What’s friendship? The hangover’s faction,
The gratis talk of outrage,
Exchange by vanity, inaction,
Or bitter shame of patronage.
Prietenia, ce e? Ecou de facţiune,
O vorbă ieftină, cu spirit de ultraj,
Cocktail de vanitate şi inacţiune,
Păcatul unui mare patronaj.
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There is no part of your body that I do not know, there is no
part that I do not like. I want to keep being
the light stunned at the look of your white
roundness of flesh. I want to keep
living
in the beautiful city
that you are.
Nu a mai rămas nici o parte a corpului tău care să nu o cunosc, nici o
parte care să nu îmi placă. Aşi vrea să fiu de-a pururi
lumina înmărmurită, privind sideful
rotund al corpului tău. Aşi vrea de-a pururi
să trăiesc
în această cetate splendidă
care eşti Tu.
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The hour arborescent in the shelter of evening.
That voluptuous taffeta of sense
And life,
which binds severe moments.
A lit blade of grass touches the tremulous flesh,
elaborates the happy flowering of what’s lost.
Nothing is shipwrecked definitively.
The viola turns into sheer silk.
Great scars receive their oils.
Tags:"Constantin Roman"·"Manuel Álvarez Torneiro"·"Poetry in Translation"·editor·English·In Tribute to Tomaso Albinoni”·London·poem·poet·poetry·poezie·Romania·romanian·The Matter of Adagio·traducere·translation·translator·Tribut lui Tomaso Albinoni”·“Adagio
Voyant qu’on n’a rien, on essaye de se donner,
Essayant de se donner, on voit qu’on n’est rien,
Voyant qu’on est rien, on désire devenir,
Désirant devenir, on vit.
Văzând că nu am nimic, încerc să ofer,
Încercând să ofer, văd că sunt un nimic,
Văzând că sunt un nimic, doresc să devin,
Dorind să devin, trăiesc.
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Prompt me, God;
But not yet. When I speak,
Though it be you who speak
Through me, something is lost.
The meaning is in the waiting.
‘Kneeling’
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I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
Moartea ce am visat o strâng la piept, ca pruncul.
Viaţa ce-am căutat n-a fost decât un mit…
Pe căi ce am umblat mi-am regăsit mormântul.
Acuma mor, în fine, dar sunt neîmplinit.
Pocalul ce-a fost plin acuma e golit…
Cândva am mai sperat, dar sunt un om sfârşit.
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Vesperală
Constantin_Oprişan
Şi vântul, şi cântul, şi inima-mi frântă,
Şi toamna, şi frunza-şi trăiau agonia.
Tăcere… Un flaut mai cântă:
Maria, Maria, Maria!
The battered Soul is breaking,
Like tree leaves on Golgotha’s road.
As a prayer, a lone flute is singing,
Oh, Mary – the Mother of God!
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Ask of Me
Shlomo (Solomon) ibn GABIROL
Aka AVICEBRON
Ishmael’s offspring command
Back to his Arab land,
As his mother of old
To her mistress was told
To return and submit to her hand.
Şi precum Ismail l-a mânat
Să se-ntoarcă la câmpul arat,
Tot aşa muma lui, prea-bătrână,
Iubitei lui i-a strigat
Să se-ncline voinţei ei de stăpână.
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Tags:"Centre for Romanian Studies - London"·"Constantin Roman"·"Poetry in Translation"·Ask of me·AVICEBRON·Cere-mi·editor·English·Jewish Andalus·London·Malaga·poem·poet·poetry·poezie·romanian·Solomon ibn GABIROL·traducere·translation·translator·Valencia
Imnul golanilor (refren):
Cristian PAŢURCĂ
Mai bine haimana, decât trădător
Mai bine huligan, decât dictator
Mai bine golan, decât activist
Mai bine mort, decât comunist.
Hoodlum’s Song (refrain)
Cristian PAŢURCĂ
I’d rather be a hoodlum than be a nation’s traitor.
I’d rather be a vandal, than be a scum-dictator.
I’d rather be a punk, than Party activist.
I’d rather be long-dead, than rabid Communist!
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This Be The Verse
PHILIP LARKIN
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Căci omul moşteneşte din străbuni
Mizeria din sufletul adânc:
Să pleci din casa asta de nebuni,
Dar mai ales să n-ai cumva vre-un prunc!
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