POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

Marius ROBESCU

 

Concerning Poetry and Myself

 

Gentlemen, whatever people might say

I can write genuine poetry

with relative ease and, which is more,

a poetry lacking tetanic spasms

 

for instance an angel flies past

and pecks a cell from my life

then there comes a woman

and seals my mouth with her sticking plaster kiss

 

at times nature herself

provides me with a worn-out season

while some close friends of the old days

cram my letterbox with false news

 

all these things happen many a time

(don’t ask me about the suffering:

when you dip your bread in wine

I don’t sit down to your table uninvited)

 

facts filled with living as you can see

and written down in a sincere way

that’s why I couldn’t care less

that all my words turn into gold

 

as far as I am concerned I think

I am a friable clod

with stumpy, blunt fingers, crumbled by fate

and spread bit by bit over the drum of silence.

 

(English version: Gabriela PACHIA)