pentru

zgomotele făcute de alţii

atât de străini încât

să nu te mai doară

pentru

scrâşnetul scaunului pe gresie

venit de la apartamentul de deasupra

pentru

foşnetul seminţei ce încolţeşte prin ciment

pentru

sunetul vocii tale din vis

mai vie decât o ştiai

şi

întotdeauna te vei găsi

în preajma neputinţei

de a înţelege

lucrurile fireşti

cum ar fi o îmbrăţişare

simplă

ca un sacrificiu

…

…

în mormântul ăsta din piept

.

.

.

.

.

.

nu-mi vine să cred!

anunţul lui Un Cristian e pe facebook şi, dacă nu-mi spunea Tina, eu puteam să o lălăi mult şi bine ))

mă duc să sărbătoresc sau ceva

…

Song (“I almost went to bed …”)

I almost went to bed
without remembering
the four white violets
I put in the button-hole
of your green sweater

and how i kissed you then
and you kissed me
shy as though I’d
never been your lover

….

THE NEXT ONE

Things are better in Milan.
Things are a lot better in Milan.
My adventure has sweetened.
I met a girl and a poet.
One of them was dead
and one of them was alive.
The poet was from Peru
and the girl was a doctor.
She was taking antibiotics.
I will never forget her.
She took me into a dark church
consecrated to Mary.
Long live the horses and the sandles.
The poet gave me back my spirit
which I had lost in prayer.
He was a great man out of the civil war.
He said his death was in my hands
because I was the next one
to explain the weakness of love.
The poet was Cesar Vallejo
who lies at the floor of his forehead.
Be with me now great warrior
whose strength depends solely
on the favours of a woman.

….

THE PRO

I leave my silence to a co-operative of poets
who have already bruised their mouths against it.

I leave my homesick charm to the scavengers of
spare change who work the old artistic corners.

I leave the shadow of my manly groin to those who
write for pay.

I leave to several jealous men a second-rate legend
of my life.

To those few high school girls
who preferred my work to Dylan’s
I leave my stone ear
and my disposable Franciscan ambitions

…

summer haiku

Silence

and a deeper silence

when the crickets

hesitate

….

….

şi nu caut motive pentru că nu există nici un  motiv.

există doar stări foarte puternice şi de o înspăimântătoare pasiune.

şi chiar dacă nimic nu e complet nu înseamnă că nu există frumuseţe.

…

…

….

…

…

…

….

]]> http://buggerit.wordpress.com/2011/09/19/she-walks-in-beauty/feed/ 0 liviastefan she walks in beauty 2 she walks in beauty 4 she walks in beauty 5 she walks in beauty 6 she walks in beauty 3 http://buggerit.wordpress.com/2011/08/04/wislawa/ http://buggerit.wordpress.com/2011/08/04/wislawa/#comments Thu, 04 Aug 2011 13:36:47 +0000 livia stefan http://buggerit.wordpress.com/?p=1105 ]]> Wislawa Szymborska cea ludică şi înţeleaptă, de care sunt irevocabil atrasă.

am găsit din pură întâmplare cartea People on a bridge. chiar m-am speriat când am descoperit-o, aruncată printre celelalte cărţi de pe raftul din anticariat. zic: Uau! chiar ea să fie?! ea era.   ha!

deci, vă las aici, din People on a bridge  trei poeme, traduse în engleză de poetul Adam Czerniawski.

…

Homecoming

He was back. Said nothing.
But it was clear something unpleasant had occurred.
He lay down in his suit.
Hid his head under the blanket.
Drew up his knees.
He’s about forty, but not at this moment.
He exists – but only as much as in his mother’s belly
behind seven skins, in protective darkness.
Tomorrow he is lecturing on homeostasis
In metagalactic space-travel.
But now he’s curled up and fallen asleep.

…

Thank-you

I owe a lot

to those I don’t love.

Relieved to acknowledge

they are closer to someone else.

Joy at not being

the wolf of their sheep.

With them I am at peace,

with them I’m free,

and this love can neither give

nor knows how to take.

I don’t wait for them

from window to door.

Patient

almost like a sundial

I understand

what love does not

and forgive

what love would never have forgiven.

Between a meeting and a letter

it’s  not an eternity that passes,

but simply a few days or weeks.

Travels with them are always a success,

concerts heard through,

cathedrals toured,

landscapes distinct.

And when seven hills and rivers

divide us,

these are hills and rivers

we know well from maps.

It’s  their own achievement

if they live in three dimensions,

in nonlyrical and unrhetorical space,

with a real, that is, a mobile horizon.

They themselves don’t know

how much they carry empty-handed.

“I owe them  nothing”

love would have commented

on this open subject. 

 ….

 Funeral

-     so suddenly, who could have guessed

-     nerves, and cigarettes, I did warn him

-     passably, thank you

-     unwrap those flowers

-     in his brother’s case it was the heart, must be in the family

-     I would never recognize you with that beard

-     only himself to blame, always mixed up in something

-     that new one was to speak, can’t see him

-     Kazek’s in Warsaw, Tadek’s  abroad

-     only you were clever enough to take an umbrella

-      he was the ablest – doesn’t matter now

-     it’s a connecting room, Basia won’t agree

-     yes, he was right,  but that’s  no  excuse

-     door varnishing included – guess how much

-     two yolks, a spoonful of sugar

-     not his business, shouldn’t have meddled

-     only in blue and only in small sizes

-     five times and never any answer

-     all right, I could have, and so could you

-     at least she held down that little job

-     no idea, probably relatives

-     the priest’s quite a Belmondo

-     I’ve never been in this part of the cemetery

-     I dreamt about him last week, had a premonition

-     the daughter is quite pretty

-     we’re all in the same boat

-     condolences to the widow, must rush

-     but it used to sound  more dignified in Latin

-     it’s all in the past now

-     goodbye, Martha

-     let’s find a beer somewhere

-     give me a ring, we’ll talk

-     catch a 4 or a 12

-     I go this way

-     we go over there

…

…

…

…

….

….

….

…