My poem « Les débarcadères tristes » translated in French by Radu Bata and published in “Le blues roumain: anthologie imprévue de poésies roumaines”.




in French and Romanian
« les souvenirs sont perles de sueur
——————————————
sur le front du malade
—————————
(découpe-moi comme une planche
en petits carrés flottants
sur une carte de sentiments
qui tranchent)
ceci n’est pas un poème
c’est une ville qui se contracte comme un muscle fatigué
c’est le rail oxydé du train
c’est une fille qui tourne en rond sur une ligne
c’est le voisin transparent sur le banc contigu
c’est une mère qui promène l’enfant dans le cellier
c’est la frappe du cœur contre la poitrine
qu’on entend jusqu’à l’autre bout
de la vie
tu n’es pas un poème, mère,
tu es un débarcadère triste
je t’attends les mains tendues dans la pluie
avec les aiguilles de l’heure qui me piquent la peau
et tu viens des siècles après pour me montrer
comment cuisiner le potage
et alors que c’est trop tard j’écris ces mots
qui ne sont pas plus importants que la soupe
mais ils ont la particularité des perfusions
qui te font respirer
loin des appâts pour les petits bateaux
loin des exercices imposés aux légumes
ces mots pourraient bien former un poème
le jour où les débarcadères tristes
me prendront enfin dans les bras »
Dana Nicolaescu
trad. du roumain : radu b.
le texte original :
« Șuvoaie de amintiri se scurg
pe fruntea bolnavului febril
(decupează-mi mâinile - o hartă ce se tot întinde
și cicatricele- atâtea granițe imunde
colorează-mă ca pe niște
carouri plutitoare)
acesta nu este un poem
e un oraș ce se contractă
un mușchi obosit
e șina ruginită a trenului
e o copilă ce joacă șotron
desenând linii și pătrățele pe
asfaltul încins
e bătaia inimii răsunând într-o încăpere goală
ticăitul ceasului fără baterii
respirația tulpinii smulse
din rădăcini
tu nu ești un poem, mamă,
ești un debarcader trist
te aștept cu mâinile întinse în ploaie
cu acele ceasului înfipte în inimă iar tu
ajungi după veacuri și îmi arăți cum să
fac o oală de ciorbă, să împletesc o gălușcă
ani în șir am tot așteptat, mamă, iar când ai venit
ai zis în timp ce îmi coseai un palton
eu te-am crescut cu acul toată viața mea
acum scriu acest poem care nu e cu nimic mai important
decât ciorba pe care o gătești. »
Dana Nicolaescu














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