IOANA IERONIM

Fragments


I can see a road leaving the village,
going across the field
serpentine
still further into fine paths
losing itself in the woods

flocks of sheep
having come down from the mountains
slowly advance in rows
on hill after hill

my train glides at the same pace

it has started snowing slowly
in my native land -
flakes as huge as they were
at the beginning

I’ve been trying to understand
what these icons are saying,
why their simple untranslatable tune
touches so deeply

is this the way we are
advancing toward one another

horizon of some Truth,
coming ever nearer
never arriving?

*

we must have met before, Miss,
do you remember where it might have been?

I do not think so – – but yes, o yes
we may have been those cool stones
set side by side on velvet
in Alladin’s cave

… or two horses galloping in the wind
on the continent of Gondwana

yet I remember, I think I do
it was in London one evening
or was it Bucharest still, Washington, Paris,
Vienna, Prague, Barcelona, Istanbul
Galway, New York?
it was cloudy as I recall
and a big merry crowd indoors

no-no, you may still keep in mind
that nest of hidden embers -
we had been lost from our caravans,
it was at sunset
shadows were growing hungry tongues and…

I rather believe that we had been up early
it was the day of departure -
our hair was glistening
like dew-laden cobwebs in a vineyard,
ripening and golden

do you mean, when we had not yet been
thrown down from the Garden?

no
listen, now I think I really know
we were two miraculous serpents
chasing at one another
joyous in the world’s first ocean
the sun was melting in the water
at high noon
God Himself stood speechless
with the beauty of their motion

let me tell you, it must have been when we read
“I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till…” - could you imagine such
mandatory reading?

yeah, in such a place, at such time…

on that day, as you may recall, our hearts were smitten
and then of course we forgot

I say, Miss, we must have met before

you know, these things…

*

Wading in a gauze of words
up to our knees

entangled in lacy lines

like stones of Mesopotamia
that shed their light
in the dark
of a closed museum

*

She treads barefoot over the Threshold
and comes back
once and again.
She smoothes a path for me to remember

She tells me: "it’s just hide-and-seek
we’re pretending, as we did long ago
when we used to wait for Santa once a year
and for dad to come back from the prisoner camp,
you know"
“The Danube Canal…”
"Yes, remember, every day for so many years."

I’m looking at her small hands that used to play Czerny and Bach
and were held captive and entranced in numberless books
and they healed so many beloved and strangers
and raised beautiful kids

she, who has never lost her own kind of marveling
marvelous eyes.

"Neither is this for good now", she says
"we just leave the door half-open when we go."

From her darkening room
we can see the garden melting in radiant sun
this year's Indian summer

black ripe grapes hang around her window panes,
she wonders whether anyone will be able
to cover the vine against the frost - after

she tries to explain again how that should be done

then she says to me: "hey traveler
you have always returned, maybe
you've never been truly
away

do not forget to spread crumbs of love behind you
now when you leave,
thus we may find our way back
even from that
far”

…

it is then that you put your hands over my face
for a moment
then you let go
you who know about these things

do not avert your eyes, you said,
in the light
decreasing

in the light’s
intense
wakeful
clarity

*

Pacing the long trail of parchment
with freshly written rows
still wet

coming toward one another
along written lines that show the way

until we are here
under the horns of the moon
and words of several languages
fall vertical
heavy

and our bare hands may feel the edge
where we were torn apart
at the time
when not all things had been named yet.

One day we may be able to write
some of these names of things, forgotten
or hardly ever known

words
that could not be heard in the beginning
or have hardly been uttered
since

Alina Olimpia Gaci Miron

Ioana Ieronim
 

Fragmente

Pot vedea un drum iesind din sat,
peste serpentina
de pe camp
inaintand pe carari fine
pierzandu-se in paduri

turme de oi
ce-au coborat din munti
inainteaza incet in siruri
deal dupa deal

trenul meu aluneca in acelasi ritm

a-nceput sa ninga usor
pe pamantul meu natal-
fulgi imensi
ca la inceputuri

am tot incercat sa inteleg
ce spun aceste icoane,
de ce melodia lor intraductibila
tea tinge la inima

oare asa suntem
inaintand unul catre celalalt
orizontul vreunui Adevar,
atat de aproape
si totusi de neatins?

*

Sigur ne-am mai intalnit, Domnisoara,
iti amintesti unde ar fi putut avea loc?

nu cred—dar da, oh da
e posibil ca noi sa fi fost acele reci pietre
puse una langa alt ape catifea
in pestera lui Alladin

…sau doi cai galopand in vant
pe continental Gondwana

si totusi imi amintesc, cred ca da
s-a intamplat in Londra, intr-o seara
sau totusi in Bucuresti, Washington, Paris,
Viena, Praga, Barcelona, Istanbul
Galway, New York?
imi amintesc ca erau nori pe cer
si o multime animata in case

nu-nu, poate mai tii minte
cuibul de taciuni aprinsi si ascunsi-
ne pierdusem de caravanele noastre,
la apus
umbrelor le cresteau limbi infometate si…

mai degraba cred ca ne trezisem devreme
-era ziua plecarii-
parul ne stralucea
precum paienjenisuri incarcate de roua intr-o podgorie,
aurii si in pirg

adica, atunci cand inca
nu fusesem izgoniti din Rai?

nu
asculta, acum cred ca stiu cu-adevarat
eram doi serpi miraculosi
alergandu-ne unul pe altul
bucurosi in primul ocean al lumii
-soarele se topea in apa
in amiaza mare
Dumnezeu Insusi statea tacut
in fata frumusetii miscarii lor

sa-ti spun, probabil a fost cand citeam
“Oare, pe onoarea mea, ce facut-am noi doi,
pana cand…”-ti-ai putea imagina un asemenea lucru,
lectura obligatorie?

da, in cutare loc, la cutare ora…

in acea zi, dupa cum probabil iti amintesti, inimile noastre erau la pamant

si apoi bineinteles ca am uitat

Iti spun, Domnisoara, sigur ne-am mai intalnit

stii tu, chestiile alea…

*

Croindu-ne drum printr-un voal de cuvinte
ce ne ajunge pana la genunchi

incurcate in fire de dantela

precum pietre din Mesopotamia
ce-si revarsa lumina
in intunericul
unui muzeu inchis

*

Ea paseste cu picioarele goale peste Prag
si se intoarce
iar si iar.
Ea-mi netezeste calea ca sa-mi amintesc

Imi spune: “stii tu, doar ne prefacem ca jucam
de-a v-ati ascunselea, cum facem acum mult timp
cand obisnuiam sa-l asteptam pe Mos Craciun o data pe an
si ca tata sa se intoarca din lagarul de prizonieri”
“Canalul Dunarea…”
“Da, adu-ti aminte, fiecare zi timp de atatia ani.”

Ma uit la manutele ei care odat’ cantau Czerny si Bach
si erau prizoniere si inscrise in nenumarate carti
si au vindecat atatia oameni dragi si straini
si au crescut copii frumosi

ea, care niciodata nu si-a pierdut mirarea
din ochii-i superbi.

“Nici asta nu e pentru totdeauna”, spune ea
“doar lasam usa intredeschisa cand iesim”.

Din camera-i ce se intuneca
putem vedea gradina topindu-se in soarele stralucitor
-vara indiana de anul acesta

struguri negri si copti atarna la pervazurile ferestrelor ei,
ea se intreaba daca va putea cineva
sa acopere vita de vie impotriva gerului-dupa

ce incearca iar sa explice cum ar trebui facut

apoi imi spune: “calatorule,
mereu te-ai intors, poate niciodata
nu ai fost cu adevarat
plecat

nu uita sa presari firimituri de iubire-n urma ta
acum la plecare,
ca sa ne gasim drumul inapoi
chiar si atat de
departe”

…

in momentul acela mainile tale-mi acopera fata
pentru o clipa
apoi le lasi
-tu care te pricepi la asemenea lucruri

nu-ti indeparta ochii, ai spus,
in lumina
ce scade

in claritatea
intense
de trezie
a luminii

*

Pasind pe foaia lunga de pergament
cu randuri proaspat scrise
inca umede

venind unul catre celalalt
de-a lungul randurilor asternute ce-arata calea

pana ajungem aici
sub coarnele lunii
si cuvinte din mai multe limbi
cad grele

si mainile noastre goale pot simti marginea
unde-am fost despartiti
atunci cand
nu fusesera numite toate lucrurile.

Poate-ntr-o zi vom putea scrie
numele unora dintre aceste lucruri, uitate
sau poate niciodata stiute cu-adevarat

cuvinte
ce nu puteau fi auzite la inceput
sau care abia dac-au fost rostite
de-atunci