Poezii de Paul S.

Derrick Traducere de Melania Stancu

Sonete pentru un ora pe o colin 1. HANUL SAN JOS La ciudad que vuela. Oraul zburtor. Milenii de vetre ascunse pitite pe stnci pironite-n cer. n cumpn pe reazemul vntului acest balcon micu din lemn. Spaiul, joaca pe pietre roase de lumin torid, turnuri i cuiburi degete nevzute cioplit-au: acestea, elementele goale n care Zobel a desluit temeliile licrinde ale lumii. Ochiul vntului ntr-un vrtej. Rndunele coboar pe sub mine. Al dragostei dulce trup doarme nuntru, nvelit n-ale dragostei dulci vise. Dou fire argintii de urmat i un mister. i tihna departe de-amiezile brune de var? Huecar2 n vrtej m trage pn-la mal. Sonnets for a City on a Hill 1. Posada de San Jos
La ciudad que vuela. City that flies. Millennium of hidden hearths ensconced on clifftops beetled to the sky. Balanced on the fulcrum of the wind this tiny wooden balcony. Space, the play on weathered stones of burning light, spires and eyries phantom fingers whittled: these, the naked elements where Zbel riddled out the shimmering foundations of the world.
1

Fernando Zobel de Ayala y Montojo (1924-1984) unul dintre cei mai importani artisti plastici spanioli, cofondator al Muzeului de Art Spaniol Abstract din Cuenca.
2

Hucar, afluent al rului Jcar, strbate oraul Cuenca din Castilla- La Mancha. De-alungul vii abrupte spare de apa rului, se afl Casele Suspendate (Casas Colgadas), Hanul San Jos i Muzeul de Art Abstract din Cuenca.

Winds eye into vertigo. Swallows sink beneath my feet. Loves sweet body slumbers there within, rapt in loves sweet dreams. Two silver threads to follow, and one mystery. What comfort from these ochre noons of summer? Hucars vortex pulls me to the brink.

2. ORAUL VRJIT Ce noim-n aste fantezii scornite? Strigoi inui ntr-o micare nepermis. nirnd behemoni. Demoni carstici se ivesc n resturile mrii pietrificate. Ce noim vezi n aste forme omeneti? Pai trosnet de frunze i crengi? Vociun ssit fugar? Trupuri din carne o cea ntrezrit de atitudini ce dispar? Ora al martorilor mui, actorilor sculptai, cronicarilor intimi ai timpului uitat. Amuit printre viile vratice, ne nduri inconstana. Te vizitm i murim. ns, simirea noastr al nostru sim i-l dau s-l expui, aceast pantomim fr-de voie. 2. La ciudad Encantada
What meaning in those brooding fantasies? Revenants sustained in vetoed motion. Listing behemoths. Karstic demons looming in the flotsam of petrified sea. What meaning in these human forms for you? Footfalls crackle of leaf and twig? Voices a fugitive hiss? Bodies of flesh a half-seen mist of disappearing attitudes? City of silent witnesses, sculpted actors, intimate recorders of forgotten time. Hushed among the summer vines, you suffer our inconstancy. We visit you and die. And yet, our senses lend our sense to your display, this unintended pantomime.

3. INELUL RULUI HUECAR Tu em cuidars? Ai zmbit. Vocea ta era frivol. Ce s-i rspund?

Deasupra, case de piatr s-aga de stnci, se sprijin aa cum s-au sprijinit mereu, de cer. Cum s rostesc am auzit prea multe minciuni, am nprlit prea multe piei, am pierdut prea multe viei, ca s-i spun ce vrei s-auzi, i vorbele mele s mi se par credibile? Podul San Pablo e-n faa noastr, singurul drum. Brnele de fier au tremurat n btaia vntului. i-ale mele la fel. Voiam soliditatea ta cnd rsuflarea-mi slbea de fric. Sub scnduri, sub noi era doar aerul. Aerul i o cacofonie de ciori. 3. Ronda del Hucar
Tu em cuidars? You smiled. Your tone was almost frivolous. What could I reply? Above, stone houses perch on stone, and lean as they have always leaned, against the sky. How could I pronounce, I have heard too many lies, have sloughed too many skins, have lost too many lives, to tell you what you want so much to hear, and make my speech sound credible in my ears? El Puente de San Pablo lay ahead, our only road. Its iron girders trembled, beating with the wind. Mine did too. I needed your solidity when breath drew thin with fear. Beneath the planks beneath our feet was only air. Air, and a cacophony of crows

4. MUZEUL DE ART ABSTRACT Zobel n caiet i not cum vegetaia prins de-un zid ntunecat primvara fremta n minte spre-o fantezie luminoas. De ce-am risipit darul inspiraiei? Ce bisturiu a tiat incizia-asta n lume? Lumea noastr. Linite, tcere, oapte. Ruina golul din jurul nostru este proiectat de axa vederii noastre.

M face s vd asemeni lui Zobel Senzaia atins de iubire nate grij. (Un sens licrete pe faa lucrurilor. Impasiv, solid ca un craniu, cnt: Noi suntem habitatul ce-l construim.) Esene. Principii. Structur. Lege. 4. El Museo de Arte Abstracto
Zbel in his notebook wrote how vegetation clinging to a sombre wall in early spring quivered through the mind to bright imagining. Why have we squandered the gift of inspiration? What scalpel has inflicted this incision on the world? Our wound. Silence, wordless, murmurs. The ruin the blank installed around us is projected by the axis of our vision. This moves me to see as Zbel saw Perception tinged by love engenders care. (A meaning glimmers in the face of things. I mpassive, solid as the skull, it sings: The habitat we make is what we are.) Essences. Principles. Structure. Law.

5. DUMINIC DUPA-AMIAZ: CUENCA Lumina n ziua aceea era la fel de transparent ca orice lumin. A venit de la apus, peste jumtate de peninsul, s imprime formele punctilinii ale chiparoilor pe escapade de piatr, acolo unde copacii i tufiurile s-au agat de via de cnd exist aducere-aminte. La Hoz del Huecar. Valea sa linitit erpuiete i se ndreapt ctre orizont. Brnele i scndurile de lemn ale balconului unde am stat erau ca rama unui triptic. Dincolo de noi, totul strlucea. Norii se micau lene dinspre stnga. Formele lor se roteau schimbnd sensul cerului; umbrele lor schimbau faa pmntului. O solemnitate ncremenit. Ridurile pe faa lumii se adnceau pe msur ce ziua se ncheia. Iar apoi, cum stteam i priveam, bucat cu bucat, un arc de culori ordonate s-a ridicat de pe o culme pe alta de-a lungul cheiului unde un ora treaz crescuse din stncile desluite de timp. Un curcubeu! i aminteti? Abia dac mai avem timp s le vedem: fii de strlucire ce se-ncovoaie prin vzduh, un arc perfect pe cerul ntunecat. ns nu ne-am lsat pclii. Nici un moment de ndoial.

Noi tiam c tiam ce este. nvasem despre vapori i picturi, unde i refracie. tiam c n-are a face cu noi. Nu era o promisiune sau un dar meteugit ce coborse din vreo zon misterioas a crei frumusee ne-o arta numai n parte. Dar tiam de asemenea unde ducea cunoaterea aceea. Firete c am privit mai departe de parc ar fi fost pictat acolo chiar n locul acela, chiar atunci, numai pentru noi. nchipuie-i c aa fusese. Fenomenul acela luminos, spontan a fost al nostru pn cnd a disprut, ca s ne fie ct mai de folos. O ans nou s cultivm o iluzie folositoare. Era al nostru pe de-a-ntregul. De cte vom mai avea parte? Iat-ne aici, mcar pentru ctva vreme, aici unde trebuie s fim s privim lumea n fa n dup-amiezile goale de duminic, s ncercm s simim pulsul norilor. Iar mai apoi, s blmjim ceea ce aproape am nvat descifrnd comori de scnteieri, embleme ce se spulber atrase de lumina care pulseaz pe cer.

Sunday Afternoon: Cuenca

The light that day was as limpid as light can be. It came from the west, over half of the peninsula, to print the pointing forms of cypresses on stone escarpments where trees and bushes have clung to life since memory began. La Hoz del Hucar . Its peaceful ravine curves by, and reaches out to the horizon. The wooden posts and beams of the balcony where we sat were like a triptychs frame. Beyond us, everything glowed. Clouds lazed in from the left. Their rolling volumes altered the sense of the sky; their shadows changed the look of the land. A still solemnity. The wrinkles in the face of the world grew deeper with the final steps of day. And then, as we watched, piece by piece, an arch of ordered colors built itself from hilltop to hilltop across that gorge where a vigilant city had grown from time-riddled cliffs. A rainbow! Remember? We hardly have time to see them any more: bands of brightness bending through the air, a perfect arc in the darkening sky. But we werent fooled. Not one moment of doubt. We knew that we knew what it was. Wed learned about vapor and globules, waves and refraction. We knew this wasnt personal. It wasnt a pledge, or a finely-crafted gift dropped down from some uncanny zone whose beauty it only partially revealed. But we also knew where that kind of knowing leads. So of course we kept on looking just as though it had been painted there in that one place, at that one time, especially for us. Imagine that it somehow had . That bright, spontaneous phenomenon was ours, until it disappeared, to use as best we could. One more chance to cultivate a serviceable illusion. All of it was ours. How many more will we get? This is where we are, at least for a while, and where we have to be to stare into the face of the world on empty Sunday afternoons, to try to feel the heartbeat of the clouds. And afterwards, to stutter what we almost learn from reading hoards of scintillations, vanishing emblems drawn by pulses of light against the sky.

Paul Scott DERRICK (Carolina de Sud, SUA) este profesor de literatur american la Universitatea din Valencia (Spania) din anul 1980. Principalul su domeniu de cercetare l constituie literatura romantic i transcendentalismul american, studiate din perspectiva influenei pe care o exercit asupra manifestrilor artistice i intelectuale din secolele XX i XXI. Printre studiile sale critice se numr: Thinking for a Change: Gravitys Rainbow and Symptoms of the Paradigm Shift in Occidental Culture (Universitat de Valncia,1994) and We Stand Before the Secret of the World: Traces Along the Pathway of American Transcendentalism (Biblioteca Javier Coy, 2003). A editat i a tradus n spaniol mai multe ediii critice ale operelor lui Ralph Waldo Emerson, Emily Dickinson, Henry Adams i Sarah Orne Jewett. Este co-editor (mpreun cu Viorica Ptea) al lucrrii Modernism Revisited: Transgressing Boundaries and Strategies of Renewal in American Poetry (Rodopi, 2007) i, mpreun cu Norman Jope i Catherine E. Byfire a publicat The Salt Companion to Richard Berengarten (Salt, 2011). A tradus i publicat n englez poezii de Jorge de Montemayor, Luis Cernuda, Pablo Neruda i Jorge Luis Borges, iar n spaniol, a tradus cu Miguel Teruel, poeziile lui Richard Berengarten (Las manos y la luz, Valencia, 2008) i cu Viorica Ptea cele ale Anei Blandiana. Sonete pentru un ora pe o colin , alctuite din patru sonete i un poem n proz, reprezint o unitate de form i sens inspirate de dou vizite n oraul spaniol Cuenca. Dup cum afirm nsui autorul, tema central se concentreaz n jurul mai multor ntrebri specifice problematicii umane: cum reuim s gsim un loc benefic n aceast lume?, cum ne construim un cmin durabil? Rspunsul este sugerat printr-o continu stare de tensiune ce se dezvolt n interiorul poemelor. Rezolvarea conflictelor att exterioare, ct i emoionale nseamn a nelege c pentru a-i gsi locul n lume trebuie s construieti, nu s distrugi, s prinzi rdcini adnci n pmnt. Ultimul poem, care le cuprinde pe toate celelalte ca un epilog, ne atrage atenia c nimic din ce avem de nvat n via nu este nou sub soare. De aceea misiunea poetului este s ne fac s ne pstrm perspectiva i atitudinea necesare pentru a primi aceeai lecie pe care omul o tot afl de cnd lumea, ns ntr-o form potrivit vremurilor pe care le trim.

Melania Stancu este asistent universitar la Universitarea din Bucureti, autoarea tezei de doctorat Romanul spaniol de avangard si generaia de la 27.