Nicola Duberti
Nicola Duberti is the youngest poet to emerge on the Piedmontese literary scene in recent years and, arguably, the most talented and learned of his generation. He was born in Mondovì in 1969 to parents from Viola, in the Mongia Valley. He earned a doctorate in dialectology from the University of Turin and is one of the co-authors of A Grammar of Piedmontese published by Brill in 2023. Together with Remigio Bertolino he co-edited a bilingual French-Italian anthology of poets from Mondovì, Petite anthologie de la poèsie de Mondovì (2006) and a new anthology of Piedmontese poetry today, Nonostante il crepuscolo. Voci contemporanee della poesia in Piemonte (2023). He currently teaches Italian in a middle-school in Rocca de’ Baldi-Crava and collaborates with the University of Turin. Duberti also published poems, short stories, and novels in Italian. He debuted with Varsci (Verses in the Dialect of Viola) (1996, reprinted in 2023), followed by Envortojé (Wrapped up) (2003), J’ òmbre ‘nt le gòmbe (The Shadows in the Valleys) (2013) and has been regularly contributing with haiku to the weekly Unione Monregalese. His most recent book of poems is Italian is Fentanyl 50 (2025).
O tubàu do rtir (From J’òmbre ‘nt le gòmbe)
Còn ësta e sòn caranta.
Vir la mustò
dla santa
ch’am vëgga nent tubé.
L’hè dma ciù chëlla da puèmi stërmé.
Peusc fumé
cheuncc còm en lum.
Armanch endrént ar fum
em vagh tórna masnò.
Combèn ch’e n’aga stanta
em sent voré, e seuj ëlgé.
En sovërciù
ij di
el’han l’odo’ d me pò
e s’em pass sui caviji na man
em chërd ch’o segia chial
a feme cara còm e fossa ‘n can.
(Il fumatore del ricovero «Con questa sono quaranta. / Volto l’immagine sacra / della santa / perché non mi veda fumare. // Non mi resta che lei se voglio avere qualcuno da cui nascondermi. / Posso fumare / bisunto come un lume. / Almeno dentro al fumo // mi rivedo ragazzino. / Anche se ne ho settanta / mi sento volare, sono leggero. / E inoltre // le dita / hanno l’odore di mio padre / e se mi passo sui capelli una mano / mi immagino che sia lui // a accarezzarmi come fossi un cane.»)
The chain smoker in the retirement home
With this one it’s forty.
I turn over the image of the saint
so that she doesn’t see me smoke.
I have only her if I need someone to hide from.
I can smoke
as dirty as a lamp.
At least within the smoke
I see myself again a teenager.
Even if I’m seventy
I feel like flying, I’m light.
And besides
my fingers
smell like my dad
and if I run my hand through my hair
I believe it’s him
caressing me as if I were a dog.