Carte Doamna Bonsai PDF

Doamna Bonsai/ Madam Bonsai
PASSIONARIA STOICESCU DOAMNA BONSAI/ MADAM BONSAI
Passionaria Stoicescu Copert realizat de Daniel Brgu Grafica pentru coperta I Passionaria Stoicescu
Editura Cluza v.b. Str. Horea, nr.30 330047 - Deva, jud. Hunedoara, Romnia Tel. 0254/215545; 0744 521 284 E-mail: editura_calauza@yahoo.com
Descrierea CIP a Bibliotecii Naionale a Romniei STOICESCU, PASSIONARIA Doamna Bonsai = Madam Bonsai / Passionaria Stoicescu ; trad.: Mugura Maria Petrescu. - Deva : Cluza v.b, 2013 ISBN 978-606-517-047-6 I. Petrescu, Mugura Maria (trad.) 821.135.1-1=111=135.1
PASSIONARIA STOICESCU
DOAMNA BONSAI MADAM BONSAI

Versiunea n limba englez de/ English Version by
Mugura Maria Petrescu
Editura CLUZA v.b. 3
Passionaria Stoicescu
CASA
Ghivecele scriu fereastra cu verde cerneal passiflora se-aga de aerul albastru, violetele de Parma zmbesc violet, n spatele lor eu plng incolor. Pereii sunt mbrcai cu tablouri, ifonierul e plin ca un Mall, biblioteca geme de cri, sufletul meu e gol. Pe calculator in o bufni, n chip de totem; imaginea e virtual, curg mail-uri pe ecranul eapn, s-ar zice c nu sunt singur, dar pasrea e mpiat, eu sunt ngrozitor de vie i chiar mi dedic acest poem.
THE HOUSE
Flower pots are writing with green ink on the window passifloras hanging on the blue air, Parma violets are smiling in a violet way, behind them Im crying in a colorless manner. Walls are covered with paintings, the wardrobe is full like a Mall, shelves are crammed to overflowing with books, emptys my soul... On my computer theres an awl, like a totem; the image is a virtual one, e-mails keep coming in on the immutable screen, one might say Im not lonely, but the bird is stuffed Im terribly vivid and I even dedicate to myself this poem.
FEMEIE
Ct trud s te suprapui exact peste femeia care a hotrt hazardul s fii! Cu diavolul s faci un pact, de fapt cu genul masculin, ca s te bucuri mult, puin, de acrul mr, de la Eva la Sfnta Maria s sari, i servitoare i idol s-nsemni i-al luminii i-al beznei izvor, i firvenia i puterea, i ctigul brbatului i pierzania lui ntr-adevr, fiindc asta s-a dovedit vrerea trufaului su nsemn Detest s-mi spun Kierkegaard ce complicat e femeie s fiu De cnd m-am nscut, de cnd am nscut, pe pielea, pe sufletul, pe existena mea tiu!
WOMAN
What an effort to lap exactly over the woman whose hazard you were determined to be! To make a deal with the devil actually speaking with the masculine gender in order to rejoice a lot, or a little at the sour apple, to jump from Eve to Saint Mary and a maid-servant and an idol to mean and from the light and from the darkness source, and from frailness and power, and from mans gain, and his eternal damnation indeed, because this was proved to be the wish of his haughty distinguishing symbol... I hate to be told by Kierkegaard how difficult for me is a woman to be... Since I was born, since I delivered, I swear on my skin and my soul, on my existence: I know!
Toate predicate lumii se contrazic unindu-se n trupul meu viu, n libertatea din care-mi sui gard coborndu-m ca s m ridic, stingndu-m ca s ard - Nu te-apuca s scrii tu, strig El, strig Ei, ateapt s fii cntat, muzele-au fost totdeauna femei! Sau altfel zis, Las-te confundat cu stihia sau cu natura cucerit prin for, viclean: orice-mpotrivire e-n van Srutul i va-nchide gura s taci, s te supui, s fii grabnic adjudecat, c-un stpn i-un statut, cu prunci nlnuit de gt Ct viclenie i trud s m las exploatat, pete zbtut n nvodul de fire cu numele de cod iubire!
All predicates in this world among themselves disagree getting together in my vivid body, in freedom a fence I build up getting down in order to get up, burning myself out in order to burn up... Do not write, Hes shouting, Theyre shouting, wait till you are praised, muses have always been women!... or, in other words Let yourself be taken for the ghost or the nature conquered by force, cunningly: any resistence is in vain... The kiss will close your mouth to shut up, to submit, to be quickly knocked down, with a master and a status, with kids to tie your hands and feet... Oh, what a slyness and effort for me to accept exploitation a fish struggling in the net made of threads with the code name love!
CHOPINIANA
Neaprat noaptea ntr-un cub strveziu Chopin mrunete cristale... Albe-negre clape se bucur de ploaia lor pe viu, de ochiul lunii zbtut sub arginturi de pleoape El e nebun, adic ndrgostit, ndrgostit, adic lichid vlurind un znatic izvor s nu-i aud propria disperare albastr i cresctoare doar s o curg, adic s o desvreasc, un fluviu pierzndu-se-n mare...
10
CHOPINIANA
By all means in the evening in a transparent cube Chopin uses to chop up crystals... White and black keys they enjoy their rain in reality, beaten by the eye of the moon under silvery eyelids He is mad, i.e. in love, in love, like a liquid waving a sprightly stream not to hear his own blue and ever growing despondency only to let it flow down, i.e. accomplish it, a river melting into the sea...
11
TABLOUL
Goliat e peretele alb al singurtii mele, pe care l-am nvins pentru o vreme cu David, n chip de tablou... Custoreasa ngerilor sunt eu specialist n aripi rupte, ace nfipte n aer, adic n suflet, nsilri cu a neaprat albastr... Maina de cusut e o fereastr pe care stau clare goal i naripat cu aripile mele de nger din care doar una e reparat. Pictorul David m-a intuit nainte de a face cunotin: trupul meu a ntors spatele lumii n timp ce capul, din care nchid mecherete un ochi, recunoate c asta nu e cu putin
12
THE PAINTING
Goliath is the white wall of my loneliness, which I defended for a while with David, as a painting... The angels seamstress is me a specialist with broken wings, needles pinned in the air, i.e. in the soul stitching with blue thread absolutely... The sewing machine is nothing but a window that Im riding nakedly and wingedly with my angel-like wings out of which only one is repaired. Before we have even met David, the painter, intuited me: my body has turned its back to the world while my head out of which I give the sly eye admits that this is impossible
13
Maina de cusut e stacojie, fundalul e gri... - Foc i cenu! strig pictorul. - Ardere pn la scrum! i rspund eu ncenundu-m n poezii. Deocamdat rmn datoare, chiar dac tabloul e achitat, pentru c am neles tocmai asemnarea lui izbitoare cu mine, cea care sunt: Custoreas de suflete rupte, de apostazii, de sentimente, de ape deirate, de straie destrmate de stele, dar mai ales, mai ales, de aripi frnte de poem i de cnt...
14
The sewing machine is scarlet-red, the background is grey... Fire and ashes the painters crying out. Complete burning Im answering back covering myself entirely with the ashes of poetry. For the moment I am still indebted, although the painting is paid, because I understood exactly its striking resemblance with me, the one that I am: A seamstress of broken hearts of apostasies, of feelings, of raveled waters, of clothes pinched by stars, but especially, especially of wings broken by poems and songs...
15
DE SUB AP
Nici mcar ochii mei nu seamn unul cu altul: cel mic, stngul, se simte solidar cu inima i vrea s vad alene ct mai puin, de aceea e mai nchis, uneori o lacrim sticlindu-i n gene... Nici snii mei nu-s la fel: stngul - cel supt e mai mare, cu boaba sfrcului grea, c-a hrnit gura fiului, gura altei viei din viaa mea... De sufletele mele, ce s mai zic? Nepereche nu doar ca numr, ci ca nimic... Nu rdei, e de plns: ntr-un singur trup s ai att de multe suflete cu foame de lup,
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FROM UNDER THE WATER

Not even my eyes resemble one with the other one: the small one, the left eye is solidary with my heart and wants to see without haste as little as possible, that is why it is more closed, somtimes a tear in its eyelashes glitters... Not even my breasts are the same: the left one the suckled one is bigger with the grain of my nipple heavier, because it fed my sons mouth, the mouth of another life from my own life. What can I say about my souls? Uneven not only like a number, but like nothing... Dont laugh, its a wretched state: in a whole body to have so many souls as hungry as a horse
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ntr-un trm n care au fost exterminate nefericitele fiare... Dar toate astea v scap... Sunt Poezia i v vorbesc de sub ap.
18
in a land where unhappy wild beasts have been exterminated... However, you miss all this... I am Poetry and from under the water its to all of you that Im talking.
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ANIMALUL I PASREA
nainte sau napoi animalul sufletului alearg neobosit i-i caut urmele: Aici ezum i plnsem... aici sursul, aici biciul, aici hohotul, aici fapta, nainte sau napoi, stnga, dreapta... Nici mplinirea, nici disperarea, doar boarea... Pasrea fericirii n-are picioare, ea e fcut s zboare... Animalul sufletului alearg pe pmnt, ea deasupra, deasupra deasuprelor, clare pe vnt... nainte sau napoi cerul cu ea, praful cu noi...
20
THE ANIMAL AND THE BIRD

Ahead or behind the animal of the soul is running untiringly looking for its traces: Here we sat down and cried... here the smile, here the whip, here the riot, here the deed, ahead or behind, left, right... No fulfillment, no despair, only the gentle breath of the wind... The bird of happiness has no legs, she is doomed to fly... The animal of the soul Runs on the earth, shes above on top of the tops, riding the wind... Ahead or behind The sky with her, the dust with us...
21
POETUL
Creatur izgonit mai trziu din rai, cu aripi de heruvim i sabie de arhanghel, cu tri de arpe i zbor de nger... El se nchin focului, nu rnii i-ar face oricnd curat n limba lui, alta dect cea comun alungnd cuvintele care nu mai semnific, ci doar spun... Singurul dar pe care-l preuiete e s-l fi citit plnge, chiar dac-i ascunde lacrimile cnd recii un vers de-al lui i se bucur cumptat de-ale celor cu care seamn. Sufletul lui e-o corcitur de rai cu iad clrind cerurile, sfredelind abisul
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THE POET
A creature chased away later on from heaven, with a cherubs wings and an archangels sword, with a snakes crawling and an angels flight... He prays to fire, not to dust, and would always clean up in his own language, different than the ordinary one chasing away words that have no meaning, but only say... The only gift he values is have him read he cries although he hides his tears whenever you recite a line of his rejoicing moderately in those that equal his. His soul is a cross breed of paradise and hell riding the skies, piercing abyss
23
pentru bucuria de a nu se gsi... Iart-l i nelege-l dac poi, (organ pentru Poezie nu se nate-n oricine, doar n cel ce tie s-nvieze din chin, doar n cel ce tie s moar de bucurie) i nu-l luda ar fi un pleonasm care l-ar jigni. El i mngie cu disperare c a r t e a , ultim mohican al luminii, invoc bezna pe ecranul televizorului, uit scrbit parola computerului, fiindc-a fost alungat din cetate, nici codrul nu-i mai e frate, poetul...
24
for the joy of not finding itself... Forgive and understand it if you can, (an organ for Poetry is not born in anybody, only in the one who knows how to revive from the pain, only in the one who knows how to die with joy) and dont speak highly of him cause that will be a pleonasm to hurt him. He caresses with despair his b o o k, the last Mohican of the light, conjures darkness on the TV screen, forgets disgustedly the computer password, because he was chased away from the city, forest is no longer his brother, the poet...
25
DOAMNA BONSAI
Nu jumtatea zilei cu soarele din plin, cu echilibrul timpului n ea, ci zorii cu durerea de a se fi nscut, lptoi i chinuii s cad-n lume, cnd crap-n dimineaa fr nume, mi-s dragi! i iar amurgul vnt din truda de-a muri, de-a sugruma cu umbre tot ce a fost lumin, mi-e drag! E fascinant i ntremtoare d u r e r e a, cnd se nate, cnd se moare, dar firete
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MADAM BONSAI
Its not the mid of the day with its full sun, and with the equilibrium of time in it, but early dawns with their pain of being born, milk-like and tortured to fall down in this world, when they will break into the nameless morning its them I like! And then again the violet-blue twilight from the great pain of dying, of strangling with shadows all that which light once was, its them I like! Fascinating and tonics the p a i n, when one is born, when one is dead, but, also of course,
27
i cnd se triete i n-are rost s-ntrebi din a crui vin... Ecranul e-n chip de grdin cu pps-ul ,,Bonsai nflorii (sau despre cruzimea artei), cnd frumosul are la rdcin un chin, o durere, anume s-i plac - Nu maltratai animalele, auzi n urechi vechea plac a ecologitilor, membrilor Vier Pfoten i a babelor de la blocuri aruncnd pe fereastr miloase pine i oase - Nu schingiuii bonsaii!, strig la ecranul computerului pe care copcei nflorii, mici-mici, torturai n ani s rmn pitici pentru plcerea estetic a unei ,,trestii gnditoare, curg la-ntmplare fr vreo lacrim sau durere ,,Dac nu ai suferit niciodat, nseamn c nu eti binecuvntat, zice epilogul filmuleului de-ncheiere.
28
when one is alive and its useless to ask from whose cause... The screen is like a small garden and the pps Bonsai trees in flower (or about the cruelty of art), when beauty has in its root a torture, a pain, to please you on purpose... Dont maltreat animals, one can hear the same old saying of ecologists, Vier Pfoten members and old gossip women from buildings throwing mercifully on windows bread and bones... Dont torture the bonsai! Im shouting at the computer screen where tiny little trees in blossom, tortured during years dwarfish will be for the aesthetic pleasure of a roseau pensant, flowing down at random with no tear or pain... If you have never suffered, it means you are not blessed, says the epilogue of the little movie in the end.
29
Scriu Am fost binecuvntat s scriu, s nfloresc pe hrtie bonsaii vieii mele: copilrie tiat, iubire retezat, vise ciuntite toate n pmnt puin s m tot bucur de chin, s fie fascinant i-ntremtoare durerea - mai ales cnd dau n floare, adic scriu
30
I write... I was blessed to write, to bloom on a sheet of paper the bonsai trees of my life: a cut off childhood, a chopped off love, mutilated dreams all planted in a little land to enjoy the great torment, fascinating and tonic the pain - especially when I bloom i.e. when I write...
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SETE
Soarele e secret ca tot ce locuiete n foc Ce pot zri m orbete, ce nu pot vedea nu mi-e loc De aceea nu tiu dac vremuiesc n afara mea sau n luntru, dar exist cu certitudine (chiar dac au nume diferite) duhul sfnt, duhul demonic, muza M caut i m gsesc: - Acesta-i nceputul, optete primul, - Acesta-i sfritul, url cellalt, - Umple golul dintre ele, m-mbie muza. Scriu, m caut, umplu de-o via nefericit danaid
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THIRST
The sun is secret like all that lodges in fire What I can see deprives me of my sight, what I cant see in a place, is not... Thats why I dont know whether theyve been living outside or inside me, but they exist certainly (although they have different names) the saint spirit, the demonic spirit, the muse... Theyve been looking for me and found me: Thats the beginning the former is whispering, Thats the end the latter is shouting, Fill in the emptiness between them, the muse is asking me. I write, I find myself again, for a life time Ive been filling, unhappy Danaide,
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cuvntul albastru sete de consisten lichid. Cerul dinti i tot ce nate aer mi-e la-ndemn Ce pot respira m sufoc, ce m-ar elibera, m amn
34
the blue word t h i r s t, of a liquid consistency. First the sky, and all that air makes is at my hand Whatever I can breathe smothers me, whatever would break me free, delays me...
35
NTLNIREA
Nu pot fi invidioas pe fotbal, e o metafor i acolo, n care unul lovete cu piciorul bunoar, pmntul contras ntr-o minge... i ci poei nu scriu cu piciorul? i ct o s rabde pmntul jocul lor? i de ce s nu loveti i tu n ceva, cnd zilnic eti lovit? (Ah, ct de puini suntem n sal...) Iar marcatul n poart e tot o metafor artat lumii i mie de domnul Freud, ca s nelegem c viaa (intrat / ieit) i e mult mai datoare fotbalului dect poeziei... (Ah, ct de puini suntem n sal...) Portarul apr, apr, dar e vulnerabil, o clip de oboseal, de neatenie i goool!, un urlet fericit de viol colectiv, care nu va exista niciodat n poem: taci i scrii, taci i citeti, luntrul ip ntr-o sfnt muenie. (Ah, ct de puini suntem n sal...)
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ENCOUNTER
I cant be jealous of football, theres a metaphor in there too, where one kicks for instance, the earth shrunk in a ball... But how many poets dont scribble? And why the earth will have to bear their game? And why you should not kick in anything, when you are kicked back every day? (Alas, how few we are in the hall...) And the scoring at the gate is also a metaphor shown to the world and by Mr. Freud to me, so we can understand that life (in / out) ows more to football than to poetry... (Alas, how few we are in the hall...) The goalkeeper keeps defending, but is vulnerable, a moment of fatigue, of inattention and goooal! a happy hurray of the collective rape, which in the poem will never be: hush up and write, hush up and read, the inside cries out in a holy stillness. (Alas, how few we are in the hall...)
37
Fiecare gndim i simim altfel n faa poeziei care se vede, dar nu prea se vede, se aude, dar nu se aude, se percepe, dar nu se percepe, marcheaz, dar nu marcheaz, cost, dar e degeaba, (Ah, ct de puini suntem n sal!). n faa mingii de fotbal se adun infinit mai muli unii de datul cu piciorul, (cel mai la ndemn gest!), de banii muli luai pe prostie, din oprelitea de moment a porii i din gol; chiar crainicii url Gooool! rostogolind cu voce inuman litera o i ea o metafor a lui zero o minge de aer, ntr-o clip de aer de efemer victorie din care nu va rmne nimic... (Ah, ct de puini suntem n sal!)
38
We all think and feel differently in comparison to poetry which can be seen, but cannot be seen too much, can be heard, but cannot be heard, can be perceived, but cannot be perceived, scores, but cannot score, costs, but is for free, (Alas, how few we are in the hall...) In front of the football there gather infinitely much more united by the kicking, (the easiest gesture!), from the money paid for stupidity, from the momentary interdiction of the gate and of the goal; even the sport announcers cry Gooooal! rolling down with an inhuman voice the letter o it too, being a metaphor of zero a football of air, in a moment of air of an ephemerial victory out of which nothing will remain... (Alas, how few we are in the hall...)
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ALTCEVA DECT SEMNE

S apari dup primul dorit e un eec drapat n victorie ascunznd nendemnatic dar cu glorie acea singurtate pe care nsui Tatl nu i-a rezolvat-o A fost primul semn al plictisului dup chipul i asemnarea Sa, prima palm pe obrazul trufa al Hybrisului aprinznd rece stea Din nchisoarea rnii n-avea cum s se zmisleasc o fiin liber, din cuca unor coaste rigide n-avea cum s se rup una, s se poat nate din ea o fptur care s se bucure i de foc i de nea... * Durere, de la nceput durere i chin sub copacul umbros al Binelui i Rului, sub trunchiul divin...
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SOMETHING ELSE THAN SIGNS

To appear after the first wanted is a failure draped with victory hiding clumsily but with glory that solitude which not even the Father could solve That was the first sign of the ennui according to His own image, the first slap on the Hybris haughty cheek lighting a cold star... A free creature could not be conceived out of the earths prison, out of the cage of some rigid ribs there was no way to break one, and give birth out of it a creature who could enjoy both fire and snow-drift... Pain, from the beginning pain and struggle under the shady tree of Good and Evil, under the divine body... *
41
Ah, i nici mrul acela cu fructe ca nite sni n-a fost cum trebuia pzit de divinele mini... Tot ca s nu se plictiseasc de-atta crnoas singurtate, mrului dulcelui lui foior, Domnul i-a dat viermele drept locuitor i pe el fericirea dinti a tritului n rai l-a crescut, vai, ntr-o lun ct pe alii ntr-un an i arpe s-a mplinit Totul a fost ngduit ca Tatl s nu se plictiseasc, nici Fiul, nici Coasta cereasc, nici Mrul, nici Viermele... * ntr-o spiral de noapte i zi fiecare i-a oferit celuilalt prin rsucit meteugire darul pedepsitor al lui A fi (dar din dar se face rai!)
42
Alas, and not even that apple tree with fruit like breasts was guarded properly by divine hands... Not to get bored by such a fleshy loneliness, to the apple tree to its sweet watch tower, Lord gave the worm as a denizen And to him too the first happiness of the living in heaven raising him, what a pity, in a month like others in one year and into a snake then turning him... Everything was allowed so that the Father does not get bored, nor the Son, nor the heavenly Rib, nor the Apple, nor the Worm... * In a night and day volute each one of us offered to the other one in a twisted skill the punishing gift of To Be (we soon believe what we desire)
43
Poate de-aceea Natura e mut - o muenie de o adnc tristee neizbutind niciodat s m nvee tcerea n care cuvintele s mai poat s-nsemne alceva dect semne uitate / rstlmcite / trunchiate ale primordialului nscris... Al cui? Al singurului Dumnezeu care-a avertizat degeaba mereu: <<Doar EU, ie i e ,,Interzis.>> * De-atunci tot ce nu trebuie i nu se poate face are-n rotund viermele, iluzia lui vino-ncoace! i doar nchipuirea de libertate necuminte m tot duce spre Moarte-nainte, iar pedeapsa din care nimeni n-a-nvat i nu-nva e netiuta / aflata, superba / infecta greeal numit Via.
44
Thats why, maybe, Nature is dumb a dumbness of a deep sadness never succeeding in teaching me silence where words could not mean something else than forgotten / misinterpreted / truncated signs of the primordial certification... Of whom? Of the only God Who in vain always has always warned us: <<Only ME, to you it is forbidden.>> * Since then all that is not needed and cannot be done has the worm in its circle, the illusion of come here to me! And only the imagination of impudent freedom keeps leading me away to Death and the punishment that nobody has ever learned or is learning is the unknown / the found out, the superb / the repugnant mistake named Life.
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IDENTITATE
Nu-l vd i nu-l ating dar este, nu urc, dar el m ia pe creste, nu-i foc, dar arde nevzut i cnt disperant i mut. Mi-e mire fr legmnt i cer imens, fr pmnt, drag mort din patima mea vie El? Eu! Poemul cnd m scrie!
46
IDENTITY
I do not see and do not touch him yet hes there, I do not climb, yet up on tops he takes me, he is not fire, yet unobserved he burns and sings when driving to stillness and despair. He is my bridegroom with no vow and is my endless sky without a land, from my own vivid last my darling dead... He? Me! The Poem when he writes me.
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PREDICAT
Plou Acest verb impersonal m jignete pentru imprecizia lui pentru laitate pentru lipsa de culoare Nu-i asum nimeni ploaia ca attea altele n-are nimeni chef s schimbe ceva i poate nici putere Dar iat i ruptura de lumin pe lng c plou mai i fulger Nimeni nu-i asum vreo vin! Ea? Tu? El? Care? Umede i moi sunt impersonalele n micare ca de exemplu aceast rece noapte de mai n care singurtatea m scrie, m spnzur calm de funiile subiectului ,,ploaie al crui predicat sunt mcar pe hrtie!
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PREDICATE
Its raining This impersonal verb offends me for its imprecision for its cowardice for its lack of color Like so many others nobody assumes rain, nobody feels like changing something and maybe not even power... But there, there is a break of light and, on top of the rain it is lightening too... Nobody assumes any guilt! She? You? He? Who? Humid and soft are these impersonals in motion like for instance this cold night of May where loneliness writes me, hanging me calmly from the ropes of the subject rain whose predicate I am at least on a sheet of paper!
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POEM CU OCOL
Nu rde fii o figur comun n care victima i e propriul gde spernd s rmn... i nici s nu te miri zpada verbului e neagr de zgura arselor triri. De plns n-ai umr, n-ai ochi de-ajuns... Cercul altminteri perfect e defect ca Adam singur i gol dnd raiului dndu-i sie ocol...
50
A POEM WITH A DETOUR

Dont laugh be an ordinary appearance where the victim is its own hangman hoping to remain... And dont even wonder the snow of the verb is blackened with the dross of the burnt feelings. With crying you have no shoulder you dont have enough eyes... The circle otherwise perfect is imperfect like Adam alone and naked making to heaven making a detour to himself...
51
FLOAREA-SOARELUI
Toi suntem robii soarelui, dar uitm sau ne aducem aminte de el cnd ni se apropie Noaptea... Numai floarea-soarelui, numai ea-l recunoate nc din smn i chiar i dup, pn i-n clipa tragerii pe roat, a masacrrii ei n ulei, cine-i mirele, gdele ei... Surde durut galben i mut i-l mai implor : - Baremi o secund, o or, ct vara vieii care, uite-o, a i trecut...
52
SUN-FLOWER
We are all the slaves of the sun, but forget or remember him, whenever Night comes close to us... Only the sun-flower, only she recognizes him while she is still a seed and even after, till the moment of her squeezing on wheel of her massacring into edible oil, whos her bridegroom, her executor?... She smiles painfully yellowishly and silently begging him At least one more second, at least one more hour, as long as the summer of life which, there, has already gone...
53
CUIERUL
Citesc Borges nti m simt un fier de clcat vrt ntr-o priz magic: sigurane luntrice mi se aprind pn la rou i las o amprent fierbinte n stare s netezeasc ntreaga zi boit de fapte mrunte i nevrednice Apoi devin propriul meu cuier acest poem mototolit ncreit n circumvoluiuni i clcat n picioare de via rsare impecabil nu doar fluturnd nemainchipuit, ci i cu mireasm de ger...
54
THE COAT HANGER

Im reading Borges first of all I feel like an iron plugged in a magic wall socket: secret fuses ignite inside me to their incandescence and I leave a hot fingerprint able to press the whole day rumpled with small and mean facts Then I become my own coat hanger this rumpled poem folded in circumvolutions and trodden by life rising up impeccably not only fluttering unimaginably, but with the freshness of the hard frost...
55
POEM N BRAILLE
Am obosit s fiu o hart n relief... Degeaba munii de suflet, dealurile de gnd, cmpiile de fapte muiereti, apele nvolburate de nervi... El nu citete... Ea nu citete... Tu, mai ales tu, nu citeti... Fericit doar Maria Codama cu Borges al ei!
56
A POEM IN BRAILLE
I am fed up of being a map in relief... In vain the mountains of soul, the hills of thought, the fields of womanlike deeds, the waters whirled by nerves... He does not read... She does not read... You, especially you, do not read... Happy only Maria Codama with her Borges!
57
SPECTATOR
Emoiile psri de prad mi ciugulesc sufletul, altminteri nfruptndu-se cu hoituri, se bucur acum de vietate... ip, bat din aripi i se terg de sngele lui cenuiu pe hrtia pe care scriu! Sunt spectator privesc nluntrul meu acest spectacol devastator i m bucur ... Poate de-aceea sufletul se reface ndatorat pentru fericirea sadic de-a fi torturat, de-a fi sfiat de viu pe hrtia pe care scriu!
58
SPECTATOR
Emotions birds of prey that filch my soul, otherwise regaling themselves on dead bodies, they enjoy now living creatures... They cry, flap their wings wiping themselves out from his grey blood on the paper I am writing now! I am a spectator and am looking inside me at this devastating show and Im enjoying... Thats why maybe soul remodels itself gratefully for the sadistic happiness of being tortured, of being torn up alive on the paper Im writing now!
59
N UMBR
Aprat de mine nsmi ca un tablou (numai) de Rubens peste care un nepriceput, pictor i el, dar naiv, s-a strduit omenete s nchipuie o natur moart, fazan cu portocale, bunoar ... Aa s fie - surd prin ochii psrii nsngerate, descoperind stacojiul vulgar al sngelui lng iptorul oranj. Dar uneori noaptea, cu cele mai delicate mini n cele mai fine mnui vine restauratorul, rcie-ncet, cu patim un centimetru pe an i n lumina lanternei i face jurminte maestrului: Pnza adevarat va iei la lumin... m roag s mai atept...
60
IN THE SHADOW
Protected by myself like a painting (only) by Rubens over which only an unexperienced painter, he too a naive, tried hard humanly speaking to paint a still nature, a pheasant with oranges, for instance... So be it Im smiling through the eyes of the bird full of blood, discovering the vulgar scarlet-red by the glaring orange. But sometimes in the evening, with the most delicate hands in the softest gloves the restorer comes, scratching slowly, with passion a centimeter per year and in the light of the flash he promises to the master: The true painting will come out to light... and then he asks me to wait...
61
TREC I EU
n adnc sub apele tulburi ferit i de mine, am furat o gur de soare i n ml se vede ca ziua... Nu m reped, valul e aspru i pedepsete nemilos orice grab... Trec i eu printre maluri, dar petii i pietrele m-au nvat cum s tac luminos.
62
I GO TOO
In the depth under muddy waters hidden even by myself, I stole a mouthful of sun and in the mud one can see as if it were daytime... I do not rush the wave is rough and punishes merciless any haste... I go too in between the two shores, but the fish and the stones have taught me how to shut up silently.
63
NERECUNOTIN
De ce nu mulumesc Domnului c mi-a mplinit voia? C m-a scos n calea orbului tocmai n vremea orbirii mele? Cum s-mi fi vzut el sufletul curcubeu, versul cu sori umbroi, pacea de dup luntric mcel, pe dasclii mei Goya i Bosch, vrful i prpastia sub care curgea apa smbetei spre nici o zare? Nici eu n-am vzut, dar vai! am simit cum Nimeni cel orb doar cu palmele m-a citit, sub soarele la fel de orb al nopii, bietul soare-lun...
64
UNGRATEFULNESS
Why dont I thank God for having fulfilled my wish? For having taken me in front of the blind man just at the time of my blindness? How could He have seen my soul as a rainbow the verse with shadowy suns, peace after an inner massacre my teachers Goya and Bosh the peak and the abyss under which Adams ale down was flowing to no sheen? I did not see myself either but alas! I could feel how Nobody the blind was able only with his palms to read me under the same blind sun of the night, poor sun-moon...
65
PISICA
Totul a fost fr egal fazan, vin, ciuperci, murturi... Doar pisicii i-au dat extraveral, bietei pisici n clduri. Ea se tra printre perechile dansatoare mbriate n caraghioase idile, se mngia jalnic de draperii i covoare i privea nicieri cu oarbe pupile. La plecare, m-a zvrlit n singurtate gerul, aproape m-a plmuit i mi-a ters din creier gesturi tandre, bucate... Dar disperarea pisicii n-a reuit. Acas, ochii-mi clipeau ca ochii ei, stins, cheia-n broasc jalnic a miorlit, iar bietul covor cnd l-am atins sub tlpile mele s-a pisicit...
66
THE CAT
Everything was so perfect common pheasant, wine, mushrooms, pickles... Only the cat was given a calming pill. Poor cat in heat. She was crawling among the dancing couples who were hugging in funny ridiculous romances, she was caressing herself pathetically against curtains and rugs and was looking nowhere with blind eyes. When leaving, she threw me in loneliness, the severe cold almost slapped me in my face, erasing from my memory previous tender gestures, dishes, but never succeeding in dissipating cats despair. As well as her eyes, at home, my eyes were blinking dimly, the key in the lock miaowed sadly, while the poor rug, when my shoe touched it, fawned under my sole...
67
CTE CEVA DESPRE MOARTEA PERSONAL

nti ea se poate descrie numai fiind n via, apoi nu interesez pe nimeni c mori n fiecare zi... Altfel de ce i-a mulumi lui Dumnezeu sau Soarelui n zori c iari m-am nvrednicit A FI? Hrnesc un Nerv ca altul s dispar, setea-mi sugrum s-mi strige ,,Hai, s bei!, iubesc, doar ca s-mi gtui Frica iar, dar ca o hidr-s capetele ei... Cnd m ucid vreau Verbul s-mi rmn i-l pun pios ntr-un sicriu de carte, i mor i nviez pe mai departe...
68
A FEW THINGS ABOUT MY PERSONAL DEATH

First of all It can be described only when being alive, then nobody is interested whether you die every day... Otherwise, why should I thank God or the Sun at dawn that once again I was worthy of TO BE? I feed a Nerv in order to make another one disappear, I strangle my thirst to call me Hey, come and have something to drink!, I am in love, only to strangle my Fear again, yet her heads resemble those of a hydra... When they kill me I want my Verb to stay and lay it down in a pious way in a book like a coffin, in order to keep dying and resurrecting...
69
Dar cnd ferestrele mi se deschid nspre un cimitir ce-mi e vecin, m-ntreb spre-a ngropa mcar puin din ndoiala lui ,,n ce a crede? n venicia care nu se vede sau n formula basmului - erat ,,A fost odat ca niciodat? ,,Niciodat e un cuvnt prpastie n care au czut Vecia, Credina i Adevrul ,,Odat e un cuvnt pisc n care m suie zilnic Moartea i m tot coboar pe funia Speranei ce se subiaz-n netire n cimitirul vecin un preot cnt mecanic ,,Venica (!) pomenire!
70
But when my windows open towards a cemetry which is my neighborg, I wonder in order to bury at least a little from its doubt In what would I believe? In the eternity which cant be seen or in the story formula - erratum There was once upon a time? There was once upon a time is an abysmal word where Eternity and Faith and Truth have fallen into... There was once upon a time is a climactic word where Death up lifts me daily and takes me down incessantly on the Hopes rope which thins down senselessly... In the adjacent cemetry a priest sings absent-mindedly Eternal memory!
71
NINSOAREA CONTINU
ngropndu-mi paii nainte de a ajunge la tine ninsoarea m ascult zidindu-m ca o mnstire complice la zborul frnt i nici fntna nu rsare... Pe sub zpad apa plnge ncet detestnd izbucnirea. Nu viscolete, e pace Ninsoarea continu blestemul tu alb.
72
SNOW KEEPS FALLING

Burying my steps before getting to you snowfall obeys me walling me into like an accomplice monastery to a broken fly Well does not appear either... Under the snow water cries slowly hating to come out suddenly. Theres no snow-storm, all is calm Snowfall keeps falling your white curse.
73
PORTRET N ALBASTRU
Port Baikalul sub pleoape s m apere de imensitate, de cerul ca o mare ntoars n care zbor acum. Gndul fuge albastru, stewardesa poart o toc albastr, sngele bate tactul albastru... Printr-o coinciden fireasc pictorul mi-a fcut ntr-o sear geroas un portret n albastru.
74
A PORTRAIT IN BLUE
Im wearing Lake Baikal under my eyelids to protect me from an immensity, from the sky like a rolled up sea where now Im flying to. Thought is running bluely, the air hostess is wearing a blue toque, blood is beating the time bluely... Out of a mere coincidence during one frosty evening, the painter made my portrait in blue.
75
SUB CELLALT CER

Pentru setea de-o via beau cea, vorbesc nespornic cu tcerea jinduind Mngierea... Sub cellalt cer drui fr s cer, cu cellalt soare luminez i nasc i ning i inventez desigur, Mngierea... O chem de nicierea n chip de copilrire trzie, de preludiu a toate fr finalitate -aud melosul sadic i crud din Boleroul lui Ravel i gust amar demersul de-a-ncepe i-a nu ajunge la vreun hotar ca-n trista bucurie, ca-n Poezie...
76
UNDER THE OTHER SKY

For the thirst of a life I drink fog, I speak unproductively with silence yearning for Caress... Under the other sky I offer without asking back, with the other sun I bring light and give birth and I snow and I invent of course, Caress... I call her from nowhere as a late childhood, as a prelude of all with no finality and hear the sadistic and cruel melos from Ravels Bolro and the bitter taste the necessary steps to start and I dont reach any border like in the sad joy, like in Poetry...
77
SUNT SALAMANDR
n vis joc un joc: sunt salamandr i de bunvoie sar n foc... Dar ce blestemat jar! Mereu de una singur sar... n flcri brusc se face frig: din gerul focului tot strig, strig, strig... Vine un trector i se chinuie s sting focul din Athanor: mi-ar arde fr s pregete, de-ar reui, pielea mincinoas, solzoas, lunecndu-i pe sub degete, blestematul meu vemnt, doar pentru trupul mrunt ce i-a drui...
78
I AM A SALAMANDER
In my dream I play a game: I am a salamander and willingly I jump into fire, but what devilish embers! I always jump alone Suddenly there is cold in flames: and I keep crying out from the frost of fire, I cry, I cry There comes a passer-by he tries hard to extinguish the fire in Athanor: he would burn without hesitating, if he succeeded my lying scaly skin, running from under his fingers, my cursed coat, which I would give only for the small body
79
n flcri iar se face frig i visul strig, i eu strig: Dar sufletul, sufletul meu uria, cui l lai, cui l lai? .................... Aici visul se lumineaz. Sunt singur i treaz... n noapte se aud pai i doar ecoul reverbernd: La, la, la...
80
Into the flames is cold again and the dream cries, and I cry: How about the soul, my huge soul, whom do you leave it to? whom do you leave it to? ............................................... Here the dream gets enlightened. I am alone and awaked... In the evening one can hear steps and only the echo which reverberates: Coward, coward, coward...
81
CA UNIC SIM S AI DOAR FOCUL

S cunoti prin cenu tot gustul nimicniciei, s nu-i fie niciunde locul, ca unic sim s ai doar focul, combustia lui bizar cu limbi jucue, ah, nevorbind nici o limb dect a Poeziei!
82
TO HAVE THE FIRE AS ONE FEELING

To know in the ashes the entire taste of nothingness, to find your place nowhere, to have the fire as one feeling its bizarre combustion with playful tongues, my goodness, speaking no language, but only that of Poetry!
83
MIRELE DE CENU
De tine am ars pn cnd zgura mi-a rostuit altfel fptura... Acum, dac i-a mai ntinde un gnd ar fi spulberat de vnt... Trupului meu torturat de arii mereu i-am ngduit o u prin care s pleci, mire al meu de cenu... Nu privi napoi va ploua cu cele mai uscate ploi, va ninge cu cea mai neagr ninsoare, n-ai s mai vezi niciodat cellalt soare... Du-te! n chip de drum fie s-alergi dup fum...
84
THE BRIDEGROOM OF ASHES

I burnt because of you till the slag have arranged my being differently... Now, if I were to send a thought of mine to you it would be scattered to the winds... Permanently tortured by passion I opened a door to my body through which you my bridegroom of ashes could go away... Dont look back it will rain with the driest rains, it will snow with the blackest snow, you will never see the other sun... Go! as a road may you run after smoke...
85
LACUL I PIATRA
Singurtatea, lac cu ape moarte, s-a ncreit vuind pn departe. Eti piatra i-ai czut cu pocnet sec; nu pot din drag dect s te nec...
86
THE LAKE AND THE STONE

Loneliness, a lake with dead waters, rippled swishing from afar. You are the stone and fell down with a dry crack; I cannot help it but out of love try to drown you...
87
TREIME
Simt clipa cu mirosul vzului auzitor cum m pipie trectoare O nasc n dureri, n surs o omor, aa cum i ea m nate, s m omoare atom de praf n univers Cnd am iubit am scris, cnd am urt am scris, m-am pierdut, m-am gsit doar n Vers! - Arzi prea nebunete, i poi jigni pe cei de iasc, de hrtie, de piatr - Dar eu sunt de foc, vestal i vatr i el se va stinge doar cnd voi muri
88
TRINITY
With the smell of the hearing sight I can feel the moment the way it touches me transiently... I deliver it in labours, with a smile I kill it, just as it gives birth to me in order to kill me an atom of dust in the universe... When I loved I wrote, when I hated I wrote, I lost myself and found myself only in Verse! You burn too madly, you can offend those made of tinder, of paper, of stone... But I am of fire, a vestal and a hearth and it will burn down only when I shall die...
89
Focul e via, m cheam i-l chem Cnd am iubit - am ars, cnd am urt - am ars, m-am ncenuat, Poenix am zburat doar din Poem! Simt clipa ca pe-o hran de iad i paradis Dau viaa doar cu moartea-n legmnt Cnd am iubit - am scris, cnd am urt - am scris, am murit, am nviat doar prin Cuvnt! Vers - Poem - Cuvnt, sfnt a mea Treime, din mrunta trufie s nu uit a ngenunchea, s am la ce m nchina n marea micime!
90
Fire is life, it calls me and I call it... When I loved - I burnt, when I hated - I burnt, I turned myself into ashes, Phoenix I flew only from the Poem! I feel the moment like a nourishment of hell and paradise... I give my life only with deah like an oath... When I loved I wrote, When I hated I wrote, I died, I came back to life, only through the Word! Verse - Poem - Word, my saint Trinity, out of my mean haughtiness let me not forget how to kneel, how to worship in my big pettiness!
91
DE-A NISIPUL
Prima mea Mare (pntecul mamei) nu m-a iubit... M-a scuipat pe rmul clipei ca un euat pui de chit. De-atunci am socotit Pmntul reazemul meu credincios, cu Aerul colindndu-l, cu miezul de Foc, luminos. Marea a rmas n comaruri sor cu Frica, imens i sfidtoare, pntecul cel mai mare din care s-a ivit Nimica. O privesc ascuns-n nisip i simt c n-am chip, n-am consisten, n-am nume, sunt o entitate srac din tot ce-a cldit i neac trnd de-a valma de pr, alge, corbii, pmnturi...
92
TO PLAY SAND
My first Sea (my mothers womb) did not love me... It spit me out there on the shore of the moment like an abortive young whale. Since then I rummaged the Earth my faithful support, wandering about it with the Air, with its bright Fire crucial point. The sea remained in nightmares the sister of Fear, immense and defiant, the biggest womb of which Nothing came out. Im looking at it hidden in the sand and I feel I am faceless with no consistence, with no name, I am a poor entity out of all it has made up and then it drowns taking helter-skelter by the hair, see weeds, sailing boats, lands...
93
mi pndete batjocoritor focul din cnturi i amenin furios: - Hai, mai joac-te de-a nisipul, de-a cel mai sfrmicios joc! Sub mine-i atta loc s-i piard-n vecie chipul reazemul tu caraghios Aer, Pmnt, Foc!
94
It is watching scornfully the fire in my songs and is threatening furiously: Come, play again sand, the most breakable game! Under me there is so much place which will lose its face for good your funny support Air, Land, Fire!
95
EU I CRILE
Singur, la etaj (un cer deczut amintind raiul dat cndva n gaj)... Singur, cu soarele ca un Dumnezeu obosit, de bunvoie orbit... Singur, eu i crile n trudnic exilare, privind cu spaim furnicarul de pe trotuare... Singur, fr nume, c-un sentiment vinovat c-am purtat n mine, am nscut i am legnat aceast lume nepstoare, aceast lume...
96
ME AND THE BOOKS

Alone, up there at my floor (a decaying sky reminding of the once put in pledge paradise)... Alone with the sun like a tired God, willingly deprived of His sight.. . Alone, me and the books in a tormenting banishment, looking with awe at the crowd fussing on the side-walks... Alone, with no name, with a feeling of guilt that I have been carrying with me, that I gave birth to and I dandled this careless world, this world...
97
98
CUPRINS
Casa ____________________________ 4 The House_________________________ 5 Femeie____________________________ 6 Woman____________________________ 7 Chopiniana ________________________ 10 Chopiniana_________________________ 11 Tabloul____________________________ 12 The Painting________________________ 13 De sub ap________________________ 16 From under the Water_________________ 17 Animalul i pasrea__________________ 20 The Animal and The Bird_______________ 21 Poetul______________________________ 22 The Poet__________________________ 23 Doamna Bonsai_____________________ 26 Madam Bonsai______________________ 27 Sete_______________________________ 32 Thirst_____________________________ 33 ntlnirea__________________________ 36 Enconter_____________________________ 37 Altceva dect semne_________________ 40 Something Else than Signs_____________ 41 Identitate____________________________ 46 Identity______________________________ 47 Predicat_____________________________ 48 Predicate____________________________ 49 Poem cu ocol_________________________ 50 A Poem with a Detour___________________51 Floarea-soarelui_______________________ 52 Sun-Flower___________________________53 Cuierul______________________________ 54 The Coat Hanger_____________________ 55 Poem n Braille______________________ 56 A Poem in Braille____________________ 57
99
Spectator__________________________ 58 Spectator__________________________ 59 n umbr___________________________ 60 In the Shadow ______________________ 61 Trec i eu__________________________ 62 I Go too____________________________ 63 Nerecunotin______________________ 64 Ungratefulness______________________ 65 Pisica_____________________________ 66 The Cat____________________________ 67 Cte ceva despre moartea personal_____ 68 A few Things about My Personal Death___ 69 Ninsoarea continu__________________ 72 Snow Keeps Falling__________________ 73 Portret n albastru____________________ 74 A Portrait in Blue____________________ 75 Sub cellalt cer______________________ 76 Under the Other Sky__________________ 77 Sunt salamandr____________________ 78 I Am a Salamander__________________ 80 Ca unic sim s ai doar focul___________ 82 To Have the Fire as One Feeling_________ 83 Mirele de cenu____________________ 84 The Bridegroom of Ashes _____________ 85 Lacul i piatra_______________________ 86 The Lake and the Stone_______________ 87 Treime____________________________ 88 Trinity______________________________89 De-a nisipul_________________________ 92 To Play Sand _______________________ 93 Eu i crile_________________________ 96 Me and the Books____________________ 97
100

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Doamna Bonsai/ Madam Bonsai

PASSIONARIA STOICESCU DOAMNA BONSAI/ MADAM BONSAI

Doamna Bonsai/ Madam Bonsai

DOAMNA BONSAI MADAM BONSAI

Mugura Maria Petrescu

Editura CLUZA v.b. 3

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Doamna Bonsai/ Madam Bonsai

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FROM UNDER THE WATER

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THE ANIMAL AND THE BIRD

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ALTCEVA DECT SEMNE

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SOMETHING ELSE THAN SIGNS

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A POEM WITH A DETOUR

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THE COAT HANGER

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CTE CEVA DESPRE MOARTEA PERSONAL

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A FEW THINGS ABOUT MY PERSONAL DEATH

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SNOW KEEPS FALLING

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SUB CELLALT CER

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UNDER THE OTHER SKY

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CA UNIC SIM S AI DOAR FOCUL

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TO HAVE THE FIRE AS ONE FEELING

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THE BRIDEGROOM OF ASHES

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THE LAKE AND THE STONE