Remigio Bertolino

Remigio Bertolino writes in the dialect of Montaldo di Mondovì, where he was born in 1948. He is by far the most famous among today’s Piedmontese poets, so much so that the adjective could be considered restrictive. The contemplation of the constant presence of death and poverty in the lives of his characters, often poor peasants of the mountain valleys, is accompanied by the presence of grace that at times is revealed in destitute houses, desolate country villages, or wintry landscapes and the woods. The memory of a grave personal loss has haunted his poetry since the beginning. His books are L’eva d’ënvern (It was in Winter) (1986), Sbaluch (Sparkle) (1989), Ël vos (The Voices) (2003), Stanse d’ënvern (Rooms in Winter) (2006), Versi scelti (1976-2009) (Selected Poems) (2010), La fin dël mond (The end of the World) (2013), Litre d’ënvern (Winter Letters) (2015), Nivole da prim (Spring Clouds) (2019), Ùltime reuse (Last Roses) (2021), and L’eva dël temp (The Water of Time) (2025).

La stànsia dla mort (From Stanse d’ënvern)

E l’ënvern
L’è drinta
la stànsia dla mòrt.
Dai ridò bianch
sbaluch ëd fiòche
che tajo come siesse.
E drinta la cassia,
-nèira-
tua mare,
j’euj srà
sla neucc dl’eternità.
Ël sofi dël candèile
tërmora
sël sò mor
smòrt,
bianca sira.
A l’é ëndasno
tra rame ëd galaverna
al sofi dël vent
sensa trasse sël mar ëd fiòca…


(La stanza della morte «E l’inverno / è dentro / la stanza della morte. / Dalle tende bianche / barbagli di neve / taglienti come falci. / E nella cassa / -nera- / tua madre, / gli occhi chiusi / sulla notte eterna. / Il soffio di candele / trema / sul suo viso / spento, / bianca cera. / Se n’è andata / tra rami di galaverna / al soffio del vento / senza traccia sul mare di neve…».)


The Room of Death

And winter
is within
the room of death.
From the white curtains
glimmers of snow
cutting like scythes.
And inside the coffin
-black-
your mother,
her eyes closed
on eternity’s night.
The blowing of candles
shivers
on her lifeless
face,
white wax.
She left
through boughs of hoar frost
in the blowing of wind
without traces on a sea of snow…

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