SANGEROSII UTOPISTI / THE BLOODY UTOPISTS

POSTED IN Mariana November 15, 2021

 

SANGEROSII UTOPISTI / THE BLOODY UTOPISTS

lui Nicolae Manolescu

 

 

si a batut ceasul din turn
si ei s-au ridicat de la masa;

si a stralucit ceasul pe mana marelui padurar
si ei au inceput vanatoarea;

si a tipat ceasul de fier
si ei si-au slefuit unghiile.

Nu-ti fie teama, cititorule!
Am parasit conventia cocosata a trecerii timpului.
Rad de ceasul din turn, de ceasul de mana,
de ceasul de aur, de ceasul de fier
In alta parte ne va purta sarmana pasare
pre versuri tocmita.
Cenusa de sub aripa ei sînt si nu de cenusa ma tem.
Nu de arc, nu de sageata ma tem.
Rad de ceasul din turn, de ceasul de mana,
de ceasul cu cuc!
Te tin de mana atat de strans nu pentru ca
te-as putea pierde.
Nu ai unde merge.
Nimeni nu calatoreste, cititorule!
Numai trupul – un ochi vast.
Numai trupul – privit de un ochi fix.
Numai trupul – inghitit de o gura care vede.
Eu te privesc atat de atent
nu pentru ca as vedea in oasele tale o statuie de sange.
Nu pentru asta te privesc atat de atent.
Nu te mai teme, cititorule!

si a batut ceasul din turn
si ei au sfarsit vanatoarea;

si a stralucit ceasul pe mana marelui padurar
si ei s-au asezat la masa;

si a tipat ceasul de fier
si ei au adormit in unghiile lor istorice.

Ea a deschis usa cu gesturi mici
dar adevarul e ca nu a mai ramas nimic
din ultimii cititori rataciti in sala de lectura.
Un razboi de o suta de ani, i-au suras

si a batut ceasul din turn
si ei s-au ridicat de la masa;

si a stralucit ceasul pe mana marelui padurar
si ei au inceput vanatoarea;

si a tipat ceasul de fier
si ei si-au innoit unghiile lor istorice.

 

‘Totusi de-a lungul deceniilor de tranzitie, aceasta cultura n-a zacut in somn, ci tocmai in timpul descompunerii si al aparentei sale autoabandonari savarsite prin artisti, profesori si foiletonisti a cunoscut o stare de cea mai ascutita vigilenta si auto analiza. Chiar in miezul perioadei de inflorire a foiletonului existau pretutindeni grupe izolate si mici, decise sa ramana devotate spiritului si sa se straduiasca din rasputeri pentru a salva, pana dupa scurgerea acestei perioade, un graunte din traditia sanatoasa, bunele moravuri, metodele si constiinta intelectuala.’

(Hermann Hesse – Jocul cu margele de sticla)

Un razboi de o suta de ani!
Radem de ceasul din turn, de ceasul de mana
de ceasul de aur, de ceasul de fier

Numai trup inghitit
de o gura care vede.

MARIANA MARIN

…………………………

THE BLOODY UTOPISTS

to Nicolae Manolescu

 

and the clock tower struck
and they rose from the table;

 

and the wristwatch of the great forester shone
and they began the hunt;

and iron clock screamed
and they polished their nails.

Don’t be afraid, reader!
I left the hunchbacked convention of the passage of time.
I laugh at the tower clock, the wristwatch,
the gold watch, the iron watch
Elsewhere, the poor bird written on the lyrics
will carry us.
I am the ashes under her wing and I am not afraid of the ashes.
I’m not afraid of the bow, not the arrow.
I laugh at the tower clock, at the wristwatch,
at the cuckoo clock!
I’m holdind your hand so tightly not because
I could lose you.
You have nowhere to go.
Nobody travels, reader!
Only the body – a wide eye.
Only the body – looked at with a fixed eye.
Only the body – swallowed by a seeing mouth.
I look at you so closely
not because I would see a statue of blood in your bones.
That’s not why I’m looking at you so closely.
Don’t be so afraid, reader!

and the tower clock struck
and they finished the hunt;

 

and the wrist watch of the great forester shone
and they sat down at the table;

and the iron clock screamed
and they fell asleep in their historical nails.

She opened the door with small gestures
but the truth is that there is nothing left
of the last readers lost in the reading room.
A hundred-year war, they smiled at her

and the tower clock struck
and they rose from the table;

and the wrist watch of the great forester shone
and they began the hunt;

and the iron clock screamed
and they’ve renewed their historic nails.

‘However, during the decades of transition, this culture did not fall asleep, but precisely during its decomposition and its apparent self-abandonment committed by artists, teachers and columnists it experienced a state of sharpest vigilance and self-analysis. Even in the midst of the flowering period of the pamphlet there were isolated and small groups everywhere, determined to remain devoted to the spirit and to strive hard to save, until the passing of this period, a grain of healthy tradition, of good morals, of methods and intellectual conscience.’

(Hermann Hesse – The glass bead game )

A hundred-year war!
We laugh at the tower clock, the wristwatch
at the gold watch, the iron watch

Only body swallowed
of a seeing mouth.

traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela