Talmaciri

Si ale mele Gentzi-gene

2008-02-03T01:00:00.000-08:00

Maria Zirra - Gentiene de Bavaria

Nu fitecine are parte de gentiene-n a sa casa
In molcomul Septembre, la linul, mohoratul Michaelmas.

Gentiene de Bavaria, mari, albastre ca-nserarea, fuioare de bezna
Care cotropesc chiar ziua, precum o torta face cu-albastrul ei de fum
atuncea cand coboara peste-al lui Pluto alean,
Torte unduitoare arzand intunecat cu albastra flama,
Ce puncte-n puncte apasate se preschimba, stranse-n imbratisarea zilei dalbe,
Florile-torte ale intunericului celui albastru si adanc de fum,
Ale uimirii lui Pluto albastru-nserate,
Lampi intunericite din salile de dincolo, arzand-albastru de-nserat,
Si raspandind al intunericului brat, albastru de-inserat, la fel cum
Din palidele lampi ale lui Demeter lumina aievea-izvoade.
Conduce-ti-ma, dara, pasiti degrab in fata.

Culege-mi o gentiana, ada-o torta!
Sa-orbecai doar cu-albastra torta-furca acestei flori,
In jos pe scarile cu bezna din ce in ce mai deasa, acolo unde albastrul e intunecat cu-albastru
si-acolo unde calca Persefona, acum, sa trec din inghetat’ septembre
catre taramul de orbire unde chiar intunericul in bezna deasa se trezeste,
Si Persefona insasi ramane doar o voce
Sau intunericul ce se rasfira in bezna si mai deasa
in bratele plutonice, patrunsa adanc de patima amara in nestire,
invaluiti pesemne in falnica mandrie a tortelor de intuneric, ce arunc-un val de
bezna peste mireasa blestemata si-al sau mire.

Gentiene de Petruta

2008-02-03T00:46:00.000-08:00

Petruta Naidut - Gentiene de Bavaria

Nu afli gentiene la oricine-n casa
in septembrie cu ploi, in mohirata zi tarzie de Sf. Mihail.

Gentiene de Bavaria, mari si intunecate, intunecand doar
lumina zilei cu intunerecul lor precum facliile de fum albastru ale tristetii lui Pluto,
brazdate de nervuri, lucesc albastru cu flacara lor intunecata,
chircindu-se, la pamant suflate de lumina zilei.
Flori ce ard intunerecul de fum albastru, naucitoare luciri plutonice de-un albastru adanc,
faclii intunecate ce se mistuie in Dite, lucind albastru-ntunecat,
raspandind negura, negura albastra, precum facliile palide ale Demetrei, lumina,
apoi calauze sa-mi fiti, calea sa-mi aratati.

Intindeti-mi o gentiana, dati-mi o faclie!
Voi sa ma las calauzit de flacara albastra, desfacuta a cestei flori
coborand scara tot mai intunecata, pana unde albastrul se intuneca de atata albastru
chiar pana unde pleaca Perfesona-ndata din inghetat septembrie
pe taramul nevazut unde negura se desteapta in intunerec
iar Persefona insasi nu-i decat o voce
ori o umbra nevazuta cuprinsa de adancul intunerec
al bratelor lui Pluto, strapunsa de sageata tristetii grele
printre splendide faclii ce ard intunecat, aruncand umbre
asupra soatei pierdute si-a sotului sau.

Gentienele lui Nic

2008-02-03T00:41:00.001-08:00

Nicolae-Andrei Popa - Gentiene de Bavaria

Nu are tot barbatul gentiene in casa lui
in luna cea ploioasa a lui septembrie,de trista, rabdatoarea zi a Sf. Mihail.

Gentiene de Bavaria, mari si negre, negre doar
umbrind lumina zilei, aduc a torta, cu albastrimea fumeganda a mahnirii lui Pluto,
aduc a torta si au nervuri, cu ale lor zvacniri de intuneric imprastiate trist
turtite-n granulatii, strivite de invazia luminii caste
floare-torta a intunecimii aburind vanat,orbirea vanat-intunecata a lui Pluto,
lampi negre din coridoarele Infernului, arzand albastru-ntunecat,
desertand intunecime, intunecime vanata, pe cand ale Demetrei lampi palide palpaie,
calauzeste-ma deci, arata-mi calea.

Intinde-mi o gentiana, o torta sa-mi dai!
sa ma calauzesc vreau singur cu vanata, bifurcata torta a acestei flori
jos pe treptele din ce in ce mai negre, unde culoarea vanata se-nnegreste de tot
chiar si aici unde paseste Persefona, din septembrie cea infrigurata
pana la taramul nevazut unde intunecimea vegheaza asupra intunericului
si Persefona insasi nu-i decat un ecou
sau o intunecime oarba impaturita in intunericul abisal
ale bratelor lui Pluto, patrunsa fiind de nesatul mahnirii far’de margini
in ambientul minunatelor torte smolite, varsand intunecimea
pe mireasa pierduta si pe-al ei mire.

Gentiene de Nadina

2008-02-03T00:37:00.000-08:00

Nadina Visan - Gentiene de Bavaria

Nu are-oricine gentiene-n casa
In blind septembre, de trist Sin’ Mihail,

Gentiane de Bavaria, mari, intunecoase, intunecoase doar
Ce-ntuneca si ziua, asemeni unor torte care
Fumega de-albastrul mohorit plutonic
Striate si asemeni unor torte, cu explozia lor
De intuneric ce intinde albastrul
Culcat apoi in colturi, culcat de albii zori ce trec in tromba
Flori-torta ale albastrului, fumegindului intuneric,
Picla de un albastru-nchis ce-I a lui Pluto
Lampi negre in saloanele din Dis,
Arzind de-albastru-nchis,
Raspindind intuneric, intuneric albastru,
La fel cum palidele lampi ale Demetrei raspindesc lumina,
Indrumati-ma, aratati-mi calea!

O gentiana da-mi, o torta-ntinde-mi!
Sa ma calauzesc cu torta-albastra, bifurcata a astei flori
In jos pe scarile mereu mai neguroase,
Unde albastrul se intuneca-n albastru
Ba inca incotro se-ndreapta Persefona,
Taman acum, din bruma lui septembre,
Catre tinutul fara de vedere in care intunericul
Pe intuneric se trezeste
Iar Persefona, ea, e doar o voce
Sau intuneric nevazut invaluita-n si mai intuneric
Al bratelor plutonice, patrunsa de o involburata pasiune
De picla deasa
Intre splendoarea tortelor de intuneric,
Ce leapada frinturi de intuneric
Peste mire si pierduta sa mireasa.

Gentienele Veronicai

2008-02-03T00:35:00.000-08:00

Veronica Bala - Gentiane de Bavaria

Nu orisicare om are-n casa gentiane
in luna dulce de septembrie, de San’Mihai domol si trist.

Gentiane de Bavaria, mari si intunecoase, complet intunecoase,
care-ntuneca ziua, precum o faclie, cu albastrimea fumurie a beznei lui Pluto,
ca facliile de nervuroase, cu-a lor strafulgerare de intuneric imprastie albastru
strivindu-se punctiform, strivite de ivirea zilei albe,
floare-faclie a intunecimii albastru-fumurii, betia lui Pluto intunecat-albastra,
felinare negre de pe culoarele lui Dis, luminand albastru-nchis
ce revarsa intuneric, intuneric albastru, precum revarsa lumina felinarele slabe ale Demetrei,
indrumati-ma, dar, aratati-mi calea.

Intindeti-mi o gentiana, dati-mi o faclie!
Sa ma calauzesc cu faclia albastra bifurcata a astei flori
de-a lungul treptelor tot mai intunecate, unde-albastrul se-ntuneca de la albastru
chiar acolo unde paseste Persefona, in clipa-ceasta, de la septembriele brumar
spre taramul nevazut in care intunericul rasare peste intunecime,
iar Persefona insasi nu-i decat un glas
sau un intuneric invizibil infasurat in jurul unui intuneric mai intens,
cel al bratelor lui Pluto, si strapuns de patima beznei dense
in splendoarea facliilor de intuneric, revarsand intuneric asupra
mirelui si-a ratacitei lui mirese.

Behind Door Number Three

2008-02-03T00:27:00.000-08:00

America

by Allen Ginsberg

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

Behind Door Number Two

2007-12-26T06:12:00.000-08:00

Baloons
by Sylvia Plath

Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,

Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Invisible air drifts,

Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish ----
Such queer moons we live with

Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting

The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small

Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,

Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.

Behind Door Number One

2007-12-26T06:05:00.000-08:00

Mad Girl’s Love Song
By Sylvia Plath

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Tippy-toe

2007-12-26T05:49:00.000-08:00

Pe varfuri de degete de la picioare sa nu va trezesc dintre cozonaci am si eu doua propuneri de incercari pentru club.
S-apoi as vrea daca se poate sa mai curga si altii cu poezele pentru viitoarea intalnire care cica sa prognozeaza dupa sesiune. Asa ca lasati textele sa vina la mine!

Ne dau afara gandacii...

2007-12-09T06:39:00.000-08:00

Da, oameni buni, sper sa nu va fie cu banat, dar lunea asta Pitar Moshul se dezinsectizeaza, se otravesc soarecii cu grau rosu, se deodorizeaza gandacii, se scot animalele din subsol din custi...se primeneste menajeria etc.

You know, the usual, deci clubul se amana pe saptamana viitoare, luni 17 Decembrie, la aceeasi ora si in acelasi loc cum v-am obisnuit de data asta cu Heaney-ul de mai jos in dinti si cu the spirit of the season (oh, yes I mean that in more ways than one).
Merry Merry Week, ok?

Alphabets

2007-11-25T13:29:00.000-08:00

Textul pentru data viitoare se prezinta cam asa. Opinions?
Daca nu va place layoutul urat si inghesuit de pe pagina, am uploadat fisierul Word fix aici . (Apasati cu nadejde)

Alphabets

by Seamus Heaney

A shadow his father makes with joined hands

And thumbs and fingers nibbles on the wall

Like a rabbit’s head. He understands

He will understand more when he goes to school.

There he draws smoke with chalk the whole first week,

Then draws the forked stick that they call a Y.

This is writing. A swan’s neck and swan’s back

Make the 2 he can see now as well as say.

Two rafters and a cross-tie on the slate

Are the letter some call ah, some call ay.

There are charts, there are headlines, there is a right

Way to hold the pen and a wrong way.

First it is ‘copying out’, and the ‘English’

Marked correct with a little leaning hoe.

Smells of inkwells rise in the classroom hush.

A globe in the window tilts like a coloured O.

Declensions sang on a air like a hosanna

As, column after stratified column,

Book one of Elementa Latina,

Marbled and minatory, rose up to him.

For he was fostered next in a stricter school

Named for the patron saint of the oak wood

Where classes switched to the pealing of a bell

And he left the Latin forum for the shade

Of new calligraphy that felt like home.

The letters of this alphabets were trees.

The capitals were orchards in full bloom,

The lines of script like briars coiled in ditches.

Here in her snooded garment and bare feet,

All ringleted in assonance and woodnotes,

The poet’s dream stole over him like sunlight

And passed into the tenebrous thickets.

He learns this other writing. He is the scribe

Who drove a team of quills on his white field.

Round his cell door the blackbirds dart and dab.

Then self-denial, fasting, the pure cold.

By rules that hardened the farther they reached north

He bends to his desk and begins again.

Christ’s sickle has been in the undergrowth.

The script grows bare and Merovingian.

III

The globe has spun. He stands in a wooden O.

He alludes to Shakespeare. He alludes to Graves.

Time has bulldozed the school and school window.

Balers drop bales like printouts where stooked sheaves

Made lambdas on the stubble once at harvest

And the delta face of each potato pit

Was patted straight and moulded against frost.

All gone, with the omega that kept

Watch above each door, the good luck horse-shoe.

Yet shape-note language absolute on air

As Constantine’s sky-lettered IN HOC SIGNO

Can still command him; or the necromancer

Who would hang from the domed ceiling of his house

A figure of the world with colours in it

So that the figure of the universe

And ‘not just single things’ would meet his sight

When he walked abroad. As from his small window

The astronaut sees all he has sprung from,

The risen, aqueous, singular, lucent O

Like a magnified and buoyant ovum –

Or like my own wide pre-reflective stare

All agog at the plasterer on his ladder

Skimming our gable and writing our name there

With his trowel point, letter by strange letter.

Catching up

2007-11-25T13:23:00.000-08:00

Intai si-ntai as vrea sa pun Bavarian Gentians de D.H. Lawrence care e primul text talmacit anul asta.

Bavarian Gentians

by D.H. Lawrence

Not every man has gentians in his house

in soft September, at slow, sad Michaelmas.

Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark

darkening the daytime, torch-like, with the smoking blueness of Pluto's

gloom,

ribbed and torch-like, with their blaze of darkness spread blue

down flattening into points, flattened under the sweep of white day

torch-flower of the blue-smoking darkness, Pluto's dark-blue daze,

black lamps from the halls of Dis, burning dark blue,

giving off darkness, blue darkness, as Demeter's pale lamps give off

light,

lead me then, lead the way.

Reach me a gentian, give me a torch!

let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower

down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness

even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September

to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark

and Persephone herself is but a voice

or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark

of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,

among the splendor of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on

the lost bride and her groom.

Poftiti, poftiti, boieri dumneavoastra,

2007-11-25T13:01:00.001-08:00

Zaboviti o tzara pe meleagul cercului nostru de traduceri si luati aminte la cele ce se toarna pre ceasta pagina! Adicatelea aici, langa chiseaua cu dulceata si cuvintele candel, se vor desfasura textele pentru rumegat si vom infuleca bataturica, ochisor si discutii. Poate-i trage
Plecati urechile si cascati ochisorii ca sa vedeti cam cu ce ne trecem noi o luni pe luna.
Sedeti aci pe lavita, langa foc si slova-zvapaiata.

Mai pe limba omeneasca, blogul aiasta ne va servi frumusel de gazeta de perete cu textele in lucru sau pentru discutii despre alegerea unei victime intru (ras)talmacire cu poll-uri si panglici.
Tot aici o sa anuntam datele intalnirilor care se desfasoara odata pe luna, lunea de la ora 6. Ex-abrupto vine si textul pentru Luni 10 Decembrie.

Asta fuse pentru cei noi, iar pentru initiatii intr-ale Joy-ului care n-au sarit cu traducerea la Bavarian Gentians, v-as ruga cu cerul si pamantul, ba poate chiar si cosmosul si gaurile negre sa fluturati din taste pe grup sau pe adresa mea de mail: mergicuviitura@gmail.com, ca sa va tintuim aici intre pernele blogului.

Tootles,
Meri