CINA CEA FARA DE TAINA, Poezii de Al.Florin ŢENE,
În traducerea poetei Mariana Zavati Gardner (Norfolk )
THE LOST MYSTERIES OF THE LAST SUPPER
Poeme de Al.Florin Ţene, traducere Mariana Zavati Garner(Anglia )
1. GARA POETILOR
THE POETS' STATION
The night rifles me in places
Where not even grass would grow
Nor words would utter at the docks
‘ That one descales a fish from the tail down'
It's a saying at the foundation of which I probe
To understand that fish putrefies from the head on.
The Moon like a rusted coin squeezes through
The holes in my wallet
Like light rattling at a station,
Where a train is yet to arrive
Impatiently, I embark upon the stubble of words,
Along, to the next flag station.
The train was left in the fields
The station abandoned in poetry
I've been wandering on the platform since
To catch the little coin from the Moon,
In the night robbed by thistles
When a train carrying words for poets passes by
The Moon fills the coin with radiance
My poverty-swollen pocket
Again and again the verb wanders barefoot through phrases,
And I am dragging the station after me on barren ground.
2. TOAMNA VENISE
AUTUMN HAD ARRIVED
Someone had told me that he had tried: but ... full stop ... full stop ...
And that he couldn't ... he was too young.
Autumn had arrived and he didn't know how much grain he had in his bag
Therefore, he became a politician so he could speak
As high as his modest voice would allow
Immunity wouldn't empower him; full stop ... full stop ...
Autumn had arrived too early and he didn't know
How much grain he might have, but he was lying.
3. SUNT PROPRIUL MEU ORAS
I AM MY OWN CITYI am waiting for a plane the size of a pigeon
To take me up in its blue wings
To the white clouds of the horizon
For it I am reciting poems in the Great Hall
Of my soul
I am warming my feet in the Sun
In the hot water bowl
And I am dreaming of embracing a river
Where, two red blocks, burnt up to the waist,
Are prodding the silence of the Earth,
Under the grey horizon.
With my head on my city, later,
My ancestors had fallen asleep
And I became my own city
The one with only one soul
I recite the poems, I gather on a dustpan
The dead leaves of autumn: therefore, I exist;
I am the city without central heating,
My blood has no colour, no smell and is sad
Welcome! Welcome! I've been expecting you
Alone, enrobed in full regalia
With the best clothes Adam has got
Like a demy- god
With the street of my private life
And with all the dead horses in harness.
4. ROMANTA PRIN FATA SCOLII
ROMANCE IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL
It's the same ritual every morning:
Scattered dreams are swept through my mind
In front of the college of school leavers
Swept by the tide
The tree of life in which worms have furrowed
On top, the dome of a cathedral has risen
Upon which one thought was crucified.
I gather one last ambition on the dustpan
One rusted leaf exhibited as installation
Near the chestnut tree lost in the city
I can still see your blue chemise
By your breasts
A burden on a discounted soul
This is your way with me
A punishment too light; near me,
You pass by- a romance in front of a school
A leaf carried by waters.
5. NEINVITATII MEI
MY UNINVITED GUESTS
Every day, politicians come through my TV set.
They would sit on armchairs I do not possess,
But drawn only on the pages of an exercise book;
They would never sit on the rug,
As this isn't within their dignity!
Then, they would tell me about poverty,
And about bribes
Now when I haven't got bread in my ladder.
Then they would start to indulge themselves
At which TV moment Topescu shouts:
Not in the goal,
But in my fridge!
To promise me
To become a multimillionaire over night!
Later on, they would cut my electricity
And all my uninvited guests would retire
Into the cathode tube
The promises would remain
Echoes of an ungreased wheel ...
I would sort my dreams out in rhyming verses
And the metaphor of my final greeting to them
Should read: ‘ without any respects'
6. PUNCT SI MAI DEPARTE
FULL STOP ... AND FURTHER ...
The essence of all the essentials!
A great pity!
It's metamorphosing through me and then
Through sand, through mirror at which we are looking
And we don't recognize ourselves
We step back
When, on the TV, they would splatter the whole country
With saliva and their words are nurtured
And growing after the unpredicted rains
Turning the whole country from poetry lovers
Into cemetery lovers
Or maybe otherwise!
Under wooden crosses worn by the love for our homeland
Cavities germinate patriotic robbers;
Always towards infinity ... always towards infinity ...
I feel like deeply weeping
Until I feel up a container on wheels
And with all the fitted tears,
I shall water deep at the roots
All those who think through their left cerebral hemisphere!
Until they would rot, it's possible ...
The essence of all the essentials!
Misled in a fairy tale book
(By the way, you politician, have you ever learnt to read?)
I put a full stop. And further ...
7. GUSTUL ECOULUI
THE TASTE OF THE ECHO
The voice was whispering light
Under the door; and I was feeling the taste
Of the words:
‘Happy is the one who would rise
A great soul in a small house',
Not hearing the banged door,
The sinful woman,
Who was squashing my verb
When she had the great cheek
To learn what gossip was going on,
By the great one who would map our path,
To some it would be a temptation:
‘Poor the one who has
Small soul in a big house!'
The echo enters via our mouth
And leaves via our ear
8. DINCOLO DE METAFORA
BEYOND THE METAPHOR
I shall read the metaphor
Not like a mere poem
I penetrate its essence
I break it up and see
Into the core of the late moments.
I try to find out
What makes you write
And I read you
Like a woman.
9. GINDUL DE DINCOLO DE LUCRURI
THE THOUGHT BEYOND THINGS
We sleep, we eat and we procreate,
The enemies gnore the fingers of our dare;
We search for them by all means with candles
And via the Internet
We subject ourselves to pain
And we give birth to off-springs who carry our genes.
But we are the only ones who fill in
Our empty spaces
Not only with physical food
And not only sanitized
But with symbols too.
I can think of you like this
Without ever having seen you.
10. PE AXA DE SIMETRIE
ON THE SYMETRY AXES
The city is torn into rags
Of conventional light which I steal from your eyes,
I have built a life from absences
The home in which we've lived for a while
Where the first verb has only the past tense
And in it part of idleness has found room.
A good verse has rolled on to me
Metaphor and all
Up to my soul that made my heart pace fast
With the rhythm of every passionate player.
In front of my house drawn on
There is a block of flats as high as everybody's entire poverty
That one can see through the carved windows
By an amateur,
Once I entered there I felt my bones
And I saw how absolutely all is corrupted
Even the confused frames of mind that urge
The tenants to be absent from voting.
I feel like laughing, like crying and like liking
The air between house and block of flats
When I sit on an imaginary path,
The symmetry axes of the wind,
Which is blowing through our pockets.
Should we or shouldn't we go to vote?
We play the game like a puppy on the pavement,
The lie looked so much like you
A hope most ambitious had won at a game of dice
That is my reason for duelling with you,
You are fencing with a rose and I am fencing with dill,
The enemy had radar and TV sets
I was duelling with the words; they were falling,
They were changing one by one the following day ...
The lies were convincing; the Chosen One had arrived
He cashed his monthly wages,
The equivalent of my income over ten generations.
He had acquired a villa, a town house and a country mention
A limo as long as the market square
Which caused the great stress of the free man
Now able to play the markets at will
I left him at that moment in time
And I am leaning on the boat of hope
Stuck anchored in the Piraeus harbour.
12. DIN DRAGOSTE DE PATRIE CU ‘P' MARE
FOR THE LOVE OF MY HOMELAND WITH CAPITAL ‘H'
He has always used his mobile phone pressed at his eyebrow
And he has a video camera forever hidden in his ear,
He makes use of them at times when he avoids expressing
The void in the skull of the rabid guard dog
He is always placed in the middle of the void at the centre of events
There where the guilty ones are always secure
He is able to catch any flying rumour; he smells its scent
He advocates the celebrated slogan: ‘Learn, learn and learn'
But he always takes the opportunity to speak on any occasion
On any TV station, though he doesn't make any sense
He has turned green with so much patriotism
And his breath smells of the lottery jackpot
Sold on the platform of a railway station
He is capable of devouring a whole roasted pig
For his great love of his homeland.
At night he practises amateur culture
He so skilfully places horseshoes to words
But not even the green horses on the walls believe him,
Those that were left drinking from the pond.
He is always mobbed in the middle of the crowds
With promises counted on all ten fingers
People are left with words like hand shakes
Now they will blow even in yoghurt
So cautious they are after they have once burnt with the broth.
13. POVESTE CU ‘A FOST O DATE'
A STORY WITH ‘ONCE UPON A TIME'
It's an old story: if it hadn't ever happened
Birds wouldn't have learnt it by heart
When the story acquires its own wings
And the alembic turns prunes into brandy.
A whisper only as I needed to speak
Sadly I burnt myself with the broth
Having learnt my lesson, I blow even on ice-lollies now
My swearing seems now a delight.
There is the saying: ‘a friend in need
Is a friend indeed' the outcome is written on the forehead
Oh, Lord protect me from my friends
For I know that my enemies are like flowers on my hat.
Once upon a time, it's a memory from the future
I shall be becomes a past; I am hurt
By the poems I recite, but I don't listen to
Not even myself; oh, Lord ... it's too much!
14. CU NOAPTEA-N CAP
TOO EARLY AT DAWN
In the morning, the powers of a child learning to smile
Kicks over my bones and my muscles
And the dawn
Tries to bag for
A drop of darkness from my armpits
Like the wings of a young owl.
So, stealthily, in summer
A star falls down from the zenith
I am impatiently looking at my watch
And I cannot find it anywhere
It happened so fast
And stray birds
Are pecking words from my lips
The noise of dawn break
Wakens the street up
And slides into the mortar
And the wind blows poverty
Through warehouses with bulging eyes
Like the catapult of some kind-hearted people
When grandfather would return,
With memories, from the vineyard.
The lover next to me is selling blood
For the price of two kisses
So that I might delay my departure and she cries ...
The moment and the time are despots
I am getting dressed and I am trying to put on my hat
But it doesn't fit anymore
I have got up too early at dawn ...
15. CEL CU BIBLIOTECA IN SPINARE
I AM THE PERSON WITH THE BOOKCASE ON MY BACK
My friend, do not leave! In Bucharest they speak in slang,
People use limos made of words copied
On repro paper,
Not even drawn on ordinary paper.
I made a door all on my own to be able to enter
From one empty space into another empty space
However, I prefer to lie on the threshold between
In my street, I am known as the stray dog
With the bookcase on my back
And poems full of gas line my pockets.
If you want to go to the capital, leave now!
I have moved here in the borough, which still echoes,
On cobblestones, the sounds of the wheels of a coach
With which I would ride in the dreams of many windows
Which would turn round and round like a spinning-top.
I'd love to possess one of my own like a sort of bargain
Golden, drawn by regal horses
I could flabbergast my neighbour who is now parking
In front of my swearing
But, I shall leave and I shall choke because of the smoke
From the exhaust pipes and from the stars
I am going to cough so loud that even the road will shake.
16. VIATA, O TABLA DE SAH
LIFE IS A CHESSBOARD
I feel like a pawn on a chessboard
An invisible hand has segmented my existence
Now I am white, now I am black as go the powerful of the day
Near me, the bishop has checked at king
He believes himself to be the thinker of Hamagia
He doesn't understand me
When my advancement is decided behind closed doors
On another square of time
With fresh ideas, from the Olympus, my suntanned friend
Has turned up near a horse
And pushes me on and on
To flirt with the Queen
But, somewhere hidden in a tower,
Guilt started to talk to me
And now, another tower
Is punching me under the belt ...
The self-made of the day, wearing their favourite colours
Are road sketching our lives; a chessboard
Now white, now black ... it's a shame ...
I am a pawn but ordered to pull like a horse
The ongoing demands of the day as far as the threshold
Now my girlfriend believes me to be mad
When I would read her another of my poems
I am carving myself into a pawn made of a hazelnut wood
But the hidden player is moving on
And when he is upset, he sweeps us from the chessboard
Then, he departs to sharpen his abilities
Along in history
Then, our illusive life,
Our mere existence
Finds refuge into the Earth, furrowed by meridians
Like a chessboard ...
17. CITINDU-L PE ESENIN PRINTR-O PICATURA DE PLOAIE
READING ESENIN THROUGH A RAINDROP
Rain whitens your surprised eyes
When I look at you through a raindrop,
Magnifying glass through which I am reading
Your soul, which is belittling me like an Empire
And it's making Moscow gasp in sounding bells
With long drawn dongs like an empire of life
Long drawn, like an eye flutter.
From this time onwards
The baths of light turns us into birch trees
And we find space into the painting above
Which we only notice then
When the fingers of the rain waken the tsars
Chilled by the draught which is sweeping under the door,
Coming from Europe.
The monkeys are fast asleep in the tree
Someone is planting wind under the Moon
My thoughts tell me it's high time for you to be silent
Otherwise, there might be a storm this morning.
There is great joy in the forests
I have held them a finger and content and
Whistling, the crowds have left to find berries
But, instead of picking them, they snatched all my hand!
Seeing me, the monkeys have sharpened their gaze
Thinking of the proverb ‘what company you keep”
Wander has sprouted in the shell of the ear'
Whispering: ‘we now know who you are”
A bear keeps hitting an invisible tail
On a wooden stump like on an anvil,
The orchard wakens from its sleep
Appearances are misleading, it mutters,
appearances are misleading!
The monkeys are fast asleep in the trees
Someone is planting wind under the Moon
My thought tells me it's high time for you to be silent
Otherwise, there might be a storm this morning.
The stallions of my verse are champing at the bit
And my tongue lets morals pour on!
19. NOUA POVESTE A BABILONULUI
THE NEW STORY OF BABYLON
Entering from the future into the House of Europe
I have slammed the door after me
So much so that a storm broke out in the Urals.
I opened all the windows
But I didn't understand why there was coming
Warm air from the direction of the Corals.
I was telling myself that I must have surprised
While gathering all the spoken European languages
On hot embers of incense
Inside an incense burner striated by the light
Like a wound
In the manner an atheist would beat ‘on the same coin'
And he would still juggle it
Between the seas of the Mediterranean and the North
And he would launch it again between the Nester and the Atlantic
So that woman, man and child would not understand one another
When rivers have forgotten their springs
And we zoom past
What we might have been or what we might have learnt.
I opened the door so that it became draft
The incense burner has toppled over us
And over our own dare persistently
We felt a taste from our past
Running through rains
A miracle from Heavens
Then I would start surfing on the Internet
With what remained of the holy ones
And I would sit on a saddle somewhere else
And I would close the story
In a book ...
20. ORELE BURGULUI
THE HOURS OF THE BURGH
The city would sip the morning coffee
From the mug of light
And, at nighttime, it would spit it through its teeth
When you lie
On the sediment of the vast river
Between the naïve lips
And the clock that ticks in the chest and feels
That it is a preface
To what it meant and what is the meaning of silence
In words ...
The city would sip the lunch broth
Boiled of smog
And of swearing
On the banks of the river, another colt's dead
And I pray
For the sake of its eyes staring at my sky
With lights made of iron
Where shadows would recognize one another
And then they would disappear
Bang, thud, thump ...
And the city would sip its tea
And the wind would put its bagpipe to work
While I become a year older
You pass by
Through the burgh which, with one hand would ring the bell
For the known old man who has departed
To buy his bread in the sky
With the money of tomorrow,
And with the other arm of iron
Places itself under its head
To dream our dog's existence.
21. PACTUL FAUSTIC
The world expects to understand the ‘Book of all Books'
There was one who was meant to explain it,
All is to be found in the nothing from a whole interdiction.
Horror! Was crying out loud the one who wanted to spoil
The human error. The story is a question mark in itself
In history left to be a stumbling block.
I am familiar with the pattern. We climb another step
For the love of the truth and the Right Path.
A shadow was running through the deep verbs
The late hour was preparing Mephistopheles
Someone was on his knees in the monk cell.
He was pouring temptations and rocks into words
Humanus had to be crucified in the Universe
An error perceived differently in verse.
22. LUMINA RASUCEA STILETUL ...
LIGHT WAS TWISTING THE STILETTO
Errors were burning the stages of the light from the North
The sailors were the only ones left to smoke their waiting
Like sails gathered at the quay
Alone witnesses to heart attacks,
Mariners were going home uneasily on their path
Forgotten by the Gods, the common way to drawn one's sorrow
The torment would begin when one tried to move an atom ...
The Lord had decided that another would think for man
No matter who, another should be,
From idleness, only the mind shouldn't perspire
We were left suspended between two rains
Or we were suspended silent from the corner of a poem
All would look like a bird without feathers
Silence spread on an imaginary slice
Error of nature because we also
We were left high and dry,
The Lord only would know how much was grief
And how much was over-indulgence
We were really trying to acquaint ourselves with our skeleton
Only as long as light was turning the stiletto in the chest.
Slowly and surely the tools were carving the soul
Rising the stalactites and the stalagmites of a palace
But the unseen, on its own, was carving us from the inside,
With only the sky and the thought upside down,
And it was getting another kind of contour, like a flight
Itself, surprised by the modules which were supporting it
The idea would have taken shape from the radial non-entity
And all would have found room in the primordial egg.
24. INTREBARE CU RASPUNS
QUESTION AND ANSWER
Nobody would cut oneself but pushed by the Anointed One
Plot masterminded before one was born
The one who has written us in the palm of the sky and grazes
Near the matter which lives conscious of reconciliation
Equal in its lack of conscience, deep phenomenon and memorable
Ubertate between equalities and a movement
Dismal and Brownian from all the universal body.
Which is the mystery of the sharpness of a knife?
Eligible in atoms with the skin of the sacrificed lamb
Near the cross we call upon
Sometimes without understanding the ions that pass by
Taking with them something from the departed one,
Utterly equal with the inequality of those who would spend
Loving what one would touch and who would even get involved.
25. ESENTA SUDORII
THE ESSENCE OF SWEAT
Shapes take the contours of your hands
A disobedient finger catches the glove
Only the honey of the prints lingers on the path
It's something that smoulders the ashes
The remains in oval forms of the ravages of the fire,
The round existence closes its doors after some people.
Stealthily, the pain slides into the teeth
Even, which whitens the bones in parents.
The knees, which wear away the century bear the guilt
Love, which has germinated our apprehension,
The will has never filled up the bag
Of the reverie of the hammer sparkling the anvil
The essence of the sweat, which reddens the peony.
Nothing can be seen under the print, comma
The surprised shown by the verb is unperceived
Like the visages of which I am intensely worried
In vain only the bird grooms its feathers in song
The country has started to stink under the growing pile of dung
Like the flight that is healing its wound with delusions, full stop.
The pong is spreading, from under the door, with the light
The ears seldom would filter the shadows
At night, the eucalyptus would sharpen its stem
So that the finger of chlorophyll would fill its attempt
All seems proven to be an illusion
Like when the phenomenon ‘Fata Morgana' meets the horizon
Icicle of metaphor, infusion in verse
Love that licks its foot wound, comma
Intuition hidden in an adjective, full stop.
27. ORIGINEA PRENUMELUI
THE ORIGIN OF THE PRONOUN
The land was germinating its dream, the land without land
It was its ancestors it had covered with.
Silence, a question not uttered in word,
Had the resonance of the echo from the well'
Father was Ion's son, who died in the peasants' revolt
The one of Glanetasu, the first child from the village to attend any school
Unbelievable occurrence in a pagan world.
Always in search of truth like the legendary Ulysses
Father was a soul in the debauched burgh
One of those people whom poverty taught
In pages to leave prints for those who would come:
Things, memories, examples and many questions
To which we haven't found any answers even today.
For him the Huguenots would still wander the paths
Europe being the cart without shaft and un-oiled
Bellowing under the Carpathians, feuding by horizons,
Like we would also ask ourselves in our dreams.
Ion was father's name and the name has the taste of the land
An unforeseen metaphor that would germinate under rains,
A name that gets its sap from our inner soul.
28. LANTUL TROFIC
THE TROPHIC CHAIN
The Almighty has strung the world on a chain
Every ring expressing its point of view
No one has the right to break it, say the Scriptures
Byzantium after Byzantium hopping in history
The DNA remains surprised when it dies in an implosion
Little by little the world would roll on and on.
Silence descends like honey trickle
Left on a spoon when the world was in its infancy
The blind one from our inner soul would feel his way with a cane made of words
Very misleading when even a moment is useful to us,
Loving even the White Shark, that necessary tooth
Which nature would naturally wear with pity, with grief and with hate.
29. ZODIA MEA
MY ZODIAC SIGN
Agnostically, I feel I am two individuals,
There is something there, placed by the Creator:
The mystic from our soul can understand that in us
There is something that keeps the balance,
No one else but the occultist who knows
The history of those that we feel, but are not
And both converge in the acrostic of poetry.
Poem 30 = poem 13
31. CINA CEA FARA DE TAINA
THE LOST MYSTERY OF THE LAST SUPPER