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 orasul asta..."

In orasul asta, ziceam ca pe-o strada
Pe strada asta, ziceam ca-ntr-o casa.
In casa asta, ziceam ca-ntr-o camera
Intr-o camera, sta o femeie.
Sta pe intuneric, sta si plange
Dupa unul care tocmai a iesit
Si a stins scurt lumina dupa el,
Uitand ca mai era si ea pe 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 la o aniversare

Am mutat telefonul, cand am facut curat;
Planta n-a mai crescut, dar ghiveciul l-am cercetat;
L-am scos pe Tiddles la pipi si singura am stat.
Simt la fel, dar nu i-as spune iubire.

Mi-am intins rochiile la uscat;
Am desfacut masa plianta si cartile le-am aranjat;
Pe fereastra in strada un pic m-am uitat.
Simt la fel, dar nu i-as spune iubire.

Voiam cafea si pagina am insemnat;
Ar fi trebuit sa fie gata, odata si-odat’.
Cate varste are-o fetita? m-am intrebat.
Simt la fel, dar nu i-as spune iubire.

Si de-ar suna el, si-as auzi,
In cada, cu talpile pe robinet, m-as indoi...
Ei bine, l-am auzit... Sa si raspund s-ar cuveni?
Simt la fel, dar nu i-as spune iubire.

De-ar scrie o scrisoare, cerand sa ne-ntalnim,
Sau de ne-am intalni pe strada fara sa planuim
...Cand este terminat ceva, e pe deplin?
Simt la fel, dar nu i-as spune iubire.

Dac-ar veni cu masina si-n usa ar bate,
I-as raspunde la-ntrebari, chiar la toate?
As zice ,,Problemele noastre sunt rezolvate"?
...Of, simt la fel dar nu i-as spune 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 odaie,
In mana femeii care se-ntoarce
E pachetul cu sare.

Pe pachet e poza unei
Femei care se-ntoarce pe-o parte
Cu un pachet in mana.

Odata intoarsa pe-o par-
Te, femeia de pe pachet
Aseaza pachetul pe masa si pleaca.

Pe pachetul din poza
Vedem: poza unei femei
Intorcandu-se, c-un pachet in mana.

Pe acest pachet e o poza: a unei femei,
Intorcandu-se, c-un pachet in mana.
Pe acest pachet nu-i nici o poza.

Doar o mica pata incolora.
Si iata-l pe barbat asteptand
Si tot asteptand: 2:30, 7:30
12.

La 12 el aseaza pachetul pe-o parte
Si deseneaza, pe ultimul pachet din ultima
Poza, o mica femeie intorcandu-se.

Dupa care incuie usa,
Stinge scurt veioza si, printre boabele de sare
Din expresia latina, 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.

Poanta

La urma, veni si randul meu sa m-ascund si
Ceilalti copii ca potarnichile
S-au imprastiat in iarba inalta,
Acoperindu-si ochii, au inceput
Sa numere tare.
Departe, in vale,
Traficul se mai domolise si brusc
S-au aprins becurile portocalii ale strazii,
Intr-un sirag mov pal. Eu eram
Asteptat acasa, dupa joc, sa mananc
Si sa citesc in pat. Basca,
Mai aveam atatea s-atatea poante
Pentru ceilalti.
Inainte sa termine ei cu numaratul,
Sa vina dupa mine, am sters-o
Lasandu-i acolo, am sters-o acasa
Si i-am lasat cu ochii in lampi.
Azi apar inapoi, de dupa un bloc
Si-i vad. In amurgul care se lasa,
Nedumeriti, imbatraniti, cu zdrentele
Hainelor de copii atarnand pe ei, continua
Sa ma caute, in iarba ca otelul
Dintre copacii cartierului nostru, cauta
Ziua de ieri, pe cel care i-a azvarlit acolo;
Cu gavanele goale, incapabili sa-mi laude poanta,
Truda mea de patruzeci de ani incheiati.

Translated by Mihaela Guzu