[ad_1] <!– –> <!– –> Bang’s Purgatorio Excerpts from a lively new translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Illustrations by Berke Yazicioglu December 23, 2019 In 2013, the poet Mary Jo Bang published her rendition of Dante’s Inferno, a poem that’s more than seven hundred years old but still resonates today, if only because we’ve all
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In 2013, the poet Mary Jo Bang published her rendition of Dante’s Inferno, a poem that’s more than seven hundred years old but still resonates today, if only because we’ve all been to what Zora Neale Hurston described as West Hell. (Some might say we visit there more and more.) English versions of Dante’s descent have become a tradition of their own—one I’ve participated in—but Bang’s translation is uniquely here and now, remixing the poem with a range of often-anachronistic references, while remaining true to the vernacular spirit of the original.
Bang now gives us Purgatorio, the second part of the trilogy that is the Divine Comedy. As the poem starts, Dante’s alter ego prepares to scale Mount Purgatory—guided, as in the Inferno, by the Roman poet Virgil—in the hopes of reuniting with his beloved Beatrice in paradise. Featured here are Cantos I, IV, VI, and IX, which find Dante at the mountain’s base, in Ante-Purgatory, among souls waiting to embark on the process of their purification.
Bang’s notes, at once playful and wise, offer historical context, literary commentary, and citations for language and ideas that she has sampled from a wide range of sources, including Led Zeppelin, Lord Byron, and classical mythology, to name just a few. These annotations, presented here alongside the text, emphasize that literature is a long and ongoing conversation, as alive as Dante alone among the dead who populate the poem. In Bang’s interpretation, Dante’s words transcend religious allegory and medieval political critique to speak humanely and humorously to our own troubled time; she reminds us that, above all, the Purgatorio is an account of wishing, and working, to be better.
— Kevin Young
eading over waters getting better all the time1
My mind’s little skiff now lifts its sails,
Letting go the oh-so-bitter sea behind it.
The next realm, the second I’ll sing,
Is here where the human spirit gets purified
And made fit for the stairway to heaven.2
Here’s where the kiss of life restores the reign
Of poetry—O true-blue Muses, I’m yours—
And where Calliope jumps up just long enough
To sing backup with the same bold notes
That knocked the poor magpie girls3 into knowing
Their audacity would never be pardoned.
The fluid blue of the eastern sapphire
Pooling in the cloudless mid-sky,
Clear down to the first curved horizon line,
Was an even more delightful sight,
Having left behind the sad-making dead air
That had so messed up my chest and eyes.
The gorgeous planet that says yes to love
Was turning the east into a glitter fest,
Veiling the fish that formed her entourage.4
I looked right; focussing on the South Pole,
I saw four stars that had gone unseen
Since the first human beings.5
It was like the sky was having a wild night
With these tiny blinking lights; O sad-eyed lady North,
Widowed of a sight you would so love to see!6
After this mini stargazing party,
I turned a bit toward the other pole,
Where the shuddering Bear had already lumbered off.7
Nearby, I saw a watchman on his own;8
His looks made it seem he deserved
The kind of respect a child owes a parent.
His beard was long and salted white,
Ditto his hair, which fell forward
Onto his chest in two thick bands.
The rays of the four sacred stars
Gave his face the glint of a minted coin;
I pictured a searchlight sun in front of him.
“Who are you, who’ve turned the dead-end river
On its head by getting out of jail without a card?”
He said, his venerable feathers ruffled.
“Who guided you, or acted like a flashlight,
When you fled the fathomless night-gloom
That keeps the Infernal Valley forever in the dark?
“Have you broken the laws of the Abyss?
Or has Heaven weakened the law, so you damned ones
Can roll up to my substation anytime you like?”
My teacher gave me a look, then using head nods
And hand gestures made me kneel
And bend my head in deference.
“I didn’t come here on my own,” he said.
“A woman came down from Heaven
And begged me to help this one9 by coming with him.
“But since you want to hear the whole story,
The unabridged version of how and why
We came to be here, I can’t say no to that.
“This man hasn’t seen his final evening hour;
Playing a fool’s game, however, he was so close
There was very little time for a turnaround.
“As I told you, I was sent to help him stay alive;
There was no other way to do that
Except the one I’ve taken.
“I’ve shown him the guilty ones,
And now I need to show him the spirits
Who purify themselves under your sovereign say-so.
“It’s a long story, how I brought him this far;
Power descended from on high and helped me
Bring him to this place, where he can see and hear you.
“I hope you’ll agree to his coming here.
He’s seeking freedom, the price of which is known
By those who give their lives for it.
“You know this. Death for the sake of it wasn’t bitter
In Utica, where you shuffled off your mortal coil,
Which will be so bright on that one fine day.10
“We haven’t violated any eternal edicts:
He’s alive and I’m not tied to Minos;
I’m in the circle where the innocent eyes of your Marcia11
“Show how much she longs to still belong
To your pure and most-most loving breast.
For her love, then, I hope you’ll give us the go-ahead.
“Let us travel through your seven kingdoms;
I’ll take word of your kindness back to her,
That is, if you don’t mind your name being dropped below.”
“I so loved setting eyes on Marcia
When I was far from here,” he said,
“That I never said no to whatever she asked for.
“Now that she’s on the far side of the river of pain,
She no longer moves me—that law was decreed
When I was airlifted out of there.
“But if, as you say, a heavenly woman moves you
To act and acts as your handler, there’s no need
To flatter; it’s enough to ask in her name.
“So, go, tie a simple reed around his waist,12
And wash his filthy face—
Make sure you scrub off all the grime.
“There’s no way he can go in front
Of the first of the ministers of Paradise
Looking as if he got caught in a smoke cloud.
“All around this small island, at its lowest-most point
Where the sea-waves’ sway tugs at the rough stones,13
Rushes grow in the soft silt.
“Plants with leaves or woody stalks don’t last there;
They get badly broken
By the surf’s steady rasp and after-rasp.14
“Don’t travel back this way;
The sun, now coming up, will show you how
To take an easier route up the mountain.”
With that, he vanished into thin air.
I got up without speaking and turned to my teacher,
Looking straight into his eyes.
He said, “Son, you can follow me.
Let’s go back. The plain slopes that way
Down to its lowest point.”
Dawn had finally outraced the after-midnight hours
Running in front of it. I could see,
Even from this distance, the fluttering edge of the shore.
We made our way over the desolate plain
Like someone looking for a lost path,
Who, until it’s found, feels like it’s all in vain.
When we came to an area where,
Because of a cool breeze, the dew held its own
Against the sun’s evaporative reach,
My teacher opened both hands
And placed his palms lightly on the wet grass;
Now seeing what he had in mind,
I offered him my tear-stained cheeks,
And, right there, he revealed all my true colors,15
Which Hell had kept hidden.
We then went down to the deserted coastline,
Which had never seen anyone navigate its waters
And come back after the fact.
There, he tied the reed around my waist
The way some others do: Oh, one for the books!
When he pulled up the lowly plant by its roots,
Another at once sprang up in its place.16
hen any of the mind’s
Inherent capacities sense pleasure, or pain,
the soul focusses on that alone.
It seems to ignore the other potentials—
This versus the mistaken claim
That of several souls inside us, one is more awake.17
As a result, when a sight or sound
Holds the soul in its grip,
We lose all sense that time is ticking.18
The faculty that watches the clock isn’t the one
That ties up the mind; that one moves around
While the hands of the other are bound.
I had that actual experience:
While I was listening to that spirit and marvelling,
The sun had climbed a full fifty degrees.
I hadn’t noticed until we came to a place
Where the souls all called out,
“Here’s what you were asking about.”
When the late grapes turn brown,
A groundskeeper will often take a garden fork
Of thorn shrub and plug a larger opening
Than the narrow gap my teacher first,
Then I, climbed through—alone now
Since the group had gone on without us.
One can make it up to San Leo, or down to Noli,19
Or reach the diadem of snow that crowns Bismantova20
On foot, but here one had to fly—
By which I mean with streamlined wings
And feather-light intense desire
Behind the guide who gave me hope and lit the way.
Where we climbed, the rock was broken open;
The walls, a private hermitage, pressed in on either side;21
The bare ground beneath required both hands and feet.
When we’d reached the highest rim of the precipice,
Where it opened out onto a hillside,
I asked my teacher, “Which way?”
“Don’t backslide,” he said, “not even one step.
Just stay behind me and keep gaining ground
Until someone arrives who can guide us.”
The summit above soared out of sight;
The incline was difficult and much steeper even
Than the line that divides a right angle in half.
Having reached the point of exhaustion, I said,
“You’ve been a very kind father, but turn and look:
If you don’t stop to rest, I’ll be left here by myself.”
“And you, my son, keep going,” he said,
“Just up to there.” He pointed to a slightly higher ledge
That curved around that side of the mountain.
What he said flipped a switch; as tired as I was,
I forced myself to scramble after him
Until the narrow beltway was firmly beneath my feet.
There we sat to rest, facing east—which was for us
The mooring of starting out.22 It sometimes helps
To look back on the past and say, “We have come this far.”23
I first looked down at the shores below,
Then raised my eyes to the sun,
Amazed that its light was striking us from the left.24
The poet realized I was totally baffled
By the fact that the sun’s aerial car25
Was cutting a path between us and the North.
He said, “If it were Castor and Pollux
In the company of that big reflecting mirror
That conducts its light in both directions,
“You’d see the zodiac’s wheel revolve even closer
To the Bears,26 unless, that is,
It were to suddenly jump its well-worn track.
“If you want to understand how this can be,
Picture Mount Zion and imagine
Both it and this mountain located on Earth,
“In such a way that they share one horizon
But occupy different hemispheres.27
If you consider it closely, you’ll see
“That the path poor Phaeton sadly failed to navigate28
Must pass this mountain on one side
When it’s passing Zion on the other.”
“Of course!” I told my teacher,
“Before this, I could never figure it out—
My mind kept missing the point, which I now get:
“The mid-circle of celestial motion,
Or what’s called the equator in some sciences,
Forever lies between the sun and winter weather,
“At the identical angle that—for exactly the reason
You just gave—it once lay for the Hebrews
To the warm-weather South.29
“But if you don’t mind my asking, I’d love to know
How much farther we have to go; the mountain rises
Higher than I can see with my naked eye.”
“The design of the mountain is such,” he said,
“That when you begin at the base, the climb’s harder;
The higher you get, the less painful the effort.
“So, when you seem to be enjoying the ascent,
And the path up feels as effortless as coasting
Downstream in a beautiful pea-green boat,30
“Then you will have reached the end
And can hope to rest and catch your breath.
Of that much I’m sure. I really can’t say more.”
As soon as he’d said those words,
We heard a voice nearby, “But just maybe . . .
You’ll need to sit and rest a bit before then.”
Hearing that, we both turned
And saw on our left a huge boulder,
Which neither of us had noticed before.
We went over to the rock
And found people lounging in the shade behind it,
As if they were a bunch of good-for-nothing slackers.
One, who seemed quite listless, was sitting
On the ground, arms loosely circling his bent knees.
His lowered head hung between them.
“Whoa, my good lord,” I said, “take a look at this one.
He’s showing more indifference
Than if laziness were his little sister.”
With that, he slowly turned his head.
Resting it on his thigh, while keeping his eyes fixed on us,
He said, “Fine, Mister Lightning Bolt,31 you go right on up.”
I now realized who he was.
Not even the lingering effects of my recent effort
Stopped me from going straight over to him.
When I got there, he barely raised his head and said,
“So, is your understanding of why the sun drives his chariot
Along your left upper arm now complete?”
His sluggish manner and curt speech
Prompted a slight smile; I said, “Belacqua,32
From now on, I’ll no longer worry about you.
“But why are you sitting here like this?
Are you waiting for an escort?
Or simply going back to your old bad habits?”
“O brother, what’s the point of trekking up?
God’s feathered messenger in charge of the gate
Isn’t going to let me in to do my penance.
“First, I have to wait outside for as long
as in my lifetime the heavens spun around me; this,
Because I put off my pious sighs until the very end—
“Unless, that is, someone whose heart’s in a state of grace
Helps me out by sending up a few prayers.
What good is anyone, if Heaven can’t hear them?”
The poet, without waiting for me, had already begun
The climb, calling back: “Come on now,
Look how the sun’s crossing the meridian, and at the edge,
“The boot of the Western night is about to cover Morocco.”33
hen the dice game breaks up,
the sad-sack loser stays behind,
replays each move, and dismally learns.
The crowd surrounds the winner:
Someone’s in his face, someone taps his back.
At his side, someone reminds him: “I knew you when.”
He doesn’t stop but listens to this, to that;
The ones he slips a little something to,
They fade away. Like that, he manages the pack.
That was me in that press of people,
Facing first one, then another; with a promise
For each, I finally escaped.
Here was the Aretine killed by the long arm
Of grisly Ghino di Tacco;34 another drowned
On the run from a band with a grudge.35
The one begging with his hands out
Was Federico Novello;36 plus the Pisan
Who’d forced Marzucco to show his moral courage.37
I saw Count Orso,38 and another soul
Split from his body by spite and envy, or so he said,
And due to no fault of his own:
I.e., Pierre de la Brosse. And the Lady of Brabant,39
Who’s still in the world, she’d better watch her step
Lest she land in a flock far worse than this one.
As soon as I’d freed myself from that group
Of shadows, whose only prayer was for others to pray
And speed them into blessedness,
I began, “It seems to me, O light of mine,
That in a certain passage, you expressly deny
That prayer can ever bend a fate decreed in heaven.40
“And yet, these people are praying for exactly that.
Does that mean they’re hoping in vain,
Or am I missing the sense of what you said?”
He told me, “My writing is clear;
The hope they have isn’t a fallacy,
Which you can see if you think it through.
“The high standards of divine justice aren’t lowered
If a moment of great fire in someone’s soul
Satisfies the debt of one who struggles here.
“Back there, where I made that point,
Mistakes couldn’t be corrected by prayer,
Because prayer wasn’t yet connected to God.
“Nonetheless, don’t allow these profound doubts
To take root before talking to one who’ll shed light
On the line between the truth and the intellect.
“I’m not sure you understand: I mean Beatrice.
You’ll see her above, at the top of the mountain,
Lighthearted among the blissful.”
I said, “Sir, let’s pick up the pace.
I’m not as tired as I was. Also, look,
The mountain’s already casting a shadow.”
“We’ll keep going as long as there’s daylight,”
He said, “as far as we can. But the fact is—
Things here aren’t quite as you imagine.
“Before you reach the summit, you’ll see the return
Of what’s now tucked so far behind the cliff
That your body no longer blocks its rays.
“But that soul you see over there
Who’s sitting all alone and looking toward us;
He’ll let us know the fastest way.”
We approached him: “O esteemed Lombardi soul,41
You seemed so lofty and detached,
As your cool eyes slowly scanned the horizon!”
He spoke not a word to us
But let us keep coming, watching us warily,
Like Leo the Lion42 posing for a closeup.
Nonetheless, Virgil kept moving toward him, asking
If he’d please be willing to show us the best way up.
Even then, he didn’t answer the question
But instead asked where we were from
And what life was like there. My modest guide began,
“Mantua . . .” and the shade, who’d been so distant,
Jumped up and ran toward him, saying,
“O Mantuan! I’m Sordello, from the same place!”
At which they hugged each other.
Servile Italy, pain hostel,43 no pilot at the helm
In a hurricane. No longer a provincial mistress
But a brothel-bound sex worker.
How quick that generous spirit was,
At the mere mention of the precious name of his city,
To extend a warm welcome to his fellow-citizen.
Now it’s one war after another, and those who live
Barricaded behind a single wall and moat
Eat each other up.
Look around, you lame excuses,
From sea to shining sea, then look into the heartland,
And see if you find peace worth rejoicing over.
What good did it do you, Justinian refitting the bit44
Like he did, if no one’s in the saddle?
If he hadn’t done that, there’d be less shame.
You, who ought to be observant
And put Caesar in the saddle, if you’d read the text
God wrote for you, render to him, etcetera—45
Ever since you grabbed the bridle ring
But refused to use it to correct the animal,
It’s become wild and vicious.
O Albert of Austria,46 you’ve abandoned it
Now that it’s a brute and can’t be subdued;
You should be on the horse, sitting in the saddle.
May a well-deserved plague fall from the stars
And hit your house. One so novel and obvious
Your successor will live in fear and trembling.
A bad case of greed led you and your father
To stay up there, allowing the garden
Of the empire to turn into a wasteland.
Come have a look, Sir Fancy-Free, at the Montecchi
And Cappelletti, the Monaldi and Filippeschi,47 some
Already hopeless, others keeping both eyes open.
Come and see, cruel one, how your nobles bully
One another. Come and cure what ails them.
Come and see how gloomy it is in Santafiora.48
Come and see your suffering Rome,
Unpartnered, alone, calling night and day,
“Caesar, why aren’t you here with me?”
Come and see the people, how they love one another.
If pity for us doesn’t move you, come out of shame
For how your name will be remembered.
And if one is allowed to ask, O Jove on High,49
Who was crucified on Earth for us,
Are your righteous eyes turned elsewhere?
Or, are you preparing something fine
In the council chamber of your unfathomable mind
That we can’t grasp because of our brokenness?
Every town and city in Italy is swarming
With tyrants and every partisan chucklehead
Comes to play the part of Marcellus.50
And Florence, my own, you should be happy
With this digression, which doesn’t refer to you;
One could argue this is thanks to its people.
Many have justice in their hearts, but are slow;
The arrow keeps asking the bow for advice.
But your mouth is filled to the brim with it.
Many refuse the burden of public office, but you,
Even before you’ve been asked, quickly shout out,
Like the rat in “The Little Red Hen,” “I will, I will, I will.”51
Now you’re happy, and with good reason;
You have wealth, peace, a sense of direction!
If I speak the truth, the facts can’t mask it.
Athens and Sparta framed the ancient laws52
And modelled what it was to be civilized,
Only hinting at what the good life might be—
Unlike you people, who so narrowly define
Your steps that the hairs you split in October
Fray and break by mid-November.53
How often, in your memory, have you altered
Your laws, currency, precedents, and policies,
And thrown people out and brought others in?
If you think carefully about your past,
You’ll see you’re like the princess and the pea:
Twenty feather beds atop twenty mattresses, yet
No rest; pain makes her toss and turn all night.54
he glowing mistress of ancient Tithonus,55
Having just left her lover’s warm arms,
Was becoming snow-white on the east-side balcony;
The bright gems in the diadem fitted to her forehead56
Were set in the shape of a scorpion,
That cold-blooded creature with a stinging tail.
And night, where we were, was just two steps up
On time’s staircase, while a third step
Was bending its feathered edge down to meet her,
When I, who carried within me something of Adam,
Won over by sleep, laid down on the grass
Where all five of us had been sitting.
At the morning hour,
When the swallow begins her sad song,
Perhaps in memory of her earlier ordeal,57
And one’s mind is less ruminative,
And further from flesh,
One tends to have visions that are almost divine,
I thought I saw a golden eagle suspended in a dream,
Underneath him steady air,58 wings outstretched,
Set any second to swoop.
I seemed to be exactly where Ganymede
Gave up those he was with to be carried off
To the high-level meeting on the mountaintop,59
I thought: Perhaps it’s only here where he strikes,
And everywhere else
He refuses to grasp anything in his claws.
He seemed to wheel for a while, then struck
Like an awful cloud-to-ground lightning bolt
And took me up, as far as the realm of fire.60
He and I both seemed to be in flames;
The heat of the dream-fire was so hot
It was right that sleep would crash and burn.
Not unlike Achilles’ sudden coming to,61
Eyes wide open, looking all around,
Not knowing where he was
After his mother had smuggled him,
Asleep in her arms, from Chiron to the isle of Skyros—
From which he later went off with the Greeks—62
I shook myself awake and, sleep having flown
From my face, became pale and lifeless
And, like someone terrified, turned to ice.
There at my side, by himself, was my comforter;
What’s more, the sun had been up for over two hours.
My face was now oddly turned toward the sea.
“Don’t be afraid,” the kind sir said, “You’re safe.
Things are well underway for us;
Don’t clench up but give it everything you’ve got.
“You’ve arrived now at Purgatory proper.
See the cliff that wraps around it?
See the entrance over there where it’s split?
“Earlier, right before daybreak,
While you and your innermost soul were sleeping
On that bed of roses on the grassy knoll below,
“A woman came and said, ‘I’m Lucy.63
Let me take this one while he’s sleeping,
So I can help him on his way.’
“Sordello stayed put, as did the other noble figures;
She took you and, as soon as it was light,
Made her way up, and I in her footsteps.
“She laid you down here, first indicating
With her bright eyes the entryway opening,
Then she and soft-handed sleep left together.”64
The way those in doubt reassure themselves
And that turns their fear into comfort,
Once they’ve discovered the truth—
I made that same exchange. When my teacher saw
I was no longer upset, he got up and moved on
Toward the summit; I trailed behind him.
Reader, you can clearly see my subject matter
Is becoming more elevated, so don’t be surprised
If I prop it up with greater artifice.65
We made our way, soon reaching where I saw
That something I’d first imagined was a crevice—
Like a crack that splits a wall in two—
Was actually a gate, and below it
Three steps leading up to it, each a different color,
Plus a gatekeeper, who hadn’t as yet said a word.
As the gatekeeper gradually took shape,
I could see they were sitting above the highest step,
But I couldn’t bear to stare directly at their face.
The naked sword in their hand flashed back
Such blinding radiance
I kept trying and failing to get a look at it.
They spoke, “Tell me from there, what do you want?
Where’s your escort? Be careful
That coming up here doesn’t get you in trouble.”
“There’s a lady from Heaven, who’s sure
About these things,” my teacher said,
“And just now she told me, ‘Go that way, that’s the gate.’ ”
“May she speed you on your way,”
The gracious gatekeeper continued,
“Come along, these are our stairs.”
We moved ahead. The white marble first tier
Was so flawless and polished I saw myself
Mirrored as if I were one of a pair.
The second was darker than absence-black
With hints of purple, the stone rough and crumbling,
An aggregate of cracks, length- and widthwise.
The third, its hefty mass resting on top,
Looked like porphyry, as close to flame red
As blood that rushes out of a vein.
Planted on top of this were the two feet
Of the Angel of God, seated on a stone threshold
That made me think of a lap of adamant.66
My teacher climbed the three steps
While I let myself be led. He said,
“Kneel, and ask them to undo the lock.”
I dropped down in front of the holy feet, begging
For them to please show me mercy and open the gate,
This after striking my chest three times.
Using the point of their sword, they lightly inscribed
Seven “P”s across my forehead,67 then said, “Be sure
To wash these wounds away once you get inside.”
Ashes or dried dirt dug from the earth,
That was the color of their robe.
From beneath it, they took two keys,
One gold, the other silver; using first the white,
Then the yellow, I was quite happy
With the way things worked at the door.
They told us, “Whenever one of these keys fails
To turn the right way in the lock,
This narrow door won’t budge.
“The one’s worth more, but the other requires a ton
Of skill and ingenuity. Before releasing,
It has to first line up the notches in the lock-body.
“They came from Peter, and I keep them;
I err as he told me to in opening, rather than locking out,
As long as the soul humbles itself.”
They pushed open the door of the holy entrance,
Saying, “Come in, but I have to warn you,
Anyone who looks back goes right back outside.”
As the pins in the heavy metal hinges
Of the holy gate turned, the echoing was louder
And harsher than the roar
Of the door of the Tarpeian treasury68 being opened—
Along with good-guy Metellus being dragged off—
After which there was very little left.69
I turned my attention to a new thunderous sound,
A mixed-voice choir with a held-note undertone;
I thought I could hear “Thee, O God We Praise”—70
The impression, in a nutshell, was something
Like trying to account for what’s being said when listening
To organum, plainchant plus reinforced harmony:71
No, you can’t—yes, you can—understand the words.
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