translations by Stavros Deligiorgis
We are proud to publish some poems by Ioan Es. Pop translated by Stavros Deligiorgis into English. Stavros Deligiorgis published Flesh Made of Dreams. Modern and Contemporary Romanian Poets, Editura Agora, Călărași, Romania, 2010. A very rare book, because only the authors presented in the anthology were rewarded with two books each. The anthology never saw the shelves of a library. We notice that the translator chose as the title of the anthology a portion of a line written by Ioan Es. Pop. We presume that it was for him a metaphorical definition of poetry. (Fitralit)
Mircea’s Discourse Before His Disciples on November 10
I am not going home today. but I know:
one of you is going to wake me up.
one of you is going to sell, of all the people, me out.
Dumitru the doctor will arrive too late.
for I have aged, I am over the hill and like the flowers of
frost I am wilted
the sun struck me, heat has scorched me, the winds blackened me.
roads have wearied me,
days have worn me, my ohs have made me old,
nights have defaced me,
and, worst of all, luck has put the hex on me.
glory, glory! here we are at the gates of the orien.
where everything is possible and
where nothing is meaningful any more.
(in: Ioan Es. Pop, „Ce a rostit Mircea în fața ucenicilor la 10 noiembrie,” Ieudul fără ieșire (Hellville has no exit), Cartea Românească, București, 1999, p. 42)
The Only Conquerors Here Are Those Who Fell In Battle
everything here got going on Tuesday, yesterday
was Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday are just Tuesday. tomorrow
starts Tuesday too; eternal feasting.
the soul rises on tiptoe to see which day
is coming up from the horizon. it leaps with joy because
Tuesday is coming.
—about midnight, of this day, whereabouts did they find them?
glory, they shouted, glory, they said, glory, they whispered,
glory to the apartment that ate them up.
the twilight of the gods found us already
unprepared. waiting for Mircea
whonevershowedup.
—did his ascension take place?
to the sound of pipes and trumpets of stone it did .
and there was no one to see how
out of a mouth
there gushes
dazzling like olympus
Hellville
h
a
s
n
o
e
x
i
t
(in: Ioan Es. Pop, „Biruitori rămîn aici doar cei căzuți pe cîmpul de luptă,” Ieudul fără ieșire (Hellville has no exit), Cartea Românească, București, 1999, p. 43-44)
Flee From Her Flesh For It Is Flesh Made of Dreams…
get back in the hermitage of your body and do not strive
to leave her behind. by candlelight leaf through the handwriting
of the formerly warm walls
but go no further than the leaves that are
the stones of the walls. and starting now
let yourself be overtaken by sleep more oft.
with an abundance of time on your hands fetch mortar and bricks
double the construction thicken the walls lower the ceilings
until you only have space for sleep. in particular
fill up the places where there were doors and windows.
write nothing down. words will
erode the plaster and grind down the stones of the walls:
on the other side you will run into her again.
flee from that flesh for it is flesh made of dreams
(in: Ioan Es. Pop, „Fugi de carnea ei căci e o carne de vis,” Ieudul fără ieșire (Hellville has no exit), Cartea Românească, București, 1999, p. 41)
Back When It Used To Be Defiled by Drink
Back when it used to be defiled by drink,
dressed in shabby clothing and humiliated by needs
my flesh was more religious.
maybe it did not show as young as it does now
that my skin has stretched so well over it,
but in it I knew horrors that others
will never know as well as joys others
could not even hope to dream.
I should be able to start all over again, full blast,
against my own self. all over again to give up
every single thing, slide downwards
as once upon a time, at least on the way to horror
with which each time I redeemed my gift.
because truth to tell I do not care to achieve anything,
not even to make progress if I set out,
but only to hear my teeth rattling
feel my blood bubbling up inside my nose,
shake all over and hide wasted
and this not because I am not like you,
but because only in this way can I pray.
(in: Ioan Es. Pop, „Pe vremea cînd era spurcată de alcooluri,” Pantelimon 113 bis (Pantelimon avenue 113a), Cartea Românească, București, 1999, p. 5.
I’ve Told You to Watch Out for Those Mornings
I’ve told you to watch out for those mornings
their raw sun is not for us.
and the closed and heavy sun of our world
barely mists the horizon. we are
at the beginning of another world and of other suns.
so you have been left alone. all right. all of the past
is at your beck and call. you met evil with your eyes open
and you will get well. One day you will understand that
all that shines brings death to you closer and closer.
evenings here, on the other hand, you will surely like:
it’s he season of the livid worlds for you
half in shadow, half unknown.
Feel welcome. Here the future
is almost already gone.
(in: Ioan Es. Pop, „ți-am spus să te ferești de dimineți,” Pantelimon 113 bis (Pantelimon avenue 113a), Cartea Românească, București, 1999, p. 51)
In the Bar Across the Street Everybody’s Wearing Dark Glasses
In the bar across the street everybody’s wearing dark glasses
looking elegant and quiet. They sip carefully out of their glasses,
the barman cruises the tables with full beermugs.
he is as quiet as they are and very very formal–
the only thing that is not in the beermugs is beer.
as a matter of fact, these never get drunk,
not even when they stay till dawn.
today however I think that one of them using a rope scrap
around his neck
showed his real colors and went past all measure,
which saddened terribly everybody.
under colder candelabra, at a table
a young wolf is somberly greedily
chewing on the his buddy’s jugular.
his fangs are burning. good night, wolf, whoever you may be.
good night, mon semblable mon frere,
nobody is going to blame you.
(in: Ioan Es. Pop, „În barul de peste drum, toți poartă ochelari negri,” Pantelimon 113 bis (Pantelimon avenue 113a), Cartea Românească, București, 1999, p. 71)
