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Entries from September 30th, 2012

Poetry in Translation (CXXVII): Vicente Aleixandre (1889, Sevilla – 1984, Madrid), Poet Spaniol – “No estrella”, ” Stea fără nume”, “No star”

September 30th, 2012 · 4 Comments · International Media, Poetry, quotations, Translations

¿Quién dijo que ese cuerpo
tallado a besos, brilla
resplandeciente en astro
feliz? ¡Ah, estrella mía,
desciende! Aquí en la hierba
sea cuerpo al fin, sea carne
tu luz. Te tenga al cabo,
latiendo entre los juncos,
estrella derribada
que dé su sangre o brillos
para mi amor. ¡Ah, nunca
inscrita arriba! Humilde,
tangible, aquí en la tierra
te espera. Un hombre que te ama.

STEA FARA NUME
(Vicente Aleixandre, 1889-1984)

Cine a spus, oare, că timpul
sculptat din săruturi, străluceşte
minunat în orbita
fericirii? O, stea, tu care eşti a mea,
coboară! Fie lumina ta
doar carne şi trup, aici,
pe pământ. Putea-voi
să te cuprind, zvâcnind în iarbă,
stea căzută din cer,
care, pentru dragostea mea, vei fi sacrificat
sângele şi strălucirea ta. Nu, niciodată,
tu, fiinţă cerească! Aici, umil
şi tangibil, pământul te ocroteşte.
Aici, un om ţi se închină.

(Rendered in Romanian by Constantin ROMAN, London,
© 2012, Copyright Constantin ROMAN)

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Letter from Germany – Ein Brief auß Deutschland – Lettre d’Allemagne (II): the Tragedy of Romania

September 29th, 2012 · Comments Off on Letter from Germany – Ein Brief auß Deutschland – Lettre d’Allemagne (II): the Tragedy of Romania · Diary, Diaspora, OPINION, PEOPLE, quotations, Translations

Du mußt dir vorstellen, ein Haufen Affen die faul an Bäumen baumeln und den ganzen Tag die Bananen genießen, die ihnen vor der Nase hängen.
Und trotzdem, die Lebensbedingungen dieser Menschen sind unbeschreiblich. Ihre einzige Sorge ist gut zu essen, zu trinken und nicht allzuviel tun. Ich habe nirgendwo so viel Schmutz und Dreck an einem Ort gesehen, wo verglichen mit dem Möglichkeiten die sie hätten, viel mehr Ordnung sein müßte.
Alles ist ein Durcheinander, von Luxusgütern gemischt mit anderen Dingen die einen erbärmlichen und von ungeheure schlechten Geschmack zeugen.
Ich habe Bauern gesehen die in Pferdewagen, barfuß und schmutzig waren, die aber mit dem Handy telefonierten. Ich habe Menschen gesehen, die ihre Luxuskarossen in einem verrosteten Laster durch die Gegend spazierenfuhren, um anderen Leuten zu zeigen was sie besitzen. Ich habe hunderte von herrenlosen Hunden gesehen, die mitten auf den Straßen schliefen. Ich habe genau im Stadtkern von Bukarest zerfallene Hütten gesehen, die an zerbrochenen Fenstern, an Stelle von Gardinen, T-Shirts und alte Pyjamas hatten. Ich habe unglaublich luxuriöse Kaufhäuser gesehen, die von Polizisten bewacht waren, während draußen am Straßenrand Bettler mit traurigen Augen saßen.
La manie pompeuse de ceux qui sont « arrivés », qui se sont enrichi, est inimaginable. Nombreux sont ceux qui travaillent à l’étranger et qui retournent au pays avec de l’argent et le désir d’avoir à tout prix ce que les autres n’ont pas. C’est ainsi qu’ils se payent des villas et maisons horriblement pompeuses en dehors de Bucarest, des maisons qui ont l’air ridicule dans des villages où les autochtones restés, vivent encore dans leurs maisonnettes bâties d’argile et bouse de vache, blanchies à la chaux et avec des toits penchants telles de petites vieilles en train de bavarder. La vue jadis si belle est détruite et le comble est que même dans les cours de ces maisons bien à part, on peut voir, quelque part vers le grillage en fer forgé, une vache à côté d’une carriole essayant de paître parmi les tas de briques cassées.

Que pourrais-je te dire de plus, c’était un pèlerinage dans le passé traversant d’abord le futur, un bizarre mélange d’états sociaux, l’apparence visible d’un peuple qui, selon mon avis, n’aura jamais la chance d’arriver assez loin, exactement à cause des discordances excessives. On ne saura jamais convertir à notre civilisation une petite vieille innocente qui crache dans sa poitrine lorsqu’on la photographie et qu’on lui montre immédiatement l’image, sur le dos d’un appareil numérique. Et c’est exactement là la cause du fait que j’ai une grande pitié et compréhension pour ceux qui sont arriérés d’une centaine d’années, et aucune tolérance pour ceux qui, par des ruses, mensonges et tromperies, essaient de tirer le plus bas possible ce pays. Malheureusement nous n’y pouvons rien faire, mai la sensation demeure douloureuse.

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Letter from Germany – Scrisoare din Germania (I): the Tragedy of Romania

September 28th, 2012 · 5 Comments · Diary, OPINION, PEOPLE

Grandomania celor care « au ajuns », care s-au îmbogatit, este de neinchipuit. Sunt foarte multi cei care lucreaza dincolo de granitele tarii si care se intorc cu bani si cu dorinta de a avea ceva ce altii nu au. In felul acesta isi trintesc vile si case oribil de pompoase in afara Bucurestiului, case care arata ridicol intr-un sat unde bastinasii ramasi traiesc inca in casutele lor construite din lut si balegar, vopsite cu var si cu acoperisurile aplecate ca niste babute la taifas. Privelistea altadata atit de frumoasa este distrusa iar culmea este ca si in aceste curti unde casele se simt stinghere, vezi la gardul din fier forjat o caruta linga o vaca slaba care incearca sa pasca printre mormanele de caramizi sparte. Ce-ti pot spune mai mult, a fost un pelegrinaj in trecut trecind prin viitor, un ciudat amestec de stari sociale, o coloratura a unui popor care dupa parerea mea nu va avea niciodata sansa sa ajunga prea departe tocmai din cauza ca discrepantele sunt prea mari. Nu poti nicicind sa convertezi o babuta nevinovata la civilizatia secolului nostru, cind ea isi scuipa inca in sin cind ii faci o poza pe care imediat dupa aceea i-o arati pe celular. Si exact din acest motiv am mare mila si intelegere pentru cei care inca sunt cu o suta de ani inapoi si cea mai putina intelegere pentru cei care prin smecherii, minciuni si inselatorii incearca sa duca aceasta tara cit mai jos. Din pacate nu putem face nimic dar senzatia este dureroasa.
Sunt inca sub impresiile de acolo dupa cum observi, visez noaptea si ma scol cu senzatia ca mai sunt acolo, ma simt nefolositoare dar nu stiu ce as putea face… Sper ca nu te-am obosit cu povestile mele, in general întoarcerea mea scurta in Romania a fost interesanta si poate si o lectie pe care trebuia sa o iau dupa atitia ani…

I have never ever seen so much misery in a place where, given the resources at hand, there ought to be good order. Wherever you look there are luxury goods mixed with paraphernalia of poor taste, miserable goods. I have seen bare-feet, unwashed peasant farmers, in their horse-drawn wooden carts, busy talking on their cell phone; I have seen rural folk, who were exhibiting to all and sundry their newly- acquired luxury car, displayed on the back of a rusty lorry, which they were conveying, just to show off to the rest of the world to marvel at… I have seen hundreds of stray dogs curled up, asleep in the middle of the highway… In downtown Bucharest, I had seen hovels whose windows were covered with hanging tee shirts, or pyjamas, for lack of curtains… I have seen top-notch luxury malls with their ubiquitous uniformed security guards, only to discover, round the corner, people begging in the street.
In the countryside, I walked the main streets of villages covered in thick dust and boulders… I have seen sanitary installations, which were at least seventy-years old… I sat at dining tables laden with foodstuff, yet covered in shoals of flies, which cut my appetite… I cried my eyes out seeing the destitute elderly villagers, seated in the doorways of their rural homes, looking forlorn as the world went bye… I would have liked so much to fathom out what thoughts were visiting their vacuous faces… as the darkness enveloped their cottage, I would have liked to find out what they were doing in the evening, what were they thinking of, the next morning, as immediate prospects were fading fast, biting the dust of their farmyard… I tried to help as much as I could, I bought washing machines, clothes for the children and sundry goods needed in every household, but, as I said, it felt like a bottomless pit.
By contrast, the grandomania of the nouveau-rich, of those who made it overnight, was quite unbelievable. There are so many Romanians who work abroad only to return home playing a game of one-upmanship. In the outskirts of Bucharest they build for themselves some horrible, if pompous villas, which are completely out of kilter with the traditional rural abodes of their neighbours, living in cottages built of clay mixed with horse manure and straw, with whitewashed walls under a tilted roof, not unlike some old people seated on a bench, for a natter. The once bucolic rural atmosphere is completely ruined, yet to cap it all, in some of these farmyards, where such villas look out of place, one could discover, by looking through the iron fence, a wooden cart next to a malnourished cow, trying to graze next to a pile of broken bricks.
The overall impression I got is one of a journey into the past, yet one intermingled with the future, an odd mixture of social scales, a motley palette of a nation, which, in my opinion, will never have a chance of getting very far, at all, just because the discrepancies are too great to smooth over.

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Poetry in Translation (CXXVI): Virgil Suárez (b. 1962, Cuba),– “ŢĂRMUL LUI REINALDO ARENAS” (The Patagonies of Reinaldo Arenas)

September 25th, 2012 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (CXXVI): Virgil Suárez (b. 1962, Cuba),– “ŢĂRMUL LUI REINALDO ARENAS” (The Patagonies of Reinaldo Arenas) · Diaspora, International Media, PEOPLE, Poetry, quotations, Translations, Uncategorized

De câte ori n-ai fost forţat, tu, Reinaldo
Să-ţi înghiţi cuvintele? Bucatele de hârtie rupte
din jurnalul tău, maţele tale, căluşul din gură, pumnii de fier în stomac. De fiecare dată ai scuipat înapoi, focul tău, în faţa câinilor. De cinci
ori ţi-au confiscat manuscrisul, dibuind-ul acolo unde l-ai
ascuns, arzându-l ca şi cum memoria s-ar fi făcut scrum, în incendiu, nu te-ar fi mântuit şi de fiecare dată,
mereu, ai rescris cuvintele, aspirându-le din
cenuşa cruzimii şi violenţei lor, iar tu
le-ai rescris, mereu şi mereu, aceşti cărbuni fierbinţi
aprinzându-se în spiritul tău nemărginit, tu espiritu bello.
Iar într-un sfârşit, cuvintele tale strălucesc
aceşte stele minunate la care exilul se roagă, te urmează
ca să renască, din conflagraţia îndepartată a propriilor lor
vieţi, cinci romane de furtună, ţărână şi apa. Oare ce ţi se oferă
în ţara infinitelor posibilităţi? Ce îţi îndeamnă gândul
în strângerea unei îmbrăţisari? Privirea se deschide la infinit.

Versiune în limba Română
de Constantin Roman
Londra, 25 Septembrie 2012,
© 2012, Copyright Constantin ROMAN

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Poetry in Translation (CXXV): Francesc PARCERISAS (b. 1944), Poet Catalan – “Mâna lui Virgiliu” (The Hand of Virgil)

September 23rd, 2012 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (CXXV): Francesc PARCERISAS (b. 1944), Poet Catalan – “Mâna lui Virgiliu” (The Hand of Virgil) · Books, International Media, PEOPLE, Poetry, quotations, Translations

Francesc PARCERISAS (n. 1944)
Poet Catalan

Bătălia e grea şi nedreaptă,
flăcări domoale pe culmi de coline.
Suliţele şi săgeţile inamice
ne-au decimat încet
părinţii care ne-au ocrotit, încât, aproape,
fără sa ne dăm seama
ne aflăm muţi şi surprinşi peste măsură,
în toiul focului, pe câmpul de bătălie.

Versiune în limba Română
de Constantin Roman
Londra, 23 Septembrie 2012,
© 2012, Copyright Constantin ROMAN
de Constantin Roman
Londra, 23 Septembrie 2012,
© 2012, Copyright Constantin ROMAN

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Poetry in Translation (CXXIV): Kim CHI-HA (b. 1941), Poet Corean – “Din întuneric” – “From the Darkness ”

September 21st, 2012 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (CXXIV): Kim CHI-HA (b. 1941), Poet Corean – “Din întuneric” – “From the Darkness ” · International Media, PEOPLE, Poetry, quotations, Translations

The silence yonder is calling me
Calling on my blood
To refuse
To refuse all lies.
From the darkness yonder
On a rainy day of grey lowering clouds
From that darkness of blood-red bodies
A pair of glaring eyes.

Tăcerea de departe mă chiamă
Îndeamnă sângele
Să refuze
Să refuze orice minciună
Din întunericul de departe
Aud o chemare
Doi ochi ţintesc din ceaţă.
Kim CHI-HA Korean poet in Romanian by Constantin ROMAN

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Poetry in Translation (CXXIII): Reinaldo ARENAS (1943, Cuba – 1990 New York), Poet Cubanez – “My Lover the Sea” – “Iubita mea Marea” – “NIÑO VIEJO”

September 20th, 2012 · 4 Comments · International Media, OPINION, PEOPLE, Poetry, quotations, Translations

Reinaldo Arenas (1943-1990)
Cuban revolutionary poet & author,
exiled in NYC under Castro

My Lover the Sea

I am that child with the round, dirty face
who on every corner bothers you with his
“can you spare a quarter?”

Sunt copilul acela cu faţa rotundă si murdară.
Care la orice colţ de stradă te plictiseşte cerşind:
“dă-mi un leu, domnule!”
Versiune în limba Română
de Constantin Roman
Londra, 20 September 2011,
© 2012, Copyright Constantin Roman

Yo soy ese niño de siempre
ante el panorama del inminente espanto.
Ese niño, ese niño,
ese niño que corrompe el poema con su nota naturalista.
Ese niño, ese niño,
ese niño que impone arduos y aburridos ensayos
y hasta novelas, aún más aburridas, sobre “los bajos fondos”.
Ese niño, ese niño,
ese niño de cara airada y sucia que impone arduas
y siniestras revoluciones
para luego seguir con su cara aún más airada y sucia.
Ese niño, ese niño
ese niño ante el panorama siempre inminente
(sólo inminente)
del inminente espanto, de la inminente lepra, del inminente
piojo,
del delito o del crimen inminentes.
Yo soy ese niño repulsivo que improvisa una cama
con cartones viejos y espera, seguro, que venga usted a
hacerle compañía.

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Mircea Milcovitch receives the French Literary Prize: Prix Contrelittérature 2012

September 10th, 2012 · Comments Off on Mircea Milcovitch receives the French Literary Prize: Prix Contrelittérature 2012 · Books, Diaspora, International Media, OPINION, PEOPLE, Reviews

Mircea Milcovitch receives the French Literary Prize: Prix Contrelittérature 2012:
« Le colonel Lawrence d’Arabie disait par expérience que tout homme qui appartient réellement à deux cultures perdait son âme » : phrase vertigineuse du Démon de l’absolu d’André Malraux, remontée à ma mémoire, telle une épigraphe fulgurante, après avoir lu Journal d’exil de Mircea Milcovitch.
Je ne parlerai pas concernant cet auteur de talent littéraire car il s’agit de bien plus que cela : d’être, de densité humaine, d’âme et de corps, toutes choses ignorées des plates égobiographies d’aujourd’hui. Journal d’exil montre que la grandeur d’un écrivain, autant que sa prédication même, se trouve dans le lieu d’où il écrit. Le lieu de l’écriture est sa vraie profondeur, il est ce « Lieu seul situé » dont parle le poète Oscar Venceslas de Lubicz Milosz dans Ars Magna, lieu de l’exil qui exige le refus du mensonge et seul contient la mélancolie de l’instant : « moi dans le Lieu seul situé j’écris »
Alain Santacreu

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