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, ar fi o strada.
Pe aceasta strada, ar fi o casa.
In aceasta casa ar fi o camera,
Iar in camera, sade o femeie,
Sade in intuneric, sta si plange
Dupa cineva care tocmai a iesit pe usa,
Cineva care tocmai a stins lumina,
Uitand ca mai era si ea 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 dereticat prin casa si am mutat telefonul;
M-am uitat sa vad daca a mai crescut floarea;
L-am dat afara pe Tiddles si am stat singura:
Ma simt la fel, dar nu as numi asta dragoste.

Mi-am aranjat rochiile pe umerase;
Am extins masa si mi-am intins cartile;
Am mers la fereastra sa arunc o ocheada:
Ma simt la fel, dar nu as numi asta dragoste.

Vroiam o cafea, asa ca am pus semn la carte;
Ar fi trebuit sa fie gata pana acum;
Oare pot fi aceeasi fata la o alta varsta?
Ma simt la fel, dar nu as numi asta dragoste.

Si daca ma suna, si aud telefonul
Cand sunt cu picioarele in cada, si n-as putea...
Ei bine, am auzit telefonul, oare sa si raspund?
Ma simt la fel, dar nu as numi asta dragoste.

Daca mi-ar trimite-o scrisoare, cerand sa ne vedem,
Sau daca ne-am intalni intamplator pe strada
- Daca ceva e gata, inseamna ca s-a si terminat?
Ma simt la fel, dar nu as numi asta dragoste.

Daca ar trece pe aici si ar bate la usa,
Oare i-as raspunde la intrebari, l-as lasa sa-mi puna altele?
Sau i-as spune ca sunt intr-adevar singura...?
- Oh, ma simt la fel, dar nu as numi asta 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.

***

Cutia

In camera,
In mana femeii care se intoarce,
Se afla o cutie cu sare.

Pe cutie e o poza
A unei femei care se intoarce,
Cu o cutie in mana.

Cand femeia din camera
S-a rasucit,
Lasa cutia din mana si pleaca.

Pe cutia din poza
Este imaginea unei femei
Care se intoarce, cu o cutie in mana.

Pe aceasta cutie e o poza: o femeie
Care se intoarce, cu o cutie in mana.
Pe aceasta cutie nu e nici o poza.

- E doar un loc gol, micut.
Iar acum barbatul asteapta,
Asteapta: doua jumate, sapte jumate,
Miezul noptii.

La miezul noptii pune cutia pe o parte
Si deseneaza, pe ultima cutie din ultima
Poza, o femeie micuta care se intoarce.

Apoi el incuie usa,
Inchide veioza,
Si adoarme inconjurat de bobitele 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.

Smecherie

In sfarsit, mi-a venit randul sa ma ascund.
Imediat ceilalti copii
S-au imprastiat prin ierburile inalte,
Si-au acoperit ochii, au inceput
Sa numere cu voce tare.
In jos pe deal,
Traficul se auzea mai putin.
Pe strazile incetosate, felinarele
Portocalii s-au aprins deodata,
Intr-un lant de nuante liliachii. Ma asteptau
Acasa dupa joaca, la masa,
Si apoi sa citesc pana adormeam. In plus,
Mai erau atat de multe smecherii
Pe care vroiam sa le nascocesc.
Inainte
Sa termine de numarat, au venit
Alergand sa ma caute, am fugit
Si i-am lasat acolo, am fugit acasa
Si i-am lasat.
Azi, mergand pe langa
Un bloc turn, i-am vazut
In amurgul din ce in ce mai dens, amuzati
Si de varsta mijlocie, purtand
Ramasitele zdrentuite ale hainelor din copilarie,
Tot cautand si acum prin desisul
Sclipitor al Sectiei mele, cautand
Ceea ce ii parasise, ceea ce ii
Aruncase acolo; legat la ochi,
Niciodata nu le voi spune ce am construit,
Ce le-am lasat mostenire in patruzeci de ani.

Translated by Daniela Oancea