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.
Pe aceasta strada, poate o casa.
In aceasta casa, poate o camera
Si-n aceasta camera o femeie stand,
Stand in intuneric, sta si plange
Dupa cel ce tocmai a iesit pe usa
Si doar ce-a stins lumina,
Uitand ca este 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 unei aniversari

Am facut ordine in casa si am mutat telefonul;
M-am uitat dac-a mai crescut planta;
L-am dus pe Tiddles afara si am ramas singura:
Ma simt aceeasi, dar nu as vrea s-o numesc iubire.

Mi-am pus hainele in carlige pe sarma;
Am tras masa si mi-am aranjat cartile;
M-am dus sa arunc o privire-doua pe fereastra:
Ma simt aceeasi, dar nu as vrea s-o numesc iubire.

Voiam cafea, asa c-am pus semnul pe pagina;
Trebuia sa se fi terminat cand a ajuns la partea asta;
As putea fi aceeasi fata la o alta varsta?
Ma simt aceeasi, dar nu as vrea s-o numesc iubire.

Dar daca el ar suna si as auzi soneria,
Cu picioarele in apa curgand si nu mi-as da seama…
Ei bine, l-am auzit… Sa-i si raspund?
Ma simt aceeasi, dar nu as vrea s-o numesc iubire.

Daca mi-ar fi scris o scrisoare, spunandu-mi "am putea" sa ne vedem,
Or daca ne-am fi intalnit intamplator pe strada…
- Cand ceva se termina, e oare pentru totdeauna?
Ma simt aceeasi, dar nu as vrea s-o numesc iubire.

Daca ar fi venit pana aici si ar bate la usa,
Oare i-as raspunde la-ntrebari, l-as mai lasa sa ma-ntrebe,
Ori i-as putea spune ca eram foarte sigura…?
- Ma simt aceeasi, dar nu as vrea s-o numesc iubire.
 

***

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 vazute din profil
Este pachetul de sare.

Pe pachet este poza
Unei femei din profil,
Ce tine in mana un pachet.

Cand femeia din camera
Isi contureaza profilul, pune
Pachetul jos si pleaca.

In poza, pe pachet
Este: poza unei femei
Ce tine in mana un pachet.

Pe acest pachet e o poza: a unei femei,
Din profil, cu un pachet in mana.
Pe acest pachet nu e nici o poza.

- Este un mic spatiu.
Si acum barbatul asteapta
Si asteapta: doua jumate, sapte jumate,
Doisprezece.

La doisprezece el pune pachetul jos
Si deseneaza, pe ultimul pachet, in ultima
Poza, o mica femeie din profil.

Si apoi incuie usa
Si - si stinge veioza
Si, printre granule de sare, adoarme.
 

***

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.

Trucul

In sfarsit, e randul meu sa m-ascund,
Asa ca ceilalti copii intr-o clipita
S-au imprastiat in tufisuri,
Si-au acoperit ochii, au inceput
Sa numere cu voce tare.
Departe, in vale,
Traficul vuia mai putin.
Pe strazile cetoase, galbenele
Lampi stradale s-au aprins deodata
Intr-un lant de amurg purpuriu. Eram
Asteptata acasa de la joaca, sa mananc
Si sa citesc pana adorm. De altfel,
Mai erau multe trucuri
Pe care voiam sa le ticluiesc.
Inainte
Sa se termine numaratoarea, sa vina
Sa ma caute, am fugit acasa
Si i-am lasat acolo.
Trecand azi
De coltul unui bloc turn, i-am vazut
In intunericul apasator, buimaciti
Si imbatraniti in haine zdrentaroase de copii,
Cautand chiar si acum
Prin tufisurile luminoase ale zonei mele
Ceea ce-i lasase acolo, ceea ce
Ii aruncase acolo; cu ochii acoperiti
Fara sa spuna ceea ce am construit,
Ce le-am lasat acum patruzeci de ani.

Translated by Carmen Oana Dumitru