ALAN BROWNJOHN

“In this city...”

In this city, perhaps a street.
In this street, perhaps a house.
In this house, perhaps a room
And in this room a woman sitting,
Sitting in the darkness, sitting and crying
For someone who has just gone through the door
And who has just switched off the light
Forgetting she was there.

***

ALAN BROWNJOHN

"In ast oras..."

In ast oras, pesemne o strada.
Pe asta strada, pesemne o casa.
In asta casa, pesemne o camera,
Iar in asta camera o femeie stand,
Stand pe-ntuneric, stand si plangand
Dupa cineva ce-abia a iesit pe usa
Si tocmai a-nchis lumina,
Uitand ca ea era acolo.
 

***

Ballad for a Birthday

I cleaned up the house, and moved the telephone;
I had a look to see if the plant had grown;
I put Tiddles outside, and sat on my own:
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

I arranged my dresses on laundry hooks;
I pulled out the table and set out my books;
I went to the window for just one or two looks:
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

I wanted coffee, so I marked the page;
It should have been over when it got to this stage;
Can I be the same girl at a different age?
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

What if he phoned, and I heard the bell
With my feet on the bath-tap, and I couldn’t tell...
Well, I heard it...should I answer it as well?
I fell the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

If he wrote a letter, saying Could we meet,
Or if we met by accident, in the street
– When something’s finished, is it always complete?
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

If he drove round here and knocked on the door,
Would I answer his questions, let him ask me more,
Or could I tell him I was absolutely sure...?
-- Oh, I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

***

Poezie de zi de nastere

Am mutat telefonul, ceva ordine-am facut;
M-am uitat sa vad daca floarea a mai crescut;
L-am scos pe Tiddles, apoi cu mine-am sezut:
La fel ma simt, dar n-as numi-o iubire.

Hainele le-am agatat cu carlige pe sfoara;
Mi-am aranjat cartile pe masa scoasa afara;
Am privit pe fereastra o data-doua, bunaoara;
La fel ma simt, dar n-as numi-o iubire.

Cafea mi-a trebuit si-acum foaia e patata;
Trebuia deja sa se termine tot pana la aceasta etapa;
La o alta varsta, oare-oi fi aceeasi fata?
La fel ma simt, dar n-as numi-o iubire.

Dac-ar suna el la telefon, iar eu sa n-aud,
Sa nu-mi dau seama din cauza robinetului ud...
Ei, bine, am auzit... Ar trebui sa-i si raspund?
La fel ma simt, dar n-as numi-o iubire.

De mi-ar scrie o scrisoare cum ca vrea sa ma vada
Sau daca-ntamplator ne-am intalni pe strada
- Cand un lucru e-ncheiat, e si-ntreg, fara tagada?
La fel ma simt, dar n-as numi-o iubire.

De-ar umbla cu masina-n jur si la usa mi-ar bate,
I-as raspunde intrebarilor, oare l-as lasa sa-mi puna alte?
Sau ii pot marturisi ca nimic nu m-ar abate...?
- Vai, la fel ma simt, dar n-as numi-o iubire.


 

***

The Packet

In the room,
In the woman’s hand as she turns
Is the packet of salt.

On the packet is a picture of a
Woman turning,
With a packet in her hand.

When the woman in the room com-
Pletes her turning, she
Puts the packet down and leaves.

On the packet in the picture
Is: a picture of a woman
Turning, with a packet in her hand.

On this packet is a picture: of a woman,
Turning, with a packet in her hand.
On this packet is no picture.

-- It is a tiny blank.
And now the man waits,
And waits: two-thirty, seven-thirty,
Twelve.

At twelve he lays the packet on its side
And draws, in the last packet in the last
Picture, a tiny woman turning.

And then he locks the door,
And switches off the bedside lamp,
And among the grains of salt, he goes to sleep.

***

Pachetul

In camera,
In mana femeii, cum se-ntoarce,
E pachetul de sare.

Pe pachet e imaginea
Unei femei intorcandu-se,
Cu un pachet in mana.

Cand femeia din camera
Se intoarce cu totul, ea
Lasa pachetul si pleaca.

Pe pachetul din imagine
E imaginea unei femei
Intorcandu-se, cu un pachet in mana.

Pe-acest pachet e o imagine: a unei femei
Intorcandu-se, cu un pachet in mana.
Pe-acest pachet nu-i vreo imagine.

- E un mic spatiu gol,
Iar acum barbatul asteapta
Si asteapta: un, doi, trei,
Doispe.

La doispe pune pachetul de-a curmezisul
Si deseneaza in ultima imagine din ultimul
Pachet o mica femeie intorcandu-se.

Iar el apoi incuie usa
Si stinge veioza de la capul patului
Si-adoarme inconjurat de grauntii de sare.

 

***

Ruse

Lastly my turn to hide, so
The other children instantly
Scattered among the scrubland grass,
Blanked their eyes, began
To count aloud.
Away downhill,
The traffic thundered less
In the hazed streets, the orange
Street-lamps suddenly lit in
A necklace of twilight mauves. I was
Expected home from this game, to eat,
And read myself to sleep. Besides,
There were so many ruses more
I wanted to devise.
Before
They counted out my time, came
Running to look for me, I ran
And left them there, I ran back home
And left them.
Turning today
A tower-block corner, I saw them
In the gathering dark, bemused
And middle-aged, in tattered
Relics of children’s clothes, still
Searching even now in the glittering
Scrubland of my Precinct, for
What had deserted them, what had
Cast them there; blank-eyed, and
Never to tell what I had built,
What I had left them with in forty years.

Siretlic

In sfarsit, randul meu la ascuns, iar
Ceilalti copii deodata
S-au imprastiat in firele de iarba ale padurii,
Au inchis ochii, au inceput
Sa numere cu voce tare.
Departe, la vale,
Masinile nu mai mugeau atat.
Pe strazile tulburi, felinarele
Portocalii au aruncat pe neasteptate
Un sirag de lumini ale amurgului violet. Pe mine
M-asteptau acasa dupa jocul asta, la mancare
Si la citit inainte de culcare. De altfel,
Mai erau asa de multe siretlicuri
Pe care voiam sa le planuiesc.
Inainte
Sa termine de numarat, sa alerge
Ca sa caute dupa mine, am fugit eu
Si i-am lasat in urma acolo, am fugit inapoi acasa
Si i-am lasat.
Azi, dand coltul
Unui bloc turn, i-am vazut pe ei
In intunericul ademenitor, fermecati
Si la varsta a doua, imbracati in ramasite
Zdrentaroase de haine de copil,
Inca si-acum cautand prin stralucitoarea
Padure din preajma casei mele
Dupa ceea ce i-a abandonat, ce i-a
Azvarlit acolo; cu ochii ferecati si
Fara sa dea de gol vreodata ce concepusem,
Ce le lasasem timp de patruzeci de ani.

Translated by Veronica Bala