OUR MASTERPIECE IS THE PRIVATE LIFE / CAPODOPERA NOASTRA ESTE VIATA INTIMA

POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 19, 2019

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OUR MASTERPIECE IS THE PRIVATE LIFE / CAPODOPERA NOASTRA-I VIATA INTIMA

I

Is there something down by the water keeping itself from us,
Some shy event, some secret of the light that falls upon the deep,
Some source of sorrow that does not wish to be discovered yet?

Why should we care? Doesn’t desire cast its rainbows over the coarse porcelain
Of the world’s skin and with its measures fill the air? Why look for more?

II

And now, while the advocates of awfulness and sorrow
Push their dripping barge up and down the beach, let’s eat
Our brill, and sip this beautiful white Beaune.

True, the light is artificial, and we are not well-dressed.
So what. We like it here. We like the bullocks in the field next door,
We like the sound of wind passing over grass. The way you speak,

In that low voice, our late night disclosures . . . why live
For anything else? Our masterpiece is the private life.

III

Standing on the quay between the Roving Swan and the Star Immaculate,
Breathing the night air as the moment of pleasure taken
In pleasure vanishing seems to grow, its self-soiling

Beauty, which can only be what it was, sustaining itself
A little longer in its going, I think of our own smooth passage
Through the graded partitions, the crises that bleed,

Into the ordinary, leaving us a little more tired each time,
A little more distant from the experiences, which, in the old days,
Held us captive for hours. The drive along the winding road

Back to the house, the sea pounding against the cliffs,
The glass of whiskey on the table, the open book, the questions,
All the day’s rewards waiting at the doors of sleep . . .

MARK STRAND
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Capodopera noastra este viata intima
I

Exista ceva in josul apei ce  de noi se fereste,
vreo intamplare timida, vreun secret al luminii ce cade peste adanc,
vreun izvor al tristetii ce nu se vrea descoperit inca?

De ce ne-ar pasa? Dorinta nu-si arunca curcubeiele peste portelanul brut
al pielii lumii si cu propriile-i masuri umple aerul? De ce-am cauta mai mult?

II
Si-acum, pe cand adeptii groazei si durerii
‘S-imping salupa siroind in susul si-n josul plajei, hai sa mancam
Calcanul nostru, si sa luam o gura din frumosul Beaune alb.
Adevarat, lumina e artificiala, si nu suntem bine imbracati.
Si ce. Ne place aici. Ne plac boii de pe campul vecin,
Ne place sunetul vantului peste iarba. Felul in care vorbesti,
Cu vocea soapta, dezvaluirile noastre tarziu in noapte…de ce sa traiesti
Pentru altceva? Capodopera noastra este viata intima.

III
Stand pe chei intre constelatii Lebada Calatoare si Steaua Imaculata,
Respirand aerul noptii in timp ce momentul placerii luate
In placere disparand pare sa creasca, propria-i murdarita

Frumusete, care poate fi ceea ce-a fost, doar sustinandu-se
Putin mai mult in plecarea-i, ma gandesc la propria noatra trecere calma
Prin despartirile treptate, crizele ce sangereaza,

In cotidian, lasandu-ne putin mai obositi de fiece data,
Putin mai distanti de experientele, care, in zilele de-odinioara,
Ne tineau captivi ore intregi. Calatoria de-a lungul unui drum serpuit

Inapoi spre casa, marea lovindu-se de stanci,
Paharul cu whiskey pe masa, cartea deschisa, intrebarile,
Toata rasplata zilei astepand la usile somnului…

 

Maria Magdalena