nu trebuie să povesteşti în poezie-am citit
un sfat către un tânăr poet-deci să nu povestesc
cum,foarte devreme, ea se scula dimineaţa,şi aşezându-se pe pat
aştepta să i se liniştească respiraţia,cu faţa în mâini-
să nu spun nimic despre chipul ei atâta de obosit
încât i se încovoiau umerii,în faţa oglinzii,când
se pieptăna încet.să nu-mi mărturisesc spaimele
lângă faţa ei înstrăinată,întoarsă de la mine.
să nu umblu cu versuri,ca şi cu oglinda în mâini
în care se răsfrâng acele dimineţi cu lumina cenuşie
dinainte de zori.poezia nu trebuie să fie reprezentare,
serie de imagini-aşa scrie.poezia
trebuie să fie vorbire interioară.adică
tot eu să vorbesc despre faţa ei înecându-se,căutându-şi
respiraţia?însă atunci ar fi numai felul în care eu vorbesc
despre faţa ei,despre mişcările încetinite prin straturi
de remuşcări tulburi,de gânduri doar ale mele,
ale imaginii ei-ar fi numai un chip,o imagine-
şi ea-adevărata ei fiinţă?
Mircea Ivănescu (Poezia e altceva?)
You must not narrate in poetry - I once read
this piece of advice to a young poet - so I must not narrate
how, very early, she would get up in the morning,
and sit down on the bed,
and wait for her breath to be still, her face in her hands -
I must tell nothing of her face so tired
that her shoulders bent, in front of the mirror,
as she combed herself slowly. I must not confess my fears
to her estranged face, turned away from me.
I must not use verses, as I do the mirror
reflecting those mornings with the grey light
before dawn. Poetry must not be representation,
a series of images - so it is written. Poetry
must be inward talk. Now is it me
who should speak about her face choking, struggling
for breath? Then it would only be the way in which I speak
about her face, about the gestures slowed down through layers
of blurred remorses, of thoughts all mine,
of her image - it would be just a likeness, an image -
and she - her true self then?
(Is Poetry Something Else?, tr. Dan Duţescu)
this piece of advice to a young poet - so I must not narrate
how, very early, she would get up in the morning,
and sit down on the bed,
and wait for her breath to be still, her face in her hands -
I must tell nothing of her face so tired
that her shoulders bent, in front of the mirror,
as she combed herself slowly. I must not confess my fears
to her estranged face, turned away from me.
I must not use verses, as I do the mirror
reflecting those mornings with the grey light
before dawn. Poetry must not be representation,
a series of images - so it is written. Poetry
must be inward talk. Now is it me
who should speak about her face choking, struggling
for breath? Then it would only be the way in which I speak
about her face, about the gestures slowed down through layers
of blurred remorses, of thoughts all mine,
of her image - it would be just a likeness, an image -
and she - her true self then?
(Is Poetry Something Else?, tr. Dan Duţescu)
[dedicated to all the poets who read my blog]
I think, these days, that all this writing is a sham which is self perpetrated. it gets us nowhere but this is too old a thing to discuss again.
ReplyDeleteyour recent pics are smouldering the pages of your blog and the quoted poetry is not needed. the pictures are enough on their own and now, just now, words desert me.
i congratulate you for these pics. i also think that the greatness lies in that some of these faces are known me too,familiar and thus great.
and I thank you for telling me this, I needed it, and tonight. you have no idea how I mean this.
ReplyDeletewhat do you do, kubla, when words desert you? I have my pictures and I can take refuge there for a while.
silence is a big word (in its Self)
ReplyDeletedo you think images are larger vessels of silence, of mystery
oh mansuetude, this is a very big question, I don't know. yes, sometimes it seems to me that this is the case, 'vessels of silence', how beautiful. but you can have the silence at the heart of a word, of a poem, a different type of silence, but still...
ReplyDeleteyes, i think about this too...
ReplyDeleteand sometimes, i try to be it, too, which trying makes impossible, and then the leaf in the wind tumbling in sun, i go along and taste it a second, and then, i burnt the toast.... ha ha...