December, 2014

Actorul si salbatecii / The Actor and the Savages

POSTED IN Stories December 25, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Actorul si salbatecii

 

Am vazut scena plina cu flori si Actorul sufocat, inecat de petale, frunze care ii patrundeau in gura, in nari, in urechi, il acopereau pana cand nimic nu mai ramase din el. Bietul Actor.
Ce moarte, dom’le! Sufocat de florile spectatorilor care il iubeau, care venisera cu mic cu mare sa-l vada, sa-l aplaude, sa-i strige numele, sa-si manifeste dragostea si admiratia pentru talentul lui, frumusetea artei lui, pentru darul cu care fusese harazit de a da viata cuvintelor.
Publicul venise cu intentii bune, cu intentii admirabile, publicul venise cu imense buchete cu flori, flori vii, intense, parfumate, flori harazite sa omagieze Arta, Artistul, Actorul.
Publicul venise sa-l asculte pe Actor, sa-i soarba vorbele si sa le memoreze, sa le invete pe din afara, sa le spuna copiilor lor si copiilor copiilor lor, ca o mostenire nepretuita.
Florile urmau sa fie doar un umil omagiu adus pe altarul Artei, un umil omagiu adus Actorului care trudea pe scena spre a lumina mintile, sufletele spectatorilor.
Ce s-a intamplat, totusi? Cum de Actorul a fost ucis de spectatorii sai?

 – Noi am crezut ca el joaca teatru, de aceea nu ne-am panicat si am continuat sa-i aruncam flori pe scena. Nici cand am vazut ca el nu mai exista nu ne-am oprit, am crezut ca asa e scenariul, ca va apare dintr-un moment in altul si ne va zambi fericit, ne va multumi pentru flori si aplauze.

– Eu am avut o indoiala cand l-am auzit suspinand…avea deja lacrimi pe fata, inca dinainte de a arunca noi primele flori…am simtit ca ceva este in neregula.

– Si de ce nu ati reactionat?

– Pai, noi asa am fost obisnuiti de mici, din familie, sa nu deranjam scena, sa aruncam cu flori, sa ne manifestam dragostea pentru arta si actori aruncand cu flori spre ei, pe scena, insa sub nici un pretext sa nu deranjam scena.

– Cand ati inteles ca Actorul a murit?

– Pai, noi nu prea am inteles. Nici acum eu nu cred ca Actorul este mort. Eu cred ca el este in spatele scenei si rade de gluma pe care ne-a facut-o. Chiar este mort? Nuuu, cine stie unde se ascunde el acum.

– E mort. Cu siguranta a fost declarat mort, pe scena, sufocat de florile aruncate de spectatori.

– Ia te uita, dom’le, ce comedie! Si eu care credeam ca el joaca teatru. El chiar se sufoca, nu-i asa, cand horcaia sub muntele de flori? Ia stai ca-ti spun eu…

Si, zicand aceste vorbe promitatoare, oarecum premonitoare, spectatorul si-a scos din buzunar telefonul mobil, l-a deschis si, cercetandu-si contul Facebook, a confirmat:

– Da, dom’le, e mort! Uite, presedintele tarii a declarat ca Actorul a fost ucis la sfarsitul piesei de catre fanii lui care au aruncat cu flori in el. Asta da, declaratie, dom’le! Ia stai, ca e unu’ care afirma ca “ actorul a fost ucis la sfarsitul actului sau de catre salbatecii de pe net”.
Adica, cum vine asta?  Salbatecii de pe net? Adica noi suntem salbatecii care au ucis Actorul? Cine e animalul care face aceasta afirmatie, dom’le?

– Ia, zi si mie, ca ti-l descopar eu, se implica un alt spectator, agitat. Asa, asa, asta este!
‘Tu’i neamu’ nevoii, ia sa-i aratam noi “salbatecii de pe net” idiotului, patrupedului, frustratului, anarhistului, fire-ar mama lui a dreacului, da’ ce se leaga el de noi?
Lui nici macar nu i-a pasat de Actor, sa vina sa-l vada, sa se implice, a stat cuminte acasa, in fotoliu, cu berea langa el si are tupeul sa scrie pe Facebook ca noi, NOI, spectatorii loiali Actorului, suntem “salbatecii de pe net care l-au ucis”!
Pai, stie el cine suntem noi?

– Eu i-am scris asa: “Ba, castratule, tigan nenorocit, tu stii ce vorbesti?” E bine? Ca sa priceapa ca el trebuie sa se informeze.

 

S-au certat vreme lunga pe Facebook. Intre timp, Actorul a fost inmormantat, totul a fost declarat un accident banal, pe o scena provinciala si faptul divers a fost dat uitarii.

Pe Facebook lupta continua.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

The Actor and the Savages

I saw the scene full of flowers and  I saw the Actor choking, drowned  in  petals, leaves , which  entered  his mouth, nostrils, ears,  covering  him until nothing was left of him. Poor Actor.
What a death! Smothered by the flowers of the audience who loved him, who came young and old together to see him, to applaud him, to shout his name, to show their love and admiration for his talent, for the beauty of his art, for the gift he had been bestowed upon to give life to words.
The crowd had come with good intentions, with admirable intentions; the public came with huge bouquets of flowers, live intense flowers, fragrant flowers destined to celebrate the art, the artist, the Actor.
The audience had come to hear him, the Actor, to drink his words and memorize them, learn them by heart, to be transmitted to their children and their children’s children as a priceless heritage.
The flowers were meant to be only a humble homage to the shrine of Art, a humble homage to the Actor who toiled on stage to enlighten their minds, their souls.
What happened, though? How did the Actor get killed by his audience?

– We thought he was still acting, so we did not panic and continued to throw flowers on stage. Not even when we saw that he did not exist any more, we did not stop, we thought that it was part of the script and that he would reappear at one point or another, smiling happily, thanking us for the flowers and applause.

– Somehow I had a doubt when I heard him sobbing … already he had tears on his face, way before we cast the first flowers … I felt that something was wrong.
– And why didn’t you react?
– Well, we’ve been taught so by our parents since childhood, not to disturb the stage: to throw flowers, to manifest our love for art and for actors by throwing flowers at them on stage, but not to disturb the stage under any circumstances.
– When did you realise that the actor was dead?
– Well, we did not really understand. Even now I do not think that the actor is dead. I think he is behind the scenes laughing at the trick he played on us.  Really, is he dead? Nooo, who knows where he is hiding right now.

– He’s dead. Certainly.  He was pronounced dead on the stage, suffocated by the flowers thrown by his spectators.
– What a spectacular farce! And I thought he was acting. He really was suffocating, wasn’t he, when gasping for air under the mountain of flowers? Wait a moment, I’ll tell you …

And saying these promising, somehow  premonitory words, the spectator  took  his  smart-phone out of his pocket,  examined his Facebook account and confirmed:
– Yeah, he’s dead, all right! Here, the President said the Actor was killed at the end of his act by the fans throwing flowers at him. Yeah, that’s what I call a declaration! Wait a minute, here’s one stating that “the Actor was killed at the end of his act by the savages from the net”.
I mean, how come? “Savages from the net”? I mean are we “the savages” who killed the Actor? Who is the filthy weasel making a statement like that?

– Show it to me, I’ll catch him, engaged another spectator, agitated. Well well, this is it!
Son of a bitch, I’ll show him “savages from the net”! Idiot, quadruped, frustrated, anarchist, mother fucker, are you searching for trouble?

He never even cared for the Actor, never came to see him, never got involved! He stood quietly at home, on his sofa with his beer next to him and now he’s got the nerve to write on Facebook that we, we, the spectators loyal to the Actor, we are “the savages on the net who killed him!”
Well, does he know who we are?
– I wrote like this: “You, castrate, Gypsy mother-fucker, do you know what you’re talking about?” It’s good? To make him understand that he must be clearly informed.

 

They argued long time on Facebook. Meanwhile, the Actor was buried, everything was declared as a trivial accident on a provincial stage and the trivial fact was forgotten.

On Facebook the fight is still going on.

 

Maria Magdalena Biela

Constellations

POSTED IN contemporary poetry December 14, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Constellations

        I

        Heavenly constellations
        written ‘cross the sky
        speaking a language of light

         

        II

        This, who I am that you see
        is as old as you
        beginning as time began

         

        III

        Be patient, sincere and wise
        befitting a man
        in possessing your proper share

 

         

    © Garnet Shaw Robbie 2013

Itsenäisyyspäivä / Independence Day

POSTED IN essays December 12, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Independence Day!

The land of forever snow is only mine. It is not like any other country.
My Finland is blue and white. My Finland means the deep woods where live the fairies, the legends. It is the place where the heaven and the earth meet.
My Finland is the incomparable Kalevala. My Finland is sauna.
I felt the sanctity of the sauna, its silence, the silent moan of the water dying on the hot stones, giving birth to sauna’s spirit, “löyly” , which cannot be translated in any other language.
Then I hid in Finnish language like in my mother’s arms.
I don’t know when I fell in love with it. Maybe at those nights when I was crying helpless, because I could not understand it.
This Finnish language is so itself, one of a kind, silent, lonely, independent, like me.
It resembles no other language. It did not want to borrow anything from any other language. And that little bit which it has borrowed, it has merged with itself so that it is not recognized as loan.
It has enriched its vocabulary by creating new words from the old ones combined together. In any other language we use complete words to construct a sentence, only my beloved, stubborn language expresses itself by using suffixes and post-positions.
I think that only in Finnish language “I love you” sounds as deep, strong, mysterious as the real love is.
Today, December the 6th is the Independence Day of Finland.
Have a peaceful birthday, my country of forever snow!

 

Itsenäisyyspäivä

Ikuisen lumen maa on vain minun. Se ei muistuta mitään muuta maata. Minun Suomeni on sininen ja valkoinen. Minun Suomeni on syviä metsiä, joissa asuu haltijoita, elää taruja. Se on paikka, jossa taivas ja maa kohtaavat. Suomeni on Kalevala, vertaansa vailla. Suomeni on sauna. Olen tuntenut saunan pyhyyden, hiljaisuuden, veden hiljaisen valituksen sen kuollessa kuumille kiville, jotka synnyttävät saunan hengen, löyly, jota ei voi kääntää muille kielille.
Sitten piilouduin suomen kieleen kuin äidin käsivarsille. En tiedä milloin rakastuin siihen. Ehkä niinä öinä, joina itkin avuttomana, kun en voinut ymmärtää sitä. Se suomen kieli on niin oma itsensä, ainutlaatuinen, hiljainen, yksinäinen, riippumaton, aivan niin kuin minäkin. Se ei muistuta mitään muuta kieltä. Se ei ole halunnut lainata mitään mistään muusta kielestä. Ja sen vähän, minkä se on lainannut, se on sulauttanut itseensä niin, ettei niitä tunnista lainoiksi. Se on rikastuttanut sanavarastoaan luomalla uusia sanoja yhdistelemällä vanhoja. Missä tahansa kielessä käytetään kokonaisia sanoja muodostamaan lauseita, vain minun rakas, itsepäinen kieleni ilmaisee itseään suffikseilla ja postpositioilla.
Luulen, että vain suomen kielellä “rakastan sinua” kuulostaa syvälliseltä, vahvalta, salaperäiseltä, niin kuin todellinen rakkaus on.
Tänään, 6.12., on Suomen Itsenäisyyspäivä!
Rauhallista syntymäpäivää, minun ikuisen lumen maa!

 

Maria Magdalena Biela

 

Trees

POSTED IN classic poetry December 12, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trees
 

 

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

 

Joyce Kilmer