POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

Marin SORESCU

Burglars

 

I used to have a poem that wouldn’t let me sleep

And I sent it to my grandpa

In the countryside.

 

Then I wrote another

And sent it to my mother

To keep it in the attic.

 

Later I wrote a few more

And, with a pang, I entrusted them to my relatives,

Who gave me their word to take good care of them.

 

And, in this way, for each new poem,

There has been someone to make room for it.

Since each friend of mine

Has a friend in his turn,

So close a friend as to entrust my secret to him.

 

So that now I don’t even know

Where this or that line might be

And, in case burglars broke into,

No matter how much they might torture me,

I wouldn’t be able to tell them more than this:

In this country

My poems feel secure.

 

 

 

A Dream

 

The Inspiration was coming at the end, on foot.

The Poet was coming at the head, on horseback,

Receiving the honours.

 

The crowd was in the middle, uncovered.

It seemed to be a procession after all.

Some people complained of terrible pains,

They pretended to be still at the doctor’s

Since they were wailing, full of hopes,

Other people were actually weeping,

They pretended it was a procession nevertheless,

Yes, a procession indeed.

 

“What about the deceased ?”

“Where’s the deceased ?” they kept asking.

“Whom have we been mourning

For three days now ?”

“Has the departed been properly washed ?”

“Washing the deceased requires a skill

Which few doctors still possess,” they kept saying.

 

The Poet

Was coming at the head, on horseback,

As he had risen above all these old-womanish questions.

The Inspiration was coming at the end, bare-footed.

She kept lagging behind,

I don’t know why she was tempted by lagging behind

Rather than by the unknown ahead of her.

 

 

 

The Sense of Wool

I’ve also got the sense of wool –
I hardly know why I mention that,
You’ve probably inquired,
You’ve asked for an inventory

Of my feelings.

I’ve got them all, I’ve got the sense of all

My stanzas, and now I realise
I’ve also got the sense
Of the medallion. My eyes are riveted

To the spot.
It kept thrilling me.
How considerate of it to take care of you.
I myself do not care much – I’ve got other qualities,
But I don’t take much care.
I’ve got no time. If you bear me around your neck, I do.

I might as well depict you, need something to do,
Yet you look gorgeous among your jewellery.
I should depict you alongside your jewellery.
You’re perfect for the archaeologists of the future,
Laden with cameos, buckles, rings, bracelets.
It would be effortless to spot the century and the country.
The gold loves you. I’m jealous.
You’d better depict your own jewellery. It requires
A woman’s refinement.
Your gathered hair collects me from straying.
Otherwise I would run to and fro
The way it flutters, the way you shake your head.
We’ve been promising for a long time

To write to each other from neighbouring rooms
To send each other letters, every hour of the day,
Like the medical bulletins,
Yet ours would be

health identity cards.
A couple’s love life should be on the news

From time to time,
A couple chosen at random, though highly typical,

The way we are...
I haven’t asked you yet : are you typical ?
Yes ? Great. Nothing else to worry about.
We can speak without reserve,
We can share all our secrets.
Nowadays it’s hard to find
Healthy, typical love.

(English version: Gabriela PACHIA)