes up, ve players will play.
A poor sheensifter’s lad, green an’ raw,
paid a score each night ’as take-’ome pay,
less ’e die o’ this cholera Monday
’as to die Sunday ov an empty craw?
Ah can’t deny ve impresario
plays ve shitty coward in this ’ere farce,
but Ah says ’e stands to make lotsa dough.
’Cos, say this cholera ’as a good run,
when vere’s an ’and clapped on every arse
those still alive will be wantin’ their fun.
1931
Dressin’ Madame
The traffick she gets up to wi Miss Weekes,
it’ud make yer laugh yersel off yer chump.
It takes more grip to give one pin a tweak
than to ’old an ’urdler over the jumps.
It makes flab, it’s floppy, don’t ’ug ’er cheeks,
it’s too tight, there’s a crease, an’ these ’ere lumps…
Green on green clashes, an’ yeller just shrieks
an’ red? It’s too glarin’. White? Makes ’er plump…
An’ it ends, after all ’er whines an’ whims,
wi ’er wearin’ black, either silk or wool,
’cos, as we knows, black en’ances an’ slims.
Slims? Umh, at the first glance that well may be,
but, take yer time, take a neutral eyeful,
if a fat rump’s there, fat rump’s wot yer see.
1959
The sacked modiste
Where’m Ah off? To ’unt another moditse
fer madam; ’cos whenever she gets ’old
o’ some daft idea up ’ere, it gets rolled
an’ kneaded an’ squeezed until it fits.
Milady says the cut of that there Witts
don’t allow ’er bosoms to stand out bold.
Up front she wants to ’ave a sumshus mould
wot’ll overshadow ’er son’s wife’s tits.
If she don’t get ’elp from waddin’ an’ pads
she’s leaner than a lath: right down ’er ribs
Saint Joseph the Joiner shaved ’is adze.
’Er dugs is scrag as the neck of an ’en,
but as fer firm knockers, to ’ear ’Er Nibs,
there’s none to match in the ’ole o’ Lonnen.
2028
The nosey-parkers
Wot yer see, eh? wot goes?…see anythin’?
Pull back the curtain a bit, just a wee.
Wot? A fine gent? where is ’e? where is ’e?
God damn an’ blast it! Ah can’t see nothin’.
’Ere, ’ere, ’e’s comin’: an’ ain’t ’e bonny!
’Oo the devil can ’e be?… Wot cousin!
Oh, look, look,’er earing, ’e’s atweakin’…
An’ she slappin’ ’is ’and with ’er etwee.
The minx! Playin’ innocent if yer please?
The gent goin’ wivvart! Oh, but ’e’s game!
’E’ll be fer knowin’ if she’s chalk or cheese!
’E’s tossed off ’is titfer!… Now fer the chase…
Keeep it quiet, don’t laugh…Agh!… wot a shame!
They’ve gone an’ drawn the curtain in yer face.
2038
To each ’is own
Why on earth is she makin’ all this moan?
Eggsacly in wot way did Ah diss ’er?
Wot was the insult wot’s such a pisser
she could kill a cop shop all on ’er own?
It’s all ’cos last Tuesday, she’s by the phone
in Brick Lane market, Ah just says: sister,
there’s a gal in Borough, a right blister,
wot’ll swap gon’ or the pox just for yer bone.
She goes: “But that means yer callin’ me ’ooer.”
Well, ’ad Ah gone so far as use the name,
Ah can’t see why she so bleedin’ sore.
Call me landlord, Ah loves it, more on.
An’ callin’ ’er ’ooer, ain’t it the same
as me callin’ the P. M. Dave Cameron.
2054
Mistah Andrew widower
Wed agin, thee!? After the Excuse me
tha ’ad to dance to wi yon other cow!?
So tha longanimity’ll still allow
to ’ave ’orns put on thee at lunch an’ tea?
An’ then, at thine age, tha finds it gradely,
tha grinnin’ twot, to wed a filly now?
Tha knows the slot is red hot on yon frau,
an’ there ain’t much o’ the juice left in thee.
Think, Mistah Andrew: keep off the ’igh wire
o’ fall agin into yon gapin’ ’ell,
where it’ll be cry woe till tha lungs expire.
Messin’ wi girlies, a crinkly old man!
Shut it, keep it cool: fer Ah knows right well
’ow much tha’s spent o’ thy allotted span.
2133
Milady’s rooms
Milady ’as been widowed a year
an’ enjoys this teeny bit o’ space
where mebbe a regiment could find place
wi their weapons an’ all their ’eavy gear.
This is the salon, where Ah does; thro ’ere
the tot, one maid, ’er nails an’ ’air a brace.
Then six noble rooms, wot Ah ’ear the race
’o kings wot is kings don’t ’ave anythin’ near.
Then there’s the billiard room, if yer should play,
then the ballroom, then a gallery/mews
fer skittles, an’ gamblin’ games night an’ day.
There’s giddy, but ’ere’s where Milady snooze,
An’ so, matie, in all truth, yer could say;
artside it’s nails an’ pins an’ in ’ere it’s screws.
2162
The mocker gone pale
As for sayin’ I’ll be weddin’ this lass,
me little sir pigmy, yo’re away free!
Cow or heifer, brood hen or chickadee,
it doesn’t make me quiver an eyelash.
But rare as a white fly she be, not be,
come of good family or come from trash,
never think me an aisy man to abash,
boyo, for I’ll trip you behind the knee.
As for mock, I’m far more skilled at flyting,
and that it may guide yor ways, I’m not prone
to who would wed a man to hide a fling.
Now my restraint is very close to blown
and the kick I give will widen yor ring
and quite flatten the tip of yor tailbone.
2203
The mannerless tramp
But ’im gettin’ caught lyin’ in the ’all,
that unutterable ’omeless person,
where kips Boris, Lord Mayor o’ Lunnon,
thinks ’e’s dossin’ under a market stall..!
An’ even say ‘e feels ’is pangs come on,
not to ’ave the ounce o’ wherewithal
to drag yersel at least agin the wall
arta the way ov ’is worship’s Brompton!
An’ ’ave the cheek in front of the Mayor,
do that frothin’ at the marf, all that scum,
an’ leave ’im wi that filthy offal there.
An’ even go so far as die on ’im,
like ’e’s leakin’ it art in ’is own slum,
no dicorum, eh? no chic, not a glim.
l. 8 Brompton. It seemed only fair in the shifted context to give Boris Johnson a posh purple bike.
2240
The short-sighted tree-surgeon
Fer some time, well more ’un a day o’ two,
been after this gel ’opin’ fer a squeeze,
up Lincoln’s Inn, Grey’s Inn, under my trees,
Leather Lane, St Cross Street, ’Olborn all thro’.
An’ Ah’m tellin’ mesel: “Y’re a great foo!
This witch is connin’ yer, she’s just a tease...”
Yesserday, this maxi flaps i’ the breeze,
an’ Ah sees wot Ah’m bein’ beckoned to.
It’s ’er! So Ah follers: down Saffron ’Ill,
along Charterarse Street, up Ely Place,
to fix when we’ll tumble like Jack an’ Jill.
But at the fence o’ Saint Ethelreda’s...
fuck! It’s a Dominican! Back a pace,
wi me left hand on zip, right on me arse.
l. 3 Leather Lane, St Cross Street... The walk described takes about as long as that in the Italian, and ends outside the conservative Catholic church in central London.
2259
Mr Easy-does-it
One bolt o’ canvas an’ ’e’s still not back!
There’s nowt fer it: if tha want things done quick
all tha needs do is send that there Orlick
an’ tha won’t see ’im till it’s gone pitch black.
But if one o’ these days Ah lose me wick,
today or tommorrer Ah start to crack…
“Well lo an’ be’old, Mister Lightnin’ Jack!
‘Enters a pall-bearer wi rheumatic’.
Oh right welcome ’ome, dear Mister Snail,
y’er in a right lather, take this seat, pray,
would yer like a dram? dost favour some ale?
Wot news, Sir Leaden Arse, dost thou bring us?
Did tha by some chance go an’ see yon play
on the voyage of Christy Columbus?”