RANA
de Mircea Cartarescu
vai mie, rana s-a inchis
vai, singele s-a uscat
si a facut coaja.
oh, doamne, m-am vindecat!
de-acum o sa ma mestece fericirea
o sa ma sfirtece seninatatea
si nebunia care a fost n-o sa mai fie de-acum niciodata,
nu, n-o sa-i mai sarut umarul.
viata o sa-mi treaca in pace si armonie
cu lecturi bogate, cu mese regulate.
sanatatea o sa-mi manince plaminii.
ratiunea o sa-mi sfisie creierul.
vai, rana, rana mea draga
rana placuta vietii mele
rana pentru care am trait, pe care mi-am zgindarit-o cu unghiile
s-a inchis. oh, doamne, sint vindecat!
si niciodata febra n-o sa-mi mai aprinda
veioza vietii pina la ars.
II
sa accept evidenta: nu mai pot sa scriu poezie.
nu mai sint in stare, ceva in mine nu mai colaboreaza.
am scris ani de zile cu ura, cu dragoste, iar acum
creierul meu e mort.
am pornit la maraton ca pe suta de metri
am vrut totul deodata, am vrut sa-mi innebunesc cititorul.
am uitat ca viata e lunga.
nu-mi imaginam ca o data ma voi opri, voi plati
ca tot ce am facut vreodata se va intoarce impotriva mea
si nu voi putea sa ma ajung din urma
si orice incercare de a mai face ceva
va fi o noua dezamagire.
ce voi mai scrie inca patruzeci de ani?
o sa string din masele, o sa scriu articolase de critica
sau cine stie ce amintiri
o sa suport condescendenta tinerilor, o sa las nasul in jos
cind o sa vina vorba despre poezie, o sa fac traduceri
ca sa nu ma uite lumea, ca sa para ca mai traiesc.
sau o sa-mi public cindva un volum de versuri din tinerete
atit de proaste, ca nu le bagasem in nici o carte
si o sa am un succes "de prestigiu", mi se va spune "autorul
poemelor de amor",
precursorul a dumnezeu stie ce poezie va mai fi pe atunci...
nu stiu, nu stiu...
prieteni mai tineri, sa nu faceti ca mine.
calculati-va poezia pentru saizeci de ani.
eu? nu stiu ce drum sa mai apuc, ce s-ar mai putea face
si nu stiu ce trebuie sa mai simt si ce mai pot sa imaginez.
de data asta chiar cred ca mi s-a infundat.
voi fi un poet batrin, care n-a mai scris de decenii
un supravietuitor al propriei morti
si care mai bine n-ar fi facut nimic niciodata.
III
oare s-a terminat viata? oare sint terminat?
sint un esec? voi fi pulbere?
va veni moartea iar tu ma vei dispretui.
va fi groaznic, groaznic.
voi fi singur, mai singur decit toti oamenii, singur.
fara nimeni, fara odihna.
voi intelege totul, ah, intelege-ma, si toti ma vor iubi,
toti isi vor aduce aminte.
sint pierdut, pierdut.
musca-mi tu gura.
o sa ploua nasol pe drumuri, o sa fim uzi pin-la piele.
o sa invatam sa urim.
va veni toamna, toamna mintii, inecul.
vom avea gura moale si calda, va veni luna
vor veni norii sa ne cunoasca
si vom muri, vom face dragoste.
da, da, stai acum linga mine, priveste-ma. sint terminat, terminat.
va fi numai moarte in jur.
stelele vor fi moarte, bot linga bot ca niste ciini de pe strazi.
vor muri unghiile.
gata. stai linga mine. a avut rost?
ne-am trezit traind.
a fost groaznic: am trait.
a fost groaznic, groaznic. |
THE WOUND
by Mircea Cartarescu
woe is me, my wound closed,
why, my blood has dried
and clotted.
oh, god, I am healed!
from now on happiness will chew me
serenity will rip me apart
and the madness that was will never be again,
no, I won’t kiss its shoulder anymore.
my life will pass in peace and harmony
with copious readings, with regular meals,
health will eat away my lungs
reason will slash my brain.
oh, wound, dear wound
the pleasant wound of my life
the wound I lived for, the wound I tore at with my nails
is closed. oh, god, I am healed!
and never again shall fever light
my life’s lamp, till exhaustion.
II
let me face the facts: I can’t write poetry anymore.
I’m not capable anymore, something in me stopped cooperating.
I wrote for years, with hatred, with love, and now
my brain is dead.
I started the marathon like it was a 100 meter race
I wanted everything at once, I wanted to drive my reader crazy.
I forgot life is long.
I didn’t imagine I’ll stop some day, that I’ll pay,
that everything I ever did will turn against me
and I won’t be able to catch up with myself
and any attempt to do anything
will be a new disappointment.
what will I do forty years from now?
I’ll clench my teeth, I’ll write little literary chronicles
or some memoirs
I’ll put up with the young people’s condescendence, I’ll bow my head
when it comes to poetry, I’ll do some translations
so people won’t forget me, so it looks like I’m alive
or maybe I’ll publish a volume with poems from my youth
so bad I hadn’t dared include them in any other book
and I’ll be a “resounding success,” they’ll call me, “the author of the love poems,”
the forerunner of god knows what sort of poetry they’ll write those days,
I don’t know, don’t know…
young friends, don’t do what I did
calculate your poetry to last for sixty years.
me? I don’t know which road to take, what else could be done
I don’t know what I must feel or what I can imagine
this time I really think I’m at the end of my rope.
I’ll be an old poet, who hasn’t written in decades
a survivor of his own death
who’d be better off if he’d never done anything.
III
has life ended? Am I finished?
am I a failure? Will I be dust?
death will come, and you will despise me,
it will be horrible, horrible.
I’ll be alone, more alone than all people, alone.
without anyone, without rest.
I’ll understand everything, ah, understand me, and everybody will love me.
everybody will remember.
I’m lost, lost.
bite my mouth.
it will rain like hell on these roads, we’ll get utterly soaked
we’ll learn how to hate.
fall will come, the fall of the mind, the drowning.
our mouth will be soft and warm, the moon will come
the clouds will come to meet us,
and we’ll die, we’ll make love.
yes, stay close to me now, look at me. I’m finished, finished.
there will only be death around.
the stars will be dead, muzzle to muzzle, like dogs in the street
and our nails will be dead.
that’s it. stay close to me. was it worth it?
we just woke up living.
it was horrible: we lived.
it was horrible, horrible. |
