Din ceas dedus adancul acestei calme creste
Good night, comfortable 59,
Good morning, fiery 60!
O sara buna, liniste inceata,
Si buna zi, vijelioasa veste!
memorialistic - literar - bilingual - journalistic - nostalgic - true - fantasmagoric - morganatic - prosaic - poetic
Sunday 28 October 2012
SIXTY
To drink the wine of sixty drums
And patch things up with rough and knotted wool
I would have ridden sixty fiery steeds
All springing from the dragons' stables' womb.
Who knocks? Who dares? Who's in need
of warmth and piteous mercy's
icy drops?
Who knows... Who'll ever know?
Who truly cares,
if winds do bite, or soothe, or whisper,
or wipe one's brow with golden laurel leaves?
To drink the wine of sixty drums
And patch things up with rough and knotted wool
I would have ridden sixty fiery steeds
All springing from the dragons' stables' womb.
Who knocks? Who dares? Who's in need
of warmth and piteous mercy's
icy drops?
Who knows... Who'll ever know?
Who truly cares,
if winds do bite, or soothe, or whisper,
or wipe one's brow with golden laurel leaves?
SIXTY
Sixty freezing drops of rain
Sixty rancid crumpled leaves
Sixty tearful eyes of wax
And as many candid ribs
To run, to hide, perchance to sigh
to curl, take shelter or resign
wipe palms and feet and knitted brows
and swallow the submerging vine
The loneliness is quite complete
And silence reigns
The window bites
And we can barely, barely breathe...
Sixty freezing drops of rain
Sixty rancid crumpled leaves
Sixty tearful eyes of wax
And as many candid ribs
To run, to hide, perchance to sigh
to curl, take shelter or resign
wipe palms and feet and knitted brows
and swallow the submerging vine
The loneliness is quite complete
And silence reigns
The window bites
And we can barely, barely breathe...
Monday 22 October 2012
Intrebare cu talc (2)
Am vrut deunazi sa te intreb
de te-ai lasat candva in voia unui cantec,
De coama ti-a saltat nalbind
copitele pe caldaramul umed
De bici de-ai ascultat incremenit
Pe nari adulmecand frunzisul muced
Cum ai putea atuncea sa nu crezi
ca vesnicia-i murg si lin descantec?
De ziua ta
stiu ca-ti doresti anume
un fruct, un melc, un miez de stea,
o boaba luminoasa de rasina,
un clont de-argint, o acadea,
un semn ce nu se poate cere
si care nu se poate da.
Am vrut deunazi sa te intreb
de te-ai lasat candva in voia unui cantec,
De coama ti-a saltat nalbind
copitele pe caldaramul umed
De bici de-ai ascultat incremenit
Pe nari adulmecand frunzisul muced
Cum ai putea atuncea sa nu crezi
ca vesnicia-i murg si lin descantec?
De ziua ta
stiu ca-ti doresti anume
un fruct, un melc, un miez de stea,
o boaba luminoasa de rasina,
un clont de-argint, o acadea,
un semn ce nu se poate cere
si care nu se poate da.
Sunday 14 October 2012
Saturday 13 October 2012
Friday 12 October 2012
Gitana
Pentru Ion Barbu
Priviti-ma, doamna, drept in fata
Nu talpa vopsita, nici palma ridata
Nici bratz arcuit peste
Fusta tocita si creatza.
Nici pulpana viorie, umflata de vant
nici sideful curelei
petrecute de-a curmezisul
atarnand
Nu spre carambul ghetei descleiate
Sub camasa groasa de in
Lipita de trup
Si-ncinsa la spate
Uitati palaria, pana, vioara
Nu-mi iscoditi
Printre dantelele-ncalcite
Subsuara.
Catati-mi spranceana, bobul din ochi
Buza rasfranta
Suflarea amara
De nu va temeti de dedeochi.
Pentru Ion Barbu
Priviti-ma, doamna, drept in fata
Nu talpa vopsita, nici palma ridata
Nici bratz arcuit peste
Fusta tocita si creatza.
Nici pulpana viorie, umflata de vant
nici sideful curelei
petrecute de-a curmezisul
atarnand
Nu spre carambul ghetei descleiate
Sub camasa groasa de in
Lipita de trup
Si-ncinsa la spate
Uitati palaria, pana, vioara
Nu-mi iscoditi
Printre dantelele-ncalcite
Subsuara.
Catati-mi spranceana, bobul din ochi
Buza rasfranta
Suflarea amara
De nu va temeti de dedeochi.
Thursday 11 October 2012
Sixty Candles...
... a sea of trembling, naked flame
dodging the potent winds on winding paths,
a glowing warmth enveloping the fog
against the whispers of the endless night
sometimes as silent witness of despair
and others as bewildered chirp of joy.
Who thought of dressing all the inky wounds
to curb the fever in these tired soles?
And why this mirthless, whinig harph
is dripping grains of light from all its pores?
Too late. The yawning, slouching truth
Won't be delayed, or fooled, or bribed.
Lumina lina? ( pentru Ioan Alexandru)
Sau Moartea citeste ziarul ( Pentru Mircea Dinescu)
Reteta de facut lumina
Peste un oloi plin ochi de rugina
Moartea cloceste si cerne lumina
Broboada-i de neguri si zoaie si scrum
Si poame de smoala si zdrente de fum
Ea mesteca, schiauna, falcile-si toaca
Un hohot lugubru in cremene sapa
Amara latura gatlejul i-l arde
Cand curge, prelinsa, prin vintrele-i fade.
Isi plange povara, se-ndoaie si latra
Scobita si surda si oarba si moarta
Cand tristul ei scancet de noapte se spala
Lumina irumpe fierbine si goala.
... a sea of trembling, naked flame
dodging the potent winds on winding paths,
a glowing warmth enveloping the fog
against the whispers of the endless night
sometimes as silent witness of despair
and others as bewildered chirp of joy.
Who thought of dressing all the inky wounds
to curb the fever in these tired soles?
And why this mirthless, whinig harph
is dripping grains of light from all its pores?
Too late. The yawning, slouching truth
Won't be delayed, or fooled, or bribed.
Lumina lina? ( pentru Ioan Alexandru)
Sau Moartea citeste ziarul ( Pentru Mircea Dinescu)
Reteta de facut lumina
Peste un oloi plin ochi de rugina
Moartea cloceste si cerne lumina
Broboada-i de neguri si zoaie si scrum
Si poame de smoala si zdrente de fum
Ea mesteca, schiauna, falcile-si toaca
Un hohot lugubru in cremene sapa
Amara latura gatlejul i-l arde
Cand curge, prelinsa, prin vintrele-i fade.
Isi plange povara, se-ndoaie si latra
Scobita si surda si oarba si moarta
Cand tristul ei scancet de noapte se spala
Lumina irumpe fierbine si goala.
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