Memorized any poems lately? It’s a worthy exercise, often a pleasure.
I have never been much of a poem-memorizer. You? But I have always liked the idea of memorizing poems. (“I like the idea of being fit and slim. Not that I’ll ever do anything about it.”) Lately, I have taken the trouble to memorize a few poems. “Trouble” is the wrong word, really. It’s a pleasure — or at least a worthy exercise.
We could “count the ways” (speaking of poetry).
When I was in high school, I memorized a French poem: “L’hippopotame,” by Gautier. The other week, I re-memorized it. Was the task easier, because I had memorized the poem more than 40 years before? You know, I think it was, believe it or not.
“Mystic chords of memory.” (Lincoln had plenty of poetry in him.)
I have also memorized “L’infinito” — if millions of Italian kids can, why couldn’t I? “L’infinito” is something like Italy’s national poem. Everyone knows it, or a great many know it. Know it by heart. Memorizing the poem is part of growing up Italian.
“L’infinito” is by Leopardi — Giacomo Leopardi — that divine poet, philosopher, essayist, etc. He lived from 1798 to 1837. He composed “L’infinito” in 1819. It is beautiful simply at the level of words — sentences, if you like. It is also “deep,” philosophically. Something to puzzle over, if one chooses.
I know an Italian couple who have lived in America for many years. They have three children, the eldest of whom is a sophomore in college, the youngest of whom is a freshman in high school. When they were little, all of them memorized “L’infinito.” A cultural duty, practically.
Would you like to hear Vittorio Gassman recite the poem? (He was one of the most famous Italian actors of the 20th century.) The only problem with this video is that there is music, along with Gassman’s voice. The music is utterly superfluous — indeed, distracting. The only music you need is Leopardi, plus Gassman. Anyway, that video is here.
The Wikipedia entry for “L’infinito” is very good. You can read the poem in Italian. And in three different English translations. Here is one by Jonathan Galassi:
This lonely hill was always dear to me,
and this hedgerow, which cuts off the view
of so much of the last horizon.
But sitting here and gazing, I can see
beyond, in my mind’s eye, unending spaces,
and superhuman silences, and depthless calm,
till what I feel
is almost fear. And when I hear
the wind stir in these branches, I begin
comparing that endless stillness with this noise:
and the eternal comes to mind,
and the dead seasons, and the present
living one, and how it sounds.
So my mind sinks in this immensity:
and foundering is sweet in such a sea.
Question: Do we have the equivalent of “L’infinito” in America? What I mean is: Do we have a poem that everyone knows? I don’t think so. We have the Pledge of Allegiance (which is not a poem, to be sure). I also think of Emma Lazarus and her Statue of Liberty poem, “The New Colossus.” And of Robert Frost: “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”
The other day, I was talking with a French friend of mine. Is there the equivalent of “L’infinito” in France? No, not really. Maybe the most famous French poem is “Demain dès l’aube,” by Hugo. But a lot of people know four lines from Joan of Arc: her quatrain. These are four lines ingrained on the French mind, or many minds. They tell of the vision Joan had when she was 13:
Puis vint cette voix,
Environ l’heure de midi,
Au temps de l’été,
Dans le jardin de mon père.
I will render these lines rather unpoetically: “Then came this voice, about noon, during the summer, in my father’s garden.” You can take that literally. Or you can interpret it spiritually, metaphysically.
Anyway, these are four perfect lines, utterly in balance. And you can memorize them in a snap (with some knowledge of French).
I thought of memorizing “Demain dès l’aube.” But, you know what? It is a poem about death, and I’m not in the mood.
For “L’hippopotame,” I am always in the mood. Its author, Théophile Gautier, lived from 1811 to 1872. “L’hippopotame” appears in an 1838 collection. A wonderful poem it is. For three stanzas, it seems to be a rather whimsical poem about exotic animals. In the fourth and final stanza, it takes a turn: very moving (and maybe even useful).
One English translation is found here. The identity of the translator, I am uncertain of.
The big-bellied hippopotamus
Lives in the jungles of Java,
Where monsters growl from every lair,
More than you’d ever dream of.The boa uncoils and hisses,
the tiger unleashes his roar.
The buffalo bellows with rage —
but the peaceful hippo just feeds and sleeps.The hippo fears neither sword nor spear,
He just stands and looks right at you.
He laughs and laughs at the sepoys’ bullets
bouncing off his hide.I am like the hippopotamus:
Swathed in my conviction,
protected by strong and inviolable armor,
fearlessly I cross the desert.
Incidentally, T. S. Eliot, too, wrote a poem called “The Hippopotamus,” inspired by Gautier’s. His is about church and religion (to put the matter briefly). Find it here.
Louis-Albert Bourgault-Ducoudray — quite a name, huh? — made a song out of Gautier’s poem. (Why have one hyphenated name when you can have two?) Monsieur Bourgault-Ducoudray was a French composer — Breton, in particular — who lived from 1840 to 1910. I am unable to find a recording of the song on YouTube. And here I thought YouTube had everything.
Despite this lacuna (a Bill Buckley word), I regard YouTube as the greatest invention since the wheel.
There are many, many recordings of “L’île inconnue” — try Anne Sofie von Otter here. It is one of the most famous songs in the entire French repertoire. It is the final song in Les nuits d’été, the cycle by Berlioz, which sets six poems of Gautier. They were friends and neighbors, Berlioz and Gautier. (How fortunate for each.)
“L’île inconnue” is another poem I have memorized. I think of it as “The Unknown Island.” Richard Stokes translates the title differently: “The Unknowable Isle.” Hmmm. Stokes is a very smart and conscientious fellow. I wish to comment on the poem. First, here is Stokes’s translation:
Tell me, pretty young maid,
Where is it you would go?
The sail is billowing,
The breeze about to blow!The oar is of ivory,
The pennant of watered silk,
The rudder of finest gold;
For ballast I’ve an orange,
For sail an angel’s wing,
For cabin-boy a seraph.Tell me, pretty young maid,
Where is it you would go?
The sail is billowing,
The breeze about to blow!Perhaps the Baltic,
Or the Pacific
Or the Isle of Java?
Or else to Norway,
To pluck the snow flower
Or the flower of Angsoka?Tell me, pretty young maid,
Where is it you would go?Take me, said the pretty maid,
To the shore of faithfulness
Where love endures forever.
— That shore, my sweet,
Is scarce known
In the realm of love.Where is it you would go?
The breeze is about to blow!
“L’île inconnue” is a marvelous love poem and love song — full of fantasy. I mean, it really tickles the fancy (or whatever). But it is also very cynical — or realistic, you might say.
I’m no Helen Vendler, but hear me out. A guy is trying to win a girl. (I use “win” as a euphemism.) “Where do you want to go, babe? Sky’s the limit. I got this boat. The breeze is about to blow. Wanna go to Java? [What is it about Gautier and Java?] Or Norway? Where?” He keeps asking her.
Eventually, she answers — honestly: “Take me to the shore of fidelity, where love lasts. Where, when a person says, ‘I love you,’ he really means it.” The boy replies, “Oh, babe — that place doesn’t exist. Fuhgeddaboudit. So, back to business: Where do you want to go?”
That is the unknown island, the unknowable isle: the place of true love. Anyway, Gautier wrote a great poem. It’s in my noggin for now. May even stay.
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