POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

 

Marin SORESCU

 

Story

 

Your soul works on firewood,

Whilst mine on electricity,

Your love furnishes the sky with smoke,

My ardour is woven of immaculate flames.

 

Yet we’ll wander together for some span,

For some good stretch of land,

For some good patch of blue,

For some good moon wedge.

 

We’ll treasure the grass

And the lake,

We’ll laugh for the tree,

We’ll extol the path of righteousness

in turns with each kiss

And we’ll pause in a moment of remembrance

For each twist of fate’s crooked way.

 

We’ll follow my shadow

Which walks ahead,

We’ll follow the first thought,

We’ll follow two or three words.

 

Until Saint Friday

Crosses our way

To remind us, among other things,

That we’re no longer young.

Therefore she will provide

Neither electricity for flames,

Nor firewood for the smoke.

 

 

Blindman’s Buff

 

Let’s believe everything we say,

It’s such a captivating game,

You’ll tell me, “I love you”

And I’ll rejoice childishly,

As if your gift were a bone-handled

Penknife.

 

You’ll tell me frankly

What you think

About your neighbours, about the universe

And about the rain;

Or you may tell me nothing

 

And all my thoughts will nod

In approval.

 

And I’ll tell you,

“On this nail there lies a deep lake

And on the others there lies a sea.

If you move your fingers over my days,

You can rouse Niagaras.”

 

And from my words, till the night falls,

There’ll rise tall grass

Whose ears will penetrate the sky,

Bearing our clay on their heads,

Or some star seed.

 

And you’ll believe in my grass.

You’ll believe it all, blindly.

And, a step behind you, I’ll believe

Chivalrously.

 

 

September Summer

 

Dreaming with my hand under my head,

I find out the autumn is splendiferous

In that (this) town

Yet I can’t behold its still green leaves.

I prefer this dreamy season

“You’re like a miracle

Sent to me as a present.”

I would’ve liked to utter this first,

You’re not aware what a source of inspiration you are,

All your poetry needs is to be written, it lies in there,

All you need is the proper eyes to notice it

And a soul in particular...

Like a funnel-shaped crater, ready to absorb you...

To let you slip down into the smouldering fire…

(“I’ve also put some dots.”)

(“Leave them there, you never know

When you might need them”.)

 

You have the profile of an ancient goddess,

Of a contemporary goddess,

Stepping from the antiquity – just like that, standing in profile,

To let the centuries admire you –

To let me catch you in my arms.

Protect you from falling, in the end, breaking your nose,

Or from breaking your arm

Like that maimed goddess. Nestle in my arms.

Your heat is absolutely contemporary,

I am contemporary with your heat,

And all your gestures

Are designed for me, they blow me kisses

I’ll confiscate the statue “Shall I write this?”

“Please, do, if you can.”

You’re well wrought, finely chiselled.

Will autumn arrive on time this year?

 

English version by Gabriela PACHIA

 

 

 

Home