The Spirit Level
The following is my experimental translation of 'A Livella, by Antonio 'Toto' de Curtis. I have taken many, many liberties with individual words and phrases. This has allowed me to write a poem with a rhythm and rhyme similar to that of the original poem. What is perhaps more controversial, I have partially tried to render the original Neapolitan language in the English of the Black Country (the area around Dudley and Wolverhampton), for which no standardised spelling exists. This may sound strange, since the characters retain their Italian names. It was also very challenging, since I do not speak Black Country English. Enjoy.
The Spirit-Level
Each year, upon the second of November,
We all the ancient custom must obey,
To visit the cemetery and to remember
The dearly departed, the souls who’ve passed away.
Each year, exactly on this day of mourning,
This solemn anniversary of ours,
So too go I, and spend a while adorning
The grave of aunt Vincenza with some flowers.
A strange and frightening thing occurred this year,
When I’d completed this time-honoured deed
(Mother of God!), to think of it… my fear!
But I digress; now listen, and take heed…
The cemetery gates were due to close quite soon,
But as I sauntered calm and tranquil by,
Perusing the inscriptions lit by moon,
A grand and striking tombstone caught my eye.
“HERE RESTS IN PEACE THE HONOURABLE MARQUESS
LORD BELLUNO WHO SADLY PASSED AWAY
BEACON OF GRACE AND OF BRAVERY A FORTRESS
IN ’31 ON THE THIRTEENTH DAY OF MAY”.
A coat of arms enhanced the marble tomb,
While several lightbulbs formed a glowing cross;
A host of candles helped dispel the gloom,
Where three bouquets of roses had been tossed.
Next to the grave of this illustrious fellow,
There was another, tiny little cross,
Abandoned, gone to seed, and slightly yellow,
Instead of roses, garlanded with moss.
The words upon it scarcely could I read:
“GENNARO ESPOSITO, BINMAN, R.I.P.”
The very sight of it made my heart bleed,
This grave not tended in the least degree!
So this is how life is! - I stood there thinking -
Some people have it all, while some have none!
Can this poor soul have had the slightest inkling
That in the next life too he’d be a bum?
While I was lost in pondering this thought,
Meanwhile, the clocks had long since struck midnight
And behind the churchyard railings I was caught,
Amidst the candles, paralysed with fright.
And suddenly, what’s that I see draw near?
Two shadows make their way to where I’m waiting…
I thought: There’s something strange occurring here…
Can this be real, am I hallucinating?
That’s no hallucination; It’s the Marquess:
With top-hat, monocle and rich perfume;
Behind him, an ugly gubbins in the darkness:
Foul smelling, with his hand wrapped round a broom.
Well, he without a doubt is don Gennaro…
The wretch who swept the streets to win his bread.
There’s something I still can’t quite understand though:
Is this the hour that ghosts return to bed?
They couldn’t have been a cubit from my nose,
When the Marquess suddenly stopped and, with a glare,
Turned round and struck a most distinguished pose,
And to poor old Gennaro said: “You there!
I’d like to know from you, you rotten knave,
How dared you have your carcass laid to rest,
To my eternal shame, next to my grave,
Defiling my respected family crest?!
For rank is rank; its laws must be enforced.
In this you’ve clearly overstepped the bounds;
Your corpse had to be laid somewhere of course,
But buried rather in the dumping grounds!
I cannot tolerate one second more
Your foul and pestilential presence here.
You must seek out another trough, therefore,
Amidst your fellow man, amongst your peers.”
“Your Lorship, sir, oi swear it ay moy fault,
Me missus had me buried over ‘ere.
Oi had no hand at all in this insult,
Since oi was jed, ‘ow could oi interfere?
If oi was breathing oi’d do as yow say,
Oi’d take me bones away from here, your Grace,
At the drop of an ‘at, without further delay
And chuck ‘em in a ditch in a different place.”
“You vile and impudent cur, you’ve got some brass;
You’re stretching out my patience wafer thin…
If I hadn’t been a man of the noble class
I’d have seen red long ago and done you in!”
“Do me in? Alroight, oi’d loike ta see yow try…
‘Cause oi’ve had more’n enough of yower wailin’
Doe make no odds that wee’um passed away,
Jed or not oi’ll give yow such a pailin’!
Just who on earth d’yow think yow am … a God?
Inside these gates cor yow see wee’m the same?
And one dead sod is the spit of the next dead sod
So there ay no point in staking a noble claim.”
“You base, despicable swine! … How do you dare
Compare your common self with such as me,
Who have as my forebears a generous share
Of princes, dukes, and counts with fleurs-de-lis?”
“Oh, la-di-dah and fleurs-de-lis; get yow!
Cor yow get this idea in yer ‘ed?
That Jeth’s loike a spirit level, straight and true,
That meks sure of a flat and even spread.
Kings and judges and all the greats of ‘istry,
Who lost their lives, their privilege and clout,
When they were let in on life’s final myst'ry
Faced the facts; why cor yow work it out?
So ‘ark at this and with no more misgiving
Put up with me, yer neighbour, there’s a sport
‘Cause playing silly beggars is for the living
But you and me, we dead am a graver sort.”
The Spirit-Level
Each year, upon the second of November,
We all the ancient custom must obey,
To visit the cemetery and to remember
The dearly departed, the souls who’ve passed away.
Each year, exactly on this day of mourning,
This solemn anniversary of ours,
So too go I, and spend a while adorning
The grave of aunt Vincenza with some flowers.
A strange and frightening thing occurred this year,
When I’d completed this time-honoured deed
(Mother of God!), to think of it… my fear!
But I digress; now listen, and take heed…
The cemetery gates were due to close quite soon,
But as I sauntered calm and tranquil by,
Perusing the inscriptions lit by moon,
A grand and striking tombstone caught my eye.
“HERE RESTS IN PEACE THE HONOURABLE MARQUESS
LORD BELLUNO WHO SADLY PASSED AWAY
BEACON OF GRACE AND OF BRAVERY A FORTRESS
IN ’31 ON THE THIRTEENTH DAY OF MAY”.
A coat of arms enhanced the marble tomb,
While several lightbulbs formed a glowing cross;
A host of candles helped dispel the gloom,
Where three bouquets of roses had been tossed.
Next to the grave of this illustrious fellow,
There was another, tiny little cross,
Abandoned, gone to seed, and slightly yellow,
Instead of roses, garlanded with moss.
The words upon it scarcely could I read:
“GENNARO ESPOSITO, BINMAN, R.I.P.”
The very sight of it made my heart bleed,
This grave not tended in the least degree!
So this is how life is! - I stood there thinking -
Some people have it all, while some have none!
Can this poor soul have had the slightest inkling
That in the next life too he’d be a bum?
While I was lost in pondering this thought,
Meanwhile, the clocks had long since struck midnight
And behind the churchyard railings I was caught,
Amidst the candles, paralysed with fright.
And suddenly, what’s that I see draw near?
Two shadows make their way to where I’m waiting…
I thought: There’s something strange occurring here…
Can this be real, am I hallucinating?
That’s no hallucination; It’s the Marquess:
With top-hat, monocle and rich perfume;
Behind him, an ugly gubbins in the darkness:
Foul smelling, with his hand wrapped round a broom.
Well, he without a doubt is don Gennaro…
The wretch who swept the streets to win his bread.
There’s something I still can’t quite understand though:
Is this the hour that ghosts return to bed?
They couldn’t have been a cubit from my nose,
When the Marquess suddenly stopped and, with a glare,
Turned round and struck a most distinguished pose,
And to poor old Gennaro said: “You there!
I’d like to know from you, you rotten knave,
How dared you have your carcass laid to rest,
To my eternal shame, next to my grave,
Defiling my respected family crest?!
For rank is rank; its laws must be enforced.
In this you’ve clearly overstepped the bounds;
Your corpse had to be laid somewhere of course,
But buried rather in the dumping grounds!
I cannot tolerate one second more
Your foul and pestilential presence here.
You must seek out another trough, therefore,
Amidst your fellow man, amongst your peers.”
“Your Lorship, sir, oi swear it ay moy fault,
Me missus had me buried over ‘ere.
Oi had no hand at all in this insult,
Since oi was jed, ‘ow could oi interfere?
If oi was breathing oi’d do as yow say,
Oi’d take me bones away from here, your Grace,
At the drop of an ‘at, without further delay
And chuck ‘em in a ditch in a different place.”
“You vile and impudent cur, you’ve got some brass;
You’re stretching out my patience wafer thin…
If I hadn’t been a man of the noble class
I’d have seen red long ago and done you in!”
“Do me in? Alroight, oi’d loike ta see yow try…
‘Cause oi’ve had more’n enough of yower wailin’
Doe make no odds that wee’um passed away,
Jed or not oi’ll give yow such a pailin’!
Just who on earth d’yow think yow am … a God?
Inside these gates cor yow see wee’m the same?
And one dead sod is the spit of the next dead sod
So there ay no point in staking a noble claim.”
“You base, despicable swine! … How do you dare
Compare your common self with such as me,
Who have as my forebears a generous share
Of princes, dukes, and counts with fleurs-de-lis?”
“Oh, la-di-dah and fleurs-de-lis; get yow!
Cor yow get this idea in yer ‘ed?
That Jeth’s loike a spirit level, straight and true,
That meks sure of a flat and even spread.
Kings and judges and all the greats of ‘istry,
Who lost their lives, their privilege and clout,
When they were let in on life’s final myst'ry
Faced the facts; why cor yow work it out?
So ‘ark at this and with no more misgiving
Put up with me, yer neighbour, there’s a sport
‘Cause playing silly beggars is for the living
But you and me, we dead am a graver sort.”
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