Francesco Guccini: Bologna
GLI EXTRA DELLE CCG / AWS EXTRAS / LES EXTRAS DES CCG| English translation / Traduzione inglese / Traduction anglaise... | |
| BOLOGNE Bologne est une vieille dame aux flancs un peu mols Le sein sur la plaine du Pô et le cul sur les cols, Bologne arrogante et papale, Bologne la rouge et foetale, Bologne la grasse et l'humaine déjà un peu Romagne, au parfum de Toscane… Bologne, pour moi provincial, un petit Paris débonnaire: Marchés en plein air, bistrots, une odeur de « rive gauche » Sartre pontifiait, Baudelaire chantait sous l'absinthe Et moi, vulgaire Modenais, à transpirer d'amour, fut-il ancillaire. Et pourtant quelle Bohême confortable passée entre maison et tavernes Quand chaque verre bouleverse les philosophies… Oh combien nous étions poétiques, mais sans pudeur et sans peur Et les vieux poivrots semblaient être littérature… Oh combien nous étions tous artistiques, mais sans honte ou sans pudeur Bercés entre les cuisses monumentales de maman Bologne… Bologne est une femme d'Émilie aux pommettes fortes, Bologne capable d'amour, capable de mort, Qui sait ce qui compte et qui vaut, qui connaît le goût, Qui calcule le juste, la vie et qui même frappée, sait tenir debout… Bologne est une riche dame qui fut paysanne : Bien-être, villas, bijoux… et salamis en vitrine, Qui sait que l'odeur de misère à éliminer est chose sérieuse Et veut se sentir sûre malgré ce qui lui tombe dessus, car elle est courageuse. Tu gâches ton parfum de bien-être avec l'étrange binôme Devant ton Santo Petronio, des morts pour des rêves Et tes Bolonais, s'ils existent, y sont-ils encore ou se sont-ils perdus Mêlés et liés à des milliers de mondes différents ? Oh combien de paroles te chantent, ressassant les clichés des gens, Chantant des chansons qui ne sont que du vent… Bologne dame étrange, vulgaire matrone, Bologne bonne enfant, « ribaude » Bologne, Bologne nombril de tout, tu me pousses à sangloter et à roter, J'ai le regret de ce que tu m'as donné, qui est presque un souvenir, au parfum de passé… | Bologna Bologna is an old lady with a slightly wide waistline her breasts in the Po valley and her bottom on the hills, Bologna, insolent and pompous [1] Bologna the Red [2], the fetal one, Bologna the Fat [3], the human one, with a hint of Romagna [4] and a whiff of Tuscany. Bologna, for me, a bumpkin, was a lesser Paris: open-air markets, bistrots, the scent of the "rive gauche". Sartre [5] was busy pontificating, Baudelaire was singing between absinthe glasses and I, a foul-mouthed man from Modena [6], I was toiling for a relationship, even a casual one. But that hippy lifestile was full of comforts, spent between houses and taverns, in philosophical disputes bouncing from glass to glass. Oh, we were so poetic, yet without shyness or fear, and old drunks' rants sounded like literary works. Oh, we all were so creative, yet without shyness or shame, cradled by the porticoes [7], the thighs of our mother Bologna. Bologna is a woman from Emilia with chiselled cheekbones, Bologna, capable of love, capable of death, who is aware of her relevance and her value, who gets the gist of things [8] who gives the right value to life and manages to stand even when she has been hit. Bologna is a wealthy lady from a peasant family, - affluence, villas, jewels, and salamis in the store window - who knows that the smell of poverty is difficult to accept, and wants to feel confident with what she wears, because she knows what fear is. You are wasting your scent of affluence, with the odd combination of those who die for their dreams [9] in front of San Petronio. And your citizens, if they exist, are they still there or did they get lost, disoriented and now linked to a thousand different worlds? Oh, they sing so many words to you, clinging to people's clichés, singing songs that sound like singing of nothing. Bologna is an unusual dame, a gross, yet matronal woman Bologna is a respectable girl, Bologna is a slut, Bologna, the belly button of everything, you make me sigh and belch, you make me feel remorse for what you gave me which is now almost a memory and smells like the past. |
[2] a traditional nickname of Bologna, referring to its traditional role as a Communist/Socialist stronghold
[3] another traditional nickname referring to its rich cuisine
[4] en.wikipedia: Emilia Romagna
[5] a nickname given to one of Guccini's friends; "Baudelaire" (next verse) is another one
[6] Guccini's hometown
[7] Bologna is renown for the extensive porticoes in the city's historical centre
[8] the literal meaning is something like "who knows the taste of salt"
[9] According to Guccini's autobiography, this refers to drug addicts found dead in the square in front of the Basilica of San Petronio