Early on a recent morning, we strolled through Trastevere’s Piazza Trilussa and discovered that the sculpture of the poet Trilussa had been embellished — most likely by the throng of wine- and spirit-swilling youth that fills the square on weekend nights. We laughed to see one of Rome’s most esteemed poets holding a bottle of red wine and leaning over as if to tell us about its secret properties. We can only imagine that Trilussa himself would have enjoyed the joke.
Trilussa’s real name was Carlo Alberto Salustri (Trilussa is an anagram of Salustri), and he grew famous in the 1920s and 1930s for his poems written in the Roman dialect. Not part of any literary circle, he was a writer who preferred to spend his time in the streets and taverns, taking his inspiration from the petite-bourgeoisie of Rome: the housewife, the store clerk, the servant, while also denouncing the governments and the vices of the rich.
The monument in Trastevere features a poem from his 1932 collection, Giove e le bestie (translation by Luigi Bonaffini) :
IN THE SHADOW
While I’m reading the usual newspaper,
relaxed in the shadow of a straw patio,
I see a swine and I say aloud: “Farewell, pig!”
I see a mule and I say aloud: “Farewell, donkey!”
Maybe these beasts won’t understand me
but, at least, I feel so happy
to be free to tell things straight,
fearing not to finish up in prison.
Or if you prefer to read it in the original Italian:
ALL’OMBRA
Mentre me leggo er solito giornale
spaparacchiato all’ombra d’un pajaro,
vedo un porco e je dico. Addio, majale!
vedo un ciuccio e je dico. Addio, somaro!
Forse ste bestie nun me caperanno,
ma provo armeno la soddisfazzione
de potè di’ le cose come stanno
senza paura de fini in priggione.
