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Best Famous Salvatore Quasimodo Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Salvatore Quasimodo poems. This is a select list of the best famous Salvatore Quasimodo poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Salvatore Quasimodo poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Salvatore Quasimodo poems.

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by Salvatore Quasimodo |

and suddenly it’s evening

Everyone stands alone at the heart of the world,
pierced by a ray of sunlight,
and suddenly it’s evening.


by Salvatore Quasimodo |

Street in Agrigentum

 There is still the wind that I remember
firing the manes of horses, racing,
slanting, across the plains,
the wind that stains and scours the sandstone,

and the heart of gloomy columns, telamons,
overthrown in the grass.
Spirit of the ancients, grey with rancour, return on the wind, breathe in that feather-light moss that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.
How alone in the space that’s still yours! And greater, your pain, if you hear, once more, the sound that moves, far off, towards the sea, where Hesperus streaks the sky with morning: the jew’s-harp vibrates in the waggoner’s mouth as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow, in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.


by Salvatore Quasimodo |

Enemy of Death

 (For Rossana Sironi) 

You should not have
ripped out your image
taken from us, from the world,
a portion of beauty.
What can we do we enemies of death, bent to your feet of rose, your breast of violet? Not a word, not a scrap of your last day, a No to earth’s things, a No to our dull human record.
The sad moon in summer, the dragging anchor, took your dreams, hills, trees, light, waters, darkness, not dim thoughts but truths, severed from the mind that suddenly decided, time and all future evil.
Now you are shut behind heavy doors enemy of death.
Who cries? You have blown out beauty with a breath, torn her, dealt her the death-wound, without a tear for her insensate shadow’s spreading over us.
Destroyed solitude, and beauty, failed.
You have signalled into the dark, inscribed your name in air, your No to everything that crowds here and beyond the wind.
I know what you were looking for in your new dress.
I understand the unanswered question.
Neither for you nor us, a reply.
Oh, flowers and moss, Oh, enemy of death.


by Salvatore Quasimodo |

Wind at Tindari

 Tindari, I know you
mild between broad hills, overhanging the waters
of the god’s sweet islands.
Today, you confront me and break into my heart.
I climb airy peaks, precipices, following the wind in the pines, and the crowd of them, lightly accompanying me, fly off into the air, wave of love and sound, and you take me to you, you from whom I wrongly drew evil, and fear of silence, shadow, - refuge of sweetness, once certain - and death of spirit.
It is unknown to you, that country where each day I go down deep to nourish secret syllables.
A different light strips you, behind the windows clothed in night, and another joy than mine lies against you.
Exile is harsh and the search, for harmony, that ended in you changes today to a precocious anxiousness for death, and every love is a shield against sadness, a silent stair in the gloom, where you station me to break my bitter bread.
Return, serene Tindari, stir me, sweet friend, to raise myself to the sky from the rock, so that I might shape fear, for those who do not know what deep wind has searched me.