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marți, 29 decembrie 2015
Joan Scheckel Filmmaking Labs - Chapter 4 Feeling
luni, 28 decembrie 2015
Sã ne prețuim valorile
Ioan Cãrmãzan, între
emoție și destãinuire
Gabriela Serban
În data de 2
noiembrie 2015, regizorul și
scriitorul Ioan Cãrmãzan s-a aflat la Biblioteca Orãșeneascã “Tata Oancea” din Bocșa, jud. Caraș-Severin, pentru o întâlnire cu iubitorii de literature și film, liceeni din clasa a XII-a care sunt
pasionați de aceste domenii,
dar și prieteni ai acestui
important om de culturã. Cu acest prilej, a fost lansat și cel mai recent volum care poartã semnãtura
lui Ioan Cãrmãzan: “Ceaþa albastrã”, un volum frumos atât ca prezentare
cât și conținut apãrut la editura “Ecou Transilvan” din
Cluj Napoca, 2015. Volumul cuprinde povestiri, scenarii, interviuri, dar și o cronicã de film.
“Ceea ce scriu este
propria mea suferințã și este
propriul meu suflet, nu mã prefac.” Mãrturisește autorul, iar povestirile din acest volum
confirmã. În poveștile
depãnate și în
scenariile construite regãsim frânturi din biografia lui Ioan Cãrmãzan, o
regãsim ca personaj pe sora autorului, poeta Vera Lungu ( “Rapsodia Românã”).
De altfel, cinefilii vor recunoaște în
aceste scenarii secvențe din filme: “Abur”, “Rapsodia Românã”, “Își ștergeau lacrimile cu pistolul”, “Cealaltã femeie”.
În carte gãsim trei
interviuri, mari și late,
care abundã în informaþii. Primul interviu este realizat de Radio Reșița, respectiv Doru Dinu Glãvan, cel de-al doilea aparține scriitorului Vasile Bogdan și este și cel mai amplu, iar cel de-al treilea constã într-o discuție a scriitorului Ioan Cãrmãzan cu pictorul
Horia Damian, episod care ne duce cu gândul la emisiunea “Academicienii”
realizatã de Ioan Cãrmãzan la TVR. Toate aceste interviuri ni-l dezvãluie pe
Ioan Cãrmãzan, ne ajutã sã descifrãm sufletul regizorului care se considerã “
un personaj care are foarte mulți prieteni
și foarte mulți dușmani.” Ne descoperã pasiunile sale: porumbeii (“Am avut întotdeauna
porumbei, fiind una dintre pasiunile vieții mele”); meseria de profesor (povestește și despre
tânãrul regizor Sabin Dorohoi pe care l-a “monitorizat” încã din liceu și i-a îndemnat pașii pe toatã perioada studiilor: “Menirea mea
este sã-l învãț pe tânãr
sã se caute singur, deci din aproape în aproape îl moșesc, adicã încerc ușor, ușor sã îl înțeleg, sã
mã apropii de lumea lui, de sufletul lui și sã îl ajut sã se exprime.”); familia (“Familia este pasiunea mea pentru
cã întotdeauna mi-am dorit o familie. Am doi bãieți și ei,
într-un fel sau altul, vin pe urmele mele…”); cititul (“Îmi place sã citesc și mã dedic cititului destul de multã vreme. Am
o pasiune, se numește Borges și citesc tot timpul Borges.”); scrisul (“
Scriu cu mare ușurințã, cu mare plãcere… Când scriu, scriu sub
imboldul unei febre, deci eu fac temperaturã când scriu, pentru cã ceea ce
scriu este propria mea suferințã, este
propriul meu suflet, nu mã prefac.”); filmul (“ E suficient sã faci un film în
viațã care sã rãmânã
emblemã și la care
lumea sã meargã buluc și sã își scoatã pãlãria și sã zici cã ești regizor.”).
În discuții este amintit și regizorul Sergiu Nicolaescu, apropiat prieten al autorului. La una
dintre întrebãrile adresate lui Ioan Cãrmãzan cu privire la fericire acesta
rãspunde în stilu-I caracteristic: “La un moment dat l-am întrebat pe Sergiu
Nicolaescu, care-mi este prieten: ai fost vreodatã fericit? și Sergiu mi-a rãspuns: Nu, am fost mulțumit. și l-am mai întrebat ceva: unde te simți mai bine? și el a
zis: Pe drum. Eu mã simt bine la mine acasã, cu porumbeii mei, cu familia mea,
cu câinii mei, deci într-un fel sau altul, dacã stau în liniștea mea, în lumea mea. E adevãrat cã la ora
asta nu mã vãd decât cu oamenii cu care vreau eu. Am acest privilegiu și îi mulțumesc lui Dumnezeu…”
Ioan Cãrmãzan ne-a
dãruit din nou un volum frumos, scris într-un stil alert, stilul Ioan Cãrmãzan,
o carte care se citește cu
sufletul la gurã.
LAUDATIO
pentru domnul Benoni - Ioan Cãrmãzan,
cu prilejul festivitãții înmânãrii Titlului de Cetãțean de Onoare al județului Caraș-Severin,
în data de 3 noiembrie 2015
Ioan Cãrmãzan este cunoscut ca una dintre personalitãțile culturale care a adus constribuții importante la cultura și arta româneascã, la afirmarea orașului și județului în circuitul national și universal de valori. Scriitor și cunoscut regizor și scenarist, s-a nãscut la 27 iunie
1948 în localitatea Satchinez, jud. Timiș, din pãrinți dascãli bocșeni. De la vârsta de 3 ani se întoarce cu
familia la Bocșa (Caraș-Severin), spațiul pe care Ioan Cãrmãzan îl considerã
natal, deoarece aici crește,
aici învațã, aici se
formeazã, de aici pornește
în viațã și în carierã. Bocșa este locul unde a copilãrit, și-a fãcut studiile, unde a cunoscut
farmecul peisajului și
al istoriei, de unde s-a inspirat în câteva cãrți și filme. Absolvent al Facultãții de Matematicã a Universitãții din Timișoara
(1971), dupã ce a absolvit și regia de film la I.A.T.C. București (1978), s-a afirmat în cea de-a șaptea artã cu o serie de succese,
între care filmele „Þapinarii” (1982), „Lișca” (1983),, „Sania albastrã” (1987), „Casa din
vis” (1993), „Lotus” (2004), „Raport despre starea națiunii” (2004), „Cu inima îndoitã” (2006),
„Dragoste de mamã” (2006), „Margo” (2006), „O secundã de viațã” (2009), „Oul de cuc” (2010),
„Vlad nemuritorul” (2000), „În fiecare zi Dumnezeu ne sãrutã pe gurã” (2002),
„Orient Expres” (2004 – în colaborare cu Sergiu Nicolaescu), „Brâncuși – din eternitate” (2014) - sunt
titlurile filmelor cãrora le-a fost regizor și unora scenarist. A realizat și filme documentare, între care unul
despre Bocșa, dar Și scurtmetraje, din care, din
nou, unul este realizat chiar la Bocșa, județul Caraș-Severin („Negustorul de amintiri” – 2009) : „Locul
influențeazã,
lasã amprente
asupra celor care stau într-o anumitã zonã”, spune profesorul și prozatorul Titus Suciu. „Încã
student fiind la regie, Nuþu Cãrmãzan vine în Bocșa sã facã filmul de absolvire. Apoi, este
primul cineaste care a fãcut un film Tata Oancea; de asemenea, îl aduce
pe Nicu Covaci, șeful formației
Phoneix, pe dealurile
din Bocșa
unde face filmãri, iar primul film de lung metraj – „Þapinarii” – își are originea tot la Bocșa. Primele imagini sunt inspirate din Mãgura
unde tatãl lui Nuțu Cãrmãzan fusese profesor.” „Cãrmãzan este un fel de
Bulgakov al României. Filmele lui sunt profund subversive, nu pentru cã
atacã comunismul, ci pentru cã-l ignorã.” („Cineast Magazine”, New
York).
În același timp s-a impus în literaturã prin câteva cãrți, douã dintre ele fiind inspirate
chiar de orașul și zona Bocșei: „Povestiri din Bocșa” și „Mica țiganiadã”.
„Ca regizor, a construit o lume fabuloasã. Ca literat, Ioan Cãrmãzan
are o operã absolut importantã și mãrturisesc cã fiecare relecturã îmi dovedește profunzimile textului și îmi dovedește cât de modern este Ioan Cãrmãzan” (prof. dr. Cãlin
Chincea) Ioan Cãrmãzan este, cum spunea și Fãnuș Neagu, „un rãzvrãtit și așa trebuie sã rãmânã”, care „vede lumea cu ochi de cineast și o repovestește cu gândire de poet.””Un scriitor care vine cu
un spațiu și îl propulseazã în marea literaturã”, afirmã Gheorghe Jurma. Ioan
Cãrmãzan este unul dintre cei mai controversați regizori români, este scenarist, este scriitor,
este profesor universitar, este membru fondator și președintele UARF (Uninunea Autorilor și Realizatorilor de Film din
România); din anul 2005 este membru al Uniunii Scriitorilor din România, iar
din anul 2008 este doctor în cinematografie și media. Membru al Consiliului Naþional al
Audiovizualului (2007); membru în Consiliul de Administraþie al Centrului
Naþional al Cinematografiei (2010); începând cu anul 1999 desfãșoarã o intensã activitate didacticã
universitarã: Facultatea de Arte a Universitãþii „Hyperion”, Academia de Arte
„Luceafãrul”, Universitatea de Arte Media PRO, Facultatea de Arte Plastice a
Universitãții de Vest
Timiºoara, Facultatea de Teatru și Televiziune a Universitãþii „Babeº-Bolyai” Cluj-Napoca.
Moderator și
realizator de emisiuni TVR („De la A la... infinit”, „Academicienii”). A pus în
scenã spectacole de teatru (Pescãrușul – Cehov, Romeo și Julieta – Shakespeare); a realizat fime documentare
pentru marele ecran sau televiziunile din România, dar și pentru BBC, CNN și Channel 15. A publicat urmãtoarele
volume: „Povestiri din Bocșa”. Timișoara,
Facla, 1983 și
ed. a II.a Reșița, TIM, 2010; „Mica țiganiadã”, Reșița: Timpul, 1998; „Cine-roman”, Iași: Junimea, 2002; „Roșu, galben și albastru”, Iași: Junimea, 2003; „Baladã pentru
tatãl meu” (Balade à mon pére). Belgia, 2003; „Elogiul intuiției”, București: Fundația PRO, 2008, „Filmul, nepot al Renașterii”, București: E d i t u r a Universitarã,
2011; „Zece povestiri”; Cluj-Napoca: Ecou Transilvan, 2012; „Oameni din Cocioc”,
Cluj-Napoca: Ecou Transilvan, 2013; „Ceața albastrã”, Cluj-Napoca: Ecou Transilvan,
2015. A tradus din limba sârbã romanul „Criptã pentru Boris Davidovici” de Danilo
Kiss (2007) și
din limba francezã „Viața
și opera lui
Philippe Ignace Semmelweis” de Louis-Ferdinand Céline (2009). Ioan Cãrmãzan
este deținãtorul unor
Titluri și
distincții și a numeroase premii: Marele Premiu la
Festivalul de la New York – filmul Þapinarii; „Tigrul de Aur” la
Festivalul Internațional
de Film de la Rotterdam – filmul În fiecare zi Dumnezeu ne sãrutã pe
gurã; Marele Premiu la Festivalul de film de la Teheran - filmul În
fiecare zi Dumnezeu ne sãrutã pe gurã; Diploma de onoare la
Festivalul de la Montpellier – filmul Casa din vis; Premiul II la
Festivalul Tinerilor regizori de la Tokio – filmul Lișca; Premiul special al juriului la Festivalul Filmului
de la Costinești
– filmul Casa din vis; Premiul UCIN pentru cea mai bunã interpretare, Gheorghe
Dinicã în rolul Cãpãlãu – filmul Casa din vis; Premiul UCIN
pentru debut Ecaterina Nazare, rol principal în filmul Lișca. Ioan Cãrmãzan este Cetãțean de Onoare al orașului Bocșa (2008) și al comunei Satchinez (2014). Despre
filmele regizorului Ioan Cãrmãzan scriitorul Ioan Pavel Azap se încumetã și realizeazã o carte: „Oamenii de
pãmânt ai lui Ioan Cãrmãzan”. Cluj Napoca: Ecou Transilvan, 2014. Despre
pasiunile maestrului Cãrmãzan este suficient sã amintim columbofilia, cunoscut fiind
faptul cã maestrul este un împãtimit columbofil iscând butada „cel mai mare
columbofil între regizori și cel mai mare regizor între columbofili”. Prin activitatea sa, Ioan
Cãrmãzan se alãturã marilor oameni de culturã ai Caraș-Severinului. „Plin de har,
inteligenþa sa, spiritul sãu profund, deschiderea cãtre lume, clarviziunea sa,
puterea de muncã sunt atributele unui om care s-a devotat unui ideal nobil,
care s-a ridicat treptat spre înțelegerea și
împlinirea lui” (Felicia Voinea, professor din Bocșa). Iatã doar câteva succinte spicuiri
din activitatea unui om care s-a pus în slujba culturii prin tot ceea ce a
fãcut de-a lungul timpului. Am considerat cã este momentul sã ne manifestãm și altfel recunoștința fațã de maestrul Ioan Cãrmãzan și fațã de aceastã muncã laborioasã a sa încununatã de realizãri de excepție. Ne raportãm la o personalitate
care a dat întotdeauna consistențã vieții, care
reprezintã un real model într-o lume dominatã de superficialitate. Iatã
motivaþii în plus pentru cei care l-au votat în unanimitate drept Cetãțean de Onoare al județului Caraș-Severin! și o spun cu tot respectful pentru
acest concitadin și
conjudețean al meu: meritã
sã primeascã acest înalt respect al comunitãții județene, meritã sã fie astãzi, aici, onorat cu diploma
de Cetãțean de Onoare
al județului Caraș-Severin!
Așadar, mulțumim
tuturor celor care au acceptat propunerea venitã din partea bibliotecii și a unui grup de cetãțeni ai orașului Bocșa și au acordat regizorului și scriitorului Ioan Cãrmãzan binemeritatul Titlu de Cetãțean de onoare al județului Caraș-Severin împlinind astfel un act de dreptate așezând încã un nume de referințã („urma” care rãmâne când toate
cele trecãtoare dispar) pe harta culturalã a județului nostru. Mulțumiri președintelui Consiliului Județean Caraș-Severin, dr. ing. Sorin Frunzãverde, mulțumiri domnului vicepreședinte Ilie Iova, mulțumiri consilierilor județeni pentru acordarea acestui titlu domnului
Benoni-Ioan Cãrmãzan.
Felicitãri, Ioan Cãrmãzan, dragul nostru Nuțu, și mult succes în continuare!
Gabriela Serban
3 noiembrie 2015
Aparut in revista BOCSA CULTURALA ANUL XVI. NR.
3-4 (91-92) / 2015
Învăluită într-o tăcere de mătase
Irina Lucia Mihalca
Ce simplu şi ce greu crezi că este!
Nu ai răspuns,
nici nu vrei să cauţi,
cuprins de nostalgie
priveşti timpul,
în jurul tău doar
haos, habar nu ai cum să ieşi.
Ce puţin a rămas până la orizontul
care fuge bezmetic
în zilele fără
noimă, fără inimă,
în nopţile când spiritul
îţi rătăceşte
ca polenul
păpădiilor
prin labirintul de
gânduri,
printre cuvinte,
miresme şi doruri,
în ciuda distanţelor
şi-a
barierelor care te sufocă!
Poveste înmiresmată,
sufletele sunt legate,
sângele care zvâcneşte în încheietura mâinii ei
pulsează şi-n tine, şi mai e ceva
- mai e şi Ea, şi e tare frumoasă, şi copil,
şi o iubeşti aşa cum o ştii,
şi n-ai
vrea s-o pierzi niciodată!
Eşti Tu,
fata învăluită într-o tăcere de mătase
din poveştile,
gândurile
şi mintea
mea! - îi spui inimii ei.
Dantelă de
sentimente,
iubirea
înlăcrimează, iubirea vindecă
şi te-ameţeşte până la Helios,
iubirea-i mister sau
nu este deloc.
O parte din mine stă
în lumină,
altă parte în umbra
stăvilarului din nori,
jumătatea trupului
meu pluteşte
în aerul îmbibat de
stropii de sare,
iar altă jumătate
este urma
pensulei de culoare,
când, spre sfârşit, revin la mal
gândurile mele
ridică ancora
şi dispar
în afara apelor teritoriale,
aşa că ţie îţi rămâne
să salvezi
castelul de nisip
construit
pentru mine
înainte de a veni
spuma mării odată cu
valul.
................................................
Iubirea eşti Tu şi Eu,
iubirea este metamorfoza
noastră,
singuri, în dansul
mut,
în câmpul întins de
zăpadă,
când nu mai vezi
început şi sfârşit,
când gândul nu se
mai vindecă de răni,
când inima ţi-e făcută zdrenţe.
Cu rănile nocturne
încerci să nu o uiţi,
lacrimă-rouă
întârziată
se va usca pe aripi
de fluture,
gândul tău se va
întorce
în sufletul meu,
vântul cel nebun
va semăna
lumina în calea ta
(ce frumos o iubeşti!),
un parfum sublim
îţi ameţeşte sângele,
un zâmbet răsfrânt,
ochii asiatici şi-atâta iubire.
.....................................................
Sub un cer incert,
cu nori în formă de întrebări imposibile,
cu păsări care-şi pregătesc zborul din cuiburi,
în toamna plină de
frunze şi amintiri
aurii,
în anul acela în
care-ai renăscut,
pe această planetă
albastră
în care sufletul ţi-a rămas,
undeva,
agăţat între tine şi cer,
acum că şansele-ţi sunt tocite,
iar moirele dorm,
zbori şi-mi faci semne neliniştite,
încet mă strigi,
chemându-mă
în corabia de vise
ce ne pluteşte prin inimi
şi râuri
de lumină,
poposind la mal
doar dimineţile
când încă mai dorm,
zâmbind,
visând departe,
departe, tare
departe.
Vrei să ştii adevărul? Tu eşti
cea mai mare operă a
creaţiei, Tu!
Meditation to an invented anthology
by George Anca
3. 07. 83. București
La Delhi pe iarnă
moartea mi se uita în gât
ieri în centrul
Bucureștiului mi s-a uitat gâtul la moarte
am revăzut-o și eu de
nemaivzut o tristețe în picioare
încă nu cădeam m-au dus
Nana și Nansi de colo colo
ori în care loc aș fi
căzut putea fi cruce
schimbarea climei
zice înfocată Mariana
anghina pulcelată pe
același fond nu
e nicio problemă și
nu se moare așa
dar dacă eu le-am
cerut iertare și le-am spus că
le-am iubit și am călătorit
împreună și
prin subteran nu
puteam altfel traversa
simțind că n-o să mai
pot urca de acolo
ieșisem în oraș cu 40
de grade pentru Mahabharata
1. 11. 83. Delhi (D5)
I play chess with
Vasile
wolves dream a drink
you play piano alone
2. 11. 83. Delhi
the wives'minds
rejuvenated
beyond tragic
purification
when forgetting the
sins of game
in dream you had
arrived at down
with other appearance
mounted
on the white ants
tree
laughing from lungs
halving
the pay of sitar
illusion not
knowing the ten adventures
and who singing other
music
had pushed us in the
sin
of riverside coppices
I quote negations
from the gallows
over a woman in the
ghost
replacing the
nonsense
it rings with an
invitation
three days after in
Hanuman
Mandir at his
daughter shadi
since yesterday no
more distant pallor
since today morning
contributing
to my sin with the
birth
distinguishing the
mogul
from Turk I retired
in the nearness of
Kublai
I was distinguishing
the love from death
Radha loving only in
the meaning
that she will lose
will lose Krishna
I'll not transcribe
the trembling
in the abyss of
awakening
to not lose Radha not
lose Radha
the alley slips under
monkeys
thoughts shadow up to
the tower
palm-tree growing me
green
guarded by her child
this untouchable
woman
is looking into the
mirror
the child sees me
sees me
and I see both
covering with touches
the matter of white
mirror
a paisa for Dusshera
a paisa for
puja jae mata
immaculata
harijan gone in the
mirror
now that it came the
time
of quiet word
jiu-jitsu
how without irmi and
judo
in tempo of kempo tae
kwan-do
tang soo-do aike-do
karate kung fu
you were painting
annunciation
saying lalat netra
agun basan
from Rabindranath
ashes-eyes
and again ma bole
dakis nore mon
n-o chema-n minte pe
maica ta
run like the calf
after the cow
6. 11. 83. Delhi
non sono sola
jae jagadisha hari
accompanied at
piano-forte
say something before
next concerto for
credibility
of yaksha's meghaduta
7. 11. 83. Delhi
Confused I am by all snake's
symbols – Achilles died in the Island of Snakes, Leuke by name, and the island
went some while ago unnoticed to Yama. A letter I red in red ink from madness
to madness, then once again I met you within confusion and Monday morning in a
kind cosmos.
It's black ink over a page and a
half. The empty white half doesn't help. The child hadn't time after falling
for the second time. No color. It is written „nu s-a împiedicat”. Free fall.
Past. Three weeks plus two weeks and now, similarly postponed.
Said, you understand. Other
colors. Walk. The unseen garden. Said, you saw. Left the same. Seen nothing.
Second time, at night, laughs over any face and a half. Loved the white cow.
Disturbing. Killing kidneys. Economy, phallus and belonging. Jacket, urine,
jacket. Commercial name Rivatril, nothing in India, understand Kamla.
„Nine years ago on a November
afternoon, two weeks later, I was sitting on the same verandah, on the same
chair turning my back half to the sun, with half of my senses turning towards
the child on the other verandah.
We were trying to make out the
sense of English sentences, hearing the crows, feeling the coming noise of
nature. Another subtle voice of birds, same feeling like under painted
plantains. The child walking in the dark, green shadows (with lures of brown,
yellow and red) of a late afternoon – it should last forever. The child now ten
years old is watching intensely Juliette and Hermione who I am not. My brain is
touched. We are going to explore it.”
God, take my life, make two for
my child, let him old in me and grown up in him, a girl, a boy, unaware of us
all. The night you did passed, and a beautiful Indian November also today and
all children and you and me.
The dream you gave me not long
nights ago wasn't true, wasn't untrue, like you an me, and a few troubles, not
more sins. Cursed be you for my enjoyment of being. You push me to those prints
of child's fall.
I thank to first mother
immolated, burned like a sati, in my very place and of child's. It happens with
no why, maharaj, good Bhagavan. There was a story of stories you'll bitterly
remember, giving a wind and a rain with no why.
„I should understand. But with
anger and longing, I don't. I regret the steps, the same steps I walk down
through the same roadside, pebbles and known and unknown stones, faces watching,
everything in alert dressing to meet the acquaintances.
I need to hold your hand, feel
you for long, long time, so long that I could forget about everything, the
noise outside, phalwala shouting, waiting whores and raven crowing the hour of
our death, drown around my mouth, eyes, palms of my hands.
On a nice worm Delhi winter
evening, I was surrounded by nice, polished young men. Then I could have told
you and myself the truth about you, about myself – half open windows, half
drunk coffee, abandoned books, type-writer half-filled with dust, my mother
opening the empty letter-box, Luiza in a guise of patience at the entrance,
Vijay and Terry playing a big game of scrabble.
And the children loving being
incarnations of all who have once been and loved India, great possibilities of
life and disappointment. I always dreamt about reaching here, walking in the
dust in the footsteps of many, going with books in my hand, in a (cold)
November morning, smelling the fresh stark and crowning on my saree forever and
of course dying here, my ashes thrown into the Yamuna.
And I find you here from the same
and alien stock with all the middle-European complexes, frailty,
self-destroying depressions, fears from being in the patch, Freudian complexes
– we are doomed. It is all fatal, too heavy for me.”
Did you find Rivatril? - I didn't
understand description of it. - Bad E.E.G. How are your children? - Loving
incarnations like ever. - I eave the place to try again, Margaret, snake is
wise indeed, no time to be on one's way.
I like it, after all. -
Understanding another description. - Middle... - That's. - For us. - Over -
And now? - Rivatril. - American?
- The doctor thinks also British, he was furious when I said German. Why cannot
God make myself Rivatril for my child?
I take profit in it (dear she),
while, „stately, plump came Buck Mulligan” „at work with syllables to submit
language as living” „and delighting proof of” his „gregariousness”, and far
from the middle your Dumrul, „not I”, „MOUTH: ... out... into this world...”, well,
Billie, L R(omanian), left, right, „M: Mother”, „It all”, „Nothing to be done”,
„Yes, let's go”, „about fifty”, our children know November, our children take
awards. „You love me so!”, „Birth was the death of him”, I tried to start as
SPEAKER, ending „the sad tale a last time told” through „The globe alone, alone
gone”, „Prematurely old” „rock her off” as reader, „Little is left to tell”, a
little more, „Ah!” (Krapp), „No, I wouldn't want them back”, „On” (Henry), „Not
a sound”,„Finished”, „You remain”, „Desert”, „He looks at his hands”, „pick it
up”, „what time you went back”, „and gone in no time gone in no time”,
„Good-evening” (Female voice), „Repeat”, „When I thought of her it was always
night”, „among the deepening shades”, „A penny for a poor old man”, „Eh,
Billie?”, „Well” (B), „Well I'll be...!”, „Madam” (HE), „Tomorrow... noon...”,
„Ready, miss?”, „Tomorrow, who knows, we may be free”.
At superbazar I was advised to
visit, not to see, Chondni Chowk, that is Medical Bureau, opposite Chatne Wale
Sweet Shop. I dropped in Young Friends Chemist, knowing that no drugs are being
imported in India.
And so in The New Book Depot, I
got the following imports: The Book of Dede Korkut, for our rivatril; for mine,
by Beckett:„Ends and Odds”, Endgame, Occasional Pieces, Happy Days, Waiting for
Godot, Foot falls, Not I. But for my wife's rivatril, Joyce's Ulysses, as you
already saw through the beginnings and endings, remaining all alien in the
middle in search of the needed rivatril.
Please do say your sincere
thoughts and impressions in the last 24 hours since I am searching for RIVATRIL
(bad EEG, two falls on the street OF THE CHILD – the theme already arisen. Do
not agree again be Kafka's avatar, past are those times.
Yes, how much can he tell. The
last 24 hours – one had a long walk with one, bumping up and down on the
pavement all the known buildings of the university all different now with one,
one's knees still trembling, shoulders, elbows, hands touching just a bit –
once on four steps.
Why they don't walk to the end of
world? No, let they go to Pondicherry, lie down on the rock, put one's head on
one's belly, listen to the sea and one's body working. They appreciate all what
they miss in life. Long paths leading to unknown houses. Wild roses on the window
frames.
Oh, no that is the end of
romantics. Shops, business to be done, this is the travel one has to take up
alone. Never should admit when one con-fused, wandering looks here and there,
and immediately comes some one.
One is with the child, all the child's
life, longer than their sum. Laughing at roses. Little same dukha. Nothing of
the middle park, with a French mother carrying her Walachian Christ. Could be a
movie at Batta shouses.
Tantric answers from Asian
Southern hemisphere. Paise. See a skin cut by dance of hastened desertion of
the last darkness before the first half. God listened one's prayer, as for an
end of one's life for nothing.
The child came from the tutor.
Went to tutoriality. If you'd written more, half of a half more. Their listener
from Cismigiu-Musoori plantains didn't bother, you think, for the child's
illness. Like many other trees did. And difference between day and night at
birth, etc.
The half empty white repeated in
your friend's letter as for Rivatril. Canceled visit and journey near
Interstate Bus Stand, I love the earth-goddess, feeling her help to the
remained incarnations.
Cold night. Joking knee. Morning
Hindu-Muslim prayers. And that bottle of perfect form. You are that. I always
drink you like for the first time, and you keep not only my thirst. Looked to
child nose to nose to parrot. Our children know November, our children are in
good health.
„E-n zadar, copile”. Isn't in
vain, nu e-n zadar, copile, „copii eram noi amandoi” - „When I was little tiny
boy”. Nobody learned about rivatril in India. There's colder than in child's
winters here. Could be also the pre-puberty.
No scandal by Amita-Calamita
moves me by now. Bibi speaks on Romanian rugby team, to go there. I'll fall in
your place. Fist my nose. You, falling woman. The newly married couple was not
in that bus – Andhra. Pendant que des parfums de roses viendront embaumer nos
vingt ans!
Sconosciuto. Chiar? After all
seas begin to boil on the main road. It returned the eggs to be broken in its
own memory. Only answer. Proof of dialogue. And orgy. Who is the thief? One
started dancing. God, says the whore. Bones as ivory, well, respect the doctor,
don't be like that with me.
I need only rivatril. I cannot
kill myself. Spring isn't for me any more. Only sweet November. With sins full
of graves. Sorry saying doctor is god. Has no idea. The people look through
window. Fools. Something more than thieves. Confusion of lost senses.
After, the whore said, for the
third time, pray to god. Precising she is a bachelor. Rhythmically: I pray for
your child. Saint god is only one. God is love and love is god. The sister of
the flower-dealer saw privately the Pope on 20th October, in the fifth Room in
Rome's Vatican.
It was a November morning in
Delhi. A cold nip, mist around leaves and branches, child's knees shivering in
the air. „Hurry, we may be late for the school bus. And don't fall into the
wholes dug in the middle of the road”. On child's legs – what's there, snow or
smell of wet leave?
Each morning is full of
anticipation. I understand it only now. How miserable. I was a wife. How much
fuller of happiness one's life is setting out every day for a new adventure.
It's no moral, no feminist teaching. I can't sum up my situation as: I am
happier than any wife. Perhaps, only luckier: to be able to manage on my own.
To see the children from far away
is a relief. To reach bus stop. To feel I fulfilled for this morning my duty as
a mother. Prepare to meet the students. My inspiration must work. I have ready
in my mind what I thought till now. And still there is a little hope – they may
not come today.
As I think just now: what if you
come? I turn my face and you are there. But, as you never come, they always
come. Some very faithfully. Some just a bit late. A bit not there in thought
with their thoughts.
Why did you come to love women in
blood? Jerusalem seen by Jeremiah like a whore. And so seen Canterbury by
Passolini. Rivatril was the theme. Letter to brain-surgeon. Even you, Falstaff,
don't drink, say, because of Mallory.
When I wanted to jump from the
top o Jantar Mantar, repeat, I saw the water down there was dirty. I renounced
also to don't regret in the air. Dear Falstaff, you think one cannot try
everything. I played it all. I do everything. Anything. But...
We have the freedom to do
anything. Become painters and paint, spoil colors. Children started crying at
gate. Loving Falstaff was not compulsion, but applications. Yet yesterday, an
understatement: don't embarrass one's agony.
16. 11. 83. Delhi
Ajung acasă la ora șase. Acum e șapte.
Mi-e foame. Am avut o zi grea. De dimineață, am fost la ora de română. Ultima
lecție: La teatru. Ce teatru, domnule? Că apoi am mers la serviciu. Am probleme
personale.
Vreau să mă însor, dacă sunt
masculin. Dacă sunt fată, mă mărit. Îmi trebuie ceva bani și câte și mai câte.
Teatru? O scrisoare pierdută? Eu cu cine votez? Curat examen. „Să-le spui curat
/ Că m-am însurat”. E din Miorița, fără niciun măritat.
Ba da. Că „a lumii mireasă” asta
face. Votez cu ea, domnule profesor. Altfel știi că îți vorbesc cu
dumneavoastră. Mai știm că nu se poate preciza asta pe englezește, și facem o
traducere pe cinste, liberă.
Nu am înțeles floarea albastră
chiar atunci, în grădină. Ați spus de două ori Eminescu și încă o dată floare
albastră. Nu știu la ce vă gândeați. A, da, ne-ați pus în temă cu
structuralismul de la Panini la Saussure. Și alte nume.
De ce nu ne-a mai vizitat și anul
ăsta Sergiu Al-George? Mă gândesc să mă gândesc, am de tradus ce mă gândesc. Nu
ne mai dați proverbe. Nici latini. Păi da, anul trecut studenții tăi au învățat
latina serios, de-au înțeles româna în istorie.
V-ați ocupat cu știința, știm
noi. Dar nici cu teatrul nu mi-e rușine. Am început jocul cu vorbe. Am întâlnit
substantivele pe drum, la sărbători naționale și în expoziții. Astea sunt
propoziții, din câte înțeleg. A mai trecut, totuși, timp. Uitați-vă la ceas –
certificat de română, 1984, trei ore. Traduc titlurile lecțiilor din cursul
Cazacu.
20. 11. 83. Delhi
The jamadarnis came in a long
line. They filled up the path where I wanted to come to you. In rags, the brest
of some hanging out from under blouses. Darkness fell and they passed by me
giggling and anticipating the pleasures after day work. And you went by with
jamadarnis. I saw you making love with them. It stroke me it wasn't literature.
It was you with same hands taking their measured but love for 10 rupees.
20 steps more. I reach the steps.
Nobody there. But the lock. The light is deceit just your words to me, to put
me to a good night's sleep. There is not hesitation. Away from the closed door,
from the lock whose key is not in my hand. Away with all rhetoric of sailing
ships from island of cannibals. Away to listen to the palpitation of our
hearts.
Delhi, Delhi at night, I never
loved you so much. Love to stand on street. I never knew one can stand so at
night, waiting and watching the cars which turn up and disappears in their own
rhythm. I never new Probyn Road so urban. Waiting for the prince, after his
battles, on stage and in life. Delhi on night, uncover me not, hold my hand, I
have a long way to go.
The time was over, Nothing to do
but smoking, running, hallucinating, laughing, regretting, trying, remembering,
writing, asking, keeping, opening, drinking, listening, booking, breathing,
chattering, provoking, embracing, kissing, worrying, smelling, forgetting.
All already in the great game. No
able to reach his mother breast, to say the word I. Closed up in the darkest
square of the carpet. Lives based on half truths. Daring not to say a sentence.
Exaggerating murderous wishes. I am the child, I played in all my orifices, let
me listen to God.
I wouldn't say you are
conventional – not exactly conventional, but sometimes – value of official
marriage, child having to love his mother best, grimace when speaking about
Mircea fucking Stella, if daughter would fuck a black man. Appreciating people
who would just devour everybody just because they are a family. Or am I unjust?
Uncle Billie, now, on top of
Jantar Mantar. Sorry, son, do not suffer. I do it for you. I did it immediately.
Jumped by mistake. Even saint fathers. I wanted simply to play with you.
Looking in no mirror. In no eye. Awfully burning sun.
I moved into void under your
conventional protection and love. Bad looking uncle after fall. Say your mother
why didn't she take care. There is water in front of you, think of fishes. Can
swim by my fatty being and no-being.
Kid, I didn't it to can say I did
it. Happy your mother when given birth to you. I give you this my death. The
birth of my I. As I am not a family and can jump alone. No, in the air, I wish
I fly. But I want you to see me among invented fishes.
I don't know swimming. Water
almost doesn't exist. Some dirty liquid. I did it for so little water. With
fire in it. With you following me by camera, never realizing where I was, where
I am, where I will be. You click and turn playing: I pay homage to the
Translator.
You know no one of my ten
professions: Killing, stealing, adultery, cheating, double-talk, coarse
language, talking nonsense, covetousness, anger and perverted views. Young
people of misery adventure, connoisseur of real India killed himself, said the
story teller.
10. 12. 83. Delhi.
Within modern Indianity and
Indian modernity, condition of poetry surpass condition of poet. As today
revolt is universal, freedom of poetry is limited. An anthology of underground
poetry will be not published anywhere, it can appear as an interference into
internal affairs of poetry, an unpublishable manuscript. A sclerotic idea of
both poetry and its belonging are making the job at least unpleasant if not
impossible.
There is a great country of
India, with poetry in different languages, with poets feeling individually as
everywhere, greatly concerned with symbols and liberties of general hope. The
feast of old aesthetics passed through alankara science. Genuine subjectivity
within undivided inspiration of consciousness may preferable destroy before
building.
One has indeed to feel loosing
from one's hypocrisy. There is a softness in the strong voices, a silent
strength in the mystic melodies of delicate singers. An ambition of modern
poetry in India appears to be the expression of Kali Yuga survival on one hand,
on another, the rediscovery of ancient perfection, like in any renaissance.
Translating Indian poems, one
feels getting indianized, using quiet virtual Sanskrit, Bengali, Malayalam,
Hindi, actually renouncing to translate. Foreign poems written in India are
still Indian. Religious pressing on secular minds, the disregard of sympathy,
shock carried by crisis, entropy can be easier accommodated in a translation
than in the original. But for what use?
Theories of poetry and poetics
are all of a sudden forgotten, a new poem comes into existence. With end or new
beginning in translation, under primordial attractive originality. To which
extent the metaphor is free of language and the language is a metaphor? Is
poetry a morphology?
Is the society co-author with an
individual poet against its progress? India of poets and poets of India are in
logic connection. Human mankind is shaped in a considerable measure by poetry.
Normal decadence doesn't fit political pretensions of advancement.
What is truth on poetry-lie? To
translate is to create again a creation, killing original author or killing
self. If poets don't read poetry to be not influenced, do readers read it to be
influenced? Posthumous reading of a poet is nobody's job?
Nobody likes anthologies. Anyone
knows poetry through own itinerary from poet to poet. The few occasion of
revelation could have come from poetry, be it a prayer or a curse. Somehow
poetics kills poetry as poetry kills poet. The show excites less young
imaginations busy with reopening generation's eye, nourishing philosophies and
children.
11. 12. 83. Delhi, D5.
Remembering of Romanian poetry
while reading an Indian poet, a commercial optimism is as if doubled in
divergent mirrors. Gone are the times of bhakti poetry everywhere but not
entirely here. Sad and silent are revolutionary voices. Even anti-poetry age
speaks metaphorically. Crust of study doesn't cover crest of poetry. One chats
easier with Kalidasa.
Poetry as personal experience and
translation brings an utter impression mixing lost impressions with received
enthusiasms, sorrows and rejection. Linguistics of translations have nothing to
do with poetry. Frankly speaking, linguists can work properly only on
generative errors with Wittgenstein and Jacobson. Let everybody learn
renunciation.
Poets love each other most in
occasion of one's death. Those poems written as acknowledgment are worth to be
not rewritten in a translation, but slightly reshaped through metaphors and
diction according to a different colorfulness.
Poems dedicated to critics will
be most commented by fellow-critics. Poems dedicated to poor and heroic require
a messianic good-sense in front of Babel ideologies and historical
assassinating tragedy. Same about contradictory god, hypocritical tolerance,
Lucifer's atheism.
In the beginning, translations
were Greek-Latin. For Sanskrit alankarikas, realizations were only samples.
Unless religious ones, the bodies of poetry are left. The Logos-Brahma
resisted. Golden pages share poverty of translator if not greatness of a Marpa,
of a Luther. Somehow, smallest translate greatest and vice-versa. There are
more anonymous translators of Shakespeare than better known translators and
original authors.
Translation is most censurable
work, firs by translator – most refined censorship. Convention is of special
omniscient criticism, applicable to any other „introduction”. Destroyers of
anthologies are practically endless, translator included.
Readers aren't programmable. They
have not only last word, but also first stimulation. Don't wait for writer of
other culture – the code will be bot rejected and completed by their share. A
translator is a reader of or for readers, a re-writer. After all, reader isn't
angel, not easy acceptor of eternity.
Eminescu refined Romanian poetry,
also through his reader, to the extent of dangerous universality. Coșbuc made a
still more Romanian Sanskrit Anthology. Blaga reopened mono logically the gate.
Anti-poetical 20th century contributed to cold literary war. Let next century
to give a new chance.
Teaching in hell of paradise, the
heavy truthfulness of poetry comes from outside, not from inside of poet.
Poet's dream-negation-dream language is to be translated, retold, as an outside
work. It is enough for a Romanian to know he exists in Punjabi under Mrs.
Pritam signature and in her magazine. While she confessed she was forgotten in
Romania.
That can not happen after all. Be
seen her poetry as gurdwara did. As happened to Baudelaire from his
contemporary judges, and later from Sartre. Who Sartre was himself well fined
in similar manner. Largest way of remembrance-forgetfulness is still an
anthology.
From Tagore without Tagore, down
Ghalib, preference to Walathol, free underground poet, measured university one,
traditionally musical Sanskrit modern kavi as saint in speech as political
father. Gurudev's Child Christ. Aurobindo Greek-Latin involvements. Bharati's
many religions also out of religion's idiom.
If poetry belongs to a higher
order, the crisis of it is a good thing. The poetic rights will be not claimed
like human rights. Poetry of eating, surviving, thinking, poetry of generations
or generations of poetry. Stories in process of translating are different than
previous ones. A translator transforms intellectually the feelings. A
translator seeing Jamuna thinks of poems on Jamuna.
Poet is most unhappy being.
Poetic being isn't human or divine only. Kalidasa's Cloud Messenger became
symbol of jails. Vergil's and Horace's propaganda poetry for emperor and empire
knows, within greatness of Greek like perfection, the opposite dimension,
sometimes in the myth of India.
Rationed translation-poetry
doesn't damage poetry. Vastness of another poetry comes to intensity of
translation during hard times in one's own country, or of his exile in country
of which poetry he tries to translate. Hardly can one speak of a free
translator. Pity for unpopularity of translations with writers and literature –
readers like them more.
Inhibiting craft of excellence in
another language isn't easily connected – almost imaginatively – with
original's quality. Sound is and isn't too much. Meaning is and isn't too
obvious even for reader of the original. Inspired expression will be out of
canons of poetry itself.
When one starts to feel poet, who
and how does one remain a poet while translating, and if so, what kind of a
relation exists between himself and original authors? I met a Jewish old
gentleman preferring to read Solomon Song of Songs in Latin – Cantica
Canticorum.
No matter of translator, but of
translation, of language. If not a poet, translator talks as an avatar or
sacrilege through poetry, on behalf of another creator. On the other hand, more
than one complete version, direct from Sanskrit, Rig Veda will not shadow
Eminescu's Roamian replies to it. On the contrary, will increase its
singularity, as well as mystery of poetical creation, poetical stand against
senseless time of history.
If something can be free of
provincialism, language considered, poetry comes in mind together with music.
Orchestras of translators can color differently, age after age, bibles in
version. Religious beauty will separate again and again accordingly sacred and profane,
tot use preferred terms in Mircea Eliade's Hermeneutics.
But quiet translatable religion
isn't as much tied with quiet untranslatable poetry. Not only poets appeal,
sometimes, to god, but also god turns to be a gnostic poet. Time by time, and
almost always in translation. Are they not first translations Brahma's words in
Sanskrit, Buddha's in Pali, Jehovah's in Hebraic, Christ in Aramaic and Greek,
Allah's in Arabian, Zarathustra in Persian?
Unknown writers in their own
literature happen to be recognized by translation. „That is not poet at all”,
one can learn of a dear representative already translated. „This is not
publishable with us” is suggested in other bank. „This cannot publish us in
exchange” things almost everybody.
Does ghazal answer some European
form? Was Michel Madhusudan sure enough about chances of sonnet in Indian
languages? Is fashion of kai-ku a western sign in Indian poetry, or remains a
seventeen syllable Sanskrit mandakranta meter? Daring innovators of forms are
showing solidarity in decadence too.
Page on which a poet wrote his
poem is it white again in translator's imagination? Does it matter if the first
wrote with left hand and the second transcribes it with right hand? Are beliefs
and morals of translated author stimulating energy and choice of translators?
What the reader will say? Is cultural sclerosis blocking the way from poetry to
poetry?
The confession beyond translation
is of a third author. The voice of silence from which both sound and echo play
truest lie, most promising illusion. Objectivity seems to be with founders,
currents, involvements in progress revolution, etc. How much a poet translated,
translator and reader belong to subjectivity, reducing full mystery of
imaginary India to a short black verse? Or, by contrast, encountering
revelation.
Poetical myth in modern Indian
poetry may be less myth, actual sensibility being recognized in terms of
general humanism and specific tradition. Greater poet not lesser Indian, lesser
Indian not greater poet. Poetry isn't only creation of poet, but an
appointment, a marriage. Ubiquitous feelings are expressed and re-expressed as
for first, as for last. Poetry outside poet, poet inside poetry, poetry inside
poet.
Poetry is only beautiful
death-misery-sin together with love-life-purity. Discussion with a poet,
translation of a poem, thinking of its making, according to author's talent
inspiration mean appointment, never disappointment.
How translatable are politics,
morals, superstitions? Is mystical readership of poetry equal to non-riding it?
Is poetry a recital of language in poet's interpretation? Is it remembrance,
prophecy, rehearsal of reality through illusory illusion?
Absolute blackness of Kali
provides poetry daemon in poet's speech, apparently one with that of reader, listener.
Silent secret of poetry is unknown to poet himself in other language than that
invented and simultaneously forgotten of his poetry. Poetical inspiration
doesn't belong to cosmos, nor cosmos to its projections.
Sever game of objectivity leaves
to object only professional rejection if not interested acceptance of its
re-inspiration. Through mechanical categories of comparative literature as body
of methods, a translator can check themes, guess influences, open ways to
affirmative readings. A formulation like „India in Romanian”, i.e. Romanian
poems of Indian inspiration, try to accede sphere of poetical awareness.
The proof an anthology could make
isn't of an experience of changing principles described in this attempt, but
extensive super-cultural mythological India. Poetic civilization doesn't
rebuild surroundings, but contemplate and attack the ever existing ones.
Practical love reform by Tulsidas or Francisco d'Assisi, series published by
Sahitya Academi are seducing the anthologizer. South American analogy crosses
interest for African voices.
With Tagore, in Bucharest and on
Black Sea bank, we have infinitely more than whitest beard in view. Reasserting
poetry sacrifice is a lead to sculptural abstraction re-imagined by Brancusi in
Indore. With Eminescu, Blaga, Arghezi, Eliade, other less famous but not less
poets, we have some real and imaginary Indian new mantras.
Brotherhood poetry slows self
alienation. Poetry of self increases need for brotherhood. Color of tropic can
get richer through diminutive mountain-verse, less monumental for eye than
Himalaya. Adaptation up to renunciation. Renounced anthology suits still be
tribute payed to poetry expectations of worshiper.
Artifice-creation as worship
seems revenged. Critical job is by far other job than for an anthology.
Critical instrumentation, tired for imposing and destroying, will stop working,
at best. Poet's choice will be also crushed by unemployed critics. Better a
reader, a teller of those, say, interesting poets of twentieth century.
Who is poet's India, who is
India's Poet? Selfishness but freedom before getting it. Freedom of country,
freedom of poetry. God has a temple in poetry. Modernity self is to be seen
with third eye. Felt with sixth sense. Regretted nostalgia of lost paradises
and hells.
Older clarity of systematic
perfection makes place to clear disintegration of former patterns. Universal
entropy by natural balance its poetry fascination. Poets repeat the former
creator playing his last sound. The first and the last young poet aren't
unknown to each other. Old modern Indian poet, a father.
You know poetry anthologies
published here. If you don't find there a poem known everywhere, please share
some to present intended translator. Between poetry sonority and hearing there
is a space of imaginary reconstruction of human consciences, a living poetical
opportunity.
An imaginary anthology would mix
primordial language with modernity, be it in terms of Bremond and Tagore. Let
lose intention, take methodological ignorance or irony making Peguy to write a
thesis in verse, like Sanskrit treaties. Physician poet Vasile Voiculescu, who
applied a versified application to Health Ministry, actually rewrote Kalidasa's
Sakuntala in Carpathians.
Histories of literature are
spoiled anthologies as anthologies are renounced histories. Unlike poet, the
poetry faces victoriously the history. Poets' biographies include personal
epitaphs full of not so black humor like philosophies, reconstructions,
enthusiasms, dandy poses, revolutionary calls. Let out age, audience, glory,
suspicion as negative stimulation.
From Latin neoteric to
Indo-Anglian bard we see reversed dispositions for fashion in different times,
geographies and cultures. Neoteric liked finer Greek pattern differently from
Indo-Anglian face to poetical European English. Indian muse may have adapted to
that language which is not any more foreign.
In a general anti-fiction age,
non-poetry, essays or poems on poetry are rather fashionable. For publisher,
poetry is loss. Poetry of censorship and censorship of poetry thrones on Nobel
convenient winners, schizophrenic realism, poetry of recovery in asymmetry to
poetry of improvement.
The few changes in poetry during
centuries, poet's eternal necessary poverty are encouraging and educating facts
for readers and society. Transformations could even be balanced by return to
poetical mysterious depth, beauty and soundness beyond exemplary sufferance.
So many members of anthology, or
absents mentioned afterward are moving. Is it worth to translate children,
thinking to children of next century? Long centuries after, like now in their
choices in return to old masters thinking to us not like children.
Children weren't so popular with
Sanskrit poet. Not so in aesthetic codes for modern children, grown-ups, old,
dead. Poetry life, life poetry. Is middle class kind of middle-poetry class?
Solar system, poetic system.
Beautiful conclusion to death,
fear of ambiguous ends, Archimede's invading disorder of circles, dear
disorders – poetry of disorder, still order? Aestheticians may be happy with
broken patterns, reminding, rebuilding, saving. Likewise, administrators could
find consolation for small interest to writing from ivory tower.
With much more questions for a
single unsure answer – what is to be poetry itself – one can wonder, after a
few years, what one's indianization may mean? It's better to clarify it in
India with no regard how he will play a fool. Than to be confused in his own
play with prohibited corrupter of the right. Worship disposition clears verse
directness of negation.
Avoided influences are at work.
Open dissidence puts together tradition and literary denial. With a new poet,
poetry re-finds its origin which cannot be younger than god. Remaining young,
patriarch poet may be rather god's father than his son.
Perfect happy poet, like
Milarepa, would be also stoned or poisoned like Socrates, Dante and so many
moderns. Unaccepted poet makes his poetry silently accepted – only poetry isn't
conspirator, on the contrary is a reply to power brutalities. Poetry power:
unchallengeable by other powers. Poet-poetry challenge Sanskrit Ardhaniswara,
Plato's androgynous.
Anthology retains poems in an
adventurous way of choice. Some poems having to be present are unknown to
translator. He may translate masterpieces in the picture, jumping from peak to
peak under an illusion of essences. What other image than a summary, beyond
preimage if not prejudice?
Answerable anthology connoting
Asian spirit can attract a better judgment of own tradition. Birth and rebirth
of poetic meaning repeats samskara. Like eggs double, birds songs mix with
human love songs. Orpheus knows all other beings than his. Birds aren't
consoled by Ramayana inspired by their sorrow.
Poetry as an integrated, sonorous
soul of all beings chose the poet and gives him a secret of novelty within
permanence. Modern distortions confirm perennial beauty of contraries. God and
devil play episodic roles in poetry like in a Mozart opera a king, singing very
little if at all.
17. 12. 83. Delhi, D5
True way to love and hate is
poetry, through Radha, or, otherwise, through modern verse pushed by
politicians. Some answering ghost-compassion to previous meditations in
surplus. Poetry-contemplation, poetry-action. Different from earthly muddy
conflicts.
Avoidance of poetry – hate for
poet. Pretensions of tensions. Rimbaud, isn't enough excellency to be free to
see a movie? Hunter of poets, poetry murder keeling a poet-two, many-all. Logic
of poetry and killing isn't unknown. Lyrical explosions are opposed to killing
explosions.
21. 12. 83, D5, Delhi
Hearing about death of a poet,
the language of thought returns to ritual of powerful silence. On 13 December
1983, poet Nichita Staneascu passed away. We evoked his poetry in our class of
Romanian language. We translated his last poem signed by him, Towards Peace. It
is more shanti than pax.
Translator translates poet as
wood-cutter. Forest of symbols correspond with forest of non-symbols.
Wood-cutter thinks to Savitry without translation. How silent Yama is
taking-giving life there.
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