by Nichita Stanescu
Autumn's come, cover my heart with something,
with a tree's shadow or, better, with your shadow.
I'm afraid that I won't be able to see you, sometimes,
that some wings will grow onto me, pointed to the clouds,
and that you'll hide away into a stranger's eye
and it'll close up with a mug wort leaf.
And then I approach the stones and I keep silent,
I take the words and drown them into the sea.
I whistle the moon and I rise it and I turn it
into an endless love.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
joi, 25 februarie 2010
SONG
by Nichita Stanescu
Only the present moment has memories.
Nobody knows what there had really been.
The dead exchange all the time among themselves
their names, numbers, one, two, three...
Only the what will be exists,
only the unhappened events,
hanging on
an unborn tree, half ghost...
There is only my dumbfounded body
the last, that of an old man, made of stone.
My sadness hears the unborn dogs
barking at the unborn men.
Oh, it's only them who will really be;
Us, the inhabitants of this second
are the night's dream, slim,
a thousand-footed running anywhere.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
Only the present moment has memories.
Nobody knows what there had really been.
The dead exchange all the time among themselves
their names, numbers, one, two, three...
Only the what will be exists,
only the unhappened events,
hanging on
an unborn tree, half ghost...
There is only my dumbfounded body
the last, that of an old man, made of stone.
My sadness hears the unborn dogs
barking at the unborn men.
Oh, it's only them who will really be;
Us, the inhabitants of this second
are the night's dream, slim,
a thousand-footed running anywhere.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
TEENAGERS ON THE SEA
by Nichita Stanescu
This sea is covered with teenagers
who learn to walk on the waves, on foot,
leaning their arms now on the sea current
now on a stiff sun ray.
I'm standing on the large beach cut in perfect angle
and I'm looking at them as at an unshipping.
An infinite yole fleet. And I'm waiting
to see a false step, a sliding
at least at knee level in the pale wave
sounding under their slow advance.
But they are slender and calm, and, simultaneously,
they have already got accustomed to walk on the waves, on foot.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
This sea is covered with teenagers
who learn to walk on the waves, on foot,
leaning their arms now on the sea current
now on a stiff sun ray.
I'm standing on the large beach cut in perfect angle
and I'm looking at them as at an unshipping.
An infinite yole fleet. And I'm waiting
to see a false step, a sliding
at least at knee level in the pale wave
sounding under their slow advance.
But they are slender and calm, and, simultaneously,
they have already got accustomed to walk on the waves, on foot.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
PRAISE TO THE MAN
by Nichita Stanescu
From the trees' point of view,
the sun is a stripe of warmth,
the men - an overwhelming emotion ...
They are some walking fruit
of a much greater tree!
From the stones' point of view,
the sun is a falling stone,
the men are a mild pressure ...
They are movement - attached to movement,
and the light one sees from the sun!
From the air's point of view,
the sun is an air full of birds,
beating wing against wing ...
The men are unseen-of birds,
their wings grown inside,
beating, fleeting, gliding,
in a more pure air - that's the thought.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
From the trees' point of view,
the sun is a stripe of warmth,
the men - an overwhelming emotion ...
They are some walking fruit
of a much greater tree!
From the stones' point of view,
the sun is a falling stone,
the men are a mild pressure ...
They are movement - attached to movement,
and the light one sees from the sun!
From the air's point of view,
the sun is an air full of birds,
beating wing against wing ...
The men are unseen-of birds,
their wings grown inside,
beating, fleeting, gliding,
in a more pure air - that's the thought.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
WINTER SONG
by Nichita Stanescu
You're very beautiful, in winter time!
The field stretching on its back, near the horizon
and the trees stopped, at the north wind's speed ...
My nostrils are quivering
and no fragrance,
and no breeze,
but the remote icy smell
of the suns.
How clear are your hands, in winter time!
And nobody passes by
but the suns are spinning silently, idolatrous
and the thought grows in circles
adding the sound effect to the trees
by the twos,
by the fours.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
You're very beautiful, in winter time!
The field stretching on its back, near the horizon
and the trees stopped, at the north wind's speed ...
My nostrils are quivering
and no fragrance,
and no breeze,
but the remote icy smell
of the suns.
How clear are your hands, in winter time!
And nobody passes by
but the suns are spinning silently, idolatrous
and the thought grows in circles
adding the sound effect to the trees
by the twos,
by the fours.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
REMINISCENCE
by Marin Sorescu
We look at each other
And say it looks like a sheep flock.
We shudder when we see the wolf
In the Zoology book.
Sometimes we miss
The mountains so much, that
We can see the grass growing
On the desks.
There are thoughts that keep coming
On our old address
Because each of us is
The Shepherd who lost his sheep
In the subconsciousness.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
We look at each other
And say it looks like a sheep flock.
We shudder when we see the wolf
In the Zoology book.
Sometimes we miss
The mountains so much, that
We can see the grass growing
On the desks.
There are thoughts that keep coming
On our old address
Because each of us is
The Shepherd who lost his sheep
In the subconsciousness.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
I TIED ...
by Marin Sorescu
I tied the trees' eyes
With a green handkerchief
And told them to find me.
And the trees found me at once
with a roar of leaves.
I tied the birds' eyes
With a handkerchief of clouds
And told them to find me.
And the birds found me
with a song.
I tied the melancholy's eyes
with a smile.
And melancholy found me the next day
in a love.
I tied sun's eyes
With my nights
And told it to find me.
"You're there", the sun said,
"After that time,
Don't hide yourself anymore."
"Don't hide yourself"
Told me all the things
And all the feelings
Whose eyes I wanted to tie.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
I tied the trees' eyes
With a green handkerchief
And told them to find me.
And the trees found me at once
with a roar of leaves.
I tied the birds' eyes
With a handkerchief of clouds
And told them to find me.
And the birds found me
with a song.
I tied the melancholy's eyes
with a smile.
And melancholy found me the next day
in a love.
I tied sun's eyes
With my nights
And told it to find me.
"You're there", the sun said,
"After that time,
Don't hide yourself anymore."
"Don't hide yourself"
Told me all the things
And all the feelings
Whose eyes I wanted to tie.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
MENU
by Marin Sorescu
For breakfast,
a thin slice of buttered life.
We also have the constantly rising water
(last night it filled three quarters
of the Earth's surface)
and we boil it bubbling, for fear of germs.
At lunch, we eat heavily and nourishing
three kinds of ground:
black earth, loess and clay.
For supper we aren't used to hot meals.
We either have
a bite of a star with little honey,
or some happiness, if we can find any
(it actually is kept
for Sundays)
and whatever else we can find.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
For breakfast,
a thin slice of buttered life.
We also have the constantly rising water
(last night it filled three quarters
of the Earth's surface)
and we boil it bubbling, for fear of germs.
At lunch, we eat heavily and nourishing
three kinds of ground:
black earth, loess and clay.
For supper we aren't used to hot meals.
We either have
a bite of a star with little honey,
or some happiness, if we can find any
(it actually is kept
for Sundays)
and whatever else we can find.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
SHAKESPEARE
by Marin Sorescu
Shakespeare created the world in seven days.
On the first day he moulded the sky, the mountains
and the abysses of the soul.
On the second day he created the rivers, seas and oceans
and the other sentiments
and gave them to Hamlet, Julius Caesar and Anthony,
to Cleopatra and Ophelia,
to Othello and to the others,
so as to be for eternity owned by them and their descendants.
On the third day he gathered all the people
and taught them tastes:
the taste of happiness, of love and despair,
the taste of jealousy, glory and so on,
till he shared them all.
Then some fellows came late.
The Creator caressed their heads sympathetically and told them
that nothing else was left for them but to become
literary critics
and deny his work.
The fourth and fifth days were granted to laughter.
He let the clowns
cut capers,
and let the kings and emperors
and other unfortunate ones to have fun.
On the sixth day he cleared up some administrative issues:
he brought about a storm
and taught King Lear
how to wear a straw-crown.
There still remained some residues from the world's creation
and out of them he moulded Richard III.
On the seventh day he checked up if there was anything else left to do.
The theater managers had already filled the world with posters,
and Shakespeare thought that after so much effort
it would be worth watching a performance.
But first, as he was too tired,
he went away to die for a while.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
Shakespeare created the world in seven days.
On the first day he moulded the sky, the mountains
and the abysses of the soul.
On the second day he created the rivers, seas and oceans
and the other sentiments
and gave them to Hamlet, Julius Caesar and Anthony,
to Cleopatra and Ophelia,
to Othello and to the others,
so as to be for eternity owned by them and their descendants.
On the third day he gathered all the people
and taught them tastes:
the taste of happiness, of love and despair,
the taste of jealousy, glory and so on,
till he shared them all.
Then some fellows came late.
The Creator caressed their heads sympathetically and told them
that nothing else was left for them but to become
literary critics
and deny his work.
The fourth and fifth days were granted to laughter.
He let the clowns
cut capers,
and let the kings and emperors
and other unfortunate ones to have fun.
On the sixth day he cleared up some administrative issues:
he brought about a storm
and taught King Lear
how to wear a straw-crown.
There still remained some residues from the world's creation
and out of them he moulded Richard III.
On the seventh day he checked up if there was anything else left to do.
The theater managers had already filled the world with posters,
and Shakespeare thought that after so much effort
it would be worth watching a performance.
But first, as he was too tired,
he went away to die for a while.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
THE ROAD
by Marin Sorescu
I'm walking along the railroad,
The straightest road
Possible,
Thinking, my hands behind me.
A train comes from behind,
At great speed,
A train that has never heard of me.
This train will never reach me
- I call Zenon for witness -
For I will always have an advance
In comparison with the brainless things.
Or, even if, violently,
It runs me over,
There will always be a man
To walk before it,
Thoughtful,
His hands behind him,
Walking just like me, now,
Before the black monster
That approaches at a frightening speed
And that will NEVER reach me.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
I'm walking along the railroad,
The straightest road
Possible,
Thinking, my hands behind me.
A train comes from behind,
At great speed,
A train that has never heard of me.
This train will never reach me
- I call Zenon for witness -
For I will always have an advance
In comparison with the brainless things.
Or, even if, violently,
It runs me over,
There will always be a man
To walk before it,
Thoughtful,
His hands behind him,
Walking just like me, now,
Before the black monster
That approaches at a frightening speed
And that will NEVER reach me.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
marți, 23 februarie 2010
TRANCE
by Marin Sorescu
I'm burning.
Blow, blow some inspiration onto me, you, too,
Because, look, mine is squandering above me,
Preparing haloes
For the future's more pure foreheads.
You look like a Byzantine frescoe,
Twice stylized
(The second time stylized especially for me,
I've told the artisans how to do it),
Because you have circles instead of eyes.
I can already feel the coolness of your eyes' darkness,
and that makes me feel good
When I burn industrially, great flame,
At the entrance into trance.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
I'm burning.
Blow, blow some inspiration onto me, you, too,
Because, look, mine is squandering above me,
Preparing haloes
For the future's more pure foreheads.
You look like a Byzantine frescoe,
Twice stylized
(The second time stylized especially for me,
I've told the artisans how to do it),
Because you have circles instead of eyes.
I can already feel the coolness of your eyes' darkness,
and that makes me feel good
When I burn industrially, great flame,
At the entrance into trance.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
GROUP
by Marin Sorescu
They have been living for a long time together
and have begun to repeat themselves:
he was she,
and she was he,
she was she
and he was she, too,
she was or wasn't,
and he was both of them,
or something like that.
Especially in the morning,
till they managed to realize
who was which,
whence and how far, why this way and not otherwise,
a lot of time was passing,
the time was passing smoothly.
Sometimes they wanted to kiss,
but, suddenly, they realized
that both of them were she,
easier to repeat.
Then, out of fright, they began to yawn,
a soft, wooly yawn,
which could be knitted
as follows:
one of them was yawning very attentively
and the other was keeping the yawnball.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
They have been living for a long time together
and have begun to repeat themselves:
he was she,
and she was he,
she was she
and he was she, too,
she was or wasn't,
and he was both of them,
or something like that.
Especially in the morning,
till they managed to realize
who was which,
whence and how far, why this way and not otherwise,
a lot of time was passing,
the time was passing smoothly.
Sometimes they wanted to kiss,
but, suddenly, they realized
that both of them were she,
easier to repeat.
Then, out of fright, they began to yawn,
a soft, wooly yawn,
which could be knitted
as follows:
one of them was yawning very attentively
and the other was keeping the yawnball.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
BALLAD
by Marin Sorescu
When lovers have caught fire all over,
They take each other's hand
And throw themselves
In a wedding ring
with little water.
It is an important fall in life
And they smile happily,
And they have their hands full of flowers,
And slide lovingly,
And slide magnificently on foot,
Calling each other's name at daytime
And hearing them at night time.
For some time now,
Their day and night have been mixed
In a kind of a thick melancholy ...
The wedding ring answers
Exactly on the realm of shadows.
There is a large beach
Full of embraced bones
Which sleep their weary whiteness
Like some beautiful shells
Which have been loving each other in the sea.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
When lovers have caught fire all over,
They take each other's hand
And throw themselves
In a wedding ring
with little water.
It is an important fall in life
And they smile happily,
And they have their hands full of flowers,
And slide lovingly,
And slide magnificently on foot,
Calling each other's name at daytime
And hearing them at night time.
For some time now,
Their day and night have been mixed
In a kind of a thick melancholy ...
The wedding ring answers
Exactly on the realm of shadows.
There is a large beach
Full of embraced bones
Which sleep their weary whiteness
Like some beautiful shells
Which have been loving each other in the sea.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
WHIM
by Marin Sorescu
Every evening
I gather from the neighbourhood
all the available chairs
and I read them poetry.
Chairs are very responsive
to poetry,
if you know how to arrange them.
That is why
I get excited
and for a few hours
I tell them
how nice my soul has died
during the day.
Our meetings are usually sober,
without useless
enthusiasm.
At any rate,
it means that each of us
has done his duty,
and can go further on.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
Every evening
I gather from the neighbourhood
all the available chairs
and I read them poetry.
Chairs are very responsive
to poetry,
if you know how to arrange them.
That is why
I get excited
and for a few hours
I tell them
how nice my soul has died
during the day.
Our meetings are usually sober,
without useless
enthusiasm.
At any rate,
it means that each of us
has done his duty,
and can go further on.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
POTTERY
by Marin Sorescu
Archeologists had discovered,
On my body's teritory
An earthen pot.
The pot had the form of a heart.
An unknown artisan had painted
- Before Christ -
Some sun rays on it.
Other people came after that
And mixed their souls among its rays
In folk motifs.
At present I add on the old pottery
New epochal drawings,
For them, the archeologists of the year 4000,
To attest my existence
In the second half of the 20th century,
Approximately.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
Archeologists had discovered,
On my body's teritory
An earthen pot.
The pot had the form of a heart.
An unknown artisan had painted
- Before Christ -
Some sun rays on it.
Other people came after that
And mixed their souls among its rays
In folk motifs.
At present I add on the old pottery
New epochal drawings,
For them, the archeologists of the year 4000,
To attest my existence
In the second half of the 20th century,
Approximately.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
ANGLE
by Marin Sorescu
He put a hand upon the man's eyes
And showed him the World
Painted largely
On a panel.
"What letter is it?"
He asked.
"It is the Night", the man answered.
"You're wrong, it is the Sun.
We all know that the Night
Has no rays. And this one?"
"The Night".
"You make me laugh!
It is the Sea. Where can you find
So much darkness in the Sea?
What about this one?"
The man hesitated for a moment,
Then answered:
"The Night".
"Oh, this one is the Woman.
The Night has no breasts, my dear.
Her black hair misled you,
For sure. And this one?
Look at it attentively
Before you answer."
"The Night, too".
"What a pity, you did not guess, this time either.
This letter was just
Yourself."
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
He put a hand upon the man's eyes
And showed him the World
Painted largely
On a panel.
"What letter is it?"
He asked.
"It is the Night", the man answered.
"You're wrong, it is the Sun.
We all know that the Night
Has no rays. And this one?"
"The Night".
"You make me laugh!
It is the Sea. Where can you find
So much darkness in the Sea?
What about this one?"
The man hesitated for a moment,
Then answered:
"The Night".
"Oh, this one is the Woman.
The Night has no breasts, my dear.
Her black hair misled you,
For sure. And this one?
Look at it attentively
Before you answer."
"The Night, too".
"What a pity, you did not guess, this time either.
This letter was just
Yourself."
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
THEY HAD TO BEAR A NAME
By Marin Sorescu
Eminescu had not existed.
There was only a beautiful country
On the verge of a sea,
Where the waves made white knots,
Like a king's uncombed beard,
And some rivers running like some flowing trees,
Where the moon had its round nest.
And, above all, there were some simple men
Called: Mircea the Old, Stefan the Great,
Or easier to say: shepherds or ploughmen
Who, at dusk, round the fire,
Loved to tell poems:
"The Ewe-Lamb" and "Hyperion" and "The Third Letter".
But, as they would always hear
Dogs barking around their sheepfolds,
They rose to fight against the tartars,
The Avars, the Huns, the Polish
And the Turkish.
In their leisure time,
Between two dangers,
These men used to transform their shepherds' flutes
Into sewers
For the touched stones' tears
So that the doinas were flowing downstream
From all the mountains of Moldavia and Wallachia,
And from the mountains of the Birsa and Vrancea counties
And those of the other Romanian counties.
There used to be some thick forests, too,
And a young man who kept talking to them,
Asking them why they were swaying without wind.
This young lad, his eyes as big
As our history,
Passed from the Cyrillic book into the life's book
Always counting the poplars of light, justice and love,
Which always came out in odd numbers.
There had also been some linden trees,
And two lovers
Who could snow up all their blossom
In a kiss.
And there used to be some birds or some clouds
Strolling all over their heads
Such as vast and moving plains.
And because all these
Had to bear a name,
A single name,
They were called
EMINESCU.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
Eminescu had not existed.
There was only a beautiful country
On the verge of a sea,
Where the waves made white knots,
Like a king's uncombed beard,
And some rivers running like some flowing trees,
Where the moon had its round nest.
And, above all, there were some simple men
Called: Mircea the Old, Stefan the Great,
Or easier to say: shepherds or ploughmen
Who, at dusk, round the fire,
Loved to tell poems:
"The Ewe-Lamb" and "Hyperion" and "The Third Letter".
But, as they would always hear
Dogs barking around their sheepfolds,
They rose to fight against the tartars,
The Avars, the Huns, the Polish
And the Turkish.
In their leisure time,
Between two dangers,
These men used to transform their shepherds' flutes
Into sewers
For the touched stones' tears
So that the doinas were flowing downstream
From all the mountains of Moldavia and Wallachia,
And from the mountains of the Birsa and Vrancea counties
And those of the other Romanian counties.
There used to be some thick forests, too,
And a young man who kept talking to them,
Asking them why they were swaying without wind.
This young lad, his eyes as big
As our history,
Passed from the Cyrillic book into the life's book
Always counting the poplars of light, justice and love,
Which always came out in odd numbers.
There had also been some linden trees,
And two lovers
Who could snow up all their blossom
In a kiss.
And there used to be some birds or some clouds
Strolling all over their heads
Such as vast and moving plains.
And because all these
Had to bear a name,
A single name,
They were called
EMINESCU.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
SUCH A TUCH
by Marin Sorescu
I can make but gestures.
Words have no sound, the lips round up some words
For whose breathing there is no more air.
We put this afternoon to nights, this one, too.
Maybe that's where the name of white nights comes from, too.
But there the Northern nights
Are more than a blink.
In silence everything can be heard better,
We listen, displaced somewhere at the verge of the world,
The undone things' steps are passing by,
Or so it seemed?
You're also frightened. You say the sea is terrible,
Suddenly it also gives you a mood.
Now it's far away, we have torn it
Like a sheet of paper,
On which we would have written "The Sea exists",
Now the sea is crumpled somewhere,
(Just like "The Sea exists")
And only the mood is left to us,
That mood you were talking about,
And the one I want to touch,
To see whether it is also salted.
I have played with salts, lately,
Kids' fun jumping by bounds
To shine all kinds of images,
Incidents of ours and of others'.
When they are only incidents of others',
Heaven forbid,
They won't have any taste, will they?
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
I can make but gestures.
Words have no sound, the lips round up some words
For whose breathing there is no more air.
We put this afternoon to nights, this one, too.
Maybe that's where the name of white nights comes from, too.
But there the Northern nights
Are more than a blink.
In silence everything can be heard better,
We listen, displaced somewhere at the verge of the world,
The undone things' steps are passing by,
Or so it seemed?
You're also frightened. You say the sea is terrible,
Suddenly it also gives you a mood.
Now it's far away, we have torn it
Like a sheet of paper,
On which we would have written "The Sea exists",
Now the sea is crumpled somewhere,
(Just like "The Sea exists")
And only the mood is left to us,
That mood you were talking about,
And the one I want to touch,
To see whether it is also salted.
I have played with salts, lately,
Kids' fun jumping by bounds
To shine all kinds of images,
Incidents of ours and of others'.
When they are only incidents of others',
Heaven forbid,
They won't have any taste, will they?
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
A new beginning
I like poetry and sometimes, when I have spare time, I like to translate some of the poems I like best into or from English. This is why I decided to post them on a blog, to share them with my pupils and friends. I hope those who read it will like them and will leave comments (whether they like the translations or not). Criticism is always constructive and welcome.
So, here we go!
I'll wait for your comments.
Thank you.
Brigitta Daniela
So, here we go!
I'll wait for your comments.
Thank you.
Brigitta Daniela
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