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POEMS ABOUT OUR CITIES
A STORY ABOUT MISTERBIANCO
"Formerly, the people of Misterbianco, immediately after Ferragosto, moved en masse to the places dear to the Madonna degli Ammalati to refresh their minds and bodies, to regenerate themselves and wait in “trepidation” for the traditional and annual feast in honor of Maria SS. degli Ammalati, which was celebrated, and is celebrated, in the homonymous church located a few kilometers north of the town, on the second Sunday of September.
And so after August 15th, Ferragosto and the feast of the Assumption of Mary, everyone’s thoughts quickly turned to those pleasant places, sure of being able to spend a happy and peaceful vacation. But after a whole year of “detachment”, it was necessary to “refresh” the house and the surrounding land. And so, a few days before departure, the head of the family, often helped by his eldest son, went ahead early in the morning to clean up the surrounding land and free it from weeds and debris, prune the steepest branches of trees, thin out flower beds, prune hedges, burn weeds. And while her husband thought about the land, his wife, helped by her most willing daughter, tidied up the house, dusted the furniture, cleaned the kitchen and bathroom, made up the beds, washed the courtyard and terrace. Everything had to be in good order for the imminent arrival of the whole family. In addition, if necessary, small repairs were made to the electrical system, railings were repainted, doors were polished, floors were degreased - everything had to be ready to welcome family and friends in the best possible way.
"Formerly, the people of Misterbianco, immediately after Ferragosto, moved en masse to the places dear to the Madonna degli Ammalati to refresh their minds and bodies, to regenerate themselves and wait in “trepidation” for the traditional and annual feast in honor of Maria SS. degli Ammalati, which was celebrated, and is celebrated, in the homonymous church located a few kilometers north of the town, on the second Sunday of September.
And so after August 15th, Ferragosto and the feast of the Assumption of Mary, everyone’s thoughts quickly turned to those pleasant places, sure of being able to spend a happy and peaceful vacation. But after a whole year of “detachment”, it was necessary to “refresh” the house and the surrounding land. And so, a few days before departure, the head of the family, often helped by his eldest son, went ahead early in the morning to clean up the surrounding land and free it from weeds and debris, prune the steepest branches of trees, thin out flower beds, prune hedges, burn weeds. And while her husband thought about the land, his wife, helped by her most willing daughter, tidied up the house, dusted the furniture, cleaned the kitchen and bathroom, made up the beds, washed the courtyard and terrace. Everything had to be in good order for the imminent arrival of the whole family. In addition, if necessary, small repairs were made to the electrical system, railings were repainted, doors were polished, floors were degreased - everything had to be ready to welcome family and friends in the best possible way.
But then suddenly, without even realizing it, we arrived straight at those much “longed-for” days of the feast of Madonna degli Ammalati. The feast was once simple - perhaps more humble - but very heartfelt and engaging; above all it was awaited (by young people), lived moment by moment until the end. It was truly a festival for young people."
In the various editions, our greatest poets have alternated on stage, heirs of the most genuine peasant cultural tradition of Misterbianco, whose names are part of the city’s heritage: Titta Abbadessa, Neddu Bruca, Neddu Calcagno, Nino Giuffrida Condorelli, Gaetano Petralia, Nunzio Petralia, Mimmo Santonocito, Gaetano Sava, Turi Malerba (who also played the role of presenter). They were pages of Sicilian literature of considerable artistic and cultural value that society at the time was still able to express before homogenization, flattening and today’s educational emergency.
Then, at the end of the gathering, the poets mingled with the people. The meeting between the poet and the people was a simple, true and rewarding way to exchange ideas, impressions and evaluations. Truly a sign of another time!
Here are some examples of the poems of these simple people, heritage of the ancient culture of Misterbianco.
Enjoy!
In the various editions, our greatest poets have alternated on stage, heirs of the most genuine peasant cultural tradition of Misterbianco, whose names are part of the city’s heritage: Titta Abbadessa, Neddu Bruca, Neddu Calcagno, Nino Giuffrida Condorelli, Gaetano Petralia, Nunzio Petralia, Mimmo Santonocito, Gaetano Sava, Turi Malerba (who also played the role of presenter). They were pages of Sicilian literature of considerable artistic and cultural value that society at the time was still able to express before homogenization, flattening and today’s educational emergency.
Then, at the end of the gathering, the poets mingled with the people. The meeting between the poet and the people was a simple, true and rewarding way to exchange ideas, impressions and evaluations. Truly a sign of another time!
Here are some examples of the poems of these simple people, heritage of the ancient culture of Misterbianco.
Enjoy!
Turi Scordo
CARU LITTURI
Caru litturi miu, si trovi sbagghi, non c'è bisognu ca ti maravigghi, pricchì
suddu simini 'nsurcu d'agghi certu, ca tutti grossi non li pigghi; suddu cerni
frummentu, o puru spagghi, ci trovi 'nmenzu tanti cuculigghi, perciò, sunnu
accussì li me travagghi ca ci sù cosi boni e c'è mmischigghi.
Pirduna, si ti parru di campagni, di giardini, di mennuli e di vigni, d'acqui
currenti, di vadduni e stagni, cugghitura d'alivi e di vinnigni, d'armenti,
pasculari a li minzagni, lochi ad'umbrati di carrubbi e pigni chisti, Litturi
miu, si non ti lagni, ti nni veni ccu mia ca ti li 'nsigni.
Poi, quannu spacca l'arva, a la matina, senti lu cantu di lu rusignolu, o sia,
di passareddu, o currintina, ca ni dunanu a nui tantu cunsolu; vidi, supira
l'ervi, l'acquazzina ca squagghiari la fa lu vinticciolu, perciò, cui a la
campagna s'avvicina vidi chiddu ca vidi 'ncampagnolu. Si tu cci veni 'nta la
Primavera, trovi, 'ntra la campagna, 'na pittura, appena spunta la cilesti sfera
vidi 'na puddiredda in' ogni ciura; cci facemu, a li vigni, la spulera, di lu
fenu si fa la mititura, e ccui non vidi chistu si dispera pricchì c'è
'nparadisu addirittura.
Non ti nni parru di lu vinnignari ca ti nni parru appressu, o miu Litturi,
vacci, si poi, e mettiti a guardari, ca sù 'ncampagna li sceni d'amuri; vidi la
racinedda carriari, ccu cannistri, cruvecchi e tiraturi, e 'ntra l'assemi,
sentili cantari, ch'a lu stissu sintillu ti 'nnamuri.
DEAR READER
Dear reader, if I make mistakes, there's no need to be surprised, because I'm just a simple messenger, unable to grasp everything; I understand some wheat or spaghetti, and others slip through my grasp. Forgive me if I speak of fields, gardens, apple trees, and vineyards, of flowing water, streams, and ponds, the scent of olives and grapevines, of grazing animals, small shaded spots with carob and pine trees. My dear reader, if you don't complain, come with me, and I'll show you these things. Then, when the morning breaks, you'll hear the song of the nightingale, or rather, of the little sparrow or finch, that bring us great comfort. See, smell the grass, the fresh water that the gentle wind shakes. Therefore, those who approach the countryside see what I, a simple country poet, see. If you come in the Spring, you'll find a painting in the countryside, as soon as the blue sphere rises, you'll see flowers in every corner. We prune the vines, harvest the hay, and those who haven't experienced this despair, for there's a true paradise here. Let me tell you about the vineyard workers I've encountered, my dear reader, go and observe them, for in the countryside there are scenes of love. See the cart loaded with baskets, hoes, and plows, and in the midst of it all, hear their songs, fall in love with the same feeling.
Dear reader, if I make mistakes, there's no need to be surprised, because I'm just a simple messenger, unable to grasp everything; I understand some wheat or spaghetti, and others slip through my grasp. Forgive me if I speak of fields, gardens, apple trees, and vineyards, of flowing water, streams, and ponds, the scent of olives and grapevines, of grazing animals, small shaded spots with carob and pine trees. My dear reader, if you don't complain, come with me, and I'll show you these things. Then, when the morning breaks, you'll hear the song of the nightingale, or rather, of the little sparrow or finch, that bring us great comfort. See, smell the grass, the fresh water that the gentle wind shakes. Therefore, those who approach the countryside see what I, a simple country poet, see. If you come in the Spring, you'll find a painting in the countryside, as soon as the blue sphere rises, you'll see flowers in every corner. We prune the vines, harvest the hay, and those who haven't experienced this despair, for there's a true paradise here. Let me tell you about the vineyard workers I've encountered, my dear reader, go and observe them, for in the countryside there are scenes of love. See the cart loaded with baskets, hoes, and plows, and in the midst of it all, hear their songs, fall in love with the same feeling.
A LA SICILIA
Sicilia bedda mia terra di focu,
li preggi toi, a cantari non' agghicu,
pricchì spuntunu ciuri in' ogni locu,
e lu Suli ti varda, sennu a picu;
trasennu marzu, l'aceddi sù gnocu,
trippa lu voi e l'agnidduzzu nicu,
la viti, và sbucciannu a pocu a pocu
mentri ca fà lu jettutu la ficu.
Ma su lu sensu miu era chiù avanti
cantava li tò preggi cchiù cuntenti,
cantava lu to mari trimulanti,
e li varcuzzi toi ca vannu lenti;
cantava li paîsi e l'abitanti,
li voschira, li pasculi e l'armenti,
'nsumma, canzuni, nni faceva tanti,
cchiù megghiu assai di chisti e cchiù eccillenti.
Nascivi 'ntra la terra e mi nni vantu,
e lu to affettu a lu cori lu sentu,
e comu figghiu to, ti staiu accantu,
ca non ti lassu mancu pri 'nmumentu;
e quannu sugnu, sularinu, all'antu,
fazzu canzuni e azzappannu n'allentu,
'nsumma, Sicilia mia, t'aduru tantu
ca m'abbunni di frutti e di frummentu.
Sicilia bedda mia terra di focu,
li preggi toi, a cantari non' agghicu,
pricchì spuntunu ciuri in' ogni locu,
e lu Suli ti varda, sennu a picu;
trasennu marzu, l'aceddi sù gnocu,
trippa lu voi e l'agnidduzzu nicu,
la viti, và sbucciannu a pocu a pocu
mentri ca fà lu jettutu la ficu.
Ma su lu sensu miu era chiù avanti
cantava li tò preggi cchiù cuntenti,
cantava lu to mari trimulanti,
e li varcuzzi toi ca vannu lenti;
cantava li paîsi e l'abitanti,
li voschira, li pasculi e l'armenti,
'nsumma, canzuni, nni faceva tanti,
cchiù megghiu assai di chisti e cchiù eccillenti.
Nascivi 'ntra la terra e mi nni vantu,
e lu to affettu a lu cori lu sentu,
e comu figghiu to, ti staiu accantu,
ca non ti lassu mancu pri 'nmumentu;
e quannu sugnu, sularinu, all'antu,
fazzu canzuni e azzappannu n'allentu,
'nsumma, Sicilia mia, t'aduru tantu
ca m'abbunni di frutti e di frummentu.