IOANA IERONIM

Translating The Tempest


wading across these golden waters of life

measuring the innocence and poetry,
the earth and color of my Romanian mother tongue
against Great Will

discovering that not all the energy of my language
has been used and wasted in silence, in cruelty,
in vain endeavours, in the exercise of survival
through ages of wars
of a death-in-life mode
and timeless shepherds
with their flutes

not all of it forgotten in wooden coffins of totalitarianism
not all of it burned on pyres
not all of it destroyed in the self-hatred of the abused
not all of it worn out while people have just rolled their sleeves
and built
and lost
and built
hope
again

*

These words have been kept warm between my palms
these words have slept under my cheek
these words have just stumbled down from a nomad wagon
and they pretend they’ve never left

these words I have kept at my bosom like a farmer’s woman,
when they’re hungry they can be breast-fed then and there
these words entangled my ankles when I needed to be free
these words reared with passion muted like a galloping steed
halted in mid-day

these words have been uttered under gilt stucco ceilings of power
these words streamed in the wind in my hair with flowers of the field
these words have mourned over shattered walls and lives
these words used to hunt and entrap and kill once, these words have caressed
with a touch lighter than spider legs on water
these words have designed wreaths for the glory of brothers-and-sisters-in-arms
these words have tumbled by my side laughing and frightened and shy
these words have had their seven lean years and their fat years, who counts
these words have touched the poison of love and death with unsuspecting tongues
these words cling and tremble like ivy
they do not open their eyes when you want
they do not close their eyes when needed
they do not remember when they are asked
these words have doubted and hated and forgotten
and loved and forgotten and loved
these words have just been unwound from around my waist
these words are a prayer these words are a shame

words are the whole of me to you,
words are the whole of you to me
words, less than the humblest seashell disintegrating into sand

but words they are
the best that there is
and the worst
the seed of our resilient kind


these words have been rocked in my arms
these words have been taught how to be
playful and bitter-sweet, free and captive and elated

these words I have unclasped from my Sunday peplum
before sending them to you
 

Florentina Yvonne Penciu

Ioana Ieronim
 

Traducand "Furtuna"

traversand aceste ape aurii ale vietii

masurand inocenta si poezia,
lipsa si pata de culoare ale limbii materne, romana
impotriva Vointei Supreme

-descoperind ca nu toata energia limbii mele
a fost folosita si irosita in tihna, in cruzime,
in stradanii efemere, in exercitiul supravietuirii
pe timp de razboi
cand esti mort si totusi in viata
-si ciobanii nemuritori
cu flautele lor

nu-i totul pe deplin uitat in sicriele de lemn totalitariste
nu-i pe deplin ars pe ruguri funerare
nu-i pe deplin distrus in ura de sine a victimelor
nu-i pe deplin sfarsit in timp ce altii numai ce si-au suflecat manecile
si au construit
si au pierdut
si au construit
spera
iar

*

Pe aceste cuvinte le-am plamadit cu palmele mele
aceste cuvinte s-au cuibarit sub obrazul meu
aceste cuvinte tocmai s-au pravalit dintr-o caruta nomada
si se prefac ca n-au fost nicicand plecate

pe aceste cuvinte le-am tinut la piept ca o nevasta de fermier,
cand sunt infometate le alaptez atunci si acolo
aceste cuvinte mi-au tintuit gleznele cand voiam sa fiu libera
aceste cuvinte crescute cu pasiune s-au stins ca un bidiviu in galop
mutilat in miezul zilei

aceste cuvinte au fost spuse sub plafoanele de putere din stuc aurit
aceste cuvinte flutura in vant in pletele mele cu flori de camp
aceste cuvinte au jelit nimicitele vieti si ziduri
aceste cuvinte candva vanau, inhatau si ucideau pe data, aceste cuvinte au alinat
cu o atingere mai fina ca a picioruselor de paianjen pe apa
aceste cuvinte au schitat coroane in cinstea celor plecati la razboi
aceste cuvinte au aterizat langa mine cu bucurie, cu teama, cu rusine
aceste cuvinte au avut sapte ani saracuti si ani imbelsugati, cine mai tine socoteala
aceste cuvinte au atins otrava iubirii si a mortii cu limbi neindoielnice
aceste cuvinte stau la un loc si tremura ca iedera
nu deschid ochii cand vrei tu
nu ii inchid cand e nevoie
nu-si amintesc cand li se cere

aceste cuvinte s-au indoit si au urat si au uitat
si au iubit si au uitat si au iubit
aceste cuvinte tocmai s-au desprins de pe mijlocul meu
aceste cuvinte sunt o ruga aceste cuvinte sunt o rusine

cuvintele sunt intreaga mea fiinta dedicata tie,
cuvintele sunt intreaga ta fiinta dedicata mie
cuvintele, mai firave decat cea mai firava cochilie dezintegrata in nisip

dar cuvinte sunt
paradis
infern
- samanta speciei noastre binevoitoare

pe aceste cuvinte le-am leganat in brate
aceste cuvinte au fost invatate cum sa fie
jucause si dulci-amarui, libere si captive si mandre

pe aceste cuvinte le-am desfacut de la peplul meu de sarbatoare
inainte de a ti le trimite