Poetic Walks in San Gimignano, a place of the soul
San Gimignano is cloaked in a timeless charm, which over the centuries has nourished the minds and imaginations of great personalities, inspiring not only men of letters but also poets and poets. The beauty of the city and the love it can arouse in souls resonate in loose verse, sonorous rhymes, impressions and dreams turned into words. From some of these works begins a journey that takes us to discover a different side of San Gimignano, with a walk that interweaves the suggestions of the landscape with the poetic voices of those who, from the Middle Ages to the present day, have populated, lived in and animated the city, walking its streets and capturing its essence in unforgettable verse.
It is an experience that goes straight to the heart, and speaks to romantic souls. Step by step, the city is transformed from a physical place to an emotional and spiritual envelope, a treasure chest of stories and feelings passed down from generation to generation. You will listen to the deep voice that the stones of the historic center - a World Heritage Site - guard, heedless of the passage of centuries. Perhaps not by chance, Magda Ceccarelli De Grada called it "the philosophical walk." Between the landscape of the Tuscan countryside on one side and the city walls on the other, the itinerary winds through places that know how to arouse passions and deep thoughts. Even the painter Ernesto Treccani, Magda's son-in-law, loved to stand on these stone seats to admire the view and represent it in many of his paintings.
The poetic journey begins with the words of Folgore da San Gimignano, the town's eminent poet, whose verses are found in literature anthologies and are studied in Italian and foreign universities. Although his life remains shrouded in mystery, the joyful and playful rhymes of his sonnets speak to us of a world of dreams and pleasures, of carefree days spent in his company, and of seasons that follow one another in the harmony of nature. D'Agosto, a 13th-century sonnet, slowly plunges us into a universe of colors and scents, laughter and excitement, in which life is the protagonist and celebrated in its many shades.
in una valle di alpe montanina,
che non vi possa vento di marina,
per istar sani e chiari come stella;
e palafreni da montare 'n sella,
e cavalcar la sera e la mattina:
and the one land to the other be near,
ch'un miglio sia la vostra giornatella,
returning nevertheless toward the house;
e per la valle corra una fiumana,
che vada notte e dí traente e rasa;
e stare nel fresco tutta meriggiana:
la vostra borsa sempre a bocca pasa,
per la migliore vivanda di Toscana.
We continue the journey with the verses of Gina Gennai, a late 19th-century daughter of San Gimignano, whose indomitable spirit resonates in her rhymes. The poet sings of the female independence that women were trying to gain in the early 1900s, and of the town to which she always remained very attached. One's Own Land (1923), takes us to her hometown, a "sonorous" San Gimignano rising to the sky.
The wind announces it
encircling you as in a wave
sonorous with echoes. Far away,
from the turreted hill, it comes:
faintly flex the tops
the slender cypresses
that mark ascending the way:
the golden pines at sunset
burn the last fires.
Here is your song. Of it
lightly throbs each stem
on the edge of the fields: quivering
it goes for the clear skies
your soul with the swallows,
your soul with the stars.
As the seasons change, San Gimignano changes its appearance, and from D'Agosto we come to Inverno (1971). Its short, intense verses, endowed with great rhythm, came from the pen of Magda Ceccarelli De Grada. Her resolute personality was at the center of Milan's cultural ferment during the years of the Resistance, and it was in the Milanese city, to which she had moved with her husband, the painter Raffaele De Grada, that she wrote the poems dedicated to San Gimignano, of which she recalls the places, people and life.
that binds us
(to adverse winds
and demons' rage
endures)
I mix in the jar
honey and wax
and why not?
Tar,
to make it as gomena
in storm.
As we venture through the streets of San Gimignano, we also encounter the voices of contemporary Italian poets who have found inspiration in this town during creative residencies or cultural meetings. Through their words we hear the echoes of the past mingle with the present, and we sense the birth of a new, unbreakable bond between the generations of poets and poets who have contributed to making the city a place of eternal inspiration and beauty. During the walk, we will discover these synergies in the poems Paesaggio (Antonella Anedda, 2007); Prendere dimora (Elisa Biagini, 2009); Canti di un luogo abbandonato (Azzurra D'Agostino, 2013); Ciò che il mondo separa (Francesca Matteoni, 2021).
I approached a snow-laden branch
where one of the crows bent the wood under its feet.
I became that rocking of gray and black.
And that different green (mixture of sage and frost)
advancing with a livid touch on the clouds.
I saw myself inside that purgatory.
Everything was landscape. Anger: a mound.
Uncertainty -- in piles: a hill.
Unlove: trees with shadows shrouded.
"Observe," said the shadow in the nearest bush:
"the mist engulfs your sorrow.
Learn in your mortal space
learning you touch heaven."
Yes, I answered and the light diminished the wrath of the morning
divided my body from resentment
imposed the shadows to be silent.
And a sharp blue took
- was it heaven already? the place of the landscape,
of the first person.
and this is true, as is 'l fiorin giallo."
Folgore da San Gimignano
is the sharpness of yellow that opens
the body, fishes us
the compass and sets off
among the split stones the
yellow crumbs of a
meal of light
on this paper flesh
you trace the yellow
measure of the gaze
in the lightless bulbs
vibrates the yolk
of a suspended body
here gathers a moss
yellow of waiting, slow
like mist
between the tree and its shadow
you stay in the yellow eye,
between dog and wolf
(then you make an ear again,
hang up the leaves
and take up residence
in the wave of shadow)
fields that change color and don't know it.
All the noises
of what used to be a place to live don't reach here:
the farmyard, the dog, the pawing
of mice, perhaps a song
and the stirring of hunger
of men and beasts.
They say it was also happy
this countryside.
The stones and slate laid
in the hard of the present
stand now
in a time that is not for them.
They stand like the cherry trees
that redden the earth
in silence. We are
a little lower, by a little,
in a white,
disinfected loneliness that was unimagined.
The tower peeled the forest back,
prevented the moon from seeing.
The tower was bone and concrete
and something like remorse.
In the tower there was no hell
there was no summer, no winter
there was no entrance or exit
there was no death or life
there was a vague sound of footsteps
of strained stomachs.
And a livid star on the chest.
(...)
