The Girl-Child of Pompei

August 8, 2006 at 11:43 pm 3 comments

Primo Levi


Since everyone’s anguish is our own,
We live ours over again, thin child,
Clutching your mother convulsively
As though, when the noon sky turned black,
You wanted to re-enter her.
To no avail, because the air, turned poison,
Filtered to find you through the closed windows
Of your quiet, thick-walled house,
Once happy with your song, your timid laugh.
Centuries have passed, the ash has petrified
To imprison those delicated limbs forever.
In this way you stay with us, a twisted plaster cast,
Agony without end, terrible witness to how much
Our proud seed matters to the gods.
Nothing is left of your far-removed sister,
The Dutch girl imprisoned by four walls
Who wrote of her youth without tomorrows.
Her silent ash was scattered by the wind,
Her brief life shut in a crumpled notebook.
Nothing remains of the Hiroshima schoolgirl,
A shadow printed on a wall by the light of a thousand suns,
Victim sacrificed on the altar of fear.
Powerful of the earth, masters of new poisons,
Sad secret guardians of final thunder,
The torments heaven sends us are enough.
Before your finger presses down, stop and consider.

(translated from the Italian by Ruth Feldman)

Who knew that Primo Levi wrote poetry? I certainly didn’t. Till a few years ago I only knew Levi as the author of all those stunning books about the Holocaust – If this is a man, If not now then when? And then one day I happened upon his selected poems in a bookstore and just had to buy it.

Today’s poem, taken from that collection, resonates with the same sense of sorrow mixed with indignation that one finds in Levi’s prose. Here again is the appeal we recognise from his books – a plea for peace, for humanity. Here again is Levi’s simple yet stirring message – “Everyone’s anguish is our own”.

If Levi’s writing moves us it is because the bitter wisdom in his voice is as relevant today as it was fifty years ago. To the list of innocent dead that this poem gives us, we have so many new names to add – the children killed at Qana, the infants dying in Rwanda and Somalia. “The torments heaven sends us are enough” Levi writes – we can only pray that somewhere, somehow, the “powerful of the earth” are listening.


Entry filed under: English, Falstaff, Italian, Primo Levi, Prose Writers, Ruth Feldman.

We are hard on each other Laurie lantar lassi surinen

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