23 April 2014

"A poet never rests; he's always working, even when he dreams"

 De ziua Cartilor si a lui Shakespeare, un interviu cu Borges, si fascinatia mea fara sfarsit pentru imaginile vii ale celor care au fost. Un interviu ca o formula magica - despre scris si scriitura, poet si poezie, si cuvinte si destin, in care fiecare sens este atat de atent asezat in fraza, incat privesc repetat 1:39 minute de perfectiune semantico-lingvistica.

In addition to the beauty of his books, he left me this advice.
The task of art is to continuously transform what is happening to us, to transform all these things into symbols, into music, into something which can last in man's memory. That is our duty. If we don't fulfill it, we feel unhappy.
A writer or any artist has the sometimes joyful duty to transform all that into symbols. These symbols could be colors, forms or sounds. For a poet, the symbols are sounds and also words, fables, stories, poetry.
The work of a poet never ends. It has nothing to do with working hours. You are continuously receiving things from the external world. These must be transformed, and eventually will be transformed. This revelation can appear anytime.
A poet never rests. He's always working, even when he dreams. Besides, the life of a poet is a lonely one. You think you are alone, and as the years go by, if the stars are by your side, you may discover that you are at the center of a vast circle of invisible friends whom you will never get to know but who love you. And that is an immense award.

22 April 2014

still got the blues

(S)He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

In context, sunt versuri de jale si dor. Insa eu le-am cunoscut, separat, ca un singur catren. Pana acum ceva vreme, erau versuri de dragoste sfarsita, iubire neimplinita, pierduta, parasita, nefericita etc. De curand, le citesc altfel - cu acea persoana in gand, care imi este reper si etalon, si punctele cardinale care definesc universul uman si profesional si ideea de echipa, care poarta intelepciune si raspusuri la orice intrebare - oricand, care ma entuziasmeaza si tempereaza cand am nevoie, care este sunetul ratiunii si melodia sufletului atunci cand sunt surda la vibratiile lor, al carei zambet aduce zambet, care m-a mai apropiat umpic de perfectiune, cu perfectiunea sa, pe care, desi deja pasim amandoua pe cai diferite, nu am de gand sa o pierd.

Intreaga poezie - mai jos, pentru ca are cateva imagini si constructii de citit - de majoritatea ignorate in favoarea versurilor anterior-mentionate.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crépe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
(Funeral Blues - W. H. Auden)

6 April 2014

Her Words

Versuri simplute, precum o comedie romantica pe care o privesti pentru ca amuza, relaxeaza si mai smulge o lacrima de idealism.


2 April 2014

Ora de vara

O postare ramasa in draft-uri inca de duminica dimineatza, cand ziua de muncutz a acutizat umpic acea ora de somn disparuta in negura timpului...


Acesta pendulare in timp si existenta unei ore netraite, imi pare evenimentul cel mai asemanator conditiei umane  - Timpul anulat intr-o semi-miscare a pleoapei, Viata trecuta parca prin ne-vietuire,  viitorul deja sters din amintire inca inainte de a exista...