„Paharul” lui Ion Mureşan. „Băut” englezeşte de Virgil Stanciu…

Posted on martie 29, 2011

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       Paharul. Glass. Au fond du verre : trei titluri pentru aceeaşi carte-obiect, conţinînd un singur poem de Ion Mureşan, dar „turnat” măiastru şi în formele limbilor engleză şi franceză de (în această ordine) Virgil Stanciu şi Dumitru Ţepeneag şi însoţit de zece alcătuiri grafice din aburii evaporaţi de conţinutul poetic al paharului-clepsidră-microscop de către sculptorul-pictor, îmblînzitor de arhei, al fabulosului Nord, Ioan Marchiş.

        Am ales, pentru a o reproduce aici în semn de multiplicată admiraţie, varianta realizată de cel care, adevărat maestru în arta traducerii din limba engleză şi profesor fără morgă a zeci de promoţii de filologi ai şcolii clujene, trece discret, aproape alunecînd cu încetinitorul, pe străzile urbei şi pe bulevardele literaturii, ca un lord printre napocani.

        N-am avut altă fotografie pentru a ilustra poemul Poetului. Am ales, însă, totuşi, un alt „trio” care îl conţine şi pe Mury. Pentru că este surprins în „pragul” unui loc(al) drag autorului cărţiiAlcool: la Popasul drumeţului, aflat pe drumul spre Bistriţa, străbătut de atîtea ori împreună… Şi, poate, chiar Profesorul Mircea Zaciu va mai zîmbi o dată, îngăduitor…

                             I.

                             It is a fairy-tale night.

                            The round yellow moon is quivering in

                            the glass.

                            I stick my finger into the glass.

                            Then I stick my arm up tu my elbow into

                            the glass.

                            Then I stick arm up to my shoulder into

                            the glass.

                            The vodka is ice-cold.

                            II.

                            There’s a large slab of stone

                            on the bottom of the glass.

                            Then there are dead leaves and black roots.

                            There’s a rubber boot with a hole in it.

                            There’s also a rustz cooking-range on the

                            bottom of the glass.

                            The vodca is ice-cold.

                            III.

                            I open my eyes inside the glass.

                            In the glass I can see well even without glasses.

                            „Everything is dream and harmony”, I say.

                            The stone slab is withe

                            with reddish veins.

                            IV.

                           Now I can see the beast.

                           I can hear it purring softly like a cat.

                           I can see its blue legs.

                           I can see its mighhty tail sticking out from

                           under the stone slab.

                           V.

                           A clear little brook is running

                           by the stone slab.

                           The brook flows over pebbles with a

                           crystalline murmur.

                           The grass along its banks is forever green.

                           Dainty flowers dot the grass.

                           Doll-size children are swimming in the brook.

                           They are swimming with amazingly swift

                           movements.

                           They are swimming dressed in

                           brightly-coloured dresses

                           and shirts and trousers.

                           They are the angels-in-the glass.

                           VI.

                           The angels-in-the glass do not bite

                           and do not harm anybody.

                           I feel like throwing up out of pity.

                           I feel like throwing up out of sadness.

                           I feel like throwing up thinking I might

                           swallow an angel-in-the glass.

                           I feel like crying thinking he would be all

                           of a sudden very lonely.

                           Crying thinking he might sob

                           All night long inside me.

                           Crying thinking he could hum

                           nursery rhymes inside me.

                           He might sing, in a thin voice,

                           „Spring is coming, spring is coming”.

                           VII.

                           Sticking my nails into the beast’s back

                           I’m descending to the bottom of the glass.

                           There’s slab of stone with reddish veins there.

                           Now I’m lying on the slab of stone

                           with reddish veins.

                           A dog is barking far away inside the glass.

                           It’s autumn.

                           It’s eclipse time.

                           The round yellow moon is quivering in the glass.

                           VIII.

                           Through a glass-shard

                           blackened at the candle flame

                           I see a big black fly crawling across the bulb.

                           With my nails stuck into the beast’s back,

                           I’m pulling its head from under the stone.

                           Its mighty hump is meandering

                           like a train among the mountains.

                           Wuith my nails I’m pulling the beast’s locomotive

                           from under the stone slab.

                           The angels-in-the glass are taking one another’s

                           hands and, all quiet, start dancing in a circle.

                           The angels-in-the glass are dancing and

                           singing around us.

                           „Everything is dream and harmony.”

                           IX.

                           The beast has got one of my mother’s eyes

                           and one of my father’s.

                           In the glass I can see well even without glasses

                           I’m reading in my mother’s eye: „You naughty

                           child, when are you going to act sensible?”

                           The glass is tightening

                           around my forehead like an iron ring.

                           It hurts.

                           X.

                           My head hits the walls:

                           one, two, one, two.

                           The angel-in-the glass is weeping and

                           hiccupping

                           because of the pain.

                           The angel-in-the glass

                           is singing inside myself in a thin voice:

                           „Spring is coming, spring is coming!”

                          „Everything is dream and harmony.”