Sole d'inverno, by Ada Negri

Today we read Sole d’inverno, by Ada Negri.

We’ve met Ada Negri before, when she was sixty and writing about February’s tentative promise of spring. This poem, from Il dono, finds her six years later, still attuned to the lies that seasons tell us — but now it’s New Year’s Day, and the deception is even more brazen.

Where Presagio warned that reality might disappoint the dream, here Negri has made peace with the gap. She knows the warmth is bugiarda (mendacious), knows those buds will die before opening, and chooses to enjoy it anyway. She warms herself by the lie, come fan pruno e castagno — like the bramble and chestnut do.

Last year Montale gave us the cold view from the Moon; Negri gives us the warm view from the garden, fully aware that the warmth won’t last. If you’re looking for a cheerful New Year’s poem, this is about as good as it gets in Italian poetry unless you opt for lighthearted filastrocche (maybe next year!).

The final line lands with quiet acceptance: Non importa. È gioia: It doesn’t matter. It is joy. Not “it’s still joy” or “it’s joy anyway” — just the bare declaration, unfiltered by judgment not shadowed by foreboding.
Joy for a day, right now, is still joy.

The original:

Capo d’anno: sì mite, e quanto sole!
Io già respiro il marzo, in questa luce
d’oro, che so breve e bugiarda. E rido
alla menzogna, me ne godo; e ad essa
mi scaldo, come fan pruno e castagno
cui rispunta a capriccio qualche gemma,
nella certezza che morrà domani
prima d’aprirsi. Gemme senza fiore
sui rami e nel mio cuore,
gioia d’un giorno, conscia d’esser viva
sol per un giorno!
Non importa. È gioia.\ The music in this episode is Vivaldi’s Concerto for 2 Oboes in A minor, RV 536 — I. Allegro, by The Modena Chamber Orchestra (under creative commons from musopen).