Poezie/Poetry

Poezie in dua limbi - romana si engleza/Poetry in two languages - Romanian and English

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partea de Dunarea de Jos jurnalul  partea de Porto-Franco jurnalul

Toata aceasta pagina contine opt poezii. Doua din ele sunt din revista Porto-Franco, trei din Dunarea de Jos, iar restul din culegerea mea de poezii - Copiii lui Nietzsche. Poeziile au fost traduse din engleza de dr. Petru Iamandi. Cele mai multe au fost publicate si in Marea Britanie, ambele versiuni fiind redate aici. In biserica din San Vicente de la Barqueras include doua versuri in spaniola care inseamna "Presedintele merge la razboi/ Ce pacat. Ce pacat. Ce ruine." Aceste versuri provin dintr-un cantec spaniol din secolul al XVIII-lea ; eu nu am facut decat sa inlocuiesc Mambru din original cu "El Presidente". Mambru este porecla spaniol a Ducelui de Marlborough.

Toate poeziile sunt traduse de dr. Petru Iamandi.

Poezii: Amintire, Analele sarmanilor, Un copil la razboi, Copiii lui Nietzsche, In biserica din San Vicente de la Barqueras, Poem lui Donald Thompson, si Toate talentele.

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All this page comprises is eight poems. Two are from the the journal Porto-Franco and three each from Dunarea de Jos, and my collection Nietzsche's Children. In all cases they were written in English and translated into Romanian by Dr Petru Iamandi. Most of the poems have also been published in the UK, and both versions of the poems are given here. In the Church of San Vicente de las Barquersa includes two lines from Spanish in both versions. They translate as 'The President's going to the war/What a pity. What a pity. What a shame.' These are taken from an 18th century Spanish song; all I have done is substitute 'El Presidente' for the original 'Mambru'. 'Mambru' was a mocking Spanish nickname for the Duke of Marlborough.

All poems have been translated from the original English into Romanian by Dr Petru Iamandi.

The poems featured on this page are: All the Talents, Annals of the Poor, A Child at War, In the Church at San Vicente de las Barqueras, Memory, Nietzsche's Children and Poem for Donald Thompson.


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Amintire

                              Ce sunt amintirile?
                              Cineva pomeneste de Norfolk
                              Norfolk este in East Anglia.
                              Iar eu tin in mana o punga de hartie.
                              'Cartofi pai din East Anglia' proclama eticheta.
                              Am noua ani si
                              tot ce-mi amintesc e punga
                              si ca-n locu-acela, Clacton se numea,
                              erau doua montagne russe uriase.
                              Un fapt chiar si atunci lipsit de importanta.
                              Si totusi duceti-ma acolo,
                              aratati-mi un lucru ce-a ramas
                              si-un bloc, oricat de mic, se va preface in ruine.
                              Luati-mi mult prea multe si
                              Întegrul edificiu se va prabusi.

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Memory

                              What is memory?
                              Someone mentions Norfolk;
                              Norfolk is in East Anglia.
                              And in my hand is a paper packet,
                              'East Anglia Crisps' proclaimed on the side.
                              I am nine years old and
                              all I remember is that packet
                              and that the place, Clacton it was,
                              had two big dippers.
                              A thing of no consequence even then.
                              Yet take me there,
                              show me that there is only one,
                              and a small building block crumbles away.
                              Take away too many and
                              the edifice itself will crumble.


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Analele Sarnanilor

                              Scurtele si simplele anale ale sarmanilor,
                                  negravate inca-n piatra alba, rece:
                                spray-urile mai degraba deseneaza.
                              scurtele si simplele anale ale sarmanilor.
                                In metrouri, sali, noi consemnam
                                  cronica de un sarman renume:
                              scurtele si simplele anale ale sarmanilor
                                  negravate inca-n piatra alba, rece.

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Annals of the Poor

                              The short and simple annals of the poor,
                                  not now engraved on cool white stone:
                                spraycans now more likely draw
                              the short and simple annals of the poor.
                                In subways, hallways now we score
                                  memorials of but poor renown:
                              the short and simple annals of the poor,
                                  not now engraved on cool white stone.


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Un Copil la razboi

                              Vad o teama tainica, asezonata,
                              prinsa in hartia-ngalbenita de ziar,
                              aud muzica de copil acoperita de tobele razboiului,
                              simt afectiunea innorata de umbra timpului sau.

                              Sau poate ca o lumanare datatoare de speranta
                              a luminat un drum peste anii intunecati
                              iar el, de l-a vazut,
                              ar recunoaste acest spectru ros de griji pe care-l am in fata?

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A Child at War

                              I see a private, seasoned fear
                              trapped within the fading newsprint,
                              hear childish music muted by the drums of war,
                              sense affection clouded by the shadow of his time.

                              Or did some bright, fostering candle
                              light a way across the darkened years,
                              and would he, if he saw,
                              own to the troubled wraith I see?


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Copiii lui Nietzsche

                              O Friedrich!
                              Tu ti-ai scrutat prea mult abisul.
                              Si-acum leii-si rad de tine -
                              n-ai invatat sa mori, nici sa traiesti.
                              Nici unul mai de seama nu ti-a ramas in urma,
                              cuvintele-ti frumos-urate le-a cumpanit
                              nu fiara blonda, ci fiara oarba si inversunata.
                              Tare ma tem ca orbii le-or cumpani din nou.

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Nietzsche's Children

                              O Friedrich!
                              You gazed too long into your own abyss.
                              Now the lions laugh at you
                              for learning not to live nor to die.
                              No higher man was left behind you
                              and your ugly beautiful words were heeded
                              not by a blond beast but a blind and bitter one.
                              And now I fear that the blind will head them again.


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In biserica din San Vicente de la Barqueras

                              Asudau in soarele de martie,
                              si dupa urcusul pe dealul abrupt,
                              nimerira in biserica veche.
                              Pacat ca slujba nu se terminase.

                              Asta insemna ca nu trebuie sa faca zgomot,
                              ca trebuie sa-si foloseasca blitzurile discret.
                              (Ciudate obiceiurile astea
                              de prin tarile indepartate.
                              Nu ca n-ar avea si ceva potential comercial.)

                              Preotul murmura spre turma lui:
                              El presidente se fué a la guerra.
                              Que dolor. Que dolor. Que peña.

                              Si ce daca? Orientul Mijlociu e la fel ca aici.
                              Mai primitiv. Mai prafuit.
                              N-ar strica o schimbare, doua.
                              La fel ca aici. Doar ca are ceva bogatie in pamant.

                              La scurt timp, obositi de-atata scormonit printre pietrele vechi,
                              pierzandu-si rabdarea cu oamenii aia superstitiosi,
                              iesira clipind in lumina soarelui.
                              Era o zi frumoasa pentru acea luna a anului:
                              nici un nor pe cer,
                              doar cel intunecat, spre apus.

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In the Church at San Vicente de las Barqueras

                              Sweating from the March sunshine,
                              and the climb up the steep hill,
                              they had blundered into the old church.
                              Pity that there was still a service going on.

                              That meant that they would have to be quiet;
                              would have to pop their flashguns discreetly.
                              (These quaint old customs
                              that they have in distant countries.
                              You'd think they'd see commercial possibilities
                              in a place like this).

                              The priest was murmuring to his flock:
                              'El presidente se fué a la guerra.
                              Que dolor. Que dolor. Que peña.'

                              So what? The Middle East is a place just like this.
                              More primitive. More dusty.
                              Could do with some changes there.
                              Like this place. Except there's really some wealth in the soil.

                              In a short while, tired of poking around old stones,
                              impatient with superstitious people,
                              they emerged blinking into the sunlight.
                              It was a fine day for this time of year:
                              not a cloud in the sky
                              except the dark one to the west.


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Poem lui Donald Thompson

                              Unde esti acum Donald Thompson,
                              infocat poet al anilor de razboi?
                              Tin in mana revista ingalbenit-a tineretii tale;
                              iar cuvintele imi spun despre lumi si vremuri departate

                                      Despre meritele relative ale prietenilor sau dusmanilor morti;
                                      despre inaltarea unei lumi noi din sange;
                                      despre lei ce-si ling ranile -
                                      despre lucruri care nu-nseamna prea mare lucru pentru mine.

                              Si totusi, prin pagina ce sta sa se destrame, ma cheama
                              simpla promisiune a unei burti gravide;
                              Iisus-ul sau Iuda ce-au stat încovrigati 'nauntru.

                                      Si unde este si acel Iisus sau Iuda?
                                      Si unde sunt toti fiii lui?

                              Aliniati spre purgatoriu, aliniati spre viata.

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Poem for Donald Thompson

                              Where are you now, Donald Thompson,
                              earnest poet of wartime years?
                              I hold now the browning pulp of your youth;
                              your words tell of distant lands, distant times.

                                      Of the relative merits of dead friend or foe;
                                      of building the new world out of blood;
                                      of lions licking their wounds -
                                      despre lucruri care nu-nseamna of things that mean little to me.

                              Yet there calls to me still through the mouldering page
                              the simple promise of a gravid belly;
                              the Jesus or Judas that lay curled within.

                                      And where, too, is that Jesus or Judas?
                                      And where are all of his sons?

                              Lined up for limbo, lined up for life.


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Toate talentele

                              Stii, nu mi se pare correct.
                              N-ar trebui ca oamenii sa rada cand o vad
                              Pe Regina-Vrajitoare fotografiata
                              Pe treptele din Downing Street.
                              Doar vrem un guvern
                              numai din talente.
                              Buna idee,
                              desi s-ar putea merge mai departe.

                              Stalin ar putea raspunde
                              de productie
                              pe vreo sapte ani.
                              Sigur ar pune totul in miscare.

                              De ce nu l-am numi pe Mugabe
                              ministru al agriculturii?
                              Cu un coltuc de paine
                              am duce-o cativa ani.

                              Hunul Atila
                              ar putea fi consilier special
                              pe probleme de politica externa.
                              I-ar tranti pe cativa cu capul de masa.

                              Adolf Hitler
                              ar pune in dezbatere
                              chestiunea imigratiei.
                              E un tip foarte grijuliu.

                              Sau l-am putea face
                              pe Tony Blair
                              ambasador al pacii
                              în Orientul Mijlociu.

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All the talents

                              It's not right you know.
                              They shouldn't mock
                              to see the Witch-Queen photographed
                              on the steps of Downing Street.
                              After all, we want a Government
                              of All the Talents.
                              It's a great idea;
                              it doesn't go far enough.

                              Stalin could be put in charge
                              of production
                              for seven years or so.
                              He'd get the wheels turning.

                              Why not Mugabe
                              for Minister of Food?
                              He'd make just a little
                              go a long, long way.

                              Attilla the Hun
                              might become special adviser
                              on foreign policy.
                              He'd bang a few heads on the table.

                              Adolf Hitler
                              would bring something to the debate
                              on immigration.
                              He's a very thoughtful man.

                              Or we could just make
                              pe Tony Blair
                              Peace Ambassador
                              in the Middle East.


Alte limbi/Languages Other than English
Dunarea de Jos
Nietzsche's Children
Petru Iamandi
Poetry in Translation
Româneste
Sonet, de Mihai Eminescu
Un alt altul/Another Other/
Partea întai/Back to Main Page