Lucian Blaga--May gives itself with sweet abandon

This is, simply put, one of my favorite poems ever. Lucian Blaga was an accomplished poet and philosopher, a combination that has always been pretty rare (and I don't mean that poets don't have their "philosophy," just that Blaga also had the intellectual rigor to actually create a coherent philosophical system of his own, apart from a very impressive poetry opus).

"Risipei se deda florarul" has been made into a song, twice (by Nicu Alifantis and by Tudor Gheorghe); when I translated this, I had in mind Alifantis' version (here's a guitar transcript--sorry, that's the best I could do); its simple, beautiful, and sort of upbeat rhythms made me look for an English version that could easily fit that melody.

In terms of linguistic treason, the biggest I guess is in the very title. I translated "florarul" with "May." The month of May is "mai" in Romanian (pronounce "my"); "florar" is the old month name for it. It is particularly relevant here because it comes from "floare"--"flower", so it's supposed to be the month associated with a burst of flowers and fertility, and this is the meaning that Blaga plays on here.

I chose to go with the rather unsatisfactory equivalent of "May" because--well, there's no perfect equivalent. I found out that apparently, the old Anglo-Saxon name of May used to be "thrimilce," three-milk, because cows were very productive at this time and could be milked three times a day (source here, corroborated elsewhere too on the internets, though not in print--frustrating!). While "thrimilce" is somehow related to fertility, it's also the wrong connototation for this poem, which is exclusively based on a vegetal metaphor. Although using it would probably be more linguistically appropriate, it would also ruin the tenor of the poem.

RISIPEI SE DEDA FLORARUL de Lucian Blaga Ne-om aminti candva tarziu De-aceasta intamplare simpla De-aceasta banca unde stam Tampla fierbinte langa tampla. De pe stamine de alun, Din plopii albi se cerne jarul. Orice-nceput se vrea fecund, Risipei se deda Florarul. Polenul cade peste noi, In preajma galbene troiene Alcatuieste-n aur fin. Pe umeri cade-ne si-n gene. Ne cade-n gura cand vorbim Si-n ochi, cand nu gasim cuvantul. Si nu stim ce pareri de rau Ne tulbura piezis avantul. Ne-om aminti candva tarziu De-aceasta intamplare simpla De-aceasta banca unde stam Tampla fierbinte langa tampla. Visand, intrezarim prin doruri – Latente-n pulberi aurii Paduri ce ar putea sa fie Si niciodata nu vor fi.

MAY GIVES ITSELF WITH SWEET ABANDON by Lucian Blaga We shall remember once, too late, This simple happening, so fine, This very bench where we are seated, Your burning temple next to mine. From hazel stamens, cinders fall White as the poplars that they land on, Beginnings want to be fecund, May gives itself with sweet abandon. The pollen falls on both of us, Small mountains made of golden ashes It forms around us, and it falls On our shoulders and our lashes. It falls into our mouths when speaking, On eyes, when we are mute with wonder And there’s regret, but we don’t know Why it would tear us both asunder. We shall remember once, too late, This simple happening, so fine, This very bench where we are seated Your burning temple next to mine. In dreams, through longings, we can see— All latent in the dust of gold These forests that perhaps could be— But that will never, ever, grow.