poeme traduse

 o pasãre dezarticulatã

prea puþine lucruri seamãnã
cu realitatea (ne)virtualã,
nici mãcar muzica sufletului!
tonul joacã rolul principal,
sterilitatea imaginilor care cumuleazã
în van
vârsta nepriceperii în domeniul
bifurcaþiilor de tot felul
Stângaciul din naºtere
te poate ajuta!
nu încerca sã înþelegi aceastã scrisoare
lava se revarsã fãrã avizul cerului
fãrã dicþionarul minþii, cum spui tu
în limba care vrei sã mã visezi!
cifrul lunei pline
se ascunde de mine astãzi
chiar de-mi este înscris în palmã
chiromanþia eºecului ca ºi semnul apei!
Cu toate astea ea mã ghideazã, mã educã,
mã aruncã în braþele tale virtuale
cu puterea nopþii incandescente
fãrã a înþelege ceva din acest mister!
dar tu ºtii sã traduci imaginile mele,
cunoºti transfigurarea fulgerului
din bunãtatea ochiului, bunãtatea cuvântului,
cunoºti limba universalã a alãptãrii
sugaciului la sânul mamei adolescente, firave
dar convinsã de misiunea ei!
de dincolo de oceanul îngheþat dintre noi,
de dincolo de silabisirea stâncilor
te rog
sã mã iei în seamã acum.. ºi nu mai tãrziu!
tu nu ºtii încã nimic din rãstãlmãcirile Doamnei:
pietrele mã conduc spre cearceaful amintirilor
Columnele lui Solomon îmi strãjuiesc
baldachinul fostei feciorii,
ca o zeiþã autenticã, am fost
(umblam atunci pe malul Jijiei, pe linia de cale feratã
sãrind din piatrã în piatrã, iubind ºi fiind iubitã
cumsecade, în zorii zilei,)
aºa cum poza mã aratã
atunci, la 18 ani
doar o umbrã a copacului redã în mod real
portretul meu ca o Giocondã…
poem de debut
descris prin faldurile rochiei, prin poziþia mîinilor)
dacã trãieºti în trecut
ai ºansa sã-þi recuperezi adolescenþa
ai ºansa sã-þi întâlneºti idealul pierdut

ai ºansa sã cuprinzi braþul bãrbatului ales
sã te conducã spre noaptea sãrutului aprins
de stele albastre,
de flãcãrile abisului încã neînceput,
neºtiut dar presimþit,
ca ºi cum roua dimineþii este gustatã întâi ºi întâi
nu ºtearsã de tehnologia înaripãrii voite!?
dar tu ce ai ales?
moartea pãrinþilor în celãlalt capãt de lume
când nu te-au urmat în Continentul minunilor?
visele reþinerii în absconsul vitraliilor neînþelese?
Sã zbori între continente… între vid ºi luminã!

Inspiraþia e conglomerat al pietrei divine
ce se aflã atât de aproape de mine
aici la Ierusalimul dorit cu ardoare!
Întoarce-te deci, aici de unde-þi sunt rãdãcinile!

O pasãre dezarticulatã se îndreaptã ca un bolid
spre pãmântul verde plin de cernoziom împietrit.
Ea îºi ºtie sfãrºitul.

o varianta in limba engleza inca nefinisata:

dismembered bird

there’s far too little similarity

between things and (non)virtual reality,

not even of the music of the soul !

the tone plays there the main role,

the barrenness of images that increment

in vain

the age of clumsiness in the domain

of crossroads of all sort

Perhaps it’s the left‑handed born

who might give you support !

don’t try to understand this letter

the lava flows without Heaven’s permission

or the thesaurus of the mind, as you would say

in the language you want to dream of me !

the code of the full moon, today

is hiding from me, it’s running away

in spite of my palm’s displaying the line

of the chiromancy of failure, the water sign !

Though, it’s my guide, and educating me, the Moon,

and throwing me into your virtual arms

by all the power of the incandescent night

while understanding none of these mysterious charms !

but you are versed with interpreting my images now,

a thunderbolt’s rendition you’d avow

the kindness in the eye and word is reading

you know the universal tongue of feeding

a baby on a teenage mother’s breast,

fragile, yet certain of her mission quest !

beyond the ocean between our shoulders

beyond unscrambling names of the Earth boulders


do consider me… right now, not later !

you do not know The Lady’s code translator :

the stones are leading me to the remembrance sheet

Solomon’s Columns have a guarding seat

as posts around my former maiden bed

all dressed

just like a real goddess

(was roaming then on Jijia’s shores, along the railroad line

leaping from stone to stone, loving and being loved

proper, at dawn)

as in the photo shawn

when I was just eighteen,

only a shadow of the tree can truly render

my portrait, same as that of a Gioconda

(a debut stance

described by my robe’s folds, by how I hold my hands)

if living in the past

you might regain your youth, there is a chance,

the chance to meet with the ideal you’ve long lost

the chance of taking your chosen man’s arm

letting him lead you to the night of flamed kiss charm

the kiss ignited by the bluish stars,

and by the flames of that still new abyss of ours

unknown so far, unless by premonition,

as if the morning dew is first to taste, upon its apparition,

before the tooling of the willing winging wipes it out !?

and you ? what is your choice about ?

your parents’ death at the world’s other end

for having failed to follow you to the Wonders’ Continent ?

dithering dreams within not‑understood glass windows ?

Fly between continents… in‑between void and light set up your sails !

The inspiration’s a conglomerate of divine mould

which now so close to me it is unfold

in this Jerusalem that is with such ardour longed for !

then come back here, where your roots await in store !

A now dismembered bird is hurling in a wild descent

t’wards the green earth of petrified and fertile a soil blend.

The bird’s aware of its end.

Published in the Review “Literary Romania” no. 22, 11 June 2002

from the leaflet “Bitter Cherries”, Munchen 2002

Cami, Australia.

publicat în Revista “România Literarã “ nr.22,
11 iunie, 2002.

by Bianca Marco
Paris light is struggling

amongthe withered palmed leaves
pigeons picking around
among rhomboidal slabs
contemplating THE BIG ARCH
sitting on a bench
For hours
conquering the liberty inside myself,

Luiza Carol
18 poems af Bianca Marco , 1996

 by Bianca Marco,
Haifa stationThe failure of communication my locomotives pass under the window
even if they see the sea, the Bay,
the first image is superimposed
they whistle at midnight
they whistle like stray bullets
I mistake them for fireworks
I don’t know whether it’s war or peace when I hear them.
slowly, I go towards the window
to see the views
maybe it’s the neighborhood Arabs
praying at loudspeakers
perhaps it’s fireworks from a wedding
maybe it’s the Ramadan
it’s so close to the synagogue
holiday songs can be heard
‘ours’ are praying for peace…
only the freight carriers don’t get out of fashion at Haifa station
they don’t need to follow the trend
my grandson already calls the train ‘rakevet’
he does not mistake it for a toy.
the train, the airplane
the failure of communication
parallel trails…..
English translation
Rafael Manory

  • by bianca marco
  • Warning for myself
  • Oh God, let me have rest in this life
    and do not throw me in the Hell of Words
    and do not transform me
    into a being dependent on
    the imaginary fragrances
    of the male within me
    please set my life in order
    bring me to the right path
    of a smile,
    throw me
    in the garden of flowers
    of the Lost Paradise
    of beyond the light…
    And give me a passing hope
    of not becoming mad waiting for the sign
    of him who …does not want me…English translation Rafael Manory

  • bybianca marco
  • Between words
  • I won’t add anything
    to what I have written already,
    as if to somehow correct
    the light of wordsI’ll expect nothing from anybody
    when between the words
    there is too little silenceneither do I want to enclose myself with the li’l ones
    to teach them clean expressions.
    I won’t throw the fire of my poems
    in anybody’s eyes
    I won’t seek meanings that burn.I refuse anything that resembles a parent’s kiss
    that is given too late or is too long awaited for
    between words.English translation Rafi Manory

  •  September By Bianca Marco ©English translation Rafi ManoryEverything will repeat itself on a different scale the word’s holiness is overflowing flushing everything down the valley my supporting wall is guarding my back
    There will be another September in the shadow of the waters of the Sea and the Earth’s suffering fed up with dead bodies, the unexpected century….

  • by bianca Marco
  • ***
    forever countingwe are watching the skiessearching for the star in need of warninglest it would fall…we want all possessionsfamily’s, friends’, poets’

    forever counting whatever we have in the large

    carriage of ursa major

    Rafi Manory

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