Noises of Rain

When it arrives, rain makes noises besides raising scents. It is certainly the case of storms. It does not seems very much important in science, except for underwater noises. But it is important for us. Personally the arriving of a storm (maybe because I was not expose to very extreme, dangerous,  and violent events) gives me a sense of tranquillity or renovation. 

Poets and novelists care, though. One of the thing I learn in my family is this short poetry probably composed at age five by Rabindranath Tagore:

“The rain patters 

   the leaf quivers”

My uncle Marino turning ninety soon, pronounce in Bengoli “bristi pore-pata nore” with a pause between the two lines. 

Another piece of literature to which I am really fond of is the incipit of “Libera nos A Malo”, the novel by Luigi Meneghello.  Libera nos a Malo was translated in English in “Deliver Us”. However, the title reminds, at the same time, Catholic Liturgy, and Malo, the place where Meneghello was born, incidentally a little town confining with my own. He depicts it so intimately in the years between the 30ies and the 50ies, with this language which is my own native, but with many respects so universal. I use it to begin my hydrology course. Below in the translation of Joseph Tomasi, a friend of mine and former student (he translated also the Tagore's line). 

“It begins with a storm …

They were rolls, waves that finished in a puff: known noises, village things. Everything that we have here is animated, lively, maybe because the distances are short and fixed as in a theatre.  The downpours were onto the courtyards here around, the thunder up here above the roofs; I could recognize by ear, a little further up, the place of the usual God that made storms when we were children, He too a village character.  Here all is as if intensified, a matter of scale probably, of inner relationships. The shape of the noises and of these thoughts (which were, after all, the same thing) seemed to me for a moment truer than true, but it cannot be recreated with words. “

Third, it comes, a classic (at least for Italians) from Gabriele D’Annunzio. I can dislike his ideas and what he represented. However, Rain in the pinewood is really beautiful and enjoyable. 

(Translation from here, original from here, composed probably around 1902)

Be silent. At the edge

of the woods I do not hear

the human words you say;

I hear new words

spoken by droplets and leaves

far away.

Listen. It rains

from the scattered clouds.

It rains on the briny, burned

tamarisk,

it rains on the pine trees

scaly and rough,

it rains on the divine

myrtle,

on the bright ginestra flowers

gathered together,

on the junipers full of

fragrant berries,

it rains on our sylvan

faces,

it rains on our

bare hands

on our light

clothes,

on the fresh thoughts

that our soul, renewed,

liberates,

on the beautiful fable

that beguiled you

yesterday, that beguiles me today,

oh Hermione.

Can you hear? The rain falls

on the solitary

vegetation

with a crackling noise that lasts

and varies in the air

according to the thicker,

less thick foliage.

Listen. With their singing, the cicadas

are answering this weeping,

this southern wind weeping

that does not frighten them,

and nor does the grey sky.

And the pine tree

has a sound, the myrtle

another one, the juniper

yet another, different

instruments

under countless fingers.

And we are immersed

in the sylvan spirit,

living the same

sylvan life;

and your inebriated face

is soft from the rain,

like a leaf,

and your hair is

is fragrant like the light

ginestra flowers,

oh terrestrial creature

called Hermione.

Listen, listen. The song

of the flying cicadas

becomes fainter

and fainter

as the weeping

grows stronger;

but a rougher song

rises from afar,

and flows in

from the humid remote shadow.

Softer and softer

gets weaker, fades away.

One lonely note

still trembles, fades away.

No one can hear the voice of the sea.

Now you can hear the silver rain

pouring in

on the foliage,

rain that purifies,

its roar that varies

according to the thicker,

less thick foliage.

Listen.

The child of the air

is silent; but the child

of the miry swamp, the frog,

far away,

sings in the deepest of shadows

who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on your lashes,

Hermione.

It rains on your black lashes

as if you were weeping,

weeping from joy; not white

but almost green,

you seem to come out of the bark.

And life is in us fresh

and fragrant,

the heart in our chests is like a peach

untouched

under the eyelids our eyes

are like springs in the grass

and the teeth in our mouths

green almonds.

And we go from thicket to thicket,

at a time together, at a time apart

(the vegetation, thick and vigorous,

entwines our ankles

entangles our knees)

who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on our sylvan

faces,

it rains on our

bare hands

on our light

clothes,

on the fresh thoughts

that our soul, renewed,

liberates,

on the beautiful fable

that beguiled me

yesterday, that beguiles you today,

oh Hermione.

P.S. - The picture is by Michele Vettorazzi. He describes his photo as follows: "I was close to the Refuge Rome, where I was for the climbing the next day  Monte Nevoso (3358 m),  Monte Magro (3273 m) and Sasso Lungo (3227 m). In the late afternoon I saw it coming a storm announced by blacks heavy clouds  that were gathering near the Collalto (3435 m). I immediately looked for something interesting to put in the foreground to give strength to the composition,  and I found these large boulders. I ran a dozen shots; its last step the position of the clouds, lightning and boulders was perfect. Shortly after the storm was over. Nikon D800, 16-35mm f4 @ 16mm; ISO 80; f / 20 - 20 sec. Incidentally Michele was my second graduate student, many years ago but, obviously, I do not have any role of his ability as photographer.