Friday, July 31, 2009

Moartea căprioarei, de Nicolae Labiş (The death of the deer)

Poezia ce mi-a marcat existenţa / The poem that left a powerful impression on my thoughts

Moartea cărprioarei

Seceta a ucis orice boare de vânt.
Soarele s-a topit şi a curs pe pământ.
A rămas cerul fierbinte şi gol.
Ciuturile scot din fântână nămol.
Peste păduri tot mai des focuri, focuri,
Dansează sălbatice, satanice jocuri.

Mă iau dupa tata la deal printre târsuri,
Şi brazii mă zgârie, răi şi uscaţi.
Pornim amândoi vânătoarea de capre,
Vânătoarea foametei în munţii Carpaţi.
Setea mă năruie. Fierbe pe piatra
Firul de apa prelins din cişmea.
Tâmpla apasă pe umăr. Păşesc ca pe-o altă
Planetă, imensă si grea.

Aşteptăm într-un loc unde încă mai sună,
Din strunele undelor line, izvoarele.
Când va scăpăta soarele, când va licări luna,
Aici vor veni să s-adape
Una câte una caprioarele.

Spun tatii că mi-i sete şi-mi face semn să tac.
Ameţitoare apă, ce limpede te clatini!
Mă simt legat prin sete de vietatea care va muri
La ceas oprit de lege si de datini.

Cu foşnet veştejit răsuflă valea.
Ce-ngrozitoare înserare pluteşte-n univers!
Pe zare curge sânge şi pieptul mi-i roşu, de parcă
Mâinile pline de sânge pe piept mi le-am şters.

Ca pe-un altar ard ferigi cu flăcari vineţii,
Şi stelele uimite clipiră printre ele.
Vai, cum aş vrea să nu mai vii, să nu mai vii,
Frumoasă jertfă a pădurii mele!

Ea s-arătă săltând şi se opri
Privind în jur c-un fel de teamă,
Şi nările-i subţiri înfiorară apa
Cu cercuri lunecoase de aramă.

Sticlea în ochii-i umezi ceva nelămurit,
Ştiam că va muri si c-o s-o doară.
Mi se părea că retraiesc un mit
Cu fata prefăcută-n căprioară.
De sus, lumina palidă, lunară,
Cernea pe blana-i caldă flori calde de cireş.
Vai cum doream ca pentru-întâia oară
Bătaia puştii tatii sã dea greş!

Dar văile vuiră. Căzută în genunchi,
Ea ridicase capul, îl clătina spre stele,
Îl prăvăli apoi, stârnind pe apă
Fugare roiuri negre de mărgele.
O pasare albastră zvâcnise dintre ramuri,
Şi viaţa căprioarei spre zările târzii
Zburase lin, cu ţipăt, ca păsările toamna
Când lasă cuiburi sure şi pustii.

Împleticit m-am dus şi i-am închis
Ochii umbroşi, trist străjuiţi de coarne,
Şi-am tresărit tăcut şi alb când tata
Mi-a şuierat cu bucurie: - Avem carne!

Spun tatii că mi-i sete şi-mi face semn să beau.
Ameţitoare apă, ce-ntunecat te clatini!
Mă simt legat prin sete de vietatea care a murit
La ceas oprit de lege şi de datini...
Dar legea ni-i deşartă şi străină
Când viaţa-n noi cu greu se mai anină,
Iar datina şi mila sunt deşarte,
Când soru-mea-i flămândă, bolnavă şi pe moarte.

Pe-o nara puşca tatii scoate fum.
Vai, fără vânt aleargă frunzarele duium!
Înalţă tata foc înfricoşat.
Vai, cât de mult pădurea s-a schimbat!
Din ierburi prind în mâini fără să ştiu
Un clopoţel cu clinchet argintiu...
De pe frigare tata scoate-n unghii
Inima căprioarei si rărunchii.

Ce-i inima? Mi-i foame! Vreau să trăiesc şi-aş vrea ....
Tu, iartă-mă, fecioară - tu, căprioara mea!
Mi-i somn. Ce nalt îi focul! Şi codrul, ce adânc!
Plâng. Ce gândeşte tata? Mănânc şi plâng. Mănânc!


The Death of the Deer


The drought has stifled every feather of wind,

The sun melted down on the earth, left behind

An empty, exhausted, blistering sky,

The buckets come up from the fountains all dry.


More and more over woods fires, fires,

Dance above savage, demoniac pyres.

I follow my father through the bushes uphill,

The fir-trees scrape me, withered up and evil,

Together, we start the deer hunting quest,

The hunting of hunger in the Carpathian forest.


Thirst ruins me. The thin string of water

Drip, drop, from the spout is sizzling on stone.

My temple is throbbing. I walk on another

Enormous and heavy, strange planet alone.


We wait in a place where, from strings of calm waves,

The streams still resound.

When the sun will be set, when the moon will rise, round,

One by one, in a line, up here,

they will come to drink, the deer.

I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he hushes me at once,

Bemusing water, how clearly you glow!

I`m tied by thirst to the soul meant to die

At an hour forbidden by custom and by law.


The valley rustles with a withered hiss,

Crosswise the sky, a dire twilight lit

the clouds, and far, above the cliff,

blood drips. My chest is red, as if

I wiped my hands of blood on it.


With bluish flames through ferns, as in a dream,

Astounded stars begin to gleam

Sacrifice of my woods, oh, beautiful prey,

How I wish you did not come, how I pray!


She bounces lightly then she stops

And looks with caution through the grass

Her slender nostrils stirred the water

In circles shimmering like brass.

A hazy fear glared deep inside her eyes

I knew that she would suffer;

I knew that she would die,

As she stood there, still, she was the sheer

Myth of the maid embodied in a deer.

White cherry flowers, high above her

The moon was sifting on her fur.

Oh, how I wish, oh, how I pray,

My father`s gun to miss its prey!


The valleys roared. Knelt, in the stream,

She raised her head, as in a dream

She watched the sky, the moon, the stars

Then fell and water gleamed with scars.

A blue bird rushed, in a tree, unknown

The deer`s life has softly flown,


Crying like birds when they depart

And their fall migrations start.

I went to close her eyes, below

So sadly laid her antlers shadow

I startled livid when, suddenly, offbeat,

My father screeched with joy: “Meat, we have meat!


I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he nods that I may drink.

Bemusing water, how sullenly you glow!

I feel tied by thirst to the soul that died

At an hour forbidden by custom and by law…

But our laws are useless and dead

When our life hangs up on a thread

And custom, law and pity are quickly gone

When sis` is sick and hungry at home.


The smokes comes out of my father`s gun

The leafage in flocks starts to run!

My father kindles a terrible fire

The wood seems now darker and higher!

I pick up from the grass, as in a dream,

A tiny bell with silver gleam,

My father, from the spit rends with his nails

The deer`s heart and her entrails.

You, heart? I`m hungry! I want to live, I wish, although…

Forgive me deer, forgive me virgin-doe!

I`m tired. How tall is now the fire! The woods, how deep!

I cry. What does my father think? I eat and cry. I eat!


Monday, July 27, 2009

My Younger Self and My Older Self, by Sri Chinmoy

My younger self, ego,
Tells me that I can be happy
By being separated from the oneness-soul.
My larger self, oneness universal
Tells me that there is no such thing
As ego-separativity.
It is all oneness-song,
Oneness-perfection,
Oneness-reality.
I and my older self together shall stay,
Together shall sing,
Together shall dance.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law, by Adrienne Rich

                1

You, once a belle in Shreveport,
with henna-colored hair, skin like a peachbud,
still have your dresses copied from that time,
and play a Chopin prelude
called by Cortot: "Delicious recollections
float like perfume through the memory."


Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake,
heavy with useless experience, rich
with suspicion, rumor, fantasy,
crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge
of mere fact. In the prime of your life.

Nervy, glowering, your daughter
wipes the teaspoons, grows another way.

2

Banging the coffee-pot into the sink
she hears the angels chiding, and looks out
past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky.
Only a week since They said: Have no patience.

The next time it was: Be insatiable.
Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save.
Sometimes she's let the tapstream scald her arm,
a match burn to her thumbnail,

or held her hand above the kettle's snout
right inthe woolly steam. They are probably angels,
since nothing hurts her anymore, except
each morning's grit blowing into her eyes.

3

A thinking woman sleeps with monsters.
The beak that grips her, she becomes. And Nature,
that sprung-lidded, still commodious
steamer-trunk of tempora and mores
gets stuffed with it all: the mildewed orange-flowers,
the female pills, the terrible breasts
of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids.
Two handsome women, gripped in argument,
each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream
across the cut glass and majolica
like Furies cornered from their prey:
The argument ad feminam, all the old knives
that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours,
ma semblable, ma soeur!

4

Knowing themselves too well in one another:
their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn,
the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn...
Reading while waiting
for the iron to heat,
writing, My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun--
in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum,
or, more often,
iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird,
dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.

5

Dulce ridens, dulce loquens,
she shaves her legs until they gleam
like petrified mammoth-tusk.

6

When to her lute Corinna sings
neither words nor music are her own;
only the long hair dipping
over her cheek, only the song
of silk against her knees
and these
adjusted in reflections of an eye.

Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before
an unlocked door, that cage of cages,
tell us, you bird, you tragical machine--
is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down
by love, for you the only natural action,
are you edged more keen
to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown
her household books to you, daughter-in-law,
that her sons never saw?

7

"To have in this uncertain world some stay
which cannot be undermined, is
of the utmost consequence."

Thus wrote
a woman, partly brave and partly good,
who fought with what she partly understood.
Few men about her would or could do more,
hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore.

8

"You all die at fifteen," said Diderot,
and turn part legend, part convention.
Still, eyes inaccurately dream
behind closed windows blankening with steam.
Deliciously, all that we might have been,
all that we were--fire, tears,
wit, taste, martyred ambition--
stirs like the memory of refused adultery
the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years.

9

Not that it is done well, but
that it is done at all?
Yes, think
of the odds! or shrug them off forever.
This luxury of the precocious child,
Time's precious chronic invalid,--
would we, darlings, resign it if we could?
Our blight has been our sinecure:
mere talent was enough for us--
glitter in fragments and rough drafts.

Sigh no more, ladies.
Time is male
and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised,
indolence read as abnegation,
slattern thought styled intuition,
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mold straight off.
For that, solitary confinement,
tear gas, attrition shelling.
Few applicants for that honor.

10

Well,
she's long about her coming, who must be
more merciless to herself than history.
Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge
breasted and glancing through the currents,
taking the light upon her
at least as beautiful as any boy
or helicopter,
poised, still coming,
her fine blades making the air wince

but her cargo
no promise then:
delivered
palpable
ours.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Peace, by Swami Vivekananda

Behold, it comes in might,
The power that is not power,
The light that is in darkness,
The shade in dazzling light.

It is joy that never spoke,
And grief unfelt, profound,
Immortal life unlived,
Eternal death unmourned.

It is not joy nor sorrow,
But that which is between,
It is not noght nor morrow,
But that which joins them in.

It is sweet rest in music;
And pause in sacred art;
The silence between speaking;
Between two fits of passion --
It is the calm of heart.

It is beauty never seen,
And love that stands alone,
It is song that lives un-sung,
And knowledge never known.

It is death between two lives,
And lull between two storms,
The void whence rose creation,
And that where it returns.

To it the tear-drop goes,
To spread the smiling form
It is the Goal of Life,
And Peace -- its only home!

From a letter to Miss MacLeod, 26th December 1900
Composed at Ridgely Manor, New York, 1899.

Poetry of Vivekananda, by Swami Vivekananda


All love is expansion, all selfishness is contraction.
Love is therefore the only law of life.
He who loves lives, he who is selfish is dying.
Therefore love for love's sake,
because it is law of life, just as you breathe to live
Aici ajunsese acest unic insingurat, si el unul printre altii atat de numerosi din orasul acesta de insingurati.[...] Se poate intampla insa ca la prima vedere sa nu-i observi, si asta, fie datorita faptului ca macar o buna parte din ei la prime vedere nu par ca sunt, fie ca, in multe cazuri, nu vor sa para. Sau altfel, datorita faptului ca o multime de oameni care pretind ca sunt, sporesc si mai mult confuzia in aceasta problema, facandu-ne sa credem ca in cele din urma nu exista insingurati adevarati. Fiindca, evident ca daca un om nu are picioare sau nu are ambele maini, stim cu totii, sau credem ca stim, ca omul acesta este neputincios. Si in aceeasi clipa acest om incepe sa fie mai putin neputincios, deoarece l-am observat si suferim pentru el, ii cumparam pieptanase inutile si fotografii in culori de Carlitos Gardel. Iar atunci, acest mutilat care nu are picioare sau mainile amandoua inceteaza de a mai fi partial sau total categoria de insingurat total la care ne gandim, asa incat ajungem sa ne incerce numaidecat un nelamurit sentiment de ciuda, poate din pricina nenumaratilor absolut insingurati care, tot in aceeasi clipa (neavand indrazneala sau siguranta si nici spiritul de agresiune al celor adevarati, cu pieptanase si portrete in culori) isi indura tacuti si cu demintate suprema soarta de autentici nenorociti." (Ernesto Sabato)

Nedreptate, de Nichita Stanescu


De ce sa auzim si de ce sa avem urechi pentru auz ?
Atat de pacatosi sa fim noi incit sa fim nevoiti
sa avem
sperante, pentru frumusete
si pentru duiosie, ochi
si pentru alergare, picioare ?
Atat de nefericiti sa fim noi
incit sa trebuiasca sa ne iubim.
Atat de nestabili sa fim noi
incit sa trebuiasca sa ne prelungim
prin nastere
tristetea noastra urita
si dragostea noastra infrigurata ?

No Coward Soul is Mine, by Emily Bronte

I cannot say that this is my favorite poem, but then again, this is my tribute to Emily Bronte, for "Wuthering Hights" is my favorite novel.


No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the worlds storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heavens glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast.
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life -- that in me has rest,
As I -- Undying Life -- have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move mens hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
So surely anchored on
The steadfast Rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou -- Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

A Women Well Set Free, by Sumanagalamata

A woman well set free! How free I am,
How wonderfully free, from kitchen drudgery.
Free from the harsh grip of hunger,
And from empty cooking pots,
Free too of that unscrupulous man,
The weaver of sunshades.
Calm now, and serene I am,
All lust and hatred purged.
To the shade of the spreading trees I go
And contemplate my happiness.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Some midnight thoughts

Since I have discovered not who i am, but who I want to be, I have done nothing but break the rules. The social rules, I mean.

I have never felt that I am truly part of this world. I was living my life through other peoples' lives. And not even other people, but potential "me-s"... Miruna if... That was me... So at one moment I sat and I centralized all these "Miruna ifs" into one single "Miruna if", a potential Miruna if you want. And now I'm heading towards her, towards Me. Some parts of the new me are completed...some others are not up to me 100%. But still I'm doing something for myself.

I like to see how others perceive me. In my last field trip I was fortunate enough to live with a girl who liked to analyze people and she was open enough to discuss her observations. I've learned many things about myself because of her, but I've also got a quick look on how others see me. Actually, my best luck with her is that she isn't polite. Don't get me wrong, she's not impolite. Just that she usually speaks whatever is on her mind (or at least this is the impression she leaves to most people).




Friday, July 10, 2009

Phenomenal Woman, by Maya Angelou


Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.