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 pe o strada.
Pe aceasta strada, poate intr-o casa.
In aceasta casa, poate intr-o camera,
Da, in aceasta camera sta o femeie,
Sta pe intuneric, sta si plange
Dupa cineva care tocmai a iesit pe usa
Stingand lumina,
Uitand ca ea a ramas inauntru.
 

***

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 zi de nastere

Am facut ordine si am mutat telefonul.
M-am uitat sa vad daca a mai crescut planta.
Am scos-o afara pe Tiddles si sunt singura.
Simt la fel, dar n-as zice ca-i dragoste.

Mi-am pus rochiile la uscat in carlige,
Mi-am tras masa si mi-am scos cartile,
M-am dus sa ma uit putin pe fereastra.
Simt la fel, dar n-as zice ca-i dragoste.

Vroiam niste cafea asa ca mi-am pus semn in carte.
Ar fi trebuit sa se termine deja pana acum.
Oare la alta varsta o sa fiu aceeasi fata?
Simt la fel, dar n-as zice ca-i dragoste.

Si dac-ar suna, dac-ar suna la usa,
Cand ma spal pe picioare la robinet si n-as auzi…
Da, dar am auzit… Ar trebui sa raspund?
Simt la fel, dar n-as zice ca-i dragoste.

Daca mi-ar scrie o scrisoare cu N-ai vrea sa ne vedem?
Sau daca ne-am intalni din intamplare pe strada…
- Cand totul se sfarseste, e pentru totdeauna?
Simt la fel, dar n-as zice ca-i dragoste.

Dac-ar veni pe aici si-ar bate la usa,
I-as raspunde la intrebari, l-as incuraja
Sau i-as spune stii, eram sigura ca esti tu…
- O, simt la fel, dar n-as zice ca-i 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

Intr-o camera,
In mana unei femei care se invarte
Este pachetul de sare.

Pe pachet este imaginea unei
Femei care se invarte
Cu un pachet de sare in mana.

Cand femeia din camera in-
Cheie pirueta, pune
Pachetul pe masa si pleaca.

Pe pachetul din imagine
Este imaginea unei femei,
Care se invarte cu un pachet de sare in mana.

Pe acest pachet este imaginea unei femei
Care se invarte cu un pachet in mana.
Pe pachet nu este nici o imagine.

- E un spatiu minuscul.
Si-acum barbatul asteapta,
Asteapta, doua jumate, sapte jumate,
Doisprezece.

La doisprezece, pune pachetul deoparte
Si deseneaza pe ultimul pachet
Din ultima imagine
O femeie minuscula care se invarte.

Apoi incuie usa,
Si inchide lumina de pe noptiera,
Adormind printre cristale de sare.

***

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.

Farsa

La urma a venit randul meu sa m-ascund.
Intr-o clipa, ceilalti copii
S-au imprastiat prin tufisuri,
Si-au acoperit ochii, au inceput
Sa numere cu voce tare.
In jos, in vale,
Traficul vuia tot mai slab
In ceata de pe strazi. Felinarele portocalii
S-au aprins deodata colier
La gatul amurgului mov. Acasa
Ma asteptau sa vin de la joaca, sa mananc,
Sa adorm citind o carte. In plus,
Mai erau si alte farse
Pe care vroiam sa le pun la cale.
Inainte
Sa incheie numaratoarea,
Si sa inceapa sa ma caute, am sters-o
Lasandu-i acolo, am sters-o acasa
Lasandu-i cu ochii-n soare.
Azi, cum dadeam coltul
Pe langa blocul turn,
I-am vazut pe inserat, nauci,
Oameni maturi in aceleasi haine de copii,
De-acuma giorsalite,
Tot cautand prin tufisurile
Scanteietoare din imprejurimi
Ceea ce ii pierduse,
Ratacind pe acolo, cu ochii goi,
Fara a putea intelege vreodata farsa
Ce i-a cuprins vreme de patru decenii.

Translated by Monica Manolachi