Poezia e altceva?

By Mircea Ivanescu

Nu trebuie sa povestesti in poezie – am citit
un sfat catre un tanar poet – deci sa nu povestesc
cum, foarte devreme, ea se scula dimineata, si asezandu-se pe pat
astepta sa i se linisteasca respiratia, cu fata in maini –
sa nu spun nimic despre chipul ei atata de obosit
incat i se incovoiau umerii, in fata oglinzii, cand
se pieptana incet. sa nu-mi marturisesc spaimele
langa fata ei instrainata, intoarsa de la mine.
Sa nu umblu cu versuri, ca si cu oglinda in maini
in care se rasfrang acele dimineti cu lumina cenusie
dinainte de zori. Poezia nu trebuie sa fie reprezentare,
serie de imagini – asa scrie. Poezia
trebuie sa fie vorbire interioara. Adica
tot eu sa vorbesc despre fata ei inecandu-se, cautandu-si
respiratia? Insa atunci ar fi numai felul in care eu vorbesc
despre fata ei, despre miscarile incetinite prin straturi
de remuscari tulburi, de ganduri doar ale mele,
ale imaginii ei – ar fi numai un chip, o imagine –
si ea – adevarata ei fiinta?




 

Poetry’s different?

By Mircea Ivanescu

One should not narrate in poetry – so I’ve read
some advice to a young poet – so I shouldn’t tell the story
of how, very early, she got up in the morning, and lying in bed
pausing to catch her breath head in hands –
to tell nothing of her face
so weary that her shoulders drooped, in front of the mirror, when
she was slowly combing her hair. neither confess my fears
near her estranged face, turned away from me.
Not go around bearing verse, as with a mirror in my hands
where those grey mornings reflect
before dawn. Poetry should not be representation,
sequence of images – this is what it says. Poetry
ought to be inner voice. So
should I still be the one talking of her face coughing, catching
her breath? But then it would only be the manner in which I talk
of her face, of her movements trudging through layers
of bedazzled remorse, of just my own thoughts,
of her image – it would only be a face, an image –
and her – being her true self?

Translated by Nicolae-Andrei Popa