Mariana
NEBUNIA DE A GUSTA TRANDAFIR / THE MADNESS OF TASTING A ROSE
POSTED IN Mariana January 22, 2022
NEBUNIA DE A GUSTA TRANDAFIR / THE MADNESS OF TASTING A ROSELa radacina fireasca a răului
eu pun o irezistibila pofta de a-mi saruta
in voie miinile
(Ah, prietene
– nebunia de a gusta trandafir
atirnati cu o ureche de rozul bun simt)
La 17 ani,
la 23 si la iarna,
voi continua sa-mi amintesc de mine cu aceeasi precizie
diabolica
Ca si cum pleoapele mi-ar creste pe virful unghiei
– la batrinete mi-as rotunji buzele
pentru cuvintul acela croncanitor…
MARIANA MARIN
………………THE MADNESS OF TASTING A ROSE
At the natural root of evil
I lay an irresistible lust to kiss
my hands at will
(Ah, my friend – the madness of tasting a rose
hanging with an ear by the pink common sense)
at 17,
at 23 and in winter,
I will continue to remember myself with the same
devilish precision
as if my eyelids were growing on the tip of my fingernail
– in my old age, I’d round my lips
for that croaking word…traducere, M. M. Biela
10 FEBRUARIE, SAMBATA SEARA, ACUM / the 10th of FEBRUARY, SATURDAY EVENING, NOW
POSTED IN Mariana January 16, 2022
10 FEBRUARIE, SAMBATA SEARA, ACUM / the 10th of FEBRUARY, SATURDAY EVENING, NOW
Ea astepta sosirea musafirilor in marea sufragerie.
Nici unul dintre gesturile ei ascutite nu avea
capul insîngerat.
Nici o portocala nu fusese taiata atît de frumos.
Nimic din ce ar putea face un salt mortal in fictiune.(s-a mai spus:
o femeie, o oglinda, trei papagali nemuritori
o arma de foc, un testament rautacios, ceasuri pictate
cu fructe
o rochie de bal, un soldat de plumb, o piele de capra
un zepelin rosu, un fluier de bîlci, un caftan
neverosimil)
Descrierea este aproape exacta.
Lipsesc eu, memorie a celor 5 4 3 2 1 etaje
numarate incet de ochiul egiptean,
proaspat vopsit.
MARIANA MARIN……………..
the 10th of FEBRUARY, SATURDAY EVENING, NOW
She was waiting for her guests to arrive in the large living room.
None of her sharp gestures had
their head bloodied.
No orange had ever been cut so beautifully.
Nothing that could make a deadly leap into fiction.(it’s been said before:
a woman, a mirror, three immortal parrots
a firearm, a wicked will, fruit-painted clocks.
a ball gown, a lead soldier, a goatskin
a red zeppelin, a fair whistle, an implausible
caftan)
The description is almost exact.
I’m missing, memory of the 5 4 3 2 1 floors
counted slowly by the Egyptian eye,
freshly painted.traducere, M. M. Biela
APEL IN SALA DE DISECTIE / CALL TO THE DISSECTING ROOM
POSTED IN Mariana December 19, 2021
APEL IN SALA DE DISECTIE / CALL TO THE DISSECTING ROOMTe trezeșți cu toate organele alături.
Priveșți, dar nu se întâmplă nimic.
E o casă fără oglinzi – ți se spune.Cineva care îți seamănă se apropie de fereastră.
Auzi: nu, sufletele noastre nu pot fi salvate,
dar cea mai bolnavă,
cea mai murdară,
cea mai șireată,
cea mai veselă amintire
e mai adevărată decât războiul de o sută de ani.
Îți spui: pe o vreme ploioasă nu se poate muriatât de ușor;
și deschizi dulapul de haine cu o singură bătaie de inimă.
Ah, frumoasă rochie de bal a frumoasei bunici!
Impudică stă răsturnată-n ace; cu brațele-nmuiate-n var
frumoasa rochie de bal acoperă o existență
Brusc îți aduci aminte că nu eșți singur
și începi să citești,
începi să citeșți,
incepi sa citesti
o pagină albă care se scrie singură.
Vrei să treci mai departe
dar posibila ta moarte îți sare în față cu un pântec greoi.
Auzi: nu, sufletele noastre nu pot fi salvate.
Îți desfaci brațele
și fîl fîl în cuptorul de sticlă.
Ai venit.
Ai văzut.
Te arunci în cuptorul de sticlă
Ehei, testamentul răutăcios al bunicului!
O fotografie trucată și un sân foarte mic.
Un mareșal orb
cu o celebră victorie în șira spinării. Un aisberg
spânzurat
de frumoasa rochie de bal a frumoasei bunici.
Cu un scris
mărunt și peltic testamentul răutăcios al bunicului
comandă foc! din mașina de scris…
Tu știi că zăpada nu poate salva un război de o sută de ani
dar ai mângâia un animal friguros sau
te-ai întinde pe o gheață frumos mirositoare sau
ai lăsa iarna să-ți cadă în inimă ca un inel de ceară sau
ai defecta un spărgător de gheață, ca el să se oprească brusc acolo,
banda rulantă a unei lumi în care nu te recunoști…
Ești dat jos de pe masa de operație.
E o casă fără oglinzi.
MARIANA MARIN……………….
CALL TO THE DISSECTING ROOM
You wake up with all the organs by your side.
You watch, but nothing happens.
It’s a house without mirrors – you’re told.Someone who looks like you is approaching the window.
Listen: no, our souls cannot be saved,
but the sickest,
the dirtiest,
the most cunning,
the most cheerful memory
is truer than a hundred years’ war.
You say to yourself: in rainy weather one can’t die so easily;
and you open the wardrobe with a single heartbeat.
Ah, beautiful grandmother’s beautiful ball gown!
It sits impudently on its needles, with arms soaked in lime
the beautiful ball gown covers an existence
Suddenly you remember you’re not alone
and you begin to read,
you begin to read,
you begin to read
a blank page that writes itself.
You want to move on
but your possible death jumps in front of you with a heavy belly.
Listen: no, our souls cannot be saved.
You open your arms
and flutter into the glass furnace.
You came.
You saw.
You throw yourself into the glass furnace
Hey, Grandpa’s wicked will!
A fake photo and a very small breast.
A blind marshal
with a famous victory in his spine. An iceberg
hanging
by the beautiful grandmother’s beautiful ball gown.
With a writing
small and lisp the grandfather’s wicked will
order fire! from the typewriter…
You know that snow can’t save a hundred-year-old war
but you would pet a cold animal or
you’d lie down on a nice-smelling ice or
you’d let winter fall on your heart like a wax ring or
you’d damage an ice-breaker, that it would suddenly stop there,
the conveyor belt of a world you don’t recognize yourself in…
You’re taken off the operating table.
It’s a house without mirrors.traducere, M. M. Biela
NOAPTE DE NOAPTE / NIGHT AFTER NIGHT
POSTED IN Mariana December 12, 2021
NOAPTE DE NOAPTE / NIGHT AFTER NIGHTIată cum mă furişez eu la graniţa dintre stiluri!
(Ştiu: altădată flăcări vineţii mi-ar fi mângâiat
inconştienţa)
De aici vă spun:-Unde să mai sângereze cenuşa asta
care ne visează, prieteni?
Cui să-i mai bage ea pumnul în gură?
S-a golit visteria şi nimeni nu mai are curajul
să-şi dea viaţa la graniţa dintre stiluri…“Ah, dacă regele ne-ar citi în al său Luvru!”
Ce spectacol, prieteni!
Ce şansă, pentru cenuşa asta care ne viseazăşi tocmai pe noi,
noapte de noapte…
MARIANA MARIN……………..
NIGHT AFTER NIGHT
Here’s how I sneak around the border between styles!!
(I know: once upon a time purple flames would have caressed my
unconsciousness)
From here I tell you: -Where else to bleed this ashes
who dreams of us, friends?
To stick her fist in whose else mouth?
The treasury has been emptied and no one has the courage
to give their life at the border between styles …“Ah, if only the king would read us in his Louvre!”
What a show, friends!
What a chance for this ash that dreams of usand just us,
night of night …
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
NARATIUNE / NARRATIVE
POSTED IN Mariana December 12, 2021
NARATIUNE / NARRATIVEAs vrea sa fii moarta, mi-a spus.
Sa fii moarta.
Statuia celebra ma privea cu un ochi aidoma
ochiului meu.
Tramvaiul cu maici trecea prin piata
sfidand explozia sentimentelor
si ele imi sfartecau biografia.
As mai putea marturisi ca in aceeasi secunda
(ca in exact aceeasi secunda)
cineva a iesit din creierul meu
si a inceput sa fuga pe strada
desi se auzeau impuscaturi
si incepuse furtuna
MARIANA MARIN……………….
NARRATIVE
I wish you were dead, he told me.
Dead.
The famous statue looked at me with an eye
like my own.
The tram with nuns was passing through the square
defying the explosion of feelings
and they tearing up my biography.
I could also confess that in the same second
(that in exactly same second)
someone came out of my brain
and started running down the street
even hough there were gunshots
and the storm had begun
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
PE MALUL LINISTIT AL VULCANULUI / ON THE QUIET SHORE OF THE VOLCANO
POSTED IN Mariana November 23, 2021
PE MALUL LINISTIT AL VULCANULUI / ON THE QUIET SHORE OF THE VOLCANOIn fiecare zi prietenii imi aduceau o alta imagine
a lumii:
– la inceput totul era o imensa cupola de gheata
pe care vuturii orbi o purtau pe spinarile lor
lunecoase;
la inceput a fost o timida bataie din palme
pe malul linistit al vulcanului;
si spaima unei voci ascutite,
intr-o lumina uscata,
cautandu-ne…
Incepusem sa ascult din nou zgomotul surd
al evenimentelor.
In camera cu pereti muzicali
eram stapana unei frumoase colectii de identitati.
Prietenii au obosit sa-si tot caute in arhive
varsta de aur.
– Totul va fi de acum de vanzare, spuneau
si isi numarau in cor degetele
in fata unei micute sonerii muzicale…
Sentimentele s-au invechit mai repede
decat mersul impiedicat al bunicii in jurul globului
(vom inventa singuri-singurei calendarul,
abecedarul, planetariul,
groparul, singuri-singurei…)
si bunica n-a mai aflat nimic
despre ce s-a intamplat intr-o gara pustie
la ora 19 si 20.
La marginea orasului sentimentele aveau capul retezat.
– Si sa se dizolve Roma in Tibru!
Soarele va continua sa rasara cat mai aproape
de adevar
si viata mea va fi ultima minune a lumii!
O, la inceput spaima nu aparea pe fata oricui;
nici nu se incurca printre atatea vorbe.
Isi intindea palide bratele
si fîl fîl
luneca linistit,
deasupra apelor…
MARIANA MARIN…………………….
ON THE QUIET SHORE OF THE VOLCANO
Every day my friends brought me a different image
of the world:
– At first everything was a huge dome of ice
which the blind vultures carried on their slippery
backs;
at first it was a timid clap
on the quiet shore of the volcano;
and the fear of a sharp voice,
in a dry light,
looking for us …
I began to listen again to the dull rumble
of events.
In the room with music walls
I was the owner of a beautiful collection of identities.
Friends got tired of searching the archives for their
golden age.
– Everything will be for sale from now on, they’d say
counting their fingers in chorus
in front of a small musical bell …
Feelings grew old faster
than Grandma’s stumbling around the globe
(we’ll invent all alone the calendar,
the alphabet, the planetarium,
the gravedigger, all alone …)
and grandma never heard anything
about what happened in a deserted train station
at 19 and 20.
On the outskirts of the city, feelings had their heads cut off.
– And let Rome dissolve in the Tiber!
The sun will continue to rise as close to the truth
as possible
and my life will be the last wonder of the world!
Oh, at first the fear didn’t appear on everyone’s face;
nor did it get caught up in so many words.
It stretched out its pale arms
and flapping
glided quietly,
over the waters …
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
GENERATIE / GENERATION
POSTED IN Mariana November 23, 2021
GENERATIE / GENERATION
Incetasem
sa ascultam zgomotul linguritelor in paharul cu ceai
intre 7 si 8 seara cand palizi locuitorii mansardei
ne vizitau
priviri grele rufele muscand in bucati mari aerul
femeile copiii
iarba tanara sandaua rosie toamna
MARIANA MARIN……………….
GENERATION
We had stopped
listening to the sound of teaspoons in the glass of tea
between 7 and 8 in the evening when pale the inhabitants of the attic
visited us
heavy glances the laundry biting the air into large pieces
the women the children
the young grass the red sandal the autumn
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
UNIC POEM DE DRAGOSTE / UNIQUE POEM OF LOVE
POSTED IN Mariana November 23, 2021
UNIC POEM DE DRAGOSTE / UNIQUE POEM OF LOVE
Incerc sa fac o reconstituire pasnica a vietii mele
(ah, tandrul, sfasietorul repedele poem).
Privesc camera alba, o miros, o pipai si nu urlu,
pana cand ea se goleste de aer
si imi pune in brate un maldar de texte ingalbenite.
Fac un gest surt cu mana dreapta.
Spaima ca pot exista fara mana mea dreapta
ma tulbura mai mult decat noaptea friguroasa a nasterii.
Nu mai fac nici un gest cu mana stanga.
Privesc camera alba (privesc camera alba)
si stiu: ingalbenitele texte au gustul ierbii…
Acesta e un unic poem de dragoste, spun.
Acesta e un poem de dragoste, urlu
cu gura plina de un verde pamant.
(incerc sa fac o reconstituire pasnica a vietii mele)
MARIANA MARIN
………………
UNIQUE POEM OF LOVE
I’m trying to do a peaceful reconstruction of my life
(ah, the tender, heartbreaking fast poem).
I look at the white room, I smell it, I touch it and I don’t scream,
until it runs out of air
and puts a pile of yellowed texts in my arms.
I make a short gesture with my right hand.
The fear that I can exist without my right hand
troubles me more than the cold night of birth.
I don’t gesture with my left hand anymore.
I look at the white room (I look at the white room)
and I know: the yellowed texts taste like grass …
This is a unique love poem, I say.
This is a love poem, I scream
with his mouth full of a green earth.
(I’m trying to do a peaceful reconstruction of my life)
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
O NUIA DE STICLA / A GLASS ROD
POSTED IN Mariana November 23, 2021
O NUIA DE STICLA / A GLASS ROD
In fiecare dimineata se trezea cu un singur gand.
Mult timp a trait asa.
Isi lovea memoria cu o nuia de sticla.
O punea la fiert.
O arata tuturor, doar doar va spune cineva:
iata glorioasa victorie a celui slab
si singura pasarea va ingheta in zborul ei sunator…
Isi vopsea mainile, fata, duminicile.
Iarna refuza sa manance salata.
Rasturna cartile bibliotecii pana cand ele incepeau
sa sufere.
Despre boala citise la 17 ani totul
(i se parea o sansa).
Despre iubire la fel.
Mania ei:
o corabie cu panze in mijlocul camerei.
Nebunia ei:
corbi, cat mai multi corbi
si statuia celebra din piata.
Perversiunea ei:
scancetul unui robinet sinucigas.
Nebunia ei:
un razboi de zapada.
Au trait asa mult, mult, mult timp.
Si in fiecare dimineata se trezea cu un singur gand.MARIANA MARIN
……………….
A GLASS ROD
Every morning she’d wake up with only one thought.
She lived like this for a long time.
She’d hit her memory with a glass rod.
She’d boil it.
She’d show it to everyone, hoping someone will say:
behold the glorious victory of the weak
and the only bird will freeze in its sounding flight …
She painted her hands, her face, her Sundays.
In winter she refused to eat salad.
She overturned the library books until they began
to suffer.
She had read about the disease when she was 17
(it seemed like a chance).
About love as well.
Her mania:
a sailing ship in the middle of the room.
Her madness:
crows, as many crows as possible
and the famous statue in the square.
Her perversion:
the whimper of a suicidal tap.
Her madness:
a snow war.
They lived like this for a long, long, long time.
And every morning she’d wake up with only one thought.
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
Limba scrisa sub pleoape / The language written under the eyelids
POSTED IN Mariana November 21, 2021
Limba scrisa sub pleoape / The language written under the eyelids
Vremea poemului înalt, ametitor,
a trecut.
Gîndul negru si sârma ghimpata
vor tine minte doar aceste elegii
si o feroce singuratate,
ametitoare, înalta…MARIANA MARIN
————
The language written under the eyelids
The time of the high astounding poem
passed.
The black thought and the barbed wire
will remember only these elegies
and a fierce loneliness,
astounding, high …
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
