miercuri, 25 mai 2016

an empty birthday card / o felicitare goală - poem

- David A. Marin
(Traducere mai jos).


This year, I got a birthday card
There was nothing written inside,
No memorable cover.
No couple bucks.
It was as blank as an empty canvas
Covered in naught.
( I looked at it today and laughed
Maybe I ought to frame it
Sell it as modern art. )

There was no metaphor intended,
Girls forgot to write
They were busy smoking, asking for a light.
There was no metaphor intended,
But I saw one nevertheless.
There was no metaphor intended,
But it was a perfect show
Since they remembered buy, forgot yet write.
Chasing form, forgetting essence,
Chasing cover, forgetting content,
It was the most capitalistic gift I have ever got
And that is an amusing thought
Since my pals and I, we give and receive money.
“We accept it as a root of evil, but
Don’t take a piece out of my pie. “
So Floyd said.
  
This year, the person who gave me that card
We blocked each-other out of our lives, now she’s gone.
I smiled as I locked away the pictures of us
My phone lighting up like fire with texts, swears and insults
Like a pigeon, almost collapsing from the weight of the death letter he carries
Strapped so gently to its wings, yet suffocating.

Alas, I kept the empty card
And me, myself and I,
We talked and laughed,

For we, and I mean I, know it is me that should be writing inside.  

*


Anul asta, am primit o felicitare de ziua mea.
Nu scria nimic in ea.
Nu avea coperta memorabila
Si nici un eurocent,
Sau un amendament.
Era goala ca o panza alba
Acoperita in colorat nimic.
(Azi m-am uitat la ea, 
am ras
m-am gandit sa o inramez
sa o vand drept arta moderna).

Nu a fost nicio metafora intentionata,
Au uitat sa scrie,
una prea ocupata fumand si luand pastile.
Nu a fost nicio metafora intentionata,
Dar eu am vazut una oricum.
Nu a fost nicio metafora intentionata,
Dar a fost insa una agasanta:
Fugim dupa forma, uitam fondul,
Fugim dupa copertă, uităm totul.
Cadoul perfect capitalist.
Superb de trist.
Si acesta e un gand amuzant,
Pentru ca în cercul meu, ne dăm direct bani.
“Acceptam banul ca sursa de rele
Dar nu imi lua din ciocolățile mele”
Așa ziceau și Floyd.

Anul asta, persoana care mi-a dat aceea felicitare
Ne-am blocat unul pe celalalt, totala separare
Azi ne iubim, maine unul figurativ moare.
Am zambit cand am pus deoparte o poza cu noi
Gandindu-ma ca a fost frumos, dar ca nu vom mai avea momente noi.
Telefonul meu ardea cu mesaje, injuraturi, insulte grave
Ca un porumbel, aproape cazand din ceruri
Din cauza greutatii scrisorii de moarte
prinsă de el, sufocant, 
porumbelul zburând, fără stol, și zdruncinat.

In fine, am pastrat pleșuva felicitare
Si eu, cu mine si cu sine,
Am ras si am zambit, chiar deloc sumbru…
Caci noi, adica eu, stim ca eu sunt cel ce ar trebui sa scrie inauntru.









duminică, 22 mai 2016

the breeze - a poem

- David A. Marin



The ship’s floating
Not breeze, not wind,
Mobile hill of dust and wood
Sweating in a pond of blue
Blue, blue
Floating,
You keep telling yourself
You don’t need no woman
You keep telling yourself
You’re a big man
There’s no breeze, no wind
Heating sun on the mast
Cracking laughing Henry Morgan
Lighting a joint, rolling it with waves
And the crunchy smoke is the sea foam
Roam, roam, roam...
( On the topmast 
When you climb high
Feel like you're on the line
Between the point B and the great A
Wanting so bad to get to A. )

But it sure is nice
When there comes a breeze
A mermaid 
to drop you to your knees
Get you around the seven seas
Yet the breeze, it comes and goes
She comes and goes
She’s nice, but she knows
She’s nice, but she just goes
You stride on alone
In the great foam
This road
We must walk alone
For Acheron, we journey lone
For the heroes meet in Valhalla
Yet they get there alone.

So keep rowing,
Sing a sailor's tune
When you're singing 
you ain't sinking
When you're writing
you're not drowning.
So keep rowing,
No breeze, breeze, no wind, wind
Just the rats and I on my ship
Getting a free trip
Just the pearl white rats under the ebony deck
And my crescent burning neck,
Row as hard as you fucking can
Row as hard as you fucking can
The people on land have theirs
But you have yours
The land people have one type of sand
On your salty feet, there lie a thousand
Row as hard as you fucking can
‘cause
The ship’s great
And you’re great too.
Take in the wind
Howl-howl, seawolf
Don't waste time
We're on these seas for quite just a while
Pull them sails
And row as hard as you fucking can. 

joi, 5 mai 2016

Happy Birthday to the Rain - a poem

- David A. Marin
The day is the night
The night is the day
Time’s a man-made structure
So it’s all okay.
Fine with the world
Hey, world seems fine with me
Yet the slow fever, it still burns
When I lie in front of the computer screen.
Ride the night into the rain
And let the wind hoist up the good flames
May the night calm down the day,
The rain burns out the bad fire
Only so do bright red purple sparks fly up, up, up and yet even
Higher.
It’s just me, myself, and I,
And you, yourself, and thy,
And us, ourselves, and it all
Our souls, bunch of amplifiers
Celestial guitars bursting through the speakers
One speaker into the other
– both recording each-other
Big machine of heavenly music, its duty to play to others
When they record each-other
the notes, they sometimes mingle
yet the songs remain quite different
imagine sitting in a room full of rockstars
all playing such different songs
the bass gliding upon the stars
somehow you listen to and feel each
and every one
song, distinctly.
In this case, you'd be a Big Guy.
We’re all a bunch of rays of colors
each ray, imagine a new color,
yet together pouring down endless buckets upon the sun
and back at it again.

Happy birthday to you too, Rain.
I sing you a tune with
one hand on the throttle
forgetting the breaks
the wheels, no screech
just the hum of the wind
as my hair you gently fondle
in the bright light of the great night. 



Dorothea Tanning - Birthday (1942)