{"id":1678,"date":"2012-03-28T13:24:07","date_gmt":"2012-03-28T13:24:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/blogs.transparent.com\/italian\/?p=1678"},"modified":"2012-03-28T13:24:07","modified_gmt":"2012-03-28T13:24:07","slug":"le-scarpine-di-valentino-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogs.transparent.com\/italian\/le-scarpine-di-valentino-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Le Scarpine di Valentino"},"content":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s March, and there\u2019s blossom all around us. A couple of days ago we were going for a walk down in the valley when I saw a beautiful bush of biancospino <\/strong>(hawthorn) covered in white flowers<\/font>. Without thinking I started reciting a poem from my childhood: \u201cOh! Valentino vestito di nuovo, come le brocche dei biancospini \u2026\u201d <\/strong>\u201cWhat poem is that?\u201d, asked Geoff. \u201cA poem that we used to study at primary school called \u201cValentino\u201d <\/strong>by Giovanni Pascoli\u201d. <\/p>\n

I explained the poem to Geoff: \u201c It is said that one day the poet saw a child running around outside the church. He was very happy and extremely proud of himself because he was wearing the new suit that his mother had made for him, yet he was barefoot. The poet asked the child his name: \u201cMi chiamo Valentino, Signore\u201d <\/strong>(\u201cMy name is Valentino, Sir\u201d) said the child. \u201cE perch\u00e9 non hai le scarpe?\u201d <\/strong>(\u201cWhy don\u2019t you have any shoes?\u201d) asked Pascoli. \u201cPerch\u00e9 la mamma ha finito i soldi\u201d <\/strong>(\u201cBecause my mother has run out of money\u201d) came the reply. Touched by the child\u2019s frank words, Pascoli wrote a poem about barefooted Valentino and his new suit\u201d. <\/p>\n

Well, I don\u2019t know if that is the real story behind the poem, but it\u2019s what la maestra<\/strong> (the teacher) told us, and that\u2019s how I\u2019ve always imagined it, a happy contadinello<\/strong> (little peasant boy) so pleased with his new suit that he didn\u2019t notice or care about his bare feet. <\/p>\n

I also have another childhood memory linked to this poem, this time a real one: my older brother Andrea had a friend called Valentino. One day my mother asked Valentino\u2019s mother why she had chosen that particular name, and this is the story she recounted: \u201cWhen I fell pregnant, I started working on the corredino <\/strong>(baby\u2019s outfit), I knitted blankets, little cardigans, and so on, but decided to leave the shoes for last\u201d. \u201cThey are so small and simple that they won\u2019t take long to knit, I thought to myself. So I kept postponing them, until suddenly I went into labour. They took me to hospital with my knitting needles and the wool still in my hands, but the baby was born before I had a chance to finish the first pair of shoes. My baby was a boy, and so we decided to name him Valentino after the little boy in the poem\u201d.<\/p>\n

Here is Pascoli\u2019s poem, with our translation into English:<\/p>\n

\u201cValentino\u201d di Giovanni Pascoli<\/strong><\/p>\n

Oh! Valentino vestito di nuovo,
come le brocche dei biancospini!
Solo, ai piedini provati dal rovo
porti la pelle de\u2019 tuoi piedini;
porti le scarpe che mamma ti fece,
che non mutasti mai da quel d\u00ec,
che non costarono un picciolo: in vece
costa il vestito che ti cuc\u00ec.
Costa; ch\u00e9 mamma gi\u00e0 tutto ci spese
quel tintinnante salvadanaio:
ora esso \u00e8 vuoto; e cant\u00f2 pi\u00f9 d\u2019un mese
per riempirlo, tutto il pollaio.
Pensa, a gennaio, che il fuoco del ciocco
non ti bastava, tremavi, ahim\u00e8!,
e le galline cantavano, Un cocco!
ecco ecco un cocco un cocco per te!
Poi, le galline chiocciarono, e venne
marzo, e tu, magro contadinello,
restasti a mezzo, cos\u00ec con le penne,
ma nudi i piedi, come un uccello:
come l\u2019uccello venuto dal mare,
che tra il ciliegio salta, e non sa
ch\u2019oltre il beccare, il cantare, l\u2019amare,
ci sia qualch\u2019altra felicit\u00e0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Oh! Valentino clothed anew,
like the blossoms of the hawthorns!
Just, your little feet tried by the brambles
you wear the skin of your little feet;
you wear the shoes mother made you,
that you haven’t changed from that day,
that didn’t cost a penny: but
the suit she made for you is expensive.
It\u2019s expensive: mother already spent
that jingling moneybox:
now it’s empty: and for more than a month,
the whole poultry pen sang to fill it.
Remember January, when the burning log
wasn’t enough for you, you were shivering, pity me!
and the hens were singing: An egg!
here here an egg, an egg for you!
Then, the hens brooded, and March arrived,
and you, thin little peasant
remained half finished, with plumage,
but barefooted, just like a bird:
like the bird come from the sea,
which hops around the cherry tree, and doesn’t know
that besides pecking, singing, loving,
there could be another happiness.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s March, and there\u2019s blossom all around us. A couple of days ago we were going for a walk down in the valley when I saw a beautiful bush of biancospino (hawthorn) covered in white flowers. Without thinking I started reciting a poem from my childhood: \u201cOh! Valentino vestito di nuovo, come le brocche dei…<\/p>\n

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