ALAN BROWNJOHN

“In this city...”

In this city, perhaps a street.
In this street, perhaps a house.
In this house, perhaps a room
And in this room a woman sitting,
Sitting in the darkness, sitting and crying
For someone who has just gone through the door
And who has just switched off the light
Forgetting she was there.

***

ALAN BROWNJOHN

"In acest oras..."

In acest oras, poate o strada.
In aceasta strada, poate o casa.
In aceasta casa, poate o camera
Si in aceasta camera o femeie stand,
Stand in intuneric, stand si plangand
Pentru cineva care tocmai a iesit pe usa
Si care tocmai a stins lumina,
Uitand ca ea era acolo.
 

***

Ballad for a Birthday

I cleaned up the house, and moved the telephone;
I had a look to see if the plant had grown;
I put Tiddles outside, and sat on my own:
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

I arranged my dresses on laundry hooks;
I pulled out the table and set out my books;
I went to the window for just one or two looks:
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

I wanted coffee, so I marked the page;
It should have been over when it got to this stage;
Can I be the same girl at a different age?
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

What if he phoned, and I heard the bell
With my feet on the bath-tap, and I couldn’t tell...
Well, I heard it...should I answer it as well?
I fell the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

If he wrote a letter, saying Could we meet,
Or if we met by accident, in the street
– When something’s finished, is it always complete?
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

If he drove round here and knocked on the door,
Would I answer his questions, let him ask me more,
Or could I tell him I was absolutely sure...?
-- Oh, I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

***

Balada pentru o aniversare

Am facut curat in casa, telefonul l-am mutat;
M-am uitat sa vad daca plantele s-au inaltat;
Am dus-o pe Tiddles afara si singura am stat:
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa-i spun dragoste.

Rochiile pe umerase mi le-am asezat;
Am scos masa si cartile le-am aranjat;
Am mers la fereastra si m-am uitat:
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa-i spun dragoste.

Vroiam cafea, asa ca am marcat pagina;
Trebuia sa se fi terminat cand a ajuns in faza asta;
Pot sa fiu aceeasi fata si la alte varste?
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa-i spun dragoste.

Dar daca ar telefona si as auzi telefonul sunand
Cu picioarele pe marginea cazii, nu pot distinge,
Ei bine, il aud ... Ar trebui sa-i si raspund?
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa-i spun dragoste.

Daca ar scrie o scrisoare, spunand Ne-am putea vedea,
Sau daca ne-am intalni, pe strada, din intamplare…
- Cand ceva s-a sfarsit, este incheiat pentru totdeauna?
Ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa-i spun dragoste.

Daca ar conduce pe aici si ar bate la usa,
I-as raspunde la intrebari, lasandu-l sa ma mai intrebe
Sau i-as putea spune ca sunt absolut sigura…?
- O, ma simt la fel, dar n-as vrea sa-i spun dragoste.
 

***

The Packet

In the room,
In the woman’s hand as she turns
Is the packet of salt.

On the packet is a picture of a
Woman turning,
With a packet in her hand.

When the woman in the room com-
Pletes her turning, she
Puts the packet down and leaves.

On the packet in the picture
Is: a picture of a woman
Turning, with a packet in her hand.

On this packet is a picture: of a woman,
Turning, with a packet in her hand.
On this packet is no picture.

-- It is a tiny blank.
And now the man waits,
And waits: two-thirty, seven-thirty,
Twelve.

At twelve he lays the packet on its side
And draws, in the last packet in the last
Picture, a tiny woman turning.

And then he locks the door,
And switches off the bedside lamp,
And among the grains of salt, he goes to sleep.

***

Pachetul

In camera,
In mana femeii ce se intoarce
Este un pachet de sare.

Pe pachet e poza unei
Femei intorcandu-se,
Cu un pachet in mana.

Cand femeia din camera de-
Savarseste intoarcerea, ea
Pune pachetul jos si pleaca.

Pe pachet in poza
Este: poza unei femei
Intorcandu-se, cu un pachet in mana.

Pe acest pachet este o poza: a unei femei,
Intorcandu-se, cu un pachet in mana.
Pe acest pachet nu e nicio poza.

- E un mic loc gol.
Iar acum barbatul asteapta,
Si asteapta: doua jumatate, sapte jumatate,
Doisprezece.

La doisprezece pune pachetul pe o parte
Si deseneaza, pe ultimul pachet pe ultima
Poza, o femeie mica intorcandu-se.

Si apoi incuie usa,
Si stinge veioza de pe noptiera,
Si, printre grauntele de sare, se culca.
 

***

Ruse

Lastly my turn to hide, so
The other children instantly
Scattered among the scrubland grass,
Blanked their eyes, began
To count aloud.
Away downhill,
The traffic thundered less
In the hazed streets, the orange
Street-lamps suddenly lit in
A necklace of twilight mauves. I was
Expected home from this game, to eat,
And read myself to sleep. Besides,
There were so many ruses more
I wanted to devise.
Before
They counted out my time, came
Running to look for me, I ran
And left them there, I ran back home
And left them.
Turning today
A tower-block corner, I saw them
In the gathering dark, bemused
And middle-aged, in tattered
Relics of children’s clothes, still
Searching even now in the glittering
Scrubland of my Precinct, for
What had deserted them, what had
Cast them there; blank-eyed, and
Never to tell what I had built,
What I had left them with in forty years.

Siretlic

In sfarsit, randul meu sa ma ascund, asa ca
Ceilalti copii instantaneu
S-au imprastiat prin tufisuri,
Si-au inchis ochii si au inceput
Sa numere tare.
Departe, in josul dealului,
Traficul bubuia mai putin.
In strazile incetosate, portocaliile
Felinare s-au aprins brusc intr-un
Colier de crepuscule mov. Eram
Asteptat acasa de la acest joc, sa mananc,
Si sa citesc pana adorm. Pe langa asta,
Mai erau atatea siretlicuri
Ce vroiam sa nascocesc.
Inainte
Ca ei sa-mi numere timpul, au venit
Alergand sa ma caute, am fugit
Si i-am lasat acolo, am alergat acasa
Si i-am lasat.
Intorcandu-ma astazi,
La un colt de bloc turn, i-am vazut
In intunecata adunare, nauciti,
De varsta mijlocie, in zdrentuite
Relicve ale hainelor de copii, tot
Cautand, chiar si acum, in stralucitoarele
Tufisuri ale zonei mele,
Ceea ce i-a parasit, ce i-a
Aruncat acolo; cu ochii inchisi, si
Niciodata sa spuna ce am construit,
Ce le-am lasat in patruzeci de ani.

Translated by Anca Chimorgiachis