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 acest oras..."

In acest oras, o strada poate.
Pe aceasta strada, o casa poate.
In aceasta casa, o camera poate.
Si in aceasta camera, o femeie care sade
Sade pe intuneric, sade si plange
Dupa cineva care tocmai a iesit pe usa
Si tocmai a stins lumina
Uitand ca ea este 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.

***

Balada pentru o aniversare

Am facut ordine prin casa, telefonul am mutat,
Am aruncat o privire sa vad daca planta s-a mai inaltat,
Am scos martanul grasanul afara si apoi singura am stat.
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa zic ca-i iubire.

Mi-am aranjat rochiile pe carligele de spalatorie,
Am tras masa si mi-am pregatit cartile de citire,
Am mers la fereastra sa mai arunc doar o privire.
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa zic ca-i iubire.

Am vrut o cafea, asa ca am lasat un semn in carte
Ar fi trebuit sa se termine cand a ajuns asa departe.
Oare pot sa mai fiu aceeasi fata la o alta etate?
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa zic ca-i iubire.

Dar daca el ar telefona si de-as auzi soneria abia,
Cu picioarele pe robinetul din baie si sa spun n-as putea,
Ei bine, am auzit-o … Sa-i raspund de-asemenea?
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa zic ca-i iubire.

De-ar scrie Ne-am putea vedea? intr-o scrisoare,
Sau daca ne-am intalni pe strada din intamplare…
- Cand ceva se sfarseste, este intotdeauna incheiat oare?
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa zic ca-i iubire.

De-ar veni in masina pana aici si la usa ar bate,
I-as raspunde la intrebari, l-as lasa sa ma mai intrebe ceva,
Sau poate i-as spune ca eram absolut sigura deja…?
- Ah, ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa zic ca-i 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 ce se intoarce
Este un pachet de sare.

Pe pachet este un desen
Al unei femei intorcandu-se,
Cu un pachet in mana.

Cand femeia din camera isi in-
Cheie rotirea,
Pune pachetul jos si pleaca.

Pe pachetul din desen
Este: un desen al unei femei
Intorcandu-se cu un pachet in mana.

Pe acest pachet este un desen: al unei femei
Intorcandu-se, cu un pachet in mana.
Pe acest pachet nu este nici un desen.

- Este un spatiu micut gol.
Iar acum barbatul asteapta,
Si asteapta: doua jumatate, sapte jumatate,
Douasprezece.

La douasprezece aseaza pachetul pe o parte
Si deseneaza, in ultimul pachet, in ultimul
Desen, o femeie micuta intorcandu-se.

Si apoi incuie usa,
Si stinge lampa de pe noptiera,
Si, printre cristale de sare, adoarme.

 

***

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.

Viclesug

In sfarsit, randul meu sa m-ascund, deci
Ceilalti copii de indata
S-au risipit prin iarba inalta,
Si-au acoperit ochii, incepand
Sa numere cu voce tare.
Departe, in vale,
Traficul uruia tot mai moale
Pe strazile cetoase, felinare
Portocalii se aprindeau brusc
In sirag, in amurgul violet. Eram
Asteptat acasa dupa acest joc, sa mananc
Si apoi sa adorm citind. Mai mult,
Erau inca numeroase viclesugurile pe care
Voiam sa le pun la cale.
Mai inainte
Ca ei sa termine de numarat, sa vina
Gonind in cautarea mea, am fugit
Si i-am lasat acolo, am fugit inapoi acasa
Si i-am parasit.
Intorcandu-ma astazi,
La coltul unui bloc turn, i-am zarit
In intunericul ce se lasa, buimaciti
La varsta a doua, in ramasitele
Hainelor de copii de odinioara, inca
Mai cautand si acuma in stralucitoarea
Iarba stufoasa din apropierea mea, dupa
Ceea ce-i parasise, ceea ce-i
Lepadase acolo; cu ochii albiti, si
Niciodata a le spune ceea ce construisem,
Ce le lasasem timp de patruzeci de ani.

Translated by Elena-Carmen Bobocescu