November, 2021
VERWITTERNDER SANDSTEINENGEL / WEATHERED SANDSTONE ANGEL / INGER DE PIATRA BATUT DE VREME / L’ANGE DE PIERRE BATTUE PAR LE TEMPS
POSTED IN Roland, translated German-English November 27, 2021
VERWITTERNDER SANDSTEINENGEL / WEATHERED SANDSTONE ANGEL / INGER DE PIATRA BATUT DE VREME / L’ANGE DE PIERRE BATTUE PAR LE TEMPS
Mit den zerschlissenen
Flügeln,
oh, wie er unerschüttert
fort, in die Ewigkeit
humpelt.ROLAND ERB
……………………
WEATHERED SANDSTONE ANGEL
With the tattered
wings,
oh, how he limps
away, unshaken
into eternity.
……………………INGER DE PIATRA BATUT DE VREME
Cu aripile-i
zdrentuite,
oh, cum merge
nezdruncinat,
schiopatand spre eternitate
…………………..ANGE DE PIERRE BATTUE PAR LE TEMPS
Avec ses ailes
déchirées,
oh, comme il s’en va,
imperturbable,
en boitant vers l’éternité.
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
NACHT IM ZERBROCHENEN SESSEL / NIGH IN THE BROKEN ARMCHAIR / NOAPTEA ÎN FOTOLIUL RUPT / NUIT DANS LE FAUTEUIL BRISÉ
POSTED IN Roland, translated German-English November 27, 2021
NACHT IM ZERBROCHENEN SESSEL / NIGH IN THE BROKEN ARMCHAIR / NOAPTEA ÎN FOTOLIUL RUPT / NUIT DANS LE FAUTEUIL BRISÉ
Nur eine Handbreit entfernt
scheinen die Nächsten,
doch rufst du sie nicht.
Der Schmerz reißt ein klaffendes Loch
in die alte, bewährte Festigkeit
deines Leibs,
als ob du für immer untersinkst,
alles vergeblich war,
was ringsum sich türmte –
Gedanken, Klänge und Bilder,
stets noch versprochne Genüsse
im schwankenden Lebensgerüst.
Auch trübt sich allmählich die Klarheit
dieses einsamen Sinnens,
und fast ist es,
als ob du dich selbst nicht mehr hältst –
So langsam tritt durch den Vorhang
das erste Licht.ROLAND ERB
………………….
NIGH IN THE BROKEN ARMCHAIR
The closest seem to be
only a hand’s breadth away
but you don’t call them.
The pain tears a gaping hole
into the old, proven strength
of your body,
as if you were sinking under forever
as if everything that piled up around you
was in vain –
thoughts, sounds and images,
still promised pleasures
in the swaying framework of life.
Also gradually the clarity
of this lonely mind dims
and it is almost
as if you no longer hold yourself –
so, slowly the first light
comes through the curtain.
………………….
NOAPTEA ÎN FOTOLIUL RUPT
Doar la o palma distanta
cei mai apropiati par a fi
insa nu ii chemi.
Durerea sfasie o gaură imensa
în forța veche și dovedită
a trupului tău,
ca și cum te-ai scufunda pentru totdeauna
si tot ce s-a adunat in jurul tau
a fost in zadar –
gânduri, sunete și imagini,
plăceri inca promise
în cadrul schimbator al vieţii.
De asemenea, treptat, claritatea
acestei minti singuratice se intuneca
si este ca si cum
nu te mai ții pe tine insuti –
așa că, incet încet,
prima lumină
intra prin perdea.………………….
NUIT DANS LE FAUTEUIL BRISÉLes plus proches sembles être
à distance d’une main
mais tu ne les appelles pas.
La douleur fait un trou béant
dans la vieille force éprouvée
de ton corps,
comme si tu t’enfonçais à jamais,
que tout ce qui s’entassait autour
était en vain –
des pensées, des sons et des images,
des plaisirs encore promis
dans le cadre oscillant de la vie.
Aussi, peu à peu, la clarté
de ce esprit solitaire s’estompe,
et c’est presque
comme si tu ne te tenais plus toi-même –
ainsi, lentement, la première lumière
traverse le rideau.
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
NACHGERAUNT / WHISPERED / SOPTIT / KUISKATTU
POSTED IN Roland, translated German-English November 27, 2021
NACHGERAUNT / WHISPERED / SOPTIT / KUISKATTUEs war dir nicht bestimmt,
ein Ganzes zu werden,
die Glieder
strebten nach allen Seiten
im hastigen Lauf,
sie kamen gegenüber
nicht an.
Du wusstest nicht,
welchen Stern
du erhaschen solltest
von den ungezählt leuchtenden
rings um dich her.Roland Erb
——————————–
Whispered
It wasn’t meant for you
to become a whole,
the limbs
strove to all sides,
in a hasty run
not reaching
the counterpart.
You did not know
which star
you should catch
of the countless shining ones
around you.…………………………..
Șoptit
Nu ți-a fost sortit
să devii un întreg,
Membrele
s-au straduit din toate partile,
într-o fugă grăbită,
negasindu-si
jumatatea.
Nu stiai
ce stea
ar trebui să prinzi
dintre cele stralucind fara numar
in jurul tău.…………………………..
Kuiskattu
Ei ollut kohtalosi
olla kokonainen,
Jäsenesi
pyrkivät kiirehtien joka suuntaan,
kohtaamatta koskaan
vastapuoltaan.
Et tiennyt
mikä tähti
sinun piti napata
kaikista niistä ympärilläsi
hohtavista.
Translated by 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
ULMENHOF
POSTED IN Roland, translated German-English November 21, 2021
ULMENHOF
Der winterlich aufdämmernde See
und dein Gesicht, das manchmal in fahles Licht taucht.
Wind, der locker herab fällt,
regt kaum spürbar die Flächen auf.
Stunden, als wäre Zeit zu verschenken. Die Sonne,
noch hinter dem Baumhorizont,
schürt ein schwärzliches Frührot
und steigt allmählich über den See,
bis die Schattenkonturen zerfließen.
Der Tag, sein gelbes Gekreisch.
ROLAND ERB……………………….
ULMENHOF
The lake dawning in winter
and your facesometimes bathed in a pale light.
Wind, that falls loosely,
hardly noticeably upsets the surfaces.
Hours, as if there were time to be wasted. The sun,
still behind the trees horizon,
stirs up a blackish early red
and gradually rises above the lake,
until the shadow contours melt away.
The day, its yellow shrieking.……………………….
ULMENHOF
Lacul zorilor de iarnă
și chipul tău uneori scăldat într-o lumină palidă.
Vântul cazand lejer,
abia starnind suprafetele.
Ore, de parcă timpul ar exista spre-a fi pierdut. Soarele,
încă în spatele copacilor din zare,
stârnește un roșu negricios timpuriu
și se ridică treptat deasupra lacului,
până când contururile umbrei se topesc.
Ziua, tipatul ei galben.
………………………ULMENHOF
Le lac de l’aube d’hiver
et ton visage, parfois baigné d’une pâle lumière.
Le vent, qui tombe lâchement,
agite à peine les surfaces.
Des heures comme s’il y avait du temps à perdre. Le soleil,
toujours derrière l’horizon des arbres,
attise un rouge précoce noirâtre
et s’élève peu à peu au-dessus du lac,
jusqu’à ce que les contours de l’ombre se fondent.
Le jour, son cri jaune.
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
MUTILAREA ARTISTULUILA TINERETE / ARTIST’S MUTILATION IN YOUTH
POSTED IN Mariana November 21, 2021
MUTILAREA ARTISTULUILA TINERETE / ARTIST’S MUTILATION IN YOUTH
O casă nouă,
ca un alt mormânt,
mai aproape parcă de cel definitiv,
mai aproape de ceasul
pentru care atât am trudit..
Nu mai aveam încredere în mine.
Dispăruse furnica de la care învăţasem
să pun pe picioare orice dezastru,
să înving fără să rănesc
nici măcar aerul pe care-l respir..
Până şi poezia
(ea, urmând existenţa, niciodată înlocuind-o)
uitase să mai pună
sticla de lapte în faţa uşii.
Uitase să-şi mai aducă aminte de mine..
Atunci s-a întâmplat.
Printre dărâmături şi abur proaspăt de ceai
s-a aşezat la masa mea,
a aranjat cu grijă
cele două-trei firimituri insomniace de pâine,
şi-a aplecat uşurel capul (ciudă copilăroasă!)
în semn de trecerea timpului,
a bolborosit printre colţoasele-i falduri:.
“încrederea în sine vine şi pleacă
după cum de la început
ai stat ghemuit la pământ
sau ai privit stelele drept în faţă..
Vei mai răsturna zaruri
şi lehamitea te va îmblânzi
în dulce scorpie parfumată.
Vei mai atârna de obsesii
cu acelaşi scris larg la pungă,
până când frumuseţea va zornăi
şi-n casa săracului
şi-n galeria de cârtiţă..
Vei mai da ceva de ronţăit gurilor rele
precum sexul, alcoolul
şi pisica ruptă-n două din suflet..
Te vei golăni tot mai mult.
Doar la apusul soarelui
vei începe cu adevărat să trăieşti
printre tufişuri şi sperme galinacee
de refacere a echilibrului psihic..
Va râde lumea de tine
când în pas cocoşat
vei debita despre munci şi zile
cu pagina albă..
Va hohoti duhoarea de proastă
agăţată de alţii mai proşti decât tine
dar cu şfanţ şi cu ştaif,
numit stil câteodată”..
O casă nouă,
ca un alt mormânt,
mai aproape parcă de cel definitiv,
mai aproape de ceasul
pentru care atât am trudit.
MARIANA MARIN (Madi)
……………….ARTIST’S MUTILATION IN YOUTH
A new house,
like another grave,
closer to the final one,
closer to the hour
for which I toiled so hard.
.
I didn’t trust myself anymore.
Gone was the ant from whom I’d learned
to get any disaster up and about,
to win without hurting
even the air I breathe.
.
Even poetry
(it, following the existence, never replacing it)
had forgotten to put
the milk bottle in front of the door.
It had forgotten to remember me.
.
Then it happened.
Amidst the rubble and fresh tea steam
sat down at my table,
arranged carefully
the two or three insomniac crumbs of bread,
bowed its head slightly (childish spite!)
as a sign of the passage of time,
muttered through its crooked folds:
.
“Self-confidence comes and goes
as from the beginning
you’ve been crouching on the ground
or staring straight ahead at the stars.
.
You’re gonna roll some more dices
and the disgust will tame you
into a sweet-scented shrew.
You’re gonna hang on to obsessions
with the same generous handwriting,
until the beauty shall rattle
in the poorhouse
as well in the mole’s gallery.
.
You’re gonna give to the bad mouths some more to nibble on
such as sex, alcohol
and the torn in two cat from the soul.
.
You will get more and more naughty.
Only at sunset
will you truly begin to live
among bushes and fowl sperms
to restore mental balance.
.
People will laugh at you
when with a hunched step
you’ll talk of toils and days
with a blank page.
.
Will roar the stench of dumb girl
hanging on to others dumber than you
but with a buck and swagger,
sometimes called style ”.
.
A new house,
like another grave,
closer to the final one,
closer to the hour
for which I toiled so hard.
traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela
