Vianu Romanian PEN Club Anthology

7/30/2019 Vianu Romanian PEN Club Anthology

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It Might Take Me Years

Mi-ar trebui un ir de ani

The Romanian PEN Club:

An Anthology of Poetry

edited by

with the MA Programme

for the Translation of the Literary Text, University of Bucharest

Selection of the texts by

Constantin Ablu

Illustrations:

Cristina Ioana Young


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ISBN: 978-606-8366-39-5

The University of Bucharest Constantin Ablu: Selection

Cristina Ioana Young: Illustrations

Lidia VianuCover Design, and overall Layout:

Revision, Proofreading: Lidia Vianu

Publicity: Ruxandra CmpeanuLogo: Manuela Stancu

This Anthology of the Romanian PEN Club is part of the international translation project poetry pRO,coordinated by Lidia Vianu (Romania) and Anne Stewart (UK). Romanian translators:

Veronica Anghel

Andreea Banciu

Alina BlnaruAlina Bucurel

Dorina BurceaSimona Burduja

Alexandru CruRoxana Chiril

Anamaria Comes

Oana CrciunescuLorena FotaAndreea Hadmbu

Claudia HaralambieEliana Ionoaia

Drago IvanMonica Manolachi

S nziana Mihalache

Alina Miron

Petrua NiduRaluca Nebunoiu

Cristine NiculaeElena Nistor

Ioana NiDaniela Oancea

Florentina Penciu

Laura PeroiuLudmila PopescuBrndua RaileanuOana RomanescuAlina RouAlexandra Srbu

Angela Stnescu

Liliana tefanValentina Tache

Ioana TeodorescuLidia Vianu

Nadina VianAnca VulcnescuLavinia Zainea


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The Romanian PEN Club:

An Anthology of Poetry

edited by

Lidia Vianu

Selection of the texts by

Constantin Ablu

Illustrations: Cristina Ioana Young


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Table of Contents

Constantin Ablu Foreword / Argument p. 10Adrian ALUI GHEORGHE Approaching Death / Cnd ncepi s mori 12

The Sentence / Sentina 13The Venomous Fruit / Fruct veninoas 14

Lucian ALEXIU One Hundred Cubits Underground / La o sut de coi sub pmnt 16Poliphemuss Ice Cream Cone / Cornetul de ngheat al lui Polifem 17Dangerous Liaisons / Legturile primejdioase 18Of Mermaids / Despre sirene 19

Constantin ABLU The Ants Road / Drumul furnicilor 20Flashing Trajectory / Traiectorie fulgertoare 21The Man in front of the Window / Omul din faa geamului 21Alexander and the People / Alexandru i oamenii 22

The Poem of the Streets / Poemul strzilor (fragment) 23Vasile BAGHIU It Might Take Me Years / Mi-ar trebui un ir de ani 24

Myself, in a Crowd / n mulime 25


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Soon / Curnd 26Magda CRNECI Still Life with Bucket / Natur moart cu cldare 28

Our House / Casa noastr 29Gabriel CHIFU Poem of the Father, of His Son, and of his Sons Son; Poem of the Father

/ Poemul tatlui, al fiului su i al fiului fiului su; poemul tatlui

31

Literary Discussions / Discuii literare 33Aura CHRISTI Trembling Utopia / Utopia cutremurat 35

What is Happening with Me? / Ce mi se ntmpl? 36Little Song for Myself / Cntecel pentru mine 37

Dumitru CHIOARU Self-Portrait / Autoportret 39The Summer of Phosphorus (fragment) / Vara de fosfor (fragment) 40Professor Mouses Life and Opinions / Viaa i opiniile profesorului

Mouse

40

Denisa COMNESCU Pessoa / Pessoa 43Family Painting / Tablou de familie 45

Ilie CONSTANTIN Childhood Feel / Din copilrie 47The Plain / Cmpia 48Fog in the Woods / Cea n pdure 49Immortal / Nemuritoare 50The French Language / Limba francez 51

Ioana CRCIUNESCU Sweet Crimson Ear / Urechiua ei sngerie 52

Pure leather / Piele100% 53The Sadness of Victory / Fel trist de a nvinge 54

Vasile DAN Minor Crepuscular Events (II) / Mici ntmplri crepusculare (II) 56


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Minor Crepuscular Events (IV) / Mici ntmplri crepusculare (IV) 57The Struggle with the Angel / Lupta cu ngerul 58On the Kindliness of Meteorological Phenomena / Despre bunvoinastrilor meteorologice

59

Nichita DANILOV The Small Thing / Nimicul 60Contemplation / Contemplaie 61Dusk / Amurg 62The Things / Lucururile 62

Simona-Grazia DIMA Tiger Whisperer / Confesor de tigri 64The Flower Equals the Tiger / Floarea e totuna cu tigrul 65Shield Made of Air / Scut aerian 66The Sound / Sunetul 67

Mircea DINESCU The Bulldozer / Buldozerul 68The Conversation / Conversaia 69Gellu DORIAN Beatitude / Beatitudine 71

The Most Beautiful Women / Cele mai frumoase femei 72What Is the Point / Ce rost are 73Elegy / Elegie 74

Mihail GLANU Cutting em Out / La decupat 75Horia GRBEA my dog was young / cinele meu era tnr 79

Corex / Corex 81

Bogdan GHIU Hitchhike / Autostop 82Alien Poem / Poem strin 84

Adela GRECEANU In the Evenings, Mostly, I Would See Everything Enlarged / (Seara, 85


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mai ales, vedeam totul mrit...)I Told Myself that the Wall in Which They Cut the Door / (Mi-am zis cperetele n care e decupat ua)

86

My Tongue Is Drawing a Wet Darkness / (Limba mea deseneaz pe

perete un ntuneric)

87

Ioana IERONIM Tercets among Tower Blocks / Terine printre blocuri 88Metamorphoses / Metamorfoze 90Labours, Days, Landslides (fragment) / Munci, zile, alunecri de teren(fragment)

91

Vasile IGNA District V / Cartier V 93Motel / Motel 94I Ask You / Te ntreb 95

Nora IUGA TheseSkinny Boys / Bieii tia slabi

964 April 1944 / 4 aprilie 1944 97Woman Laughing / O femeie rde 98

Mircea IVNESCU The Cat is Part of the House / Pisica se leag de cas 100Rain / Ploaie 102Jocularities / Joculariti 102

Irina MAVRODIN Light / Lumina 104Enlightenment / Iluminare 105They Tell Me / mi spun 105

Tempestuosly and Lovingly / Cu violen i iubire 106That Light Cannot Be Reached / n lumina aceea nu se poate ajunge 106When the Shining Turmoil / Cnd luminoasa tulburare 107


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Virgil MIHAIU Perpetuum mobile / Perpetuum mobile 108The Octopus / Caracatia 109Futurology / Futurologie 109Transylvania / Transilvania 110

Ioan MOLDOVAN A Whole Day to Be Spiritual Hlas! / O zi ntreag s tot fii spiritual,hlas!

111

Risky / Primejdii 112Dear Ludwig / Ludwig drag 112Glory / Glorie 114

Ion POP Three Dots / Trei puncte 115Hour / Or 116Snow on a Chair / Zpad pe scaun 117

Valeriu Mircea POPA The Organ / Orga 119The Wooden Mannequin / Manechinul de lemn 120Longer Than Life / Mai mult dect viaa 121

Adrian POPESCU Possible Portrait / Portret posibil 123The Paths / Potecile 124A Lorry / Un camion 125Little Lizards / oprle mici 125As Long As / Ct vreme 126

Nicolae PRELIPCEANU Sequel / O continuare 127

Himalaya O.K. / Himalaya O.K. 128A Walk down Ten Tables Street / Plimbare pe strada zece mese 129Abuse of Commas / Abuz de virgule 129


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Francesca RICINSKI At the End of the Alley / La captul aleii 131Chestnuts Lying at My Feet / Castane la picioare 132In an Empty Night Train / ntr-un tren de noapte pustiu 133

Cassian Maria SPIRIDON (this hair is warm) / (prul acesta e cald) 134

Bright Target / int luminoas 135How Wonderful It Was / Minunat era 135(you should have seen it hanging on the nail) / (s fi vzut cum sta ncuie atrnat)

136

Petre STOICA The Object in the Window / Obiectul din vitrin 138Insomnia / Insomnie 139Journal (I) / Jurnal (I) 139Solemn Poem / Poem Grav 140This is All / Doar att 141

Grete TARTLER The Lime Quarry / Cariera de var 142Butterfly and Candle / Fluture i lumnare 143From the Astronomers Book / Din cartea astronomului 144Solstice / Solstiiu 145

Doina URICARIU We Should / Ar trebui 146The Countenace, the Silk / Chipul, mtasea de porumb 147When You Dig out Roots / Cnd scoi rdcini la lumin 148The Anthill / Muuroiul de furnici 149

Ion VDAN (the dead are radioactive) / (morii / sunt radioactivi) 150(guard in the marble quarry) / (paznicn cariera de marmur) 151(rain like a green horoscope) / (ploaia ca un horoscop verde) 152


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Lidia VIANU 7 x 2 Poems 154Ioan VIERU The Masks of the Year / Mtile anului 156

Convalescence / Convalescen 157Construction for Comrades / Construcie pentru camarazi 158

Claudia VOICULESCU Essentual Cold /Un frig esenial 159Keep Falling... / Mai cade... 160Modern City / Ora modern 161

Horia ZILIERU Icon / Icoan 163Carol / Colind 164

Index of authors 167


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Argument

Aceast antologie se vrea una de poeme simple, transparente,

nesofisticate. Se tie c poetul ajuns la maturitate i pune n valoare

suflul liric apelnd la miloace economice, cele care transmit cel mai

bine i mai urgent tot ce are el de spus. E aici paradoxul artei:legturile noi i ciudate ntre doar cteva elemente sunt cele care fac

poemul vibrant i emoionant, nu parada mijloacelor colosale

desfurat ostentativ. Ceea ce conteaz n primul rnd este viziunea

poetului, acel mod de a torsiona cuvintele, imaginile, sensul i care, n

cele din urm reprezint pecetea personalitii sale creatoare. A crea

nu nseamn a enumera ce vezi n jur, ci a face din nenumratele

aspecte ale realului, ad-hoc dar convingtor, un tot unitar care n-a mai

existat nainte. Un tot unitar numai al tu. O rsfirare centripet, ca

s ne exprimm n mod oximoronic.Poemele adevrate se nasc fr s vrei. Exist momente cnd

ceva te-mboldete la scris. Inspiraia e un germene care face cuvintele

Foreword

This anthology is meant to be a collection of simple,transparent and unsophisticated poems. It is a well-known factthat a poet who has reached maturity will show off his lyrical

inspiration using economical means, which can convey bothurgently and effectively all he needs to express. Here is wherethe paradox of art lies: it is the new and strong relationsbetween a limited number of elements, and not the conspicuousparade of colossal means that make the poem vibrant andemotional. What matters most is the poet s vision, his particularway of playing with words, images and meanings thateventually establish his unique creative touch. To create is not

merely to enumerate what one sees around oneself, but to make-ad hoc but convincingly-a previously unified whole out of thevarious aspects of reality that belongs only to oneself. To put itin an oxymoronic way, a centripetal dispersion.


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s explodeze, sensurile s scapere, banalul s devin senzaional.

Amintiri acumulate ntr-un ir ntreg de ani se perind brusc printr-

un ir de cuvinte. Timpul, spaiul, planetele, omul, plantele,

vieuitoarele se-mbulzesc dintr-odat sub pana poetului i-i exprim

total, fr resturi, propria durere, bucurie, melancolie. Fiecare poemadevrat e o cin de tain unde cosmosul exterior i cel luntric

fuzioneaz. Spaiul poemului se afl n interstiiul dintre obiectiv i

subiectiv. Cu ct reflexele celor dou entiti sunt mai interanjabile,

cu att poemul este mai profund, mai misterios. Poeii au un sim

special al asociaiilor neateptate care, fr s contrazic, tulbur.

Dintr-o singur ntorstur de condei ei reveleaz originea cereasc a

celormai umile amnunte pmntene. Ei spal murdria acumulat de

secole de istorie uman. Poetul este, ntr-un fel, un taumaturg. Dar

unul involuntar, care nu-i propune aa ceva. Poezia este ce este i varmne venic indefinibil. S citim mai bine poemele i s tcem odat

cu ele. Cci tcerea e att de generoas nct cuprinde n ea i poezia.

Constantin Ablu

Real poems are brought to life by accident. There aretimes when one feels the urge to write. Inspiration is a seed thatmakes words explode, senses scintillate, and turns the ordinaryinto the extraordinary. Memories acquired throughout the years

suddenly flash through a series of words. Time, space, theplanets, man, plants and living creatures all rush under thepoets quill and unrestrainedly express his own pain, joy,melancholy. Every true poem is a Last Supper where the outeruniverse blends with the inner one. The space of the poem liesin the interval between the objective and the subjective. Themore interchangeable the reflexes of the two entities, the moreprofound and mysterious the poem is. Poets have a specialsense for unusual associations that bewilder withoutcontradicting. With one single stroke of the pen they reveal theheavenly origin of the most insignificant earthly trifles. Theywash away the dirt accumulated over centuries of humanhistory. The poet is, in a certain way, an involuntarythaumaturge. Poetry is and forever will be impossible to define.Better to read the poems and revel in their silence. For silence isgenerous enough to encompass poetry.

Constantin Ablu


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Adrian Alui Gheorghe

(b. 6 July 1958)

Cnd ncepi s mori

Vai, primul rid e ca prima perechede pantaloni scuri pe care-i mbracie primvar timpurie sau o toamnplin de cochilii de melci goale

chemi prietenii rzi le spui eaproape o mic srbtoare ei ncnu au riduri sunt emoionai noraul de provincie lucrul acesta

trebuie ndelung comentat tu

ncepi s mori e ciudat chiar ibecul care i zdrobete lumina de geama nceput s te ncurajeze

Approaching Death

Alas, the first wrinkle is like the firstshorts that you have ever wornit is early spring or an autumnfull of empty snail shells

you invite your friends overlaughing, saying its like a holy daythey do not have wrinkles yet they are nervousof the issue in this provincial town

death has long been debated

yet when you begin to die it is strange,even the bulb that crushes light against the windowbegins to give you hope


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Sentina

Nimic mai trist ca o duminic n care toi

prietenii au plecat din orastrzile au devenit strine i lungicrile au nostalgii primare i scuturliterele ca pe nite cenui inutile

dac a avea biciclet m-a apucas-o repar, aa, s-mi parc mi-a mai rmas un drum de fcut

sau s formez numere de telefonla ntmplare s aud voci morocnoaseai greit

i eu s nu tiu de ces fie acesta prilej de refleciepentru toat searai pentru toat noaptea

i mine chiar s cred c se va da sentinasec

The Sentence

There is nothing as cheerless as a Sunday

when all your friends are out of townstreets have become strange and longbooks fall prey to primordial nostalgiatheir letters have turned to useless ash

if I had a bicycleI would start repairing itto pretend I still have somewhere to go

or I could dial at randomto hear unfriendly voices saywrong number

and find I dontreally knowwhy I ponder on itthrough the evening,through the night

tomorrow I may even believe that the sentencewill be passed matter-of-factly


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fr s o aflu vreodat without me ever hearing it

Fructa veninoas

Libertatea e o chestiune de gust.Un mort e mai liber dect o clugri care hulete?Eti liber atunci cnd te mpiedici de o piatrsau atunci cnd o ocoleti?

O femeie care se numea Maria a trit toata viaa nchis ncurteangust strjuit de civa cirei amarile-a gustat an de an amrciunea cu fructa veninoasi trziu de tot a aflat cn toat aceast vreme a fost un om liberliber de totliber ca sarea din mareca smna de pe piatra rsfat de soare

i atunci a gsit de cuviin s-l ntrebepe cel de la carenu i s-a ntors niciodat confirmarea:

The Venomous Fruit

Freedom is a matter of taste.Is a dead man freer than a nun who blasphemes?Is one free when one stumbles over a rockor when one avoids it?

There was a woman called Maria who lived all her life confinedin a yardwhich was narrow and girdled by bitter cherry trees.Every year she would taste their bitterness delightedby the encounter of the flesh with the venomous fruit.Much later she found outthat all of this time she had been a free person.Completely free.As free as the sea salt.

As the seed on a rock spoiled by the sun.And then she thought she should askthe one who


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De ce, Doamne?

never answered her back:

Why, my Lord?


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Lucian Alexiu

(b. 2 February 1960)

La o sut de coi sub pmnt

n buncrul aflat la o sut de coi sub pmnt

sancho pregteteconferina de pace

rsfoiete gnditor horoscoapelemsoar pe hartpune un stegule aiciunul dincolonconjoar cu violet marele zid chinezesctraseaz discret noua linie de aprare spre rsritgolete apoi pe rnd scrumierelemtur de pe lng pereicioburile groase de sticl

One Hundred Cubits Underground

in the bunker one hundred cubits underground

sancho is setting upthe peace conference

he thoughtfully skims through the horoscopeshe takes measurements on a mapputs a little flag hereand a little flag thereencircles the Great Chinese Wall with purplehe discreetly traces the new line of defense to the Eastthen he empties the ashtrays one by onesweeps the thick glass chipsalong the walls


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adun mormanul de oase zvrlitela prepelicarimormie :

i cavalerii tiase ntorc aici de o mie de ani

i nici un progres

he gathers the pile of bones thrownto the settersmutters:

these knightsthey have been coming back for a thousand years

and theres no progress at all

Cornetul cu ngheat al lui polifem

lui victor ivanovici

la apuspolifem iese n pragul peteriicu un cornet de ngheat n mnprivete plictisit peste ntinderea mriimnnc distrat

istuie din buzenc o zi pierdut

Polyphemuss Ice Cream Cone

for Victor Ivanovici

at sunsetPolyphemus comes to the caves mouthice cream cone in handhe looks wearily over the expanse of seaabsent minded he eats

and tutsanother lost day


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un secolde cnd nu s-a mai auzit depnza unei corbiinici dumanii pe care-i atepi

nu mai vin

a centurysince news last reached himof a ships mastand the enemies so long waited for

no news of them either

Legturile primejdioase

priveti cummici vltuci de fumurc de pe altarela cer

cum se ntorcmici vltuci de lumindin care-i vorbete morocnos zeuln care e gata s te rpeasc

zeia

navighezi dup zborul psrilor

Dangerous Liaisons

youre watchingsmall puffs of smokerising from the altarsup into the sky

small threads of lightcoming downfrom where the surly god speakswhere the goddess is ready

to carry you off

you follow the flight path of birds


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nu nesocotetisemnele

totui comerul cu-ntraripaii

i pare din ce n ce mai nesigurlegturile cu eiprimejdioase

you do not ignorethe signs

nevertheless trade with the winged nations

seems increasingly perilousthe liaisons dangerous

Despre sirene

se las ceaa

nemuritoarelesfie cu dinii un mic delfinargintiu

Of Mermaids

the fog is setting in

the immortalsare shredding in their mouths one tiny silverdolphin


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Constantin Ablu

(b. 8 October 1938)

Drumul furnicilor

Prin casa mtuii mele trece drumul furnicilor,drumul acesta strvechi atestat n cronicile orientului.

Furnicile urc din grdina vecinei pe-o crptur a zidului.

n baie valseaz pe carelajul alb i albastru.Traverseaz coul de rufe, peretele, i-odat n sufrageriemrluiesc pe rama aurit a oglinzii rotunde,n sensul celor, pre de trei rotiri. Apoi dispar.Poate c-o apuc pe-un traseu de rezerv.Ori poate c pur i simplu drumul se ncheie aici.Oare cronicile orientului s-i fi ales ca deltoglinda mtuii mele?

The Ants Road

The ants road goes through my aunts house,this ancient road attested in the chronicles of the Orient.The ants climb through a crack in the wall of our neighboursgarden.They dance a waltz on the white and blue tiles in the bathroom.They cross the laundry basket, the wall, and once in the livingroom,they march around the golden frame of the circular mirror,clockwise, for three circuits. Then they disappear.Maybe they follow a hidden path.Or maybe the road simply ends here.

Could the chronicles of the Orient have chosen for a deltamy aunts mirror?


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Traiectorie fulgertoare

n tren, singur n tot vagonul.

Traversam un pod, auzeam apa cum curge.Fulgertor o piatr a strpuns geamul de lng mine,a vjit pe lng capul meu,a perforat geamul paralel i-a disprut.

Vagon care te-ndeprtezi n amintire,duci cu tine traiectoria ratatei mele morii cele dou guri n geam,perfecte ca pupilele unui sfnt.

Flashing Trajectory

I was on the train, alone in the whole carriage.

Crossing a bridge, I heard the water flowingSuddenly, a stone pierced the window alongside me,whizzed past my head,punched through the parallel window and disappeared.

You, carriage that fades into memory,you take with you the trajectory of my failed deathand the two holes in the windows,perfect as a saints pupils.

Omul din faa geamului

n cas la mine soarele circul prin toate camerele,

asta m face s cred c nu-s chiar un om de nimic.Cnd stau n faa geamului m cuprinde somnulinexistenei a tot ceea ce vd.

The Man in Front of the Window

In my house, the sunlight inhabits all the rooms,

which makes me think that I am someone important.At the window, I fall into the slumberof the nonbeing of everything I see.


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Rmn doar cu lumina soarelui pe fa i pe mini. Sunt tristca un om care nu-i prsete casa niciodat,dar care tie c trim n lumea pietrelor i-a copacilori c n-are ce face cu micrile precipitate

pe care le numim prietenie.

I have only the sunlight on my face and arms. I am sad,like a man who never leaves his house,yet knows we live in a world of stones and treesand has no use for the hastened moves

we call friendship.

Alexandru i oamenii

Biatul prietenului meudeseneaz oamenii ncepnd de la picioare,pantofii adnc scufundai n iarbplria nconjurat de nori i avioane.Am schiat pe-o hrtie un cap de omi i-am spus: continu desenul.Alexandru a izbucnit n plns i-a fugit la buctrie.Prietenul mi-a spus c din acea zinu mai deseneaz dect iarb

nalt, nalt pnla nori.

Alexander and the People

My friends sondraws people from their feet up,their shoes deeply plunged into the grasstheir hats surrounded by clouds and planes.I sketched the head of a man on paperand told him: continue the drawing.Alexander burst into tears, ran out into the kitchen.My friend told me that from that dayhe has only been drawing grass

which grows into the clouds.


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Poemul strzilor(fragment)

Exist orae libere unde strzile plutesc n voieExist orae ce abia pot respira legate fedele de propriile strziSunt cel care conduce strzile lumii ctre mare Nu am fcut nimic altceva toat viaaFerestrele i uile caselor se strecoar pe urmele pailor meiExist o diminea n care voi muriStrzile vor rmne n cmp ori pe unde apucUnele vor nimeni n preajma vreunui lac

Altele se vor strecura n pmntLsndu-i afar doar copaciiCopacii niciunei strziVor fi adoptai de furnici

The Poem of Streets(fragment)

There are free cities where the streets float freelyThere are cities that can barely breathe, tightly bound to theirown streetsI am the one who leads the worlds streets towards the seaI have done nothing else all my lifeThe windows and doors of the houses sneak along myfootstepsThere will come a morning when Ill dieThe streets will be left in the fields or elsewhereSome will find themselves by a lakeOthers will slip into the groundLeaving their trees alone out hereThe trees belonging to no streetWill be adopted by ants


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Vasile Baghiu

(b. 5 December 1965)


Mi-ar trebui un ir de ani poateS disloc magma aceasta de via n care m-am prins,S fiu nafara oricror brfe de cartier,S ies viu dintr-o lupt care n-a fost niciodat a mea,Chiar dac tu erai acolo, protectoare din umbr,i aveai privilegiul de a rde puinDe nverunarea mea inutil, ridicol oricum,Mi-ar trebui curajul din primii ani,Cnd nu-mi psa unde adormi nu nelegeam obiceiul oamenilor

De a se lega mereu de ceva din trecut,Cnd totul n mine se druia.Tu ai fost mereu mai presus de proza n care m zbteam.


It might take me yearsTo dislodge myself fromLife this magma which has swallowed me,And be out of the reach of neighbour gossip.To emerge from a fight not mine.You were there, privileged angel in the dark,Amused at my faux ferocity,Recalling the courage of my first days,When I was unconcerned aboutWhat place Id fall asleep in.

Not yet understandingThe human need to cling to a past.Always ready to give myself away.


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Mai presus de plasa n care ne sufocam de fapt mpreun,Pentru c puteai s fii crudi s lai totul ntr-un loc, ntr-un oran care s nu mai revii.

Astzi mi pas de cte o mic burniCare se confund cu ceaai am mare grij s nu uit umbrela,mi pas de forfota de pe chei,Neobinuit pentru o or att de matinal,Zgomote dragi n care mi beau cafeaua pe teras,Privind leinat,Exasperat totuiDe impresia de poezie comunPe care o las porturile n orice moment.

You watched from aboveThe prose of my struggles,In the web of our common suffocation.You knew how to be the cruel one,

To leave everything behind, in a town to whichYou would never return.Today I fear the drizzle,I fear the fog.I never forget my umbrella at home.I mind the hustle of the quay,Unusual at this early hour.I cherish the noises which accompany my coffee on the terrace.I watch helplessly, in exasperation,These faces of common poemsWhich harbours always hold.

n mulime

Un brbat japonezfcea poze mulimii

Myself, in a Crowd

Sur le Quai de Mont Blancin Geneva, a Japanese man


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sur le Quai de Mont Blancla Geneva.

M-a prins i pe mine

cum admiramimensa fntn artezian.

M-am gndit atuncipentro o clipc voi rmnentr-un albumntr-o cas din Tokiosau din alt parte,

i nimeni nu va ticine sunt.

was taking pictures of the crowd.

He photographed me, as well,as I was admiring

an enormous fountain.

It made me thinkfor a momentI was forever capturedin a photo albumin a house in Tokyo,or somewhere else,where the people who

share this mans lifesit together, wonderingwho I might be.

Curnd

Tot ce scriupare s fie parte a vieii.

Soon

The things Im writingseem like pieces of life.


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Tot ce triescarat ca scris.

Curnd

nu va mai fi nevoies-mi bat capulcu asta.

The things of lifebecome bits of writing.

Hopefully, soon,

there will be no needfor meto worry about that.


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Magda Crneci

(b. 28 December 1955)

Natur moart cu cldare

O cldare uzat pe piedestal ntr-o sal de expoziieah, sculptur netrebnic, ustensil nedemn i trist,monument al unei lumi proletare, pe piedestaln zincul tu corodat i peren, ns fr posteritate:lumea te nconjur speriat, te admir posac,te sanctific cu disperare, oareo cldare urcat pe piedestal e altceva sautotuna cu o cldare de buctrie?

Urale, aplauze, sete de adorare

ntr-o lume din ce n ce mai vetust,vertiginos apropiindu-se de zinc, de oroare,a fi vrut s te ador, lume proletar, cldare,

Sill Life with Bucket

A battered bucket on a pedestal in an exhibitionoh, worthless sculpture, unworthy and pathetic object,

memorial to a proletarian world, on your pedestalwith your perennially-corroded zinc, but without progeny,frightened people surround you, they admire you grimly,hopelessly they sanctify you, isa bucket mounted on a pedestal different orthe same as a kitchen bucket?

Cheering, applause, thirst for worship

in an ever-more dated world,tempestuously turning to zinc, to horror,I wish I could adore you, proletarian world, bucket,


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s m prosternez naintea corpului tu chinuit de buctrie,s m pot hrni doar cu ap i fiare,s m pot mbta cu teze, antiteze, porunci,doar-doar voi apuca viitorul promis, orbitor

cnd tu vei fi sfnt asemeni graalului

numai s te cred, s te neleg, s fim UNA.

prostrate myself before your wretched kitchen body,feed myself with only water and iron,intoxicate myself with theses, antitheses, orders,hoping I would live to see the promised, dazzling future

when you will be as sacred as the Holy Grail

if I could but believe you, understand you, be one with you.

Casa noastr

Vom pleca din casa asta murdarn care nimeni nu-i mai terge picioareleunde nimeni nu mai vrea s curee geamurilenimeni nu mai duce gunoiul

vom pleca din casa asta mizerplin de igrasii i duhoare

plin de nari i gndaci de buctriede mormane de hrtii rupte, sticle sparte,cutii de conserve ieftine, goale

Our House

We will leave this filthy housewhere nobody wipes their feet any morewhere nobody wants to wash the windows any morenobody takes out the trash any more

we will leave this shabby housefull of dampness and stench

full of mosquitoes and cockroaches,heaps of torn paper, broken bottles,and cheap, empty cans.


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vom pleca din casa asta blestematunde n fiecare zi se aude un pocnet de pucn fiecare camer zace cte-un cadavru

unde n pivni sunt ascunse grmezi putrede de scheleteiar n pod se url continuu un ordin

vom pleca din casa asta nebunn care ne-au umilit i ne-au torturatn care ne-au flmnzit i ne-au nsetatunde ne-au dresat i ne-au predicatunde ne-au cuminit i ne-au educatdin ghereta asta de zgur, din cutia asta de ghete,

din arcul sta de vite, din ospiciul sta pustiu,din blocul sta mbibat de ur, din cociugul stade vesele prefabricate

casa asta fr mobil i covoarecasa asta fr ferestre i uicasa asta fr ziduri, fr intrarecasa asta fr temelii, fr acoperi

din care libere ne atrn n aer picioarele

we will leave this cursed housewhere every day we hear shooting,in every room lies a corpse

where rotten heaps of skeletons are hidden in the cellarwhile in the loft, all day long, an order is yelled.

we will leave this mad housewhere they humiliated and tortured uswhere they let us go without food or waterwhere they altered and lectured uswhere they anihilated and educated usfrom this dross booth, from this shoe box,

from this cattle-pen, from this deserted madhouse,from this hate-saturated block of flats, from thiscoffin full of prefab dishes

this house without furniture and carpetsthis house without windows or doorsthis house without walls, without an entrancethis house without foundation, without a roof

from where our feet hang freely in the air.


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Garbiel Chifu

(b. 22 March 1954)

Poemul tatlui,al fiului sui al fiului fiului su;poemul tatlui

fiul meu ntreab:cum s gsesc ceea ce caut?

*n anul 2003, primvara, el, fiul meu, a gsit cheia pe careo pierduse n anul 1953, vara, tatl meu. Era ruginitdar mai mergea, a deschis cu ea ua.i dincolo de prag ce era? prafi pnze de pianjen. Adjectivele muriser.

verbele se pietrificaser, iar atrii erauncreii ca prunele uscate.misterul i miracolul oamenilor au via scurt

Poem of the Father, of His Son, and of His Sons Son;Poem of the Father

My son questions me,Where is that whichI am looking to find?*In springtime in 2003, he found a key,lost by my Father in 1953.It was well corroded by timeyet, fitting its lock.Soon my Fathers door had been opened.

Beyond the threshold only dustand the webs of many spiders.The adjectives had died.


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ct ine floarea de mr, ori i mai puin, ct arde un butean nsob.

*pind peste mine ca pe o strdu de muntepavat cu pietre de ru,fiul meu a deschis ua interzis.i dincolo de prag, casa dispruse.doar coridoarele delirante ale vntului.

*nu: de fapt,misterul i miracolul oamenilor au viaa nenchipuit de scurt.cam ct o scprare de amnar.sau att ct i trebuie sufletului s ias din trupul celui mort.apoi propoziiile i pierd nelesul, se amestec,se ruineaz, se prbuesc precum templele din vechime.pietre rzlee pe cmp.

cuvinte nsingurate pe cmp, fr nici o lumin.

*

The verbs were petrified.The stars extinguished.Human mysteries and miraclescan live such brief lives,

like the apple blossom, or the log in the stove.*My son stepped across me,as if I had been a mountain lanepaved with river stones,and unlocked the forbidden door.Inside, the house had turned intoraging corridors for the winds.

*The mysteries and miracles of our livinghave such brief lives.They disappear like sparks, as quickly asthe soul from a dying man.Sentences lose meaning.They tumble and then crumble like the ancient temple,to become lifeless stones in a field.

Silenced words in a field. Empty.

*


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nc o dat fiul meu ntreab cum am ntrebat i eu:cum s gsesc ceea ce caut?eu tiu c el caut altceva dect caut,dar nu-i spun ceea ce nici mie nu mi s-a spus,

fiindc el nu aude, cum nici eu n-a fi auzit:du-te spre lucrurile umile, n ele,n ele se adpostete cel de sus nu-i spun.

tac. (doar cu tcerea pot s-l ajut.) tcereae o lav ce acoper totul.

My son once more asksthe question I have also asked,How shall I find thatfor which I am searching?

I do not tell him what they never told myself.I know that, just like me, he will not hear the answer:Go to the humble things.In them resides the one above.I remain silent.

(Only my silence can help him.) Silence becomesthe lava which encases everything,It encases us all.

Discuii literare

mi las trupul n redacie s poarte interminabile

discuii literare.ies din el fr regrete ca dintr-o camer de hotel ieftin.pornesc nsingurat-pelerin

Literary Discussions

I leave my body behind, in the editorial office,

involved in endless discussions of the literary sort.I have no regrets at all. It is like a cheap room in some motel.And I am alone, a pilgrim


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prin ri abstracte, ri agonice, ri piramidale, ri invizibile.ajung lng un cuvnt vechirostit de pavel acum dou miide ani.degetele privirii mele l ating.

picioarele privirii mele l escaladeaz ca pe un munte.se apropie un elefant grbit,abia m feresc din calea lui,calc peste cuvnt l sparge,din el se revars o mare roie nvechit,inund totul, valuri sfiate ajungpn n redacie nu tiu s-not,a chema salvamarii.

in agonic, countries of abstractions,caught in invisible geometries.I arrive at ancient wordsuttered by Paul two thousand years ago.

My eyes are hands that touch them.My eyes are feet that climb them.An elephant approaches in a hurry, andit narrowly misses me.It tramps on the words, and breaks them,releasing a flood, a red sea.The broken words over-washthe office and I cannot swim.Who will be there to save me?


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35

Aura Christi

(b. 12 January 1967)

Utopia cutremurat

Cred. Mrturisesc. Cu fric i cutremur ntreb:Tat al meu, Carele eti n ceruri,

cine sunt eu, de mi-ai dat puterea cea de toate zilele,puterea s ascult discursurile ndrgostiteale Golului, ale Nimicului;cine sunt eu, de m uit mprejur cu o mie de ochi odat,ateptnd solii greelilor, frdelegilor, babiloniilorajunse n cerurile i pre pmnturile care totul iart;cine sunt eu, din care mprie m-ai adus aici? Ce caut eu aici?i de ce m bucur cu voluptate de bezn,

de frig, de nesomn, de moarte? bestie rnit, reflexiv, crescnd din sine pe msur ce anii trec,minune cutremurat, utopie, cu tremur pierdut,

Trembling Utopia

I believe. I confess. Fearfully and tremblingly, I ask:My Father, who art in heaven,

who am I to have been given this day my daily power,the power to listen to the passionate speechesof the Void, of Nothingness;who am I to look around me with a thousand eyes at the sametime,waiting for the messengers of trespasses, of ill-deeds, of perfectBabelon earth as they are in heaven where everything is forgiven;

who am I, from which kingdom did you bring me here? Whatam I doing here?And why do I take such great delight in darkness,


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cu tremur ctigat. in cold, in sleeplessness, in death? wounded, thoughtful beast, growing out of itself as the yearsgo by,trembling wonder, utopia, tremblingly lost,

tremblingly found.

Ce mi se ntmpl?

Deschide ua. Intr. Apropie-te. Numai tu tiifrica mea de mine, frica de putereace o ndrept necontenit mpotriva mea.Apropie-te. Eti realitatea mea, gura mea de aer.Pregtete sentimentul ncet al existeneicum ai lucra la nlarea unei invizibile catedrale.i uit c poi iubi asemeni lui Augustin numai faptulde a iubi. Uit. Iubete-m. Atinge-m. Nu te speria!Dezvluie-mi ochii cu care a putea s-i cunosc semnele,

visele, minile, chipul tu purtat de toi brbaiidin calea mea. i cer rbdarea de a m reduce la nelepciune.mi cer fora de adeveni pur i simplu Femeie,

What Is Happening to Me?

Open the door. Come in. Come closer. You alone know

how I fear myself, I fear the powerthat I endlessly aim at myself.Come closer. You are my reality, my breath of air.Prepare the slow feeling of existenceas if you worked to erect an invisible cathedral.And forget that you can be in love, just like Augustin,with love. Forget. Love me. Touch me. Dont be afraid!Unveil the eyes with which I might recognize your signs,

your dreams, your hands, your image in every manI have come across. I ask of you to be patient and make mewise.


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de a urma Brbatul care m-a druit pe mine nsmi mie cum cerul psrilor le ofer spaiul adncimii,cum marea le ofer rechinilor ansa indiferent a nlimii.Ce se ntmpl, de fapt? Ardere de tot? Poate, ceva mai mult.

I ask of myself the power to simply become a Woman,to follow the Man who has given me to myselfas sky bestows a spatial depth on birdsas sea bestows the indifferent chance of height on sharks.

What is actually happening? Total combustion? Somethingmore. Maybe.

Cntecel pentru mine

Iubesc aceste nopi de ghea,Intrarea lent-n Timpul Meui-acelai cnt al corului de heruvimitranscris cu spaim n caiete colreti,de care m apropii din ce n ce mai greu.

Felul n care m adun n mine l iubesc.i linitea febril ivit-n timp ce scriu,

veieuza, perla de pe masa mea de scris,singurtile-nepate i-aridele ateptri,i strile deparc am fost iparc o s fiu.

Little Song for Myself

I do love these icy nights,the way I slowly enter My Timeand the same song of the cherub choir,copied fearfully into my school notebooks,which its harder and harder to draw near to.

I do love the way I gather myselfthe feverish silence falling while I write,

the lamp, the pearl on my desk,the sulky solitudes and the barren expectations,and the moods of I might have beenand I might be.


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i trupul meu descoperit n miez de zi,mirarea vecinului: De ce nu dai vreun semnc mai eti vie?Morile mele otrvite le iubesc

erpii ce dulce-n vis m-ncolcesc Felul n carem rentorc la mine: definitiv, solemn.

And my body uncovered at midday,my neighbour wondering:Why dont you give a signthat you are still alive?I do love my poisoned deaths

The snakes sweetly winding around me in my dreamsThe way I return to myself: finally, solemnly.


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Dumitru Chioaru

(b. 19 October 1957)

Autoportret

Mna care scrie cnd odihnetemi pare demonic de transparent;

sub piele venele ca-ntr-un acvariucteva plante i sngelecurge n interior i irigtcerea; susurul lui prin timpe viaa netrit a strmoilornvlind n lumina ochilor mei.

Self-Portrait

When the hand which writes takes a restit seems to me demonically transparent;

beneath its skin, veins like a few plantsin a fishbowl and the bloodflows within and floodsthe silence; its murmur through timethe unlived life of the ancestorsrushing into the light of my eyes.


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Vara de fosfor (fragment)

n zori totul neschimbat:copiii lui cronos zeul ceasului detepttor

ncep o nou zi de muncpmntul merge nc pe petrolmedicamentele pun sngele n micarecapul pe umr un prieten mi spune:cteodat eti att de singur nct nu poi fi numrat

The Phosphorus Summer (fragment)

At dawn, everything unchanged:the children of kronos, god of the alarm clock,

begin a new workdaythe earth is still running on oildrugs set the blood in motionhead on my shoulder a friend tells me:sometimes youre so alone you cant even be counted

Viaa i opiniile profesorului Mouse

Existena este oare pentru a fi scris?scriu deci exist?

privii masca omuluice nu scrie nimic

masca sub care barbarul e creierulsenzual ca o zburtoare nprlind primvarai privii-i apoi

Professor Mouses Life and Opinions

Does being exist just to be written?I write therefore I am?

look at the mask of the manwho does not write anything

the mask under which the barbarian is the brainlusty as a bird moulting in springand then look


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pe cei care au nvat din copilriescrisul ca pe al doilea merscontinundu-i viaape aceste picioare de musculie

pn se dezva de bucurie ndoial i moartermne un copil n formolplimbat prin biblioteciunde oarecii gndescla o bunstare hibernal cu manuscrisecare-i face s chicie n limbi strinede materna lor foame de-a roadeuniversul cel micca pe blana unui strmo

scris cu litere n tot atia periorici ncap pe-o blan de oarecedar iari i iarimi amintesc copilria o pernpe care adormeam chicindcnd povetile sfreau odat ca niciodat

i scriuexistena este altceva dect o hrtie

roas mrunt de cuvintescriu pn o masc mi cade pe fami intr ca nite unghii

at the ones who learned how to write in their childhoodlike a second walkingcontinuing their lives on these insect legsuntil breaking out of the habit of happiness doubt and death

he remains a foetus in formaldehydedragged through librarieswhere mice thinkabout winter bounty among manuscriptswhich makes them squeak in foreign languagesout of their maternal hunger to chewthe smaller universeas they would an ancestors furwritten with letters in as many hairs

as fit in the coat of a mouseagain and againI remember my childhood a pillowon which I fell asleep squeakingwhen the stories ended once upon a timeand I writebeing is different from a piece of paper

bitten away slowly by words

I write until a mask falls on my faceit buries itself like nailsinto my eyes into my ears and into my mouth


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n ochi n urechi i n gurmi rupe cordonul ombilicalcu a doua natur

tearing up my umbilical cordanother second nature


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43

Denisa Comnescu

(b. 1954)

Pessoa

Priveam amndoi salcmul dinspre strad.n fiecare diminea acesta era momentul nostru de intimitate.

Te lsam pe msua din dormitor cu ochii aintiinspre lumea de-afar.Seara m-ateptai lng u: executai cu voluptate acelai ritualcare m linitea i m mblnzea.Te-am numit Fernando Pessoa nc din prima ziCnd el te-a adus acas, era spre sfritul lui octombrie,Acum opt ani: un ghemotoc negru de hrnit cu pipeta.Mult timp nu te-am luat n serios

Umpleai coridoarele dintr-un cuplu hruit.n primvar am vrut s te las pe pmntul reavn,Cu atta disperare te-ai agat de pulovrul meu,

Pessoa

We would both look at the locust tree in the street.Every morning. This was our intimate moment.

We would leave you on the bedroom table,your eyes glued to the outside world.In the evening you would wait for me by the door;voluptuously you would perform the same ritualthat both comforted and tamed me.We named you Fernando Pessoa from the first dayhe brought you home; it was late October,eight years ago, a black ball in need of bottle feeding.

I didnt take you seriously for a long time you were filling the corridors of a harassed couple.In spring I wanted to put you down on the damp soil;


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nct spaima din privirea ta m-a cuprins i pe mine,Ca i cum petecul acela ncercuit de ciment ne trgea peamndoi n adnc.n primii ani plecam fr s-mi pese de tine,

pn cnd el m-a anunat c ai disprut.O sptmn ai stat lipit de vrful salcmului,Se vedea coaja zgrepnat de mbriarea ta.Un copil s-a crat pn la tine i te-a tras de un piciorde i l-a rupt. Oricum ne-am ntors mpreun acas.Te mngiam adesea, torceai mpingndu-i capul n palma meai dintr-o dat m intuiai cu privirea.Minute n ir. Cu o lumin parc de altundeva.Prezena ta ne devenise indispensabil.

Tu ne-ai apropiat din nou, ne curai zilnicde mzga lipicioas de-afar.De Crciun n-am cumprat brad. Am pus cteva crengimpodobite cu globuri la fereastr. Cnd nu le-ai mai urmritcurcubeiele, cnd n-ai mai ieit de sub mormanulde reviste i ziare, mi-a revenit spaima.Am luat vasul cu scoici marine aduse din Rhodosi l-am rsturnat n jurul tu.

Te-am vegheat pn-n noaptea Anului Nou.Focurile de artificii trasau pe cerconturul bombei de la Hiroshima.

you clung to my sweater so desperatelythat the fear in your eyes seized me as well,as if that patch of land surrounded by cementwas pulling us both into the abyss.

The first years I would leave without worrying about youuntil he let me know you had disappeared.For a week you stood glued to the top of the locust tree;we could see the bark scratched by your embrace.A child climbed up to you and pulled you by the leguntil it broke. Anyway, we came back home together.I would often caress you, you would purrwhile pushing your head into my palmand suddenly you would stare at me. For minutes on end.

With a light that seemed to come from somewhere else.Your presence had become essential to us.You brought us together again, you would clean us dailyfrom the sticky mud outside.For Christmas we didnt buy a tree. We placed a few branchesadorned with globes by the window. When you stoppedchasingtheir rainbows, when you didnt come out any more

from the pile of magazines and newspapers, my fear returned.I took the bowl of marine shells brought from Rhodesand emptied it out around you.


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Zvcnetul final i-a lsat trupului tu o clipde plutire prin aer, iar ochilor rgazul s se cufunden ntuneric.

I watched over you until New Year s Eve.The fireworks were sketching on the skythe outline of the bomb from Hiroshima.The last twitch gave your body a moment to float in the air,

your eyes the time to sink into the darkness.

Tablou de familie

Tata iar a uitat rufele de la spltoriepe o tarab din piasora mea i trimite singurscrisori de dragostes mi le-arate triumftoaremama i pltete pe furi acatistele(D-le, Doamne, fetelor melefericirea pe care n-am avut-o eu.)

Aa cum stau pe balconscriind pe genunchio broscu a ptruns cu dezinvoltur n cas

Family Painting

Father has forgotten our laundry againon a counter in the market;my sister sends love letters to herselfso she can show them to me triumphantly;my mother pays for her prayer list surreptitiously:Please, God, give my daughters

the happiness I didnt have for myself.

As I sit on the balcony

writing on top of my kneesa little frog has sneaked freely into the houseand I have no one to rejoice at its sight with me,


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i nu am cu cine s m bucurde privelitea ei cci tute-ai dedicat morii.

for you have devoted yourself to death.


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47

Ilie Constantin

(b. 16 February 1939)

Din copilrie

Eu singur sunt treaz i fitilul care moare.Pe patul cel larg dorm umeri trudii i picioare.

Pe sfori dorm cmi, spre ziu aproape uscate,i opt respiraii se-ngn cu vntul cnd bate.

Ne cat ndejdea-n fereastra-ngheat: o vrabie.i-mi pare odaia o nalt i zvelt corabie,cmile pnze umflate o poart pe ape albastrempinse de vntul cel lin al suflrilor noastre.

Childhood Feel

I alone am awake, and the dying wick.Weary shoulders and feet sleep on the wide bed.

On clotheslines shirts sleep almost dry at dawn,and eight breaths slur as the wind blows.

Hopes looking for us in the frozen window: a sparrow.And my chamber seems to me a tall slender ship,the shirts, sails set, a gate to the blue waterspushed by the smooth wind of our breaths.


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Cmpia

Privete cmpia: aceast

zare continuat,acest repaos ndelung al scoarei lumii.Cmpia e o iniiere-n infinit.n mijlocul ei, sngelese zbate ntre hotarele trupului.Aici nu exist viteze doar o rotire greoaiea zrii spre somn.Oare nu tot astfel vei privi

traversndu-lemonotonele cmpii ale cerului?

The Plain

Look at the plain: this

continuous horizon,this long quiescence of the worlds bark.The plain is an initiation into the infinite.In its midst, the blood struggleswithin the boundaries of the body.There is no speed here, buta heavy rotation of the horizon towards sleep.Will you not be watching in the same way,as you cross them,

the monotonous plains of the sky?

Cea n pdure

Ca o uitare intr ceaa n pdureori ca un plns confuz pe frunze.

Fog in the Woods

Fog invades the woods like forgetfulnessor like a remote cry on the leaves;


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Jur-mprejur, o umed mbriare.Aceti copaci, mi pare, au uitatde psrile ptrunse-n umbra lor,

i-au prsit surprinztoareleomizi trecute-n fluturi,i vulpile canite flcri subiri,mereu nelinitite, nu le mai nfioar scoara.Stejarii, rocate insule, mai struieslbatici, abia ivii din spume,pe cnd mesteceniivslesc n alb, cci vntul a uitatpnzele lor verzi desfurate-n cea.

All-around, a humid embrace.I think these trees may have forgottenthe birds that sought refuge in their shadows,

the surprising caterpillars-turned-butterflieshave left them,and foxes, like endlessly restless pale flameshave stopped making their barks shiver.The oaks, scarlet islands, are still savage,barely coming out of their foams,while the birch treespaddle in white, since the wind has forgottentheir green cloths unfolding in the fog.

Nemuritoare

Nemuritoare broate estoasevin de departe, pe dibuite:

Immortal

Immortal turtlescome from afar, feeling their way:


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la nordul mrilor de sargasesuie pe plaj s se mrite.

Att de fr de timp le arat

corpul purtat ntre plci ca o cruce!

E poate craniul uitrii, iat,care se-ntoarce, care se duce.

at the North of the sargasso seasthey climb on the beach to wed.

How timeless their bodies look,carried in between plates, like a cross!They might be the skulls of forgetfulnessthat goes around and comes around.

Limba francez

Acum patruzeci de ani, punndu-mi dintr-o toanprimii ochelari ai mamei,ochii mei rztori de adolescentn-au ntrziat a plnge, investiide scurtul i opacul viitor al zrii.

Departe n vrst i pe continent

m pierd azi n limpedea duioiece, din alt lume, m sprijin n lume.

The French Language

Forty years ago, trying out my mothers first glasseson a whim,my gleeful teenage eyesbegan to weep, consideringthe short and opaque future of the horizon.

Far away in age and on the continent

I lose myself today in the clear tendernessthat, from another world, supports me in this world.


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i uneori i vorbesc mamei ntr-o limbpe care n-am nvat-o de la ea.

And I sometimes talk to my mother in a languagethat I havent learned from her.


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Ioana Crciunescu

(b. 13 November 1950)

Urechiua ei sngerie

Nespus de frumoas aria. Coapsa eiascuit sclipind n soarele umflat.

M priveam ncepnd de la ireturi.

La mare deprtare delfinii artaupetilor mici, rpitori, eleganagesturilor largi, lenea marilor ngduine.

i totui

am zpcit-o ndeajuns cu nepsarea mea!Vreau s-i aud icneteles-o nghesui n cotloane s-i vd buzele

Sweet Crimson Ear

How wonderful the burning heat. Her pointedthigh gleaming in the swollen sun.

I was observing myself from the shoe laces up.

Far off, the dolphins were teachingthe small predatory fish the graceof generous gestures and easy going acceptance.

Oh but I have confused her enough with my ignorance!

I want to hear her moans,to crowd close, to see her


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crpate, s o privesc n ochi (o fi avndtoate cele ochi, nas, gt?)

s uier n urechiua ei sngerie:Te ador, te ador, f-mi lichidarea!

chapped lips, to look deep into her eyesDoes she have all the parts?eyes, nose, neck?)

I want to whistle into her sweet crimson ear:I adore you! I adore you! Liquidate me.

Piele 100%

Cum geme pielea caprei slbatice n minile pdurarului.

Cel ce sreaz, tbcete,mirosul neptor l uit!

Hain mbrcnd corpul parfumat i inert al doamneitoc de ochelari protejnd miopia domnuluipern de piele, covor dezosat la marginea patului.

O curea lat brbteasc muc talia caprei slbatice

care fuge printre maini incandescente, stopuri ncinsen inima fumegnd a oraului.

Pure Leather

The forester holds the goatskin while it screams,

He who salts and batters me forgetsthe wild sharp scent.

A coat to dress a ladys stiff and perfumed limbs,a glasses case for a short-sighted gent,a leather pillow, a naked rug beside the bed.

And a large belt cutting into the loins of a wild goat

as she escapes among the heated incandescent cars and stopsignstowards the smoky heart of the city.


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Pielea ei cnt un singur cntec:Cel ce sreaz, tbcete,mirosul neptor l uit!

Her skin sings one refrain,He who salts and batters me forgetsthe wild sharp scent.

Fel trist de a nvinge

Domnule doctor m doare ndeprtarea de minefelul strin n care respir aerul liliachiu

din salon, deasupra mea lichefierea cuvntului.

Am mituit vigilena i m ntorc nvingtoare.Seringa. Domnule doctor m doare felul meu tristde a nvinge.

n iruri comarele merg spre sala de du.Miros uscat de somifere mi taie respiraia

(respiraia tiat de tot ce nu tiuc va urma)m slbticesc mprietenindu-m cu legile,

The Sadness of Victory

It is this estrangement from myself that hurts, doctor,the weird way of taking in the lilac air of the ward

the words liquefying above me.

I have bribed vigilance and return victorious.The needle, doctor. It is my sad victory that hurts.

Lines of nightmares march towards the shower.The dry smell of pills stops my breath,

which is already dried from everything to come all that I cant know.I grow wild obeying the rules.


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m nriesc pndit de mine i de atentele corecturiale lumii.

Sub un cer mustind de stele aud zgomotul zarurilorAsemeni picturilor de snge pe care le lasgtul unui coco n lighean.

Moartea m va atinge n treact,dezvluindu-mi exilul.

I turn dangerous under my own watchful eyeand the worlds attention and corrections.

Below the ooze of stars, I hear the dice rollingLike blood dropping from a cocks neck into a basin.

In its passing, Death will lay its touch upon meand unveil my exile.


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56

Vasile Dan

(b. 8 May 1948)

Mici ntmplri crepusculare (II)

Planta de ambrozie e chiar a lui Ambrozie. Crete n curtealui, chiar dac o parte bogat din crengi trece gardul.

Chiar dac e, cum mi spune rznd, hran a zeilor. Unul,un ram, cu o atingere aproape imperceptibil, i bate searan geam. Adie. Miroase. Dar nu l simi.Cel mult l presimi prin peretele etan, perfect transparent.Apoi se ntunec necat, imperceptibil.Din camera ta, care e, nu-i aa?, o capsul etanlumina se aprinde ea singurca un corp plutitor, foarte sus, n vzduh.

Minor Crepuscular Events (II)

The ambrosia plant is really Ambroses. It growsin his courtyard through an abundance of clustered branches

that overflowthe fence. It is, he tells me, laughing, the food of gods.At evening, with an almost imperceptible touch, a single branchpatters against your window. It hovers, perfuming the air. Butit doesntreach you. At most you sense it through the impervious glass.Then it darkens an imperceptible drowning.From your room, which is, isnt it? an impervious sealed

capsule,the light turns on by itselflike a body floating high in the air.


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Mici ntmplri crepusculare (IV)

Cu creierul ca un boboc tardiv,cel otrvit, un ultim fiu,un ultim descendent al rasei. Rozei sale,acum la nceputul iernii pe podi,n aburii extatici, cei din albii vechi(cmi de zeu sau vluri de fecioarcare se las peste ochin fii precum somnul).

Memoria, o friz n aurul crepusculari ziua prizonier ce slbete.Tu fugi, n mn nc-i ii luminasinuciga ce se stinge.Tot un ru btrncu afluenii tineri, pari.Apoi lumini pulsnd sau amintiri;te hotrte.

Minor Crepuscular Events (IV)

With a brain like a late bud,a poisoned one, a last son,a last descendant of the race. To the rose,now at the outset of winter on the plateau,in the ecstatic mist of primeval river beds(the gods gown or the maidens veilwhich fall upon the eyesin shreds, like slumber).

The memory, a frieze in the crepuscular goldand the captive day that wanes.You run, still holding in your hand the suicidallight that fades.You still seem an old riverwith young tributaries.Then, flickering lights or reminiscencesfill your mind.


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Lupta cu ngerul

Cu spatele la Splendoare, cu spatele la ispit.Iar ea s-i fi strecurat deja scrisul subire pe sugativa retinei tale,exact n momentul n care duceai, printr-un reflex de aprare,mna la ochi.S o msori n stnjeni mai bineprecum valahul cltor,mai bine orb ca tmplarul cel fericitce nu o vede i o bate bine n cuie, n ram

dect s-i intre perfid n sufleti acolo s road, s road.

(Chemi fotograful.Duce aparatul la ochicnd nici nu se-ateapti ac! o prinde n cutia etanca pe o pasre cnttoare)

The Struggle with the Angel

The Splendour left behind and the Temptations,or not quite. Suppose the laterhas already slipped its sentenceonto the blotter of your retina,just as you were instinctivelyraising your hands to cover your eyes.Better use an old rod to measure itlike the wandering Wallachian.Better be blind like the carpenter,

happily hammering it into a frame,and keep it from your soul,where stealing in it gnaws forever.

(You call for the photographer.He puts the camera to his eye.When least expectedhe clicks and catches it in a sealed box

as if it were a singing bird.)

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Despre bunvoina strilor meteorologice

Caui un sentiment cu care s-i rsplteti bunvoina

(bunvoina strilor meteorologice i cea a strilor sufletetiproduce, se tie, o coresponden ca muzica veche chinezpe care o aude fiara i se preface n om).Starea aceea natural ce o ctigi prin treptat treziremai ales dimineaa, cnd se nal aburii afar din vi,somnul din creier, nscnd deopotriv luminiuriprin care luciditatea se-arunc fr mil, trufa nafar:un acid matinal.

On the Kindliness of Meteorological Phenomena

You search for a feeling to reward kindliness,

the kindliness of meteorological phenomena,a marvel which stirs a correspondence,the way ancient Chinese music turns a beast human;that state that graces upon waking slowly,especially in the morning when mist rises from the valleyand slumber out of the brain to make a clearingthrough which superfluous and merciless lucidity,a dawn acid, hurls itself into the open.

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60

Nichita Danilov

(b. 7 April 1952)

Nimicul

Pe umerii tise aeaz psrile :

trese i epolei.Faa ta e ca o colivien care se zbat nasul i guraca patru zarurisau patru sticlei.

Un joc e totul :vntul spulber crile,

apoi le-aeaz-n minin loc de evantaie.ip aii, damele i craii

The Small Thing

On your shouldersbirds use to lie down

like braids and epaulets.Your face, a bird cage,where your nose and mouth are struggling,four dices,or four goldfinches.

A game is everything:the wind dashes the playing cardsthen it arranges them in your handsinstead of fans.In your dark eyes

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n ntunericul ochilorca nite abstracte cucuvaie.

Aceste semnemi se arat, Doamne,din ce n ce mai des :ci eu n mna ta m simtasemenea unui fruct,

deja cules.

the aces, the queens and knaves are yieldinglike some abstract night birds.

These signsappear to me, oh Godmore and more often:but I feel in your handlike an already

harvested fruit.

Contemplaie

La minus treizeci i trei de gradese scald vrabian apele reci ale havuzuluicu aceeai linitecu aceeai nepsarecu care neleptul Du Funconjurat de jur mprejur cu zpad

n pagoda luii bea ceaiul.

Contemplation

At minus thirty-three degreesthe sparrow bathesin the cold waters of a basinwith the same tranquilitythat the wise Du Fu hadwhen surrounded by snowin his pagoda

drinking his tea.

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62

Amurg

Trebuie s v mrturisesc c problema

morii ne-a fcut s transpirm din plin:btrna noastr profesoar,domnioara Barnovski,creia noi i ziceam i duces,ne-a fixat dou necunoscute tu i eu.A scris pe tabl era o dup amiaz superb de toamn radical din tu plus radical din euegal zeroi a ieit din claslsndu-ne prad celor mai ciudate gnduri.

Dusk

I must confess to you that the death problemmade us sweat:Our old school teacher,Miss Barnovski,whom we used to call the Duchess,set us two enigmas you and I.She wrote on the blackboard it was a splendid autumnafternoon the radical of you plus the radical of Iis zero,and got out of the classroom

leaving us alone with our queerest thoughts.

Lucrurile

Lucrurile se ndeprteaz ntre elentr-un disperat halousingurtatea ta e un ecou

The Things

Things distance themselves from one anotherin a desperate haloyour loneliness is an echo,

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rostogolit ntre coastele mele.

Se rotete masasnger pereiicurge snge din scaunulpe care stau rezemat:grmezi de haineca nite psri flmndese prbuesc dintr-un cervenic nfrigurat.

rolled between my ribs.

The table is going roundThe walls are bleedingblood is pouring from the chairwhere I sit back;piles of clotheslike some famished birdsare collapsing froma perpetually cold sky.

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64

Simona-Grazia Dima

(b. 7 October 1958)

Confesor de tigri

Confesor de tigri sunt, se pare.mi privesc minile cu cercuri de cicatrici

de pe urma spovedaniei lor,n timpul creia i pierd adeseastpnirea de sine i muc,retrind cele mrturisite(dei ncerc sistematics-i dezbar de emotivitate le-a putea condensa furiilentr-un vrf de ac).Nu-mi place prea mult meseria asta,

dar mi-a fost ncredinati trebuie s-o duc la bun sfrit.Privesc din nou spre mine:

Tiger Whisperer

I seem to be a tiger whisperer.I watch my hands, scarred with the consequences

of tiger confessions,during which the beasts often losetheir temper and bite,reliving the deeds they confess,(though I continually try to make them shed emotion I want to condense their rage to a needle point).I dont like this job very much,but it was entrusted to meand I have to bring it off.I watch myself again:marks from wounds, unreal halos,

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urme de rni, halouri ireale,nimburi albe nimic mai multn-am luat din via pentru mine.

white nimbuses have I taken myselfout of life for this?

Floarea e totuna cu tigrul

Floarea e totuna cu tigrul,mna mea se apleaci i gsete n aceeai tulpin,

nspre partea trandafiriem nvluie parfumul,dincolo cunosc fora.n salturi terificede la floare la tigru,de la tigru la floare,nv o mereu tnr,elastic precizie.

The Flower Equals the Tiger

The flower equals the tiger.My hand bendsand finds them in the same stem.

I find myself surrounded by their scent.at the heart of the flower.But beyond this, I find strengthwhile jumping tigerishlyfrom the flower to the tiger,from the tiger to the flower.Im learning a forever young,flexible accuracy.

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66

Scut aerian

Fiindc nu atept daruri,m-ar bucura numaiun lucru oarecaremngiat de-un maestrula vremea fulgerului.Din visul invincibil tiuc dup aceea un scut aerianntotdeauna m va nveli.i, bogat cum nimeni n-a mai fost,voi savura ntruna

zorii i apusul,primvara i ora vinului,florile de cmp i florile de ghea,asceza i srutul.

Shield Made of Air

Since I dont expect presents,when lightning strikesI d be happywith only one little thingcaressed by a master.From the invincible dream I learnthat afterwards, a shield made of airwill always cover me.Uncountably rich,Ill always enjoy

sunrise and sunset,spring, the time to taste wine,wild flowers, ice flowersascesis and kiss.

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Sunetul

Atept sunetul: nu de lavreo contiincioas orchestr.Poate va semna c-un zvon de tren,ori cu-o fluiertur-n porturisau pe maidane unde crescvrtejuri, mrcini,n jurul unor copii violeicare ncearc s scape.

The Sound

I am waiting for a sound: not the onecoming from some diligent orchestra.It might be like a rumour of the train,or whistling from the harbour.It might come from waste landwhere brambles rise and swirland capture violet children trying to escape.

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Mircea Dinescu

(b. 11 November 1950)

Buldozerul

La ce folosesc prieteniicnd plictisit ntr-o diminea deschizi butoanele aragazului

s nclzeti ceaiuli cu chibritul n mnezitndte joci dintr-odat cu moartea?Ei opun totdeauna cancerului o pung cu portocaleei sunt dispui mult vreme s te vorbeasc de binesparg cteodat un pahar n amintirea tai doneaz 100 de grame de sngepe care i-l vor scoate-n obraz la prima beiei pierd imaginea ntr-un lan de trestii de zahrpn cancerul se dovedete a nu fi cancer

The Bulldozer

What can friends be useful forwhen bored one morning you turn on the cooker knob

to warm up the teaand with the match in your handhesitatingyou are all of a sudden playing with death?They always withstand cancer with a bag of orangesthey are willing to sing your praises for months on endsometimes they break a glass in your memoryand donate 100 grams of blood to youwhich they will get out through your cheeks at the next booze-upthey will lose sight of your image which fades away in a

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i mirarea se schimb n dezamgirei nsntoirea ncepe s i se par dubioas i de prost gusti tot ce te va mai mica de aici naintece te va mica ntr-adevrnu va fi nici btaia ceasuluinici muzicanici libertateaci doar buldozerulcare i mic scaunul

sugarcane fielduntil cancer proves not to be cancerand amazement turns into disappointmentand recovery starts to seem doubtful and in bad tasteand everything that shall move you from now onthat will really move youwill be neither the clock tickingnor musicnor freedombut only the bulldozerthat moves your chair.

Conversaia

Aflnd c scriu poeziiun pictor n care btrneea i cltete cu sfial picioareleca-ntr-un lighean cu ap fierbinte

(sfnt simplitate btea aadar

n cincizeci de ani)e gata s-mi dea de poman un trenci(demodat firete dar cumprat la Paris)

The Conversation

Finding out that I write poemsa painter inside of whom agedness shyly washes her feetas in a plastic basin of hot water(holy simplicity

he was about to reach fifty)

is ready to donate a trench coat to me(out of fashion, of course, but bought in Paris)

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e dispus s-mi plteasc bereai impertinena de a-mi trmbia genialitatea,totui njurndu-m protector(cu o pereche de schiuri n trei culoriescaladase nalta Societate

i n-a mai avut curajul s coboare)totui tuindu-mi n obrazcu o anume cldur de clasic n via(ehei vremea cnd era cel mai cub dintre cuburi)totui i totuice puteam pn la urm s facdect s-i confund numrul de telefoncu nota de plat,

totui i totuice puteam pn la urm s-i strigdect:algebr sentimentalgol constructivauror zaharisit,bate de trei ori cu degetuln pntecul maic-tii intr fr s-atepi vreun rspuns

he is willing to pay for my beerand for my boldness in trumpeting my own genialityyet protectively swearing at me(with a pair of three-coloured skishe has climbed the High Society Ladder

and no longer had the courage to get down)yet, coughing in my facewith a certain warmth of a living classic(alas, the time when he used to be the most cubic of all cubes)yet and yetwhat could have I done after allexcept to mistake his phone numberfor my bill,

yet and yetwhat could have I yelled at him after allbut:sentimental algebraconstructive voidsugared aurora,knock with your finger thricein your mothers womband enter without waiting for any answer.

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Gellu Dorian

(b. 13 October 1953)

Beatitudine

Nu e mai mare bucurie, trupule,dect noaptea ieind prin ora

privind haloul lunii mucat de un nour,privind semafoarele cum i schimb culorile,maina cum spintec aerul,s vezi houl de floricum i sngereaz minilen faa exploziei trandafirului, sfii absentul singurtii tale is treci dincolo de puterea ochiului tude-a privi, s vezi cum se nal un murmurdin arbori,cum, deprtndu-te, te strig pe nume

Beatitude

There is no greater joy, body of mine,than going out in the city at night

watching the halo of the moon bitten by a cloudand the traffic lights changing their colours,the car cutting the air,seeing the flower thiefbloodying his handswith the explosion of a rose,being the absentee of your lonelinessand going beyond the power of your eye,watching a whisperrising from the treesand how, while you are departing, it calls your name,

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fiina pmntului, te strigi pe nume,pierzndu-te, o, trupule,pn la marginea oraului, undecmpia nnoptat e ca un doliupus timpului, unde dorina

te cutremur ca o venicie.

you creature of the Earth, you call your own name,losing yourself, oh, body of mine,towards the outskirts of the city, wherethe darkened meadow of the night is itself a mourningof time, where desire

gives you the thrills of an eternity.

Cele mai frumoase femei

Crile prsite de oamenisunt ca nite femei vduve i uitate n casele lordin orae i sate,mistuite inimi, ca zidurile nengrijite;n ele zac, poate, oamenii cei adevrai, cele mai curate iubirin ele nc mai sunt folosite nvturile lui Neagoectre fiul su Teodosie, n elememoria trecut sub vremi,ideile ca nite fete nubile n prag nupial prsite, crile,sunt adncuri/nalturi n care mor de tristee

The Most Beautiful Women

The books abandoned by peopleare like widows forgotten in their housesin cities and villages,consumed hearts, like neglected wallsperhaps the real people, the purest love stories rest within them,the teachings of Neagoe Basarab to his son Theodosieare still mentioned within their hearts;there lies the forgotten memory,the ideas like nubile girls on the eve of their weddingabandoned, the books,are the depths/heights where the most beautiful women

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cele mai frumoase femei. die of sadness.

Ce rost are

Ce rost are inima care pe ea se tulbur,ce rost ar avea ninsorile peste fructul necoptmierla-n copacul desfrunzit,cartea nescris-n mna cititorului, ce rost ar avea,dac nici bine toamn nu s-a fcut

i vntul car peste cmpii oraele, ce rost ar avea,de s-a ntrebat cineva i de se-ntreablinitea micei furnici s i-o dea s i-o ia,ce rost ar avea att ct e viavieii viata s i se dea, s nu i se ia.

What Is the Point

What is the point of a heart troubling itself,what would be the point of the snow falling over the unripefruit,of the blackbird in the leafless tree,of the unwritten book in the readers hand, what would the point

be,when no sooner has the autumn comethan the wind is carrying the cities over the plains,what would be the point if someone has wondered or iswonderingwhether to give peace to the little ant or take it away,what would the point be as long as there is life,life should be given life, life should not be taken away.

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Elegie

Un sunet se aaz ntre privire i auz,

diminei niruite anapoda

zgomotoase strzi, singuratice, nici ntr-un fel,dect afie ntregi, sfiate,ale unor concerte extraordinare, din veci,n al ctelea lustru al lumii?botanica este n toamn,spalierele uit s-i sprijine frunza,ea, n privirea mea ntr-un singur poemmi se cnt,

harnic inima trece-n elegieca-n gndul acela cobornd din Rainer Maria Rilke.

Elegy

A sound is lying between my sight and my hearing,

mornings strung astray,noisy, lonely streets, indescribable,only posters whole or tornof some extraordinary concerts, long forgottenin which lustre of the world?autumn has come over the botanical garden,her trellises have forgotten to support any leaves,she is singing herself to me in my eyesin one poem.Diligent, my heart surrenders to an elegylike that thought descending from Rainer Maria Rilke.

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Mihail Glanu

(b. 11 September 1963)

La decupat

Am s tai cu foarfeca buzele tale,dup pahare.

i ca s-mi mplinesc damblaua

am s umblu ca nebunu, brambura, pn locale.

Tu o s ipi d-acolo, d p pahare,adic buzioarele-i or s pe,

or s m huleasc,i nicidecum cu hula cea de rnd,cu hula grea, dumnezeiasc.

i, din cnd n cnd, ca s-i tac fleoanca, f, nepricopsito,am s-i ard cte-un srut.

Cuttingem out

With scissors Im going to cut out your lip-printsleft on glasses.

And, to quench my desire,

Im going to fool around and roam from pub to pub.

Youre going to cry out there, from the glasses,that is, your lips are going to cry out

and curse me,not with a common curse,but with a heavy curse, as if against God.

And, to make you hold your tongue, you, good-for-nothing,Im going to smack you a kiss from time to time.

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S nu mai auz lumea cum strigi i s vin peste noin timp ce io tocmai chinui buzele tale,Le molestez ptima.

F, buze dulci,f, buze pctoase,

care srutai o sut de mameluci,care eti un fel de-aspirator de scos moartea din oase.

Cu foarfeca de trandafiri, de vlstari, de vie, de spinialerg, mireaso, dup buzele tale.

Tu te-nchizi n voalurile crnii tale,n pliurile crnii tale ca-ntr-o rochi cu volnae

Ce gras atoare eti,cu uncile tale pn la nori,cu uncile tale plutind peste case,cu bucile tale ca nite zepelinecu bulanele tale pe care-a scrie cu spray i evlavie tot felu deporcriica putii nnebunii dup graffiti.Scoal, graso, i dnuiete,

This way people wont hear you shouting and wont come tosee usjust as Im torturing your lips,as Im passionately molesting them.

You, sweet lips,you, sinful lips,

whove kissed hundreds of mamelouks1,you, who are like a kind of vacuum cleaner used for vacuumdeath out of bones.

With shears for roses, for offshoots, for vine or for thistle,I am running after your lips, bride.

But youre hiding within the veils of your flesh,within the folds of your flesh as in a frock with flounces...

What a rousing, fat lady you are,with your blubber reaching the clouds,with your blubber floating over houses,with your big buttocks like zeppelins,with your thighs on which I would scribble lots of ribaldrywith spray and piety, like kids who fill the town with graffiti.

Stand up, fatty, and dance,

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pn o s-i intre nunta sub piele,pn-o s te bronzezi la lumnrile de nunt.

C bronzuista, de la lumnrile de nunt,e ca i la de la lumnrile de la botez

ca i la de la lumnarea primei comuniuni:nu se mai ia dect cu bronzu lumnrilor de mormntare.

Ce frumoas eti aa bronzat la liturghie,ce bine-i st la sfenicile bisericii bronzat.

Fumul lui isaiia dnuiete a intrat n pielea tai s-a vrt pe sub e

i s-a pitit acolo i nu mai iese,pn nu te-o dezbrca mirele la noapte.

Lui i se administreazfumusta-n doze letale.

O s moar dup buricutu, f,o s crape dup ele tale.

C ca tine nu-s mai multe, magraoanco,afumat cu izul Sfintelor Taine.

until the wedding gets under your skin,until you get tanned in the light of the wedding candles.

Cause this tan got from wedding candlesis like that from baptismal candles

and like that from candles of the first communion:it wont go away till its time for the tan of funeral candles.

How beautiful you are, tanned as you are, at the liturgy!The tan from church candlesticks makes you so beautiful!

The smoke of the song Isaiah is dancing has got under your skin,has got under your breasts,

has hidden there and doesnt want to get out,until your groom undresses you tonight.

To him this smoke is administeredin lethal doses.

Hell be enamoured of your belly button, woman,hell be nuts about your breasts.

Cause there arent many like you, magra2,scented with the odour of the Sacraments of the Church.

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Dup ce tai io buzele dupe paharele talermn paharele ciobitei vduve dup vechea lor stare.Nici paharele fr buzele tale nu pot tri

nici burdufe pline cu vin, nici pocale.

Toate se sinucid dup ce buzele tale-au plecattoate-ifac ndri bietu lor corp,

i fac harakiri sau seppuku.

Toate se chircesc dup buzele taleli se-nvolbureaz sticla-n faa ochilor

se-ntunec vederea lor de cristale; aa orbesc,pentru ct le va mai fi rmas de trit,

paharele dupe buziele tale,

of-of-of, inim-inimioar!

After I cut your lip-prints out from your glasses,the glasses will remain chippedand bereaved, seeking their former state.Neither can the glasses live without your lips

nor the barrels with wine, or the goblets.

All of them will commit suicide after your lips leaveall of them will smash their poor bodies to pieces,

they will commit hara-kiri or seppuku.

All of them are doubled over your lips,the bottle is swirling in front of their eyes,

their crystal sight is befogged. Thats how the glasses get blindfor the rest of their lives,

seeking your sweet little lips,

oh, oh, oh, my heart, my poor little heart!

1. mamelouk = (here) somebody without personality, like a soldier whowould do anything when ordered.

2. magra = a non-gendered offensive appelative for a Gypsy, coming fromthe Romanian slang words magraon, magraoan(c)

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Horia Grbea

(b. 10 August 1962)

cinele meu era tnr

era tnr cinele meuatt de tnr i alb

cum alerga n iarba naltca un zeu care nu tienimic despre moartei abia ne cunoteam atuncitu eu i cinelealergnd n iarbsau pe un drum pe careel cinele nu-l tia

era tnreu eram bucuros

my dog was young

my dog was young thenso young and white

as it was running through tall grasslike a god who knowsnothing about deathand we were just getting acquainted thenyou me and the dogrunning through grassor down a path thatthe dog did not know

it was youngI was happy

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de zilele calde i eramstpnul unui cine tnrapoi am foststpnul unui cine maturcare nvase drumurile

un cine alb maretia acum aproape totulpe dinafartiam acum aproape totulpe dinafar

de mult vreme m cunotitii dup cum respir

dac sunt trist sau bolnavi cinele meumare i albe nc tnrdar nu mai esteatt de vioi cnd alearg

timpul a fost lungacum ne cunoatem

i cinele meu albe att de btrn

about the warm days and I wasthe master of a young dogthen I wasthe master of a mature dogwho had learned the roads

a big white dogwho knew almost everything thenby heartI knew almost everything thenby heart

you have known me for a long whileyou know by the way I breathe

whether Im sad or sickand my dogbig and whiteis still youngthough its no longerso brisk when it runs

its been a long time nowsince weve known each other

and my white dogis so old

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nct putem spunee nc tnr

that we can sayits still young

corex

ase oamenipot ridica un turnn cteva ore

sunt tineri i albi

seara ateapt tramvaiulvorbind despre vreme

corex

six mencan erect a towerin a few hours

they are young and white

in the evening they wait for the tramtalking about the weather

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Bogdan Ghiu

(b. 5 July 1958)

Autostop

Sunt la tobe,sunt la chitar,sunt la saxofon,

sunt la piani cnt.(Bat ritmul n tobe,ating sau lovesc corzile,aps pe clape cnt, ce mai!)

(Sunt singuri, cu pricepere,fac s rsune armonios,

tare, plininstrumente special construite.)

Hitchhike

Im on the drums,Im on the guitar,Im on the saxophone,

Im on the pianoand Im playing.(Im beating out the rhythm on the drums,touching or striking the chords,pressing the keys on the keyboardIm actually playing!)

(Im aloneand, artfully,Im making specially built instruments

vibrate harmoniously,loudly, fully.)

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(Aici e lumin, de jur mprejurntuneric,ceea ce fac se aude pn departe,pn la cellalt capt.)(n mijlocul luminii i n mijlocul sunetului

sunt eu i cnt,eu care cnt.)n mijlocul instrumentelor,la instrumentesunt eu i cnt:chitarei i ciupesc i i lovesccorzile,tobelor le izbesc pielia,

mi pipi frumos sufletul n saxofoni tcerea n pian (spun).Este lumin, sunt instrumenteanume atentfcute;este lumin i se audefoarte bine.Sunt la tobe,sunt la ghitar,sunt la saxofon,

sunt la pian,cnt.

(Theres light here, darknessall around,what Im doing is heard far away,at the other end.)(Here I am, playing,

in the midst of light and sound,its me whos playing.)Amid instruments,here I am, playingthe instruments:Im pinching and striking the guitarchords,Im hitting the drum skin,

Im beautifully touching my soul on the saxophoneand the silence on the piano (I say).Theres light, there are instrumentsspecially carefully made;theres light and the soundis very good.Im on the drums,Im on the guitar,Im on the saxophone,

Im on the piano,Im playing.

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Poem strin

Mine, poimine o s ncepi s

spui azi, ieri.O s ncepi s-i umpli tot mai multcu ziare mototoliteghetele, buzunarele, mnecile,cuvintele.Copiii ai s i-i ndopi cu psl s creasc odat.Ai s sufli n suflet s se dezvolte.

Piciorul i va clca tot mai moale.Cineva te va antrena btndu-te la perete.Ai s ncepi s spui anul trecut,ieri, mine, peste un an.n ziarele pe care i le-ai vrt n ghetescria despre tine.

Alien Poem

Tomorrow or the day after you will start

saying today, yesterday.You will start filling your boots, pockets, sleeves,wordswith rumpled newspapersmore and more.You will force-feed your children with feltto make them finally grow up.You will blow into your soul to make it ripen.

Your feet will step softer and softer.Someone will train you bashing you against a wall.You will start saying last year,yesterday, tomorrow, a year from now.The newspapers you stuff in your bootswill have written about you.

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Adela Greceanu

(b. 1975)

* * *Seara, mai ales, vedeam totul mrit, ca prin lup: faptul

c uitasem cheia la poart i trebuia s m ntorc dup ea,respiraia unui om adormit careviseaz urt (tii c ntotdeaunami-a fost fric de oameni ntr-un fel sau altul, ei bine, ntr-o

vreme mi era fric de oamenii care dorm) O scam de pecovor pe care n-o ridicasem de cteva zile mi atrgea ateniamereu. De fiecare dat cnd voiam s-o ridic, ori suna telefonul,ori strnuta cineva Toate aceste lucruri le imortalizam searazgriind cu unghia muamaua de pe mas: o linie dreaptpentru cheia uitat, o linie pentru respiraia adormit careviseaz urt, alta pentru scama de pe covor n vrst de trei zile,nc o linie pentru sunatul telefonului i lumina uitat la baie,pentru punctul n care clana se va uni cu pragul i pentru

crptura oglinzii care i-a ratat vocaia.

* * *In the evenings, mostly, I would see everything enlarged

as through a magnifying glass: the fact that Id forgotten the keyin the gate lock and I had to go back for it, the breath ofsomeone sleeping and having a nightmare (you know I ve

always been afraid of people one way or another, well, for sometime I was afraid of sleeping people)... I kept spotting some fluffon the carpet that I had not picked up for a few days. Each timeI wanted to pick it up, either the telephone was ringing ors

Vianu Romanian PEN Club Anthology

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