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Gracias, niebla
- GenresPoetry
116 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1974
About the author
W.H. Auden
318 books962 followersWystan Hugh Auden was an Anglo-American poet, best known for love poems such as "Funeral Blues," poems on political and social themes such as "September 1, 1939" and "The Shield of Achilles," poems on cultural and psychological themes such as The Age of Anxiety, and poems on religious themes such as For the Time Being and "Horae Canonicae." He grew up in and near Birmingham in a professional middle-class family. He attended English independent (or public) schools and studied English at Christ Church, Oxford. After a few months in Berlin in 1928–29 he spent five years (1930–35) teaching in English public schools, then travelled to Iceland and China in order to write books about his journeys. In 1939 he moved to the United States and became an American citizen in 1946. He taught from 1941 through 1945 in American universities, followed by occasional visiting professorships in the 1950s. From 1947 through 1957 he wintered in New York and summered in Ischia; from 1958 until the end of his life he wintered in New York (in Oxford in 1972–73) and summered in Kirchstetten, Austria.
Auden's poetry was noted for its stylistic and technical achievement, its engagement with politics, morals, love, and religion, and its variety in tone, form and content. He came to wide public attention at the age of twenty-three, in 1930, with his first book, Poems, followed in 1932 by The Orators . Three plays written in collaboration with Christopher Isherwood in 1935–38 built his reputation as a left-wing political writer. Auden moved to the United States partly to escape this reputation, and his work in the 1940s, including the long poems For the Time Being and The Sea and the Mirror, focused on religious themes. He won the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry for his 1947 long poem The Age of Anxiety, the title of which became a popular phrase describing the modern era. In 1956–61 he was Professor of Poetry at Oxford; his lectures were popular with students and faculty and served as the basis of his 1962 prose collection The Dyer's Hand.
From around 1927 to 1939 Auden and Isherwood maintained a lasting but intermittent sexual friendship while both had briefer but more intense relations with other men. In 1939 Auden fell in love with Chester Kallman and regarded their relation as a marriage; this ended in 1941 when Kallman refused to accept the faithful relation that Auden demanded, but the two maintained their friendship, and from 1947 until Auden's death they lived in the same house or apartment in a non-sexual relation, often collaborating on opera libretti such as The Rake's Progress, for music by Igor Stravinsky.
Auden was a prolific writer of prose essays and reviews on literary, political, psychological and religious subjects, and he worked at various times on documentary films, poetic plays, and other forms of performance. Throughout his career he was both controversial and influential, and critical views on his work ranged from sharply dismissive, treating him as a lesser follower of W.B. Yeats and T.S. Eliot, to strongly affirmative, as in Joseph Brodsky's claim that he had "the greatest mind of the twentieth century." After his death, some of his poems, notably "Funeral Blues," Musée des Beaux Arts," "Refugee Blues," The Unknown Citizen," and "September 1, 1939," became known to a much wider public than during his lifetime through films, broadcasts, and popular media.
Auden's poetry was noted for its stylistic and technical achievement, its engagement with politics, morals, love, and religion, and its variety in tone, form and content. He came to wide public attention at the age of twenty-three, in 1930, with his first book, Poems, followed in 1932 by The Orators . Three plays written in collaboration with Christopher Isherwood in 1935–38 built his reputation as a left-wing political writer. Auden moved to the United States partly to escape this reputation, and his work in the 1940s, including the long poems For the Time Being and The Sea and the Mirror, focused on religious themes. He won the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry for his 1947 long poem The Age of Anxiety, the title of which became a popular phrase describing the modern era. In 1956–61 he was Professor of Poetry at Oxford; his lectures were popular with students and faculty and served as the basis of his 1962 prose collection The Dyer's Hand.
From around 1927 to 1939 Auden and Isherwood maintained a lasting but intermittent sexual friendship while both had briefer but more intense relations with other men. In 1939 Auden fell in love with Chester Kallman and regarded their relation as a marriage; this ended in 1941 when Kallman refused to accept the faithful relation that Auden demanded, but the two maintained their friendship, and from 1947 until Auden's death they lived in the same house or apartment in a non-sexual relation, often collaborating on opera libretti such as The Rake's Progress, for music by Igor Stravinsky.
Auden was a prolific writer of prose essays and reviews on literary, political, psychological and religious subjects, and he worked at various times on documentary films, poetic plays, and other forms of performance. Throughout his career he was both controversial and influential, and critical views on his work ranged from sharply dismissive, treating him as a lesser follower of W.B. Yeats and T.S. Eliot, to strongly affirmative, as in Joseph Brodsky's claim that he had "the greatest mind of the twentieth century." After his death, some of his poems, notably "Funeral Blues," Musée des Beaux Arts," "Refugee Blues," The Unknown Citizen," and "September 1, 1939," became known to a much wider public than during his lifetime through films, broadcasts, and popular media.
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
October 28, 2018
Il quotidiano e la memoria
“Shorts”: bagliori ironici, affettuosi, “minimi” di uno sguardo poetico che si fa quotidiano, familiare.
Se tra loro c'è vera fratellanza,
gli uomini non cantano all'unisono:
cantano in armonia.
L'Uomo deve infatuarsi
di Qualcuno o di Qualcosa,
altrimenti si ammala.
Nulla c'è che si possa amare troppo;
si può amare però qualunque cosa
in un modo sbagliato.
Il ricordo di un soggiorno natalizio a casa di amici nel Wiltshire si rinnova come memoria presente nell’intima “Grazie nebbia”:
Abituato al clima newyorkese,
conoscendo lo Smog fin troppo bene,
mi ero dimenticato
Di Te, la Sua Sorella immacolata,
di ciò che porti ai nostri inverni inglesi:
conoscenze native si risvegliano.
Acerrima nemica della fretta,
spauracchio di aerei e guidatori,
certo Ti maledice ogni volatile,
ma io sono felicissimo,
perché Ti sei convinta a visitare
le campagne incantevoli del Wiltshire
l’intera settimana di Natale,
e nessuno può correre
nel mio cosmo, ridotto
ad una villa antica e a quattro Monadi
legate da amicizia:
Io, Sonia, Jimmy e Tania.
Fuori un silenzio informe:
persino quegli uccelli spinti a stare
dal loro sangue caldo
qui intorno tutto l’anno,
come il bottaccio e il merlo,
da Te allettati frenano
il loro verso allegro,
nessun gallo si azzarda a strepitare,
e le cime degli alberi, visibili
appena, non stormiscono ma restano
immobili e condensano efficienti
in gocce esatte la Tua umidità.
Dentro, spazi accoglienti ben precisi
rendono confortevole
la lettura e il ricordo, i cruciverba,
le affinità, le risa:
ristorati da sapide cenette
e allietati dal vino,
sediamo lieti in cerchio,
ignari di noi stessi ma solerti
nei confronti degli altri,
cercando quanto più di approfittarne,
perché ben presto occorrerà rientrare,
finiti questi giorni di clemenza,
nel mondo del denaro e del lavoro,
dove si è attenti ad ogni punto e virgola.
Nessun sole d’estate potrà mai
dissolvere le tenebre totali
diffuse dai Giornali,
che vomitano in prosa trasandata
fatti violenti e sordidi
che non riusciamo, sciocchi, ad impedire:
la terra è un brutto posto,
eppure, per quest’attimo speciale,
così tranquillo ma così festoso,
Ti rendo Grazie: Grazie, Grazie, Grazie, Nebbia.
“Shorts”: bagliori ironici, affettuosi, “minimi” di uno sguardo poetico che si fa quotidiano, familiare.
Se tra loro c'è vera fratellanza,
gli uomini non cantano all'unisono:
cantano in armonia.
L'Uomo deve infatuarsi
di Qualcuno o di Qualcosa,
altrimenti si ammala.
Nulla c'è che si possa amare troppo;
si può amare però qualunque cosa
in un modo sbagliato.
Il ricordo di un soggiorno natalizio a casa di amici nel Wiltshire si rinnova come memoria presente nell’intima “Grazie nebbia”:
Abituato al clima newyorkese,
conoscendo lo Smog fin troppo bene,
mi ero dimenticato
Di Te, la Sua Sorella immacolata,
di ciò che porti ai nostri inverni inglesi:
conoscenze native si risvegliano.
Acerrima nemica della fretta,
spauracchio di aerei e guidatori,
certo Ti maledice ogni volatile,
ma io sono felicissimo,
perché Ti sei convinta a visitare
le campagne incantevoli del Wiltshire
l’intera settimana di Natale,
e nessuno può correre
nel mio cosmo, ridotto
ad una villa antica e a quattro Monadi
legate da amicizia:
Io, Sonia, Jimmy e Tania.
Fuori un silenzio informe:
persino quegli uccelli spinti a stare
dal loro sangue caldo
qui intorno tutto l’anno,
come il bottaccio e il merlo,
da Te allettati frenano
il loro verso allegro,
nessun gallo si azzarda a strepitare,
e le cime degli alberi, visibili
appena, non stormiscono ma restano
immobili e condensano efficienti
in gocce esatte la Tua umidità.
Dentro, spazi accoglienti ben precisi
rendono confortevole
la lettura e il ricordo, i cruciverba,
le affinità, le risa:
ristorati da sapide cenette
e allietati dal vino,
sediamo lieti in cerchio,
ignari di noi stessi ma solerti
nei confronti degli altri,
cercando quanto più di approfittarne,
perché ben presto occorrerà rientrare,
finiti questi giorni di clemenza,
nel mondo del denaro e del lavoro,
dove si è attenti ad ogni punto e virgola.
Nessun sole d’estate potrà mai
dissolvere le tenebre totali
diffuse dai Giornali,
che vomitano in prosa trasandata
fatti violenti e sordidi
che non riusciamo, sciocchi, ad impedire:
la terra è un brutto posto,
eppure, per quest’attimo speciale,
così tranquillo ma così festoso,
Ti rendo Grazie: Grazie, Grazie, Grazie, Nebbia.
November 14, 2018
in uno degli shorts qui inclusi, Auden, amante della natura, dei poeti campestri come Frost, e degli animali, si sofferma sull'insensibilità di questi ultimi alla musica. many creatures make nice noises, but none, it seems, are moved by music. ho pensato che una riflessione del genere (e la sua risoluzione) potesse accogliere una verità universale. quando siamo di fronte ai veri poeti, è così.
incompiuto, e credo inferiore alle sue raccolte precedenti, "Thank you, Fog", è un libro di poesie dove i temi "neuroscientifici" che affascinavano molto Auden, con delle punte isteriche di neuropsicoanalisi, hanno una ricca risonanza. troviamo qui e là osservazioni sagaci, illuminanti, poetiche rielaborazioni filosofiche (come quella sulla musica e gli animali, o come quella sulla coscienza, in cui nulla accade due volte; ricordando Eraclito che nessuno si bagna due volte nello stesso fiume, e l'ultimo libro di Sacks che, come in un sillogismo chiude tutto: Il fiume della coscienza). non è un caso che Auden sia stato ammirato da personalità poliedriche quali Joseph Needham. non c'è però in "Thank you Fog" un poema all'altezza di "Spagna", "1 settembre 1939", "in memory of WB Yeats" ect... e mi dispiace: 3 stelle! imballiamo due stelle per la prossima volta :-)
incompiuto, e credo inferiore alle sue raccolte precedenti, "Thank you, Fog", è un libro di poesie dove i temi "neuroscientifici" che affascinavano molto Auden, con delle punte isteriche di neuropsicoanalisi, hanno una ricca risonanza. troviamo qui e là osservazioni sagaci, illuminanti, poetiche rielaborazioni filosofiche (come quella sulla musica e gli animali, o come quella sulla coscienza, in cui nulla accade due volte; ricordando Eraclito che nessuno si bagna due volte nello stesso fiume, e l'ultimo libro di Sacks che, come in un sillogismo chiude tutto: Il fiume della coscienza). non è un caso che Auden sia stato ammirato da personalità poliedriche quali Joseph Needham. non c'è però in "Thank you Fog" un poema all'altezza di "Spagna", "1 settembre 1939", "in memory of WB Yeats" ect... e mi dispiace: 3 stelle! imballiamo due stelle per la prossima volta :-)
September 13, 2019
But I beg to remind you that, despite all that,
I, Death, still am and will always be Cosmocrat.
I began such in a Levantine buffet and finished it at home listening to Tchaikovsky. I certainly enjoyed this collection, Auden's last.
I, Death, still am and will always be Cosmocrat.
I began such in a Levantine buffet and finished it at home listening to Tchaikovsky. I certainly enjoyed this collection, Auden's last.
January 23, 2020
Some obscure and unintelligible some touching and some utterly hilarious. This collection of the last poems written by W.H. Auden, published after his death, but compiled and dedicated by the poet himself in the last months of his life. It's short and sweet at only 57 pages but I have been savouring them, and have taken a couple of months to finish it.
March 4, 2020
"No habrá sol de verano que
desmantele la penumbra global
proyectada por la Prensa Diaria,
vomitando con prosa descuidada
los datos de obscenidad y violencia
que somos demasiado bobos para prevenir:
nuestra tierra es un triste lugar, pero durante este ínterin especial,
tan tranquila y al tiempo tan festiva,
Gracias, Gracias, Gracias, Niebla." WHA
desmantele la penumbra global
proyectada por la Prensa Diaria,
vomitando con prosa descuidada
los datos de obscenidad y violencia
que somos demasiado bobos para prevenir:
nuestra tierra es un triste lugar, pero durante este ínterin especial,
tan tranquila y al tiempo tan festiva,
Gracias, Gracias, Gracias, Niebla." WHA
October 13, 2012
I figured Auden's last book was a good place to start. This book did not disappoint. Auden's funny and serious. He's good with different types of verse. Death always seems to be lurking around the corner in these poems, but not in a dreary way. Some really good poems here.
"Let your last thinks all be thanks."
"Let your last thinks all be thanks."
January 18, 2022
Grown used to New York weather,
all too familiar with Smog,
You, Her unsullied Sister,
I'd quite forgotten and what
You bring to British winters:
now native knowledge returns.
Sworn foe to festination,
daunter of drivers and planes,
volants, of course, will curse You,
but how delighted I am
that You've been lured to visit
Wiltshire's witching countryside
for a whole week at Christmas,
that no one can scurry where
my cosmos is contracted
to an ancient manor-house
and four Selves, joined in friendship,
Jimmy, Tania, Sonia, Me.
Outdoors a shapeless silence,
for even those birds whose blood
is brisk enough to bid them
abide here all the year round,
like the merle and the mavis,
at Your cajoling refrain
their jocund interjections,
no cock considers a scream,
vaguely visible, tree-tops
rustle not but stay there, so
efficiently condensing
Your damp to definite drops.
Indoors specific spaces,
cosy, accommodate to
reminiscence and reading,
crosswords, affinities, fun:
refected by a sapid
supper and regaled by wine,
we sit in a glad circle,
each unaware of our own
nose but alert to the others,
making the most of it, for
how soon we must re-enter,
when lenient days are done,
the world of work and money
and minding our p's and q's.
No summer sun will ever
dismantle the global gloom
cast by the Daily Papers,
vomiting in slip-shod prose
the facts of filth and violence
that we're too dumb to prevent:
our earth's a sorry spot, but
for this special interim,
so restful yet so festive,
Thank You, Thank You, Thank You, Fog.
* * *
* * *
Pascal should have soother, not scared by his infinite spaces:
God made the All so immense, stellar collisions are rare.
*
Earth's mishaps are not fatal,
Fire is not quenched by the dark,
no one can bottle a Breeze,
no friction wear out Water.
*
The conversations of birds
say very little,
but mean a great deal.
*
Butterflies, alas,
ignore us, but midges don't,
unfortunately.
*
When did the bed-bug
first discover
that we were tastier than bats?
*
Some beasts are dumb,
some voluble, but only
one species can stammer.
*
Many creatures make nice noises,
but none, it seems,
are moved by music.
*
Beasts, Birds, Fish, Flowers do what
the Season insists They must,
but Man schedules the Days on
which He may do what He should.
*
Bound to ourselves for life,
we must learn how to
put up with each other.
*
Consciousness should be a parlour
where words are well-groomed
and reticient.
*
Man must either fall in love
with Someone or Something,
or else fall ill.
*
Nothing can be loved too much,
bu all things can be loved
in the wrong way.
*
When truly brothers,
men don't sing in unison
but in harmony.
*
Whatever their personal faith,
all poets, as such,
are polytheists.
*
Envy we must those bards who compose in Italian or German:
apposite Feminine Rhymes give them no bother at all.
We, though, thanks to a Tongue deprived of so many inflexions,
can very easily turn Nouns, if we wish, into Verbs.
*
Met individually, most men appear friendly and gentle,
but, collectively, Man commonly acts like a cad.
*
Policy ought to conform to Liberty, Law and Compassion,
but, as a rule, It obeys Selfishness, Vanity, Funk.
*
Where are brigands
most commonly to be found?
where boundaries converge.
*
Wherever there is gross
inequality, the Poor
corrupt the Rich.
* * *
All of us believe
we were born of a virgin
(for who can imagine
his parents copulating?),
and cases are known
of pregnant Virgins.
But the Question remains:
from where did Christ get
that extra chromosome?
all too familiar with Smog,
You, Her unsullied Sister,
I'd quite forgotten and what
You bring to British winters:
now native knowledge returns.
Sworn foe to festination,
daunter of drivers and planes,
volants, of course, will curse You,
but how delighted I am
that You've been lured to visit
Wiltshire's witching countryside
for a whole week at Christmas,
that no one can scurry where
my cosmos is contracted
to an ancient manor-house
and four Selves, joined in friendship,
Jimmy, Tania, Sonia, Me.
Outdoors a shapeless silence,
for even those birds whose blood
is brisk enough to bid them
abide here all the year round,
like the merle and the mavis,
at Your cajoling refrain
their jocund interjections,
no cock considers a scream,
vaguely visible, tree-tops
rustle not but stay there, so
efficiently condensing
Your damp to definite drops.
Indoors specific spaces,
cosy, accommodate to
reminiscence and reading,
crosswords, affinities, fun:
refected by a sapid
supper and regaled by wine,
we sit in a glad circle,
each unaware of our own
nose but alert to the others,
making the most of it, for
how soon we must re-enter,
when lenient days are done,
the world of work and money
and minding our p's and q's.
No summer sun will ever
dismantle the global gloom
cast by the Daily Papers,
vomiting in slip-shod prose
the facts of filth and violence
that we're too dumb to prevent:
our earth's a sorry spot, but
for this special interim,
so restful yet so festive,
Thank You, Thank You, Thank You, Fog.
- Thank You, Fog, pg. 3-5
* * *
Sessile, unseeing,
the Plant is wholly content
with the Adjacent.
Mobilised, sighted,
the Beast can tell Here from There
and Now from Not-Yet.
Talkative, anxious,
Man can picture the Absent
and Non-Existent.- Progress?, pg. 18
* * *
Pascal should have soother, not scared by his infinite spaces:
God made the All so immense, stellar collisions are rare.
*
Earth's mishaps are not fatal,
Fire is not quenched by the dark,
no one can bottle a Breeze,
no friction wear out Water.
*
The conversations of birds
say very little,
but mean a great deal.
*
Butterflies, alas,
ignore us, but midges don't,
unfortunately.
*
When did the bed-bug
first discover
that we were tastier than bats?
*
Some beasts are dumb,
some voluble, but only
one species can stammer.
*
Many creatures make nice noises,
but none, it seems,
are moved by music.
*
Beasts, Birds, Fish, Flowers do what
the Season insists They must,
but Man schedules the Days on
which He may do what He should.
*
Bound to ourselves for life,
we must learn how to
put up with each other.
*
Consciousness should be a parlour
where words are well-groomed
and reticient.
*
Man must either fall in love
with Someone or Something,
or else fall ill.
*
Nothing can be loved too much,
bu all things can be loved
in the wrong way.
*
When truly brothers,
men don't sing in unison
but in harmony.
*
Whatever their personal faith,
all poets, as such,
are polytheists.
*
Envy we must those bards who compose in Italian or German:
apposite Feminine Rhymes give them no bother at all.
We, though, thanks to a Tongue deprived of so many inflexions,
can very easily turn Nouns, if we wish, into Verbs.
*
Met individually, most men appear friendly and gentle,
but, collectively, Man commonly acts like a cad.
*
Policy ought to conform to Liberty, Law and Compassion,
but, as a rule, It obeys Selfishness, Vanity, Funk.
*
Where are brigands
most commonly to be found?
where boundaries converge.
*
Wherever there is gross
inequality, the Poor
corrupt the Rich.
- Shorts, pg. 22-25
* * *
All of us believe
we were born of a virgin
(for who can imagine
his parents copulating?),
and cases are known
of pregnant Virgins.
But the Question remains:
from where did Christ get
that extra chromosome?
- The Question, pg. 30
August 11, 2021
Grazie, Nebbia
Grazie, Nebbia
Abituato al clima newyorkese,
conoscendo lo Smog fin troppo bene,
mi ero dimenticato
di Te, la Sua Sorella immacolata,
di ciò che porti ai nostri inverni inglesi:
conoscenze native si risvegliano.
Acerrima nemica della fretta,
spauracchio di aerei e guidatori,
certo Ti maledice ogni volatile,
ma io sono felicissimo,
perché Ti sei convinta a visitare
le campagne incantevoli del Wiltshire
l’intera settimana di Natale,
e nessuno può correre
nel mio cosmo, ridotto
ad una villa antica e a quattro Monadi
legate da amicizia:
Io, Sonia, Jimmy e Tania.
Fuori un silenzio informe:
persino quegli uccelli spinti a stare
dal loro sangue caldo
qui intorno tutto l’anno,
come il bottaccio e il merlo,
da Te allettati frenano
il loro verso allegro,
nessun gallo si azzarda a strepitare,
e le cime degli alberi, visibili
appena, non stormiscono ma restano
immobili e condensano efficienti
in gocce esatte la Tua umidità.
Dentro, spazi accoglienti ben precisi
rendono confortevole
la lettura e il ricordo, i cruciverba,
le affinità, le risa:
ristorati da sapide cenette
e allietati dal vino,
sediamo lieti in cerchio,
ignari di noi stessi ma solerti
nei confronti degli altri,
cercando quanto più di approfittarne,
perché ben presto occorrerà rientrare,
finiti questi giorni di clemenza,
nel mondo del denaro e del lavoro,
dove si è attenti ad ogni punto e virgola.
Nessun sole d’estate potrà mai
dissolvere le tenebre totali
diffuse dai Giornali,
che vomitano in prosa trasandata
fatti violenti e sordidi
che non riusciamo, sciocchi, ad impedire:
la terra è un brutto posto,
eppure, per quest’attimo speciale,
così tranquillo ma così festoso,
ti rendo Grazie: Grazie, Grazie, Nebbia.
(Da: Grazie nebbia, 1974)
Grazie, Nebbia
Abituato al clima newyorkese,
conoscendo lo Smog fin troppo bene,
mi ero dimenticato
di Te, la Sua Sorella immacolata,
di ciò che porti ai nostri inverni inglesi:
conoscenze native si risvegliano.
Acerrima nemica della fretta,
spauracchio di aerei e guidatori,
certo Ti maledice ogni volatile,
ma io sono felicissimo,
perché Ti sei convinta a visitare
le campagne incantevoli del Wiltshire
l’intera settimana di Natale,
e nessuno può correre
nel mio cosmo, ridotto
ad una villa antica e a quattro Monadi
legate da amicizia:
Io, Sonia, Jimmy e Tania.
Fuori un silenzio informe:
persino quegli uccelli spinti a stare
dal loro sangue caldo
qui intorno tutto l’anno,
come il bottaccio e il merlo,
da Te allettati frenano
il loro verso allegro,
nessun gallo si azzarda a strepitare,
e le cime degli alberi, visibili
appena, non stormiscono ma restano
immobili e condensano efficienti
in gocce esatte la Tua umidità.
Dentro, spazi accoglienti ben precisi
rendono confortevole
la lettura e il ricordo, i cruciverba,
le affinità, le risa:
ristorati da sapide cenette
e allietati dal vino,
sediamo lieti in cerchio,
ignari di noi stessi ma solerti
nei confronti degli altri,
cercando quanto più di approfittarne,
perché ben presto occorrerà rientrare,
finiti questi giorni di clemenza,
nel mondo del denaro e del lavoro,
dove si è attenti ad ogni punto e virgola.
Nessun sole d’estate potrà mai
dissolvere le tenebre totali
diffuse dai Giornali,
che vomitano in prosa trasandata
fatti violenti e sordidi
che non riusciamo, sciocchi, ad impedire:
la terra è un brutto posto,
eppure, per quest’attimo speciale,
così tranquillo ma così festoso,
ti rendo Grazie: Grazie, Grazie, Nebbia.
(Da: Grazie nebbia, 1974)
May 30, 2022
Le ultime righe di un grande poeta
Ottima raccolta degli ultimi scritti di W.H. Auden - necessariamente eterogenea, vi si trovano in ogni caso delle perle notevoli: le poesie "Thank you, fog", "Aubade", "No, Plato, No" e soprattutto le due liriche "Don Chisciotte" dove lo stile lirico nella sua splendida musicalità coglie in modo perfetto lo spirito dell'eroe di Cervantes.
Personalmente penso che Auden sia al suo meglio (che significa il vertice della poesia del secolo) quando crea poesia dalla filosofia unendo raffinatezza e leggerezza con profondità di sensibilità e riflessione - un miracolo che è riuscito solo ad Emily Dickinson a questi livelli.
Meno convincente lo trovo invece quando passa agli aforismi (come in "Shorts") o ai componimenti umoristici come in "The entertainment of senses", una sorta di lunga filastrocca ironica e nostalgica che ricorda i limerick, più che la poesia.
Ma la sua capacità di creare musica mentre costruisce visioni è impareggiabile:
no one can scurry where
my cosmos is contracted
Ottima raccolta degli ultimi scritti di W.H. Auden - necessariamente eterogenea, vi si trovano in ogni caso delle perle notevoli: le poesie "Thank you, fog", "Aubade", "No, Plato, No" e soprattutto le due liriche "Don Chisciotte" dove lo stile lirico nella sua splendida musicalità coglie in modo perfetto lo spirito dell'eroe di Cervantes.
Personalmente penso che Auden sia al suo meglio (che significa il vertice della poesia del secolo) quando crea poesia dalla filosofia unendo raffinatezza e leggerezza con profondità di sensibilità e riflessione - un miracolo che è riuscito solo ad Emily Dickinson a questi livelli.
Meno convincente lo trovo invece quando passa agli aforismi (come in "Shorts") o ai componimenti umoristici come in "The entertainment of senses", una sorta di lunga filastrocca ironica e nostalgica che ricorda i limerick, più che la poesia.
Ma la sua capacità di creare musica mentre costruisce visioni è impareggiabile:
no one can scurry where
my cosmos is contracted
August 1, 2019
A highly enjoyable collection of poetry (published posthumously). This was my introduction to Auden and I would recommend him to novice poetry readers, such as myself. My favorite was the title poem, "Thank You, Fog," but there are many other gems: "Posthumous Letter to Gilbert White," "Shorts," "The Question" and "A Curse," to name a few.
September 22, 2018
Lackluster and Dated.
Auden's poetry falls flat on most accounts.
A serious disappointment .
Perhaps the fog is actually his fame and it detracts from the inane, overtly light aspirations of this collection of poetry.
Auden's poetry falls flat on most accounts.
A serious disappointment .
Perhaps the fog is actually his fame and it detracts from the inane, overtly light aspirations of this collection of poetry.
November 8, 2022
Poesía certera y reflexiva. Honda y aguda, plena de resonancias.
March 18, 2016
worth it for the second poem, Aubade.
“I know that I am and will,
I am willing and knowing,
I will to be and to know,
facing in four directions,
outwards and inwards in Space,
observing and reflecting,
backwards and forwards through Time,
recalling and forecasting.”
“I know that I am and will,
I am willing and knowing,
I will to be and to know,
facing in four directions,
outwards and inwards in Space,
observing and reflecting,
backwards and forwards through Time,
recalling and forecasting.”
December 10, 2014
Enjoyed.
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