Daria Florea was born in Romania in 1964. She is an enthusiastic single parent and short story writer currently undertaking her post graduate studies at the University of Newcastle, Australia. After fleeing the communist dictatorship in her home country and residing in Australia for almost 20 years, she has rekindled a professional interest in the literary and political themes in Ana Blandiana’s poetry.
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Hibernare
Nu-i asculta pe fraþii mei, ei dorm, Ei nu-nþeleg cuvintele care le strigã, În timp ce urlã ca niºte fiare aprobatoare Sufletul lor viseazã stupi de albine ªi înot în seminþe.
Nu îi urî pe fraþii mei, ei dorm,
S-au învelit în somn ca într-o blanã de urs, Care-i pãstreazã cruntã ºi apãsãtoare în viaþã,
În mijlocul frigului fãrã-nþeles ªi fãrã sfârºit. Nu-i judeca pe fraþii mei, ei dorm, Nu îi uita pe fraþii mei, ei dorm Care-ºi închipuie cã viaþa e somn ºi, nerãbdãtori,
Abia aºteaptã sã se trezeascã În moarte. |
Hibernation
Don’t listen to my brothers, they sleep.
Not understanding their own shouted words,
While they scream like approving wild beasts
Their soul dreams beehives
And they swim in seeds.
Don’t hate my brothers, they sleep.
Wrapped in sleep like in a bear rug,
Preserving them savage and oppressed in life,
In the middle of the senseless,
Endless cold.
Don’t judge my brothers, they sleep.
Seldom one is sent off into the awakening
And if he does not return, it’s a vanishing sign,
For it is still night and cold,
And the sleep continuous.
Don’t forget my brothers, they sleep
In their sleep multiplying and caring for children.
They believe that life is sleep and, impatiently,
Can hardly wait for their awakening
In death.
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Pastel
Þara mea pãrãsitã de fructe, Pãrãsitã de frunze. Pãrãsitã de strugurii Emigraþi prevãzãtori în vin, Þara mea trãdatã de pãsãrile Rostogolite în grabã Pe cerul mirat ºi încã senin, Veºnic împãcatã, Noaptea stele coapte-þi |
Pastel
My country deprived of fruit,
Abandoned by leaves.
Abandoned by the grapes
Migrated prudently in wine,
My country betrayed by the birds
Somersaulted in haste
In the wondering yet still clear sky,
Forever content,
Smelling of grasses
Which pass away in the melting sun,
Faithful spiders
Weaving white webs
To bind up
The place of leaf, empty.
At night baked stars
Ferment your sky,
The wind flows the day
Strong and bitter,
The hours measure your
Walnuts falling
And light you
Quinces decently.
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Eu cred
Eu cred cã suntem un popor vegetal, |
I Believe
I believe that we are a botanic nation
Otherwise, where do we get this calmness
In which we await the shedding of our leaves?
Where from the courage
To start sliding ourselves on the sleep-toboggan
Close to death,
With the certainty
That we will be able
To be resurrected?
I believe that we are a botanic nation-
Who ever saw
A rebelling tree?
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Scaieþi ºi zei
Scaieþi ºi zei uscaþi de soare
Schelete lungi, subþiri de temple
Rãmase albe in picioare:
Iremediabile exemple
Ale nemorþii ca povara.
Precum o nesfârºitã varã
Timpul intreg e doar o zi
Rãmasã vãduvã de seara,
În care frunzele nu cad
ªi nu pierd pagini trandafirii.
Nu e trecut, nu-i viitor,
Un azi etern, nãucitor,
Cu soarele deasupra nemiºcat
Nemaiânstare
Sã mãsoare
Fãrãderostul nemuririi.
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Thistles and Gods
Thistles and gods scorched by the sun,
Long, thin skeletons of temples,
Standing pale survivors:
Irreparable examples,
Undeath is like a burden.
As an unending summer
All time is only a day
Widowed since night,
In which leaves do not fall
And the roses do not lose their pages.
There is no past, no future,
An eternal today, stunning,
With the sun above unmoving
Unable
To measure
Immortality’s failure.
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Cetina
Spectre de brazi mai vânturã stindarde
De ceaþã, proorocind sfârºituri noi,
Dar cine are forþa în casandre
De cetini, chiar, sã creadã, dintre noi?
Pe-acelaºi loc, dar mãturând cu pãrul
Mult cãlãtoare zãri de cãpãtâi,
Topindu-ºi în rãºinã adevãrul,
Cel necrezut în scrâºnet, mai întâi,
Nu pot sã plece, nici mãcar nãluci.
În jurul lor ºi cerul ºi apa emigreazã
Vântul întreabã-ntruna „Nu te duci?“
Cetina plânge-n hohot „Sunt acasã.“
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Fir Tree Spectres of fir trees still flutter pennants Of fog, foretelling new endings, Yet who has the courage, in Cassandra Branches, if only to believe, between us? On the same spot, yet brushing with their hair The all-journeying skies of endings, Melting the truth in their resin, That unbelieved in screech, firstly, They cannot leave, not even as ghosts. Around them water and sky migrate. The wind asks constantly: “Don’t you go?” The fir tree sobs: “I’m home.” |
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Torquato Tasso
Veni din întuneric spre mine el, poetul,
Poetul de spaimã ratat. Era foarte frumos. Ca la razele röntgen I se vedea în trup poezia. Poezia nescrisã de fricã. "Sunt nebun" – a rostit. De altfel ºtiam Lucrul acesta din prefeþele cãrþilor, Dar el îºi purta nebunia ca pe-o parolã De intrare în noi, ca ºi cum ar fi spus: "Mã rãscumpãr astfel De lipsa-adevãrului din poemele mele. E preþul imens. Vin spre tine. Primeºte-mã!"
Dar eu am rãspuns: Pleacã de-aici!
"Scriam la lumina de autodafeuri – îmi spuse – Simþindu-mi pe trup Cãmaºa pãroasã care se-aprinde uºor. Odaia mea avea ochi de cãlugãri ferestre ªi-n loc de uºi, lipite una de alta, urechile lor ªi ºoarecii ieºind din borte erau cãlugãri,
ªi noaptea pãsãri uriaºe-n sutane-mi cântau.
Tu trebuie sã înþelegi…" ªi cu degetu-ntins
Îmi aratã în trupul meu poezia,
Poezia nescrisã…
Dar eu am þipat: Pleacã de-aici!
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Torquato Tasso From darkness he came towards me, he, The poet failed by fear. He was very handsome. Like an X-ray The poetry could be seen in his body. The poetry unwritten out of fear. “I’m mad,” he uttered. Besides, I knew This fact from book prefaces, But he wore his madness like a password For entering us, like he would have said: “This is a way to redeem myself For the lack of truth in my poems. The price is enormous price. I come towards you. Receive me!” But I declined: Leave me! “I was writing in the auto dafé’s light – he told me – Feeling my body, The hairy shirt that easily lights up. My room had monks’ eyes for windows And instead of doors, stuck one to another, their ears. And the rats coming out of holes were monks, And at night gigantic birds in large habits sang for me. You must understand…” And with a pointing finger He reveals the poetry in my body, The unwritten poetry… But I screamed: Leave me! |
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Fiecare miºcare
Fiecare miºcare a mea |
Each Move
Each of my moves
Is seen
Simultaneously in many mirrors,
Each look I take
Meets with itself
Several times,
Until
I forget which is
The true one,
And who
Mocks me.
Mistress,
I am afraid to sleep
And ashamed
To be.
For me
Each and every sunrise has
An unknown number of suns
And a single
Soporific
Day.
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Descântec de ploaie
Iubesc ploile, iubesc cu patimã ploile, Înnebunitele ploi ºi ploile calme, Ploile feciorelnice ºi ploile-dezlãnþuite femei, Ploile proaspete ºi plictisitoarele ploi fãrã sfârºit, Iubesc ploile, iubesc cu patimã ploile, Îmi place sã mã tãvãlesc prin iarba lor albã, înaltã, Îmi place sã le rup firele ºi sã umblu cu ele în dinþi, Sã ameþeascã, privindu-mã astfel, bãrbaþii. ªtiu cã-i urât sã spui "Sunt cea mai frumoasã femeie", E urât ºi poate nici nu e adevãrat, Dar lasã-mã atunci când plouã, Numai atunci când plouã, Sã rostesc magica formulã "Sunt cea mai frumoasã femeie". Sunt cea mai frumoasã femeie pentru cã plouã ªi-mi stã bine cu franjurii ploii în pãr, Sunt cea mai frumoasã femeie pentru cã-i vânt ªi rochia se zbate disperatã sã-mi ascundã genunchii, Sunt cea mai frumoasã femeie pentru cã tu
Eºti departe plecat ºi eu te aºtept, ªi tu ºtii cã te-aºtept, Sunt cea mai frumoasã femeie ºi ºtiu sã aºtept
ªi totuºi aºtept. E-n aer miros de dragoste vie,
ªi toþi trecãtorii adulmecã ploaia sã-i simtã mirosul, Pe-o asemenea ploaie poþi sã te-ndrãgosteºti fulgerãtor, Toþi trecãtorii sunt îndrãgostiþi, ªi eu te aºtept. Doar tu ºtii – Iubesc ploile, Iubesc cu patimã ploile, înnebunitele ploi ºi ploile calme, Ploile feciorelnice ºi ploile-dezlãnþuite femei… |
Rain Chant
I love rains, I passionately love rains, Maddened rains and calm rains,
Young-girl rains and loose female rains, Fresh rains and boring, never-ending rains, I love rains, I passionately love rains. I like rolling through their tall white grass, I like to rip off their blades and wear them in my teeth, For men to become giddy seeing me like that. I know it’s rude to say, “I am the most beautiful woman,” It’s rude and perhaps not even true, But allow me when it rains, Only when it rains, To utter the magic formula “I am the most beautiful woman.” I am the most beautiful woman because it’s raining And I look good with rain’s locks in my hair. I am the most beautiful woman because it’s windy, And the dress desperately struggles to cover my knees, I am the most beautiful woman because you Are away and I am waiting for you, And you know of my waiting. I am the most beautiful woman and I know to wait Yet still I wait. The scent of live love is in the air, And all passers-by sniff the rain to feel this scent, During this particular rain you can quickly fall in love, All passers-by are in love, And I wait for you. Only you know – I love rains, I passionately love rains: maddened rains and calm rains, Young-girl rains and loose female rains. |
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Pietà
Durere limpede, moartea m-a-ntors
În braþele tale supus, aproape copil. Tu nu ºtii dacã trebuie sã mulþumeºti Sau sã plângi Pentru fericirea aceasta, Mamã. Trupul meu, dezghiocat din tainã, Este numai al tãu. Dulci lacrimile tale îmi picurã pe umãr ªi mi se strâng cuminþi lângã claviculã. Ce bine e! Neînþelesele peregrinãri ºi cuvintele, Ucenicii de care eºti mândrã ºi care te sperie, Tatãl, bãnuitul, nerostitul, veghind, Toate-s în urmã. Liniºtitã de suferinþã-nþeleasã Mã þii în braþe ªi pe furiº : Mã legeni uºor. Leagãnã-mã, mamã. Trei zile numai sunt lãsat sã m-odihnesc În moarte ºi în poala ta. Va veni apoi învierea ªi din nou nu-þi va mai fi dat sã-nþelegi. Trei zile numai,
Dar pânã atunci
Mi-e atât de bine În poala ta coborât de pe cruce, Încât, de nu mi-ar fi teamã cã te-nspãimânt, Lin mi-aº întoarce gura Spre sânul tãu, sugând. |
Piety
Clear pain, death returned me,
To your breast subdued, almost a child.
You do not know if you should thank
Or cry
For this happiness,
Mother.
My body, peeled out of the egg of mystery,
Is yours only.
Sweet, your tears drop onto my shoulder
And collect obedient near my collarbone.
How good it is!
Uncomprehended wanderings and the words,
Disciples of whom you are proud and who scare you,
The Father, the suspected, the unnamed, watching,
All are left behind.
Free of known suffering
You hold me
And secretly
Rock me gently.
Rock me, mother.
Three days only do I have to rest
In death and in your lap.
Rebirth will come after
And again you won’t be given to understand.
Only three days,
But until then
It is so good for me
In your lap, lowered from the cross,
That, if I would not fear to scare you,
I would turn my mouth gently
Towards your breast, to suck.
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Ar trebui
Ar trebui sã ne naºtem bãtrâni, Sã venim înþelepþi, Sã fim în stare de-a hotãrî soarta noastrã în lume, Sã ºtim din rãscrucea primarã ce drumuri pornesc ªi iresponsabil sã fie doar dorul de-a merge. Apoi sã ne facem mai tineri, mai tineri, mergând,
Maturi ºi puternici s-ajungem la poarta creaþiei,
Sã trecem de ea ºi-n iubire intrând adolescenþi, Sã fim copii la naºterea fiilor noºtri. Oricum ei ar fi atunci mai bãtrâni decât noi, Ne-ar învãþa sã vorbim, ne-ar legãna sã dormim, Noi am dispãrea tot mai mult, devenind tot mai mici, Cât bobul de strugure, cât bobul de mazãre, cât bobul de grâu… |
We Should
We should be born old,
And arrive wise,
To be capable of deciding our worldly fate,
To comprehend from the prime crux what ways begin
And only the wish to walk to feel reckless.
Then should we become younger, and younger, walking,
Mature and strong to arrive
At creation’s gate,
To pass through it and in love entering adolescents,
To be children at our sons’ birth.
Either way, they would then be older than us,
They would teach us to speak, rock us to sleep.
We would disappear even more, becoming even smaller,
Like a grape, like a pea, like a grain of wheat…
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Totul
Frunze, cuvinte, lacrimi, cutii de chibrituri, pisici, tramvaie câteodatã, cozi la fãinã, gãrgãriþe, sticle goale, discursuri, imagini lungite de televizor, gândaci de Colorado, benzinã, steguleþe, portrete cunoscute, Cupa Campionilor Europeni, maºini cu butelii, mere refuzate la export, ziare, franzele, ulei în amestec, garoafe,
întâmpinãri la aeroport, cico, batoane,
Salam Bucureºti, iaurt dietetic, þigãnci cu kenturi, ouã de Crevedia, zvonuri, serialul de sâmbãtã seara, cafea cu înlocuitori, lupta popoarelor pentru pace, coruri, producþia la hectar, Gerovital, aniversãri, compot bulgãresc, adunarea oamenilor muncii, vin de regiune superior, adidaºi, bancuri, bãieþii de pe Calea Victoriei, peºte oceanic, Cântarea României,
totul. |
Everything
Leaves, words, tears,
Matchboxes, cats,
Trams sometimes, queues for flour,
Ladybeetles, empty bottles, speeches,
Elongated images on TV,
Colorado beetles, petrol,
Flags, known portraits,
The Euro Cup,
Trucks of gas cylinders, export rejected apples,
Newspapers, Vienna loaves, blended oil, carnations,
Airport receptions, Cico, sweet bread rolls,
Bucharest salami, diet-yoghurt,
Gypsies selling Kent, Crevedia eggs,
Rumours, the Saturday night serial,
Coffee substitutes,
The world struggle for peace, choirs,
Production per hectare, Gerovital, anniversaries
Bulgarian tinned fruit, national meetings,
Superior regional wine, Adidas shoes,
Jokes, (security police) boys on Victoria Avenue,
Oceanic fish, Ode to Romania,
Everything.
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