My Poems Won't Change the World

by Patrizia Cavalli

Two hours ago I fell in love
and trembled, and tremble still,
and haven't a clue whom I should tell.

Any hall she reads her poetry in is invariably filled to the gills. In Italy, Patrizia Cavalli is as beloved as Wislawa Szymborska is in Poland, and if Italy were Japan she'd be designated a national treasure. The Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben said of Cavalli that she has written 'the most intensely ethical poetry in Italian literature of the 20th century'. One could add that it is, easily, also the most sensual and comical. Though Cavalli has been widely translated into German, French, and Spanish, she remains little known in Britain; My Poems Won't Change the World is the first substantial gathering of translations of her work into the English language.

The book is made up of poems from Cavalli's collections published by Einaudi from 1974 to 2006, here translated by an illustrious group of poets including Mark Strand, Jorie Graham, Jonathan Galassi and Gini Alhadeff. Thoughtful, sly and full of life, these are poems of the self, the body, pasta, cats, the city traversed on foot or by car, and - always, and above all - love.

Genres: Poetry, Italy, Italian Literature

176 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1998

About the author

Patrizia Cavalli (Todi, 17 aprile 1947 – Roma, 21 giugno 2022) è stata una poetessa e scrittrice italiana. Si è distinta fin dagli anni Settanta per una poesia molto legata all’ esperienza personale, a partire dal primo volume di versi Le mie poesie non cambieranno il mondo (1974), dedicato a Elsa Morante. Infatti è proprio la scrittrice romana, che Patrizia ha occasione di conoscere durante gli studi di filosofia, a scoprire in lei la vocazione per la poesia.

Seguono altre raccolte di successo: Il cielo (1981), Poesie 1974-1992 (1992), L’io singolare proprio mio (1992), Sempre aperto teatro (1999) con cui vince il Premio Letterario Viareggio-Repaci, e Pigre divinità e pigra sorte (2006), vincitore del Premio Dessì. L’ultima raccolta è Datura (2013).

Alcuni suoi testi sono apparsi in varie riviste, tra cui «Paragone», «Linea d’ombra», «Nuovi Argomenti», «Marka» e «Leggere». Nel volume Narratori delle riserve, curato da Gianni Celati, compare il suo racconto Ritratto.

Reviews

[Atri · Rating 4 out of 5]

"If you knocked now on my door
and if you took off your glasses
and I took off mine which are like yours
and then if you entered my mouth
unafraid of kisses that are not like yours
and said to me: "My love,
is everything alright?"-that would be quite
a piece of theater."

Gini Alhadeff observes that "In Italy, Patrizia is as beloved as Wislawa Szymborska still is in Poland, and if Italy were Japan she'd be designated a national treasure." Even in translation, her poems seem to possess a lyrical cadence that juxtaposes sensuality and melancholia. There is an underlying sense of poignancy, a wistful lament for an irretrievably lost innocence.

[Patricia · Rating 4 out of 5]

I didn't finish reading this because it had to go back on interlibrary loan and because I kept rereading and loving her poem about being a happy tree. So these are the stars for being a tree.

[Amy · Rating 3 out of 5]

perfect pool read
simple little poems, about love or making pasta or mothers
my favourite collection was ‘lazy gods, lazy fate’, in particular the longest poem in the collection (‘the Keeper’)

[Jack · Rating 5 out of 5]

Light and tender perspectives on everydayness: from pasta, to love, to walking home alone at night. Enjoyed these a lot.

[Francesca Marciano · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of my favourite poets. After years of reading her in italian, I can share her superb talent with my English speaking friends in this beautifully translated collection. Cavalli's poems are a delight. You'll laugh out loud at her subtle irony, her seductive tone, her striking insights. Nobody describes love in the way she does. She'll become your best friend.

[Susi · Rating 5 out of 5]

“after years of torment years of regret
what I discover and what I have left
is a banality fresh and hard to digest”

cavalli schreibt genau über die banalitäten des lebens, ohne diese je banal erscheinen zu lassen. das erleben ist bei ihr immer sehr körperlich, und gleichzeitig schreibt cavalli viel aus einer wertschätzend beobachtenden perspektive auf ihre gedanken. die gedichte sind auch stilistisch so vielfältig wie ihre erlebnisse (logisch, es ist eine sammlung verschiedener bände).
auf viele der gedichte werde ich immer wieder zurückkommen.

lesbisch sind manche der gedichte auch, wenn auch im englischen nur manchmal sichtbar. trotzdem natürlich ein pluspunkt.

[:) · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Scientifically I wonder
how it was my brain was made, what I'm doing here with this blunder.
I pretend to have a soul and thoughts so as to better be around others sometimes I even think I'm touched by faces and words of people--not much;
being touched I'd like to touch,
but then discover that every one of my emotions is due to some approaching thunder."

[Bludniq Sin · Rating 2 out of 5]

Modern poetry, good, but not great. I felt almost nothing reading this, thus the two stars, everything else was exceptional, but i felt nothing.

[Abdullah Hussaini · Rating 3 out of 5]

2.5 bintang

[The Cozy Nook · Rating 4 out of 5]

A wonderful collection of poems I'd be glad to visit again in the future. A lot of falling in love, questioning yourself, sometimes about pasta, sometimes about the birds and the couch and all the mundane things in between.

[Audrey · Rating 5 out of 5]

I need more of her!

The way she writes, the way she’s able to feel and make the reader feel so much with such ease! An incorporation of love, day to day life, boredom and pastas, it was light hearted yet gives you that first breath of summer air!

[Paige LeBlanc · Rating 4 out of 5]

thank you to the guy at the bookstore in rome for recommending this. that was really slay of you.

[Guoda]

Norėčiau mokėti itališkai, kad galėčiau perskaityti visus poetinius užkaborius taip, kaip jie parašyti

[māris šteinbergs · Rating 5 out of 5]

ārkārtīgi skaisti

[Пепа .. · Rating 4 out of 5]

I love it when a poem makes me feel so connected and alive with the everyday moments and emotions every human being goes through. The simplicity and emotional depth made it such a compelling read!

[Marc Nash · Rating 3 out of 5]

Video review https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vnyo...

[Michaela Zadow · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5/5: I think my poetry journey may be limited to Mary Oliver from now on for a while. Some lovely poems but again some really go over my head. A great book to have for my Italian vocab/ enjoyment and I think I will come to appreciate the poems more over time.

[M · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5 ⭐️
Thoroughly enjoyed these. Beautiful, heartfelt, innocent and sensual poems.

[James Tierney · Rating 4 out of 5]

Small sips of a poem or a two at a time rather than the gulp of a collection suit the colloquial stillness of Cavalli's limited range of subjects. Of the 13 translators here, Gini Alhadeff and Jorie Graham wring the best out.

[Lottie · Rating 4 out of 5]

They were so many good poems in the book i couldnt pick a favourite

[Cheryl · Rating 4 out of 5]

O stay where you are! Here
In the uncertain hour of a late afternoon
Looking outward and looking in
I see this beauty
All I see is beauty.
Something that convinces, asks to be seen,
Though it does nothing, just stays where it is,
And merely by existing wins me over.


Oh my. This is love poetry of a special kind, the non ridiculous, not overly sentimental, unflowery stuff. It is love of another, of self, of the world but also of otherness, of not belonging. A special, unique voice I was delighted to stumble across. It seduces with images of the feminine in love with the feminine, and with the Mediterranean italiano air and light you can almost smell and see through the poems. I dusted off my mediocre Italian accent, and read the Italian out loud, as best as I could since I learned mostly tourist Italian many years ago, and could never be considered fluent, but I am not half bad with the accent. Bellissima!


Affresco della notte palombara
Fresco of the underwater night
Immersa nel recinto di figure
Sunk in a knot of figures
Strette all’attore, custodia di parole
Surrounding the actor, keeper of words;
Fame e miniera di nostalgia alle due
Hunger and quarry of longing
Del pomerrigio, l’ora di mezzo
At 2 pm, the middle hour
Priva di preghiere, che non presume
Without prayer that doesn’t presume
Ma si affatica strana dietro l’immensita
But labors strangely over the afternnon’s
Del pommerigio, molto o popolata immensita
Hugeness, crowded hugeness
Di guarigione, che si allontana
Of healing that drifts off;
Insieme al tuo silenzio intento e affacendato
And your focused silence bent on
A togliermi dal sole, mio sole virtuoso
Taking my sun, my virtuous son
Per il quale io son quel che sono
Thanks to which I am what I am
In piena luce, sono el mondo
In daylight, I am in the world
Assieme agile atra, agli atra quasi uguale.
With others, others almost like me.


Onto your sea my ship set sail,
(dentro il tuo mare viaggiava la mia nave)
Into that sea I sank and was born.
(Dentro quell mare mi sono immersa e nacqui)
I am struck by how strange a season it is
And by how my body felt the cold.

From figure to figure love migrated,
(di figura in figura transmigrave amore)
Now it stops and shows itself.
I recognize it in that crimpled current
On your forehead, small waves alike
And contrary- and on the surface a kind of awe
Moved, surging through
Whatever seemed rigid, and gave way.
Was transformed into tenderness.
>b>(mutando in tenerezza)


You arrive like this, as always,
To spread the suspicion of paradise,
And before I open the window
I know you from the gentler light,
From the dust that hangs in the air,
From the bird’s obsessive performance,
And if it weren’t the birds it would be something else,
For you have your specialties for every place;
And when you come in and I surrender my senses
I’m living in unfamiliar houses again and feeling nostalgia
For things that never occurred. And across your labyrinths
You hand the continents and seasons on my back
And I become the wall of shouts and reflections
The platform flight’s take off from
Till the silent eddies of summer.

How sweet it was yesterday imagining I was a tree!
I had almost rooted in one place
And grew in sovereign slowness there.
I took the breeze and the north wind,
Caresses, blows-what difference did it make?
I was neither joy nor torment to myself,
I couldn’t detach myself from my own center,
No decisions, no movement:
If I moved it was because of the wind.

Scientifically I wonder
How it was my brain was made,
What I’, doing here with this blunder.
I pretend to have a soul and thoughts
So as to better be around others
Sometimes I even think I’m touched
By faces and words of people-not much;
Being touched I’d like to touch,
But then discover that every one of my emotions
Is due to some approaching thunder.

My landscape, which I thought was limitless
Because disassembled and put back together again it gave me the illusion
Of always new most intricate forests
Of dense meadows, ruffled and unexpected,
Now having reached the edge I can see: a closed
Little vegetable garden, walked on and bare,
Suffocating perhaps by too much care. And so

Bare myself I’ll go into the unbroken world, even
Though I fear its crashing noise. Let it spread
Over me, I sweat and feel lost, lost to myself,
A greengrocer to me, what’s the use of that?

Here I am, I do my bit,
Though I don’t know what that may be.
If I did I could at least let go of it
And free of it be free of being me.

Every fair November day
Is almost always a missed opportunity.
The light is in a hurry
November light won’t wait
You think it over and it’s gone.
And I grow languid with the promise
Of a happiness, well, more than certain
If only I’d have the foresight
To prepare the right equipment:
An aimless bike ride
And fallow lips for kissing.

I fall and fall again, stumble and fall, get up
Then fall again, relapses are
my specialty. What have I done
if not pretend to clamber out only to fall back in?
there’s never anyone I drag along with me
when I fall. Great balance surrounds me
but doesn’t hold me up, in fact it is because I fall
that others stand. How wonderful the couple
of old lovers who arm in arm
wanting by a double dare to test
the chain that seals off Ponte Sisto,
certain that their holding on to each other
would hold them up, fell together instead,
still arm in arm, not humiliated
but certainly dumbstruck by how their being
perfectly paired had made them lose their balance
yet grateful to one another
that they were two, that neither of the two
while safe saw the other fall.

The Keeper (partial)

It was the thought of your-locked up heat
That made me into a wizard of keys.
After all I was famous as a child
For opening drawers, doors and cupboards
To which the key could no longer be found…

First I let the experts show up-
The grown-up males…
Using bent wires, my invention,
Eyes half-closed I reached
the exact spot, the first yielding
in the tooth of the lock-
straining to hear, trembling, I prayed.
O the terror that my hand might meet refusal!
But what communion, once having entered
Entirely moved in, feeling it to be
Intimately mine, with a light
Tap I guided it and offering no resistance
It opened.

No mystery lay beyond that door
It was a door like any other…
My pleasure lay only in the challenge
Of unraveling that obstinate
Inaccessible resistance to which
I was the chosen instrument of
Surrender…
with those bent wires, then words,
I practiced poetry.

Long kisses and the sea
Languidly inert, asleep, and arms
Full of space, immense, September gulfs
Almost milky, and still; and I swam
In that dense surface and the part
Of me that emerged was warmed in the sun
Then re-immersed itself in the water to be cooled.

I didn’t know then that was a keeper,
Just the keeper and no door,
A keeper alluding to a door,
Wondrous even easy to open,
If you knew how, never using force.
She offered me small side doors, meanwhile
Opening into dank basements…

When in the morning I awoke and you entered
The constitution of thoughts
That in infinite phrasings spelled out
The enigmas to be solved, the sacrifices and gifts...
I was guilty. Of not being able to reach
For having aimed too straight at it the cloistered softness
Of your heart…
Of not being able to find
The door that wasn’t there, the dreamed-of door
That locked you away in goodness multiplied,
Which even you, tired keeper, knew
Was not there, but which even you dreamed of,
Hoping that the keys the laborious
virtue of my keys, could bring into existence
what wasn’t there, for if only I had found out
the right sound, the right combination
of words, managed the right
description, we might bother have entered
into that invention. To finally discover
pleasure has no doors and that
if it does they’re wide open, and
that we could have stayed outside
both of us ill equipped and surrendering equally
playing at doors and keys
with me as the door and you as the keys.

Just like last year, yes, between the 23rd
And 24th of June, when I felt my heart
Grow in me and glow, heart in solstice,
In maximum expansion of light.
All those rays then- I remember I was eating
Huge cherries that were almost too sweet-
Had a mooring, though distant
And uncertain. What ill I invent now
For this repeating heart
Obeying seasons,
Where will I send it now, into what void?

I think I want, but what is it that I want?
Do I want something? I don’t know.
It’s like in the summer when lifting the eyes
To heaven, hoping to see a star
Fall, or one that might fall, uncertain
Of my vows I entrust myself lazily to the ambiguous
Secret part of me, separate from me,
By me forgotten in some back room
Which may still hold within it, if it’s there,
Its original shape, the mold of pleasure,
And with muted voice I say: may what I want come about
May the wish come true. Even though I don’t know
Don’t know what that is, the star will know,
Because it’s far away.

[Angela · Rating 1 out of 5]

Finally. This is one of the longest and least satisfying poetry collections I've ever read. The introduction got me excited because I don't know anything about Cavalli, but apparently she's beloved in Italy, all of her readings draw a huge crowd, she was destined to be a poet and her style is so unique and "musical." Whatever. Her poetry is terrible.

I can partly blame myself for taking weeks to slog through My Poems Won't Change the World. When I was a teenager I made a half-hearted attempt to learn Italian. I'm not going to kid myself and pretend I have a good grasp of the language, but I do understand the pronunciation and some basics. This book of poems places the original poems side by side with the English translation, so I ended up reading each poem multiple times, like so:

Reading #1: Italian (sound only)
Reading #2: Italian (attempt at meaning)
Reading #3: English (comparing my hilariously butchered "translation" with the actual translation)
Reading #4: English (sound and meaning)

In the introduction, Gini Alhadeff, Cavalli's long-time friend and the translator of most of the poems in this book, writes about how easy it is to make words sound pleasant in Italian. So it's highly ironic that Cavalli isn't actually very good at making the words sound good...there are very few poems where the use of consonance, assonance, and rhyme seem intentional. Her poems are bland and very, very repetitive. They often deal with abstract concepts like love/true love, sin, memory, emotions, and epistemology. Her poems are completely lacking in imagery, imagination, or any kind of urgent emotion. They read more like boring diary entries than poems that were polished for publication. And the translations contain some bizarre words that seem out of place in her simple poems ("labile," "mélange," "autarchy"). The final infuriating thing about this book is that Cavalli doesn't title most of her poems—and she writes poems ranging in length anywhere from two lines to eleven pages—so it's difficult to tell when the poems end; the only indication is the translator's name at the end of the poem, but it doesn't help if you're reading the Italian.

Anyways, as always, the worst of the worst:

Che m'importa del tuo naso gonfio.
Io devo pulire la casa.

What do I care if your nose is all swollen.
I have to clean the house.
(p. 14-15).

Due ore fa mi sono inamorata.
Tremo d'amore e seguito a tremare,
ma non so bene a chi mi devo dichiarare.

Two hours ago I fell in love
and trembled, tremble still,
and haven't a clue whom I should tell.
(p.46-47).

Penso che forse a forza di pensarti
potrò dimenticarti, amore mio.

Thinking about you
might let me forget you, my love.
(p.72-73).

Ah, datemi una stanza in un albergo
una stanzetta una stanzetta in un albergo
sì, una stanza una stanza in un albergo
una stanzetta una stanzetta in un albergo. . .

(. . . e via così di seguito
senza fermarsi mai,
finché annoiato o esausti
si cade tramortiti
sopra un qualunque letto
anche se sfatto e lercio).

O give me a room in a hotel
a little room a little room in a hotel
yes, a room a room in a hotel
a little room a little room in a hotel.

(. . . and so it goes
without end,
until bored and exhausted
I fall half-dead
on any old bed
even unmade, even dirty).
("Terapia"/"Therapy," p. 150-151).

Più ci si annoia e più ci si affeziona.
M'annoio tanto, non voglio più morire.

The more bored you are, the more attached you get.
I'm so bored, I no longer want to die.
(p.164-165)

In the end, there were only a few poems that I didn't completely hate. I may revisit them in the future if I'm ever wondering what the fuck Cavalli's poems are about.

Poems that I didn't hate:
"Piccione zoppo. Ridicolo," "Quasi sempre alla morte di qualcuno," "Le strade sono calde, le voci ingombrano," "Ah, ma è evidente, muoio," "Ah mangiare i mandarini."

=5/111 (4.5%) poems that I didn't hate.

[Ryan Harris · Rating 5 out of 5]

Someone told me
of course my poems
won't change the world.

I say yes of course
my poems
won't change the world.

Of course her poems won't change the world. But I'm glad I get to enjoy them in mine.

*

How sweet it was yesterday imagining I was a tree!
I had almost rooted in one place
and grew in sovereign slowness there.
I took the breeze and the north wind,
caresses, blows—what difference did it make?
I was neither joy nor torment to myself,
I couldn't detach myself from my own centre,
no decisions, no movement:
if I moved it was because of the wind.

Caresses, blows—what difference did it make? God, what a question.

Of course it makes a difference. A gale could break a branch just as a breeze can rustle its wishes.

Seasons of pleasure, pain and peace.

Show up for your fate, always in good faith.

*

Throw in the pasta, I'm on my way!
O bliss, I'll be fed.
But the water doesn't boil, not yet.
For someone to be there bringing
water to a boil and to get there on time
before the pasta overcooks
or God forbid grows cold,
in that exact always slightly hysterical
moment, yes, in that almost sacred
very moment of straining,
that happy haste sooner or later,
will come to all, even the unluckiest.

So good!

*

It's all so simple, yes, it was so simple,
it is so clear I almost can't believe it.
Here's what the body is for: you touch me or you don't touch me,
you hold me or send me away. The rest is for lunatics.

Translation by Marco Pierre White.

It's my choice.

[BR · Rating 4 out of 5]

Patrizia Cavalli, My Poems Won't Change the World, translated into English, is a collection of poems. The selection of poems was written and published between 1974 and 2006. The first time, discovered the poet and her body of work, and it was refreshing to read works in a different range. The range of poetic structure and stanza, had moments of comical relief, deep introspection, and reflection.

Each poem in the book resembles the time period in which it was written in. The use of visual language was appealing, and the dialogue was not vague. The poet is able to capture, an audience in the digital age with works presented in this script. It has moments where some of the work are a bit dull, to say the least, but continues to keep the reader engaged throughout. Overall, in a short synopsis, the poems in the book, do capture, times of life, love, and human existence, in the everyday.

Would recommend it for classical poet lovers.

[Vicky · Rating 4 out of 5]

I wanted to read Patrizia Cavalli's poems after Céline Sciamma posted about her last year on the day she passed away. There's a lightheartedness to some of these poems that reminded me of Frank O'Hara's lunch poems. I read most of these on the train, now that I'm back on a regular commute, so this is just one of them that resonated with me.

Whoever boards a train is tested,
neglects the body, trains the spirit,
puts the senses to sleep, really sleeps
or transfers them to a book, a newspaper,
or blindly stares at a casual spot
anything not to mix with the crowd.
But in the white crude light
everyone is the same,
lost people simply offered up
to what any residual eyesight
might still glean perhaps
of that strange surprising thing
that once, not so long ago,
was a face.

translated by Gina Alhadeff, p. 161

[Xenia Germeni]

Δυσκολο να περιγράψεις τα ποιηματα της Patrizia Cavalli. Η συλλογή ποιηματων της Cavalli εγινε με πρωτοβουλια της μεταφραστριας και φιλης της Gini Alhadeff. Ο τομος περιεχει ποιηματα απο το 1974 εως το 2006 και αποτελει συλλογικη μεταφραση διακεκριμενων ποιητων και μεταφραστων. Το επιμετρο ειναι εξαιρετικο και κατατοπιζει τον αναγνωστη στον κοσμο της συγχρονης ιταλιδας ποιητριας που θα μπορουσε να θεωρηθει και μια θηλυκη εκδοχη του Allen Ginsberg. Η Cavalli ειναι ανακαλυψη της Elsa Morante και ακολουθει εναν προσωπικο εκφραστικο μετρο. Μινιμαλισμος, προζα, μικρη φορμα, και ωστοσο μια μουσικοτητα που σε αφηνει μετεωρο στο κενο και ταυτοχρονα σε τοποθετει σε χωρο και χρονο που ειναι κινηματογραφικος και συναμα τοσο οικειος....ΥΓ..ανακαλυψη του lockdown και πολυ κρασι ροζε..σας παρακαλω!

[Elsa Kivinen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sensual, fun, comforting: a book to be binged in a few hours under a blanket. The poetry shows how mundane everyday moments and people and animals and nature “involved” in them can be beautiful and poem worthy in their simplicity. How sensations and feelings are intertwined and love embodied in different aspects of everyday life.

I really appreciated how the translators of the poems were properly acknowledged at the end of the book, as well as in the in the afterwords by Gini Alfadeff. Personal afterwords which are like a small story of how everything about the book came to be & describe people involved are always something I particularly appreciate—here as well.

[Faizan · Rating 5 out of 5]

She is bold, and her words are always laced with the twitch of the corner of a mouth or a smug smile or a raised eyebrow, very tongue-in-cheek. Even the simplest of the poems are so powerful within their simplicity, it's remarkable. I've read this a couple of times over, and will continue to do so, because I keep finding new details I didn't notice before. I find myself highlighting and underlining a lot. 100% would recommend.

[Abhinay Renny · Rating 5 out of 5]

Patrizia Cavalli's poems seem so relatable. The moment I picked it up, I knew I discovered a gem. Alot of these poems are written during 1980s and 90s. I wonder what it is to live along with patrizia, her words are sharp, intense and full of love and life.

I'm so happy to discover this gem randomly

[Suyash Singh · Rating 5 out of 5]

simply sublime. the poems are immediately relatable, and yet enigmatic. images make way for images in a masterfully fluid way. routinely the works manage to bridge the gap between the ephemeral and the transcendent. absolutely loved it.

'lazy gods, lazy fate' was my favourite collection. the titular poem presents the art of surrendering in such beautiful terms.