Title: Sas Ispurchizias de Bosa by Melchiorre Murenu
Depositor: Raffaele Ladu (raffaele.ladu@intesys.it)
Dialect: Logudorese, dialect of Macomer
Source: "Il meglio della grande poesia in lingua sarda -
Edizioni della Torre"
Copyright: Melchiorre Murenu died in 1854. So any copyright
has expired.
Melchiorre Murenu idi naschiu in su 1803 dae Ziu Battista Ledda (Murenu idi o s'ingiuriu,o su numene 'e sa mannai 'e imamma sua) in sa zittade 'e Macumele. Issu i benniu zegu cando aviada tres annoso, ca avia piccau su vaiolu. Ma unu espertu 'e sa letteradura sarda, su Canonicu Spano, nada chi iucchia una vaccia nighedda ed espressiva, ed una conca longa meda (sos Sardos sun famosos pro sa longhia e sa conca issoro); e cand'er mortu su dottore 'nde l'had'accattau unu cherveddu mannu de ispantu.
A deghe annos, su babbu suo veni postu in presone (es borzisi er mortu in ie), e su familiu suu finidi in miseria. Melchiorre non podiad'imparare a leghere e iscriere, ca su codice Braille non l'aviana ancora imbentau; ma issu aviada memoria vona, e andande sempere a missa, imparande sas= preicas e sar letturas 'e su Vangelu e de sa Bibbia, er resessiu a si hacchere una cultura religiosa e mitologica, nezessaria como e a su tempus suo pro hacchere su poeta in "limba".
Si leghides Grazia Deledda, ispezialmente su contu suo "Canne al Vento", iscuprides chi sos mendicantes sardos (ed unu zegu non podiad esser atteru a su tempus 'e Melchiorre) ziravan sas festas de sos Santos de Sardigna pro mendicare; Melchiorre imbeces las ziravada pro improvvisare poesias, ed had gasi leau su lumene de "Omero de sos poveros".
Ma si Omero idi unu poeta eroicu, Melchiorre Mereu idi unu poeta= satiricu, e probabilmente una satira de sas suas l'hat mortu: in su 1854 tres ommines lu muttini cuss'iscusa 'e lu vattire a su amicu suo Maloccu (unu poeta vonu che a Melchiorre, lumenau "su Prinzipe de Fonne"), ma cando su poeta venidi, issos lu ghettana ind'unu burrone occhidendelu.
De sa poesia chi bos hacco leghere si nada chi est'ista' issa a pilisare su chi hat chertu su poeta mortu; ma es puru beru chi issu hachia sa satira de meda zente importante, ispezialmente de sos libertinos (o sas libertinas) - i calecunu podioada haere ordinau sa morte sua.
Ma in ateras poesias Melchiorre protestavada contro a su malu destino de sa povera zente, i contro a sos abusos chi sas leghes hattas dae su Governu Piemontesu pro abolire su regimene feudale aviana leadu - e su Canonicu Spano pessada chi borzisi est'istau custu tema de sos suos a li vattire sos mortales inimicos suos.
Biografia iscritta in dialettu Sarulesu (De Sarule, Vidda de Barbagia.) dae Raffaele Ladu.
--
Cantu b'hat in s'inferru fogu e famen
E d'ogni patimentu illimitadu,
Una mente distint'hat computadu
Ch'in Bosa b'hat fiagu e ledamen!
--
Sa ver'irreprensibile giustizia
Hat fattu copiosu cussu fogu,
E bois, similmente in cussu logu,
Faghides abbundare s'isporchizia,
E fettores de grand'impudicizia
Ne bo nde mancat ne bo nd'hat mancadu!
--
Custu logu suffocat alientos,
pro me, no mi cumbenit chi resista;
Assumancu faghidebos provista
De rudas, romasinos e atentos,
e pro mesu e varios fumentos
Podet benner su fragu superadu.
--
Pro poder superare sos fetores,
Como chi sun pienos sos terrinos,
Devides ispozare sos giardinos
De amentas e ateros fiores,
Pro confunder, a forza de odores,
Sa peste chi su cul'hat causadu.
--
Sa causa dipendede da inie,
Pro cantu sos fiagos sunu medas,
Immancabile este chi caghedas
Bindighi o vinti 'ortas a su die,
Corruoe est famadu pro su nie,
Bosa est pro sa merda lumenadu.
--
Mancari de familia siant trese,
Sas chistiones non faghent bizzarra;
Bazzinones chi leant una carra
'Ogni notte nde prenant chimb'e sese,
Faghet treghentos mojos a su mese
Gi=E0 l'ingrassant su logu fadigadu.
--
Su culu 'ostr'est meda volenteri
Po ingrassare sos terrinos lanzos;
Bois ischides dar'a sos istranzos
De part'e cibu, pudidu fragheri.
Chircadebos un'ateru merderi
Cun d'unu carrettone ben'armadu.
--
Non bastat unu solu carrettone
A fagher nettos sos fundagos mannos;
No si ch' 'ogat mancu in battor'annos
Sa sicca chi tenides a muntone.
Maladitta merdosa nassione
A culu totalment'irreguladu.
--
Su culu 'ostr'est med'ubbidiente,
Insumma, no est duru n=E8 berbetigu;
no bos bisonzat tartaru emetigu
N=E8 abba frisca n=E8 brou chegente,
Pro bos fagher cagare frequente,
Infatti, mai no nd'hazis usadu.
--
Su culu 'ostr'est meda volentieri
regalande bruttes' in abbundanzia:
A pius de mes'or 'e lontananzia
Apprendet su fracu 'ogni naseri;
Bazzinos mannos cant'unu libreri
Unu contende si nd'est isbagliadu.
--
Deo, cun tottu ch'hapo ment'abbizza,
s'animu non mi bastat chi lu conte,
unu chi s'incontresid in su ponte
M'iscriet chi l'hat fattu meravizza,
in tres minutos vasos settemizza
De merd'a su fiumen' hant bettadu.
--
Benint a fagher in d'unu minutu
Vintitregentos vasos de avanzu.
Si sos culos fint mattas de aranzu
Nd'haiat sa Sardigna hapidu fruttu,
Ca sa merda est pudidu tributu
Chi sempr'in custu logu b'est 'istadu.
--
Giuro, senza bos fagher ironia,
Cun custa veridade fatto fronte,
S'in sos terrinos de su Piemonte
Chimbe o ses culos bostros bi tenia,
Patata Savoiarda nde 'attia
Un'ischiffittu bene carrigadu.
--
Chirco duos contistos chi presumen
Su calculare podent, assumancu,
Sos chi falant velados de biancu,
Su sero, a cundire su fiumen,
Avvertinde, chi bene lo assummen
E mi mandent su contu approvadu.
--
Custas sunt sas giustas veridades
De conzas e cunduttos e fundagos,
Chi cun sos bostros putridos fiagos
Cale si siat omin' annegades,
Sezis porcos infin'e meritades
Cantu madre natura bos hat dadu.
--
In cumplessu, est centru de bruttesa,
Tumba de milli varios fiagos.
Bi hat pius merda in sos fundagos
Chi non b'hat in su mare limpiesa:
A l'haer conduid' a sa nettesa
Mai mediu perunu b'hat istadu.
--
Finalmente lis naro: pro bon'usu,
Ch'in su troppu cagare ponzan frenu;
Sos vasos, ch'in d'unu die hant pienu,
Sunu tres miliones e piusu.
Cun cust'avvisu creo chi s'abbusu
Benzat in calchi modu mitigadu.
Melchiorre Murenu was born in 1803 of Ziu Battista Ledda (Mureddu was either his nickname or the name of his mother's mother) in the city of Macomer. He also became blind as a three year-old boy because of smallpox; but a Sardinian literature maven, Canon Spano, says that he had a dark and expressive face, an exceedingly long head (Sardinians are famous for their head length) and, after his death, the coroner discovered that he had an incredibly voluminous brain.
When he was ten, his father was arrested (perhaps he died in prison), and his family fell into poverty. Melchiorre could not learn to read or write, as the Braille code was not invented yet, but he had a very good memory, and by assiduously attending mass, learning the sermons and the readings of the Gospel and Bible, he managed to get a religious and= mythological learning, necessary now and then to be a dialectal poet.
If you read Grazia Deledda, especially her novel "Canne al Vento - Reeds Bent by the Blowing Wind", you will discover that Sardinian tramps (a blind man could not be anything else then) browsed the Sardinian Saints' feasts in order to beg, but Melchiorre wandered them to improvise poetry, thus earning the nickname of "Homer of the poors".
While Homer was an heroic poet, Melchiorre Mereu was a satirical one, and one of his satires likely killed him: in 1854 three men called him with the pretence of leading him to his friend, the poet Maloccu (a poet as good as Melchiorre, nicknamed "the Prince of Fonni"), but when the poet came, they threw him into a gorge, killing him.
It is said that the poem you are going to read was the one who annoyed the people who wanted the poet dead; but it is also true that he satirized a lot of important people, especially lewd men or women - and somebody may have ordered his death.
But Melchiorre elsewhere protested against the ill fate hitting the poors, and against the abuses entailed by the laws passed by the Piemontese Government in order to abolish the Feudal Regime - Canon Spano thinks that this thread of his perhaps earned him his deadly enemies.
The original biography was written in the Sardinian dialect of Sarule by Raffaele Ladu.
--
There are as much fire and hunger in Hell
And as many boundless pains,
A shrewd mind has reckoned,
as stink and manure are in Bosa!
--
As the true and faultless Justice
made this fire fiery,
you, in the same way but in your place,
make filth overflow!
And the stink of big indecency
is always here nor has ever disappeared!
--
This place takes one's breath,
I can't stand it!
Pray, make supplies
Of rue, rosemary, wormwood,
As by way of fumigation
The stench could be overcome.
--
In order to overcome the stench,
As the lands are full,
You have to steal from the gardens
Mint and other flowers
In order to cover up with their scent
The plague caused by the collective ass.
--
This is caused by this:
However many your farts may be,
You ought to shit
Fifteen or twenty times a day;
S'Arcu Curreboi is famous for its snow,
Bosa for its shit.
--
Even if there are three people in a family,
No question becomes quarrel:
Five or six big four-stone pots
Are filled every night;
They add up to 150 hundredweight a month,
So the depleted land is excellently manured!
--
Your collective ass is cool
To manure barren land;
You know how to give a foreigner
A stinking fart for food.
Seek another filth dump
With a well-reinforced cart!
--
A sole big cart is not enough
To cleanse the big warehouses;
Even four years won't be enough
To remove the piled up dry filth!
Cursed be such a shitty country
With a completely unruly ass!
--
Your collective ass is very docile;
In a word, is neither tough or shrewish:
You don't need tartar emetic
or cool water or hot broth
to frequently shit.
In fact, you have never used them!
--
Your collective ass ie even too willing
to abundantly give filth:
At more than half-an-hour distance
The stench is noticed by good sniffers;
There are so many big-scale-pan-size pots
That nobody could not count them all!
--
I, although I have a well aware mind,
Haven't the courage to tell you that
Somebody I had met on the bridge
Wrote to me that he was astonished:
In three minutes 7000 pots full
Of shit were emptied in the river!
--
They can even fill in a minute
Twentythree pots of leftovers.
If the asses were orange plants,
Sardinia would have earned a lot of money!
But shit has always been the stinking duty
That was levied in this place.
--
I swear, no kidding,
Facing this truth,
If the lands of Piedmont
Had five or six asses of yours,
They would turn out of Savoiarda Potatos
A well laden ship!
--
I seek two accountants willing to test
If it is possible to reckon, at least,
How many people descend, cloaked in white,
To pollute the river at evening,
Praying them that they make a good reckoning
And send me the certified sum.
--
These are the right truths
About tanning shops, tanks and warehouses,
As with your fetid farts
You may choke everybody.
You are swines and deserve
What Mother Nature has given you.
--
Adding up, Bosa is uniquely ugly,
A store of thousand multifarious stenches.
There is more shit in its warehouses
Than freshness in the sea.
To make it clean
No means have ever been effective.
--
At last I tell them: please,
curb overshitting!
They have filled in a day
three million vases and odds!
I hope that this notice
will help curtail such an abuse.
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