Domnikios et Tovaras

Les Domnikios ont été des seigneurs depuis des temps immémoriaux : ils sont toujours venus au monde pour être des seigneurs. En vérité, ils se vantaient de descendre en droite ligne des empereurs byzantins et, à travers eux, d’une foule d’empereurs romains et de figures mythiques de l’Ancien Testament, allant ainsi jusqu’à Adam. À une époque plus récente, celle dont le souvenir garde la trace, il a été reconnu que les Domnikios ont continûment régné sur la principauté de Domnikia, quelque part dans les terres sauvages du tourbillon balkanique — et ce n’est qu’un débat académique que de savoir si la principauté de Domnikia a ainsi été nommée d’après les Domnikios, ou si, au contraire, les Domnikios ont emprunté ce nom aux terres sur lesquelles, des siècles durant, ils on régné sans partage en Despotes ou DOMNI. Car il y a ici un autre mystère quant à l’origine de ce nom dont les Domnikios sont si fiers : leurs hagiographes affirment sans l’ombre d’un doute que le mot « Domnikios » proviendrait du mot latin DOMINUS, contracté, des siècles plus tard, en « DOMN », ce qui signifie « seigneur » dans la langue vernaculaire domnikienne. Et cela démontre avec force que les Domnikios étaient destinés à être des chefs. Mieux encore : comme le latin « Dominus » signifie « Dieu », l’ancienneté domnikienne implique le fait qu’au début, ils étaient aussi des Dieux, ou des Dieux-régnants à Domnikia. Ainsi le veut la tradition depuis la plus haute antiquité, lorsque les attributs des souverains absolus se confondaient toujours avec ceux de la divinité. C’est pour cela que les prières orthodoxes domniqiennes s’ouvrent à chaque fois sur la phrase :

« Au commencement, ce fut Domn, et Domn était Dieu, et Dieu était Roi, et ils n’étaient qu’une et unique Foi, et cette Foi s’appelait Domnikios, le Dieu-Roi qui régnait sur Domnikia. »

Rien ne saurait être plus différent des Domnikios que les Tovaras : ceux-ci n’avaient ni ancêtres ni histoire — ils étaient des parvenus. En fait, les Tovaras savaient — et, à leur tour, les Domnikios ne le savaient que trop bien — que les Tovaras étaient contemporains des Domnikios, puisqu’ils avaient été créés à la même époque, et que leur destin était d’être « le sel de la terre » mais qu’ils étaient devenus les esclaves perpétuels des Domni. Mais les Tovaras ne pouvaient le prouver, car ils n’avaient jamais eu une terre à eux, leur progéniture ne portaient pas des noms patronymiques, ils n’avaient jamais été mentionnés par les chroniques de la principauté domnikienne et, par conséquent, les Tovaras, tout simplement, « n’existaient pas ». Les enfants des Tovaras naissaient toujours esclaves, ils portaient toujours le nom de leurs mères, parce qu’ils ne savaient jamais qui était le père. En revanche, de temps à autre, on pouvait leur permettre de porter le nom de l’endroit où ils étaient venus au monde sur les terres domnikiennes. Mais, en dépit de ces circonstances, les Domnikios ne pouvaient survivre sans les Tovaras, car, ainsi que le veut l’ancienne sagesse, chaque chef a, par définition, besoin d’un serf, tout comme chaque fouet de cirque, afin de justifier sa raison d’exister, a besoin d’un lion dressé.

Mais il y a une chose bien plus profonde qui distingue les Domnikios des Tovaras : c’est le sens même de parvenu du nom « Tovaras », le fait que celui-ci ne puisse être rattaché à aucune tradition. Car l’étymologie de « Tovaras » n’est nullement latine, mais slave, et les Slaves sont arrivés tard dans ces lointaines contrées, très tard dans l’histoire de Domnikia. Ce sont les Slaves qui ont donné le nom « Tovaras » aux serfs sans nom, car ils semblaient peu engageants et ainsi ils les ont appelé « Tovaritch ». En fait, avant que les Slaves n’envahissent Domnikia, on appelait toujours les fils sans nom des traînées avec un court et tranchant : « Hé, toi ! », et les serfs rampaient avec empressement vers leurs maîtres. Mais, maintenant, que leurs terres avaient été piétinées et leurs attributs diminués, les Domnikios, qui ont toujours et de manière congénitale zézayé, ont édicté que les serfs devaient recevoir le nom de « Tovaras », comme une sorte d’acceptation de mauvaise grâce de l’intrusion slave dans les affaires féodales de la principauté domnikienne.

Et c’est ainsi que les malheurs ont commencé, et que les digues de l’Enfer se sont rompues, et nous allions assister à des siècles de guerres civiles entre les Domnikios et les Tovaras, que, de temps à autre, entrecoupaient de brèves périodes de coexistence durant lesquelles tous retenaient leur souffle.

En Français par Radu PORTOCALA
© Romanian Studies Centre, London 2003 &
© Constantin ROMAN

Lord Byron (1788-1824)

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reck’d not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,

There where his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire,
Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday –

All this rush’d with his blood — Shall he expire
And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

Lordul Byron (1788-1824)
Pelerinajul Tânărului Harold
Al patrulea Canto CXLI

El auzise, fără să- şi dea seama. – căci gândul lui
Cu inima era, dar ea era acuma prea departe;
Şi nu mai cugeta la viaţa scursă, nici ls răsplata dată orişicui,
Ci doar la vatră visul să-l mai poarte,

Pe valea Dunarii, unde-s la joacă toţi fraţii săi barbari,
Cu gândul e la muma-i, la Dacia străbună,
Adânc măcelărită de braţ de legionari…

Tot visu-i i-e in sânge – Cum, moartea să-l răpună
Nerăsplătit? La arme, Goţi, mânia vă răzbună!

Versiune in limba Romănă
Constantin ROMAN
Londra, Ianuarie 2012
© Constantin ROMAN

Trajan's Column - Roman legions crossing the Danube

Trajan viewing the slaughtered Dacians (Column Rome)

They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, "Who are you really, wanderer?"-- and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: "Maybe I'm a king."

William Stafford (1914–1993, U.S.A.)

A Story That Could Be True

If you were exchanged in the cradle and
your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.

He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand on the corner shivering.
The people who go by–
you wonder at their calm.

They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
“Who are you really, wanderer?”–
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
“Maybe I’m a king.”

(William Stafford, 1914–1993, U.S.A.)
(Going Over to Your Place: Poems for Each Other)

William Stafford, American Poet (1914-1993)

O poveste aproape adevărată
(William Stafford, 1914–1993, S.U.A.)

Din leagăn de-ai fi fost pierdut
iar maica ta ar fi murit
fără să sufle vre-un cuvânt nimănui
atunci nimeni nu ţi-ar fi ştiut numele
iar pe undeva prin lume
tatăl tău s-ar fi pierdut, fiindu-i dor de tine,
iar tu ai fi departe.

El n-ar avea de unde şti
Cât de netăgăduit eşti si cât de dornic.
Când vântul suflă puternic
şi ploaia ropoteşte
tu stai la răscruce de drumuri tremurând de frig
privind oamenii ce trec pe lângă tine
şi eşti uimit să vezi cât de stăpani sunt de sine.

Ei nu-ţi vor auzi şoapta
ce-ţi trece mereu prin minte.
“Oare cine eşti tu, străine?”
Iar tu, ori cât de intunecată şi rece
ţi-ar părea lumea din jurul tău, vei răspunde:
“Eu, poate sunt Împăratul!”

Versiune in Limba Româna:
Constantin ROMAN
Londra, 28 Deeembrie 2011

© Constantin ROMAN, 2011

Pe culmi de munţi, zburând spre zări pustii, O clipă, chipu-ţi trist a adăstat. Dar ai purces, cu dorul necurmat Si faţ-ascunsă printre galaxii.

When You are Old
by W. B. Yeates

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep...

Când esti bătrân

Când eşti cărunt, letargic şi bătrân,
Pe lângă sobă-o carte ai deschis…
Iar ochilor, târcoale dau, în vis,
Sclipirile ce-au fost, dar nu mai sânt.

Câţi oameni n-ar fi vrut să fi primit
Atâtea haruri dela Dumezeu,
Dar dintre toţi, eu singură, mereu
Am înţeles tot ce ai pătimit.

Pe culmi de munţi, zburând spre zări pustii,
O clipă, chipu-ţi trist a adăstat.
Dar ai purces, cu dorul necurmat,
Si faţ-ascunsă printre galaxii.

In Romaneste de Constantin ROMAN
Rendered in Romanian by Constantin ROMAN
© Constantin Roman, London, December 2011

Bayeux Tapestry

Richard Lovelace (1618 – 1658)

Tell Me Not, Sweet, I Am Unkind?

“Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
For, from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith- embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
For, I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.”

Norman Shield, Bayeux Tapestry

Richard LOVELACE (1618 – 1658)

Lucastei – Adio, înainte de Luptă

Iubito, să nu-mi ţii de rău
Că din ispita fragedului piept
Mă-ndepărtez de chipul tău
La luptă, aprig să mă-ndrept.

Mireasă nouă voi fi luat
în bătălie, ţanţoș,
Căci Sfântul Duh, m-a înarmat
C-un cal, c-un scut si-un paloș.

Dar pururea eu voi păstra
în sufletu-mi aprinsă
Că-n vecii vecilor vei sta
Iubirea mea nestinsă.
.

Rendered in Romanian by Constantin ROMAN
London, December 2011
© All rights reserved, Constantin ROMAN, 2011

Richard Lovelace, (1618-1657), Poet and Royalist Supporter of Charles II

Richard Lovelace (1618-c.1658), described by a contemporary as ‘the most amiable and beautiful person that ever eye beheld’, fell from privilege into desperate poverty during his short life.

The reason was the English Civil War. Lovelace remained loyal to the King, having served him as ‘gentlemen wayter extraordinary’ from the age of 13. He was imprisoned briefly in 1642 after presenting a Royalist manifesto to Parliament, and imprisoned again five years later for his part in Royalist disturbances. While in prison, he prepared the Lucasta poems for publication. But he was broken and ruined by his experiences, and spent his final years as ‘the object of charity’, lodging in ‘obscure and dirty places’. His exact date of death is unknown, but he was reported by John Aubrey to have died in a cellar in Long Acre.

http://war-poets.blogspot.com/2009/10/richard-lovelace-to-lucasta-going-to.html

Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) - British Poet

An Old FRENCH POET
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)

When in your sober mood my body have ye laid
In sight and sound of things beloved, woodland and stream,
And the green turf has hidden the poor bones ye deem
No more a close companion with those rhymes we made;

Then, if some bird should pipe, or breezes stir the glade,
Thinking them for the while my voice, so let them seem
A fading message from the misty shores of dream,
Or wheresoever, following Death, my feet have strayed.

Celtic Cross, Maramures, Romania

CÂNTEC DE DEMULT
[Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)]

Când ma veţi îngropa, cu gând cernit
In freamăt de pădure si izvoare
Şi iarba va ascunde-un oarecare
Tovarăş din trecutul mult jelit,

Atunci pădurea şi pârâul vor cânta,
Să v-amintească glasu-mi de-altă dată
Ecou din viaţa noastră fermecată,
Sau poate pasul meu ce-ar adăsta.

Rendered in Romanian by
Constantin Roman
London, October 2011
Copyright 2011 © Constantin ROMAN, Londra

Gabriela Melinescu (b. 1942, Romania) Swedish Romanian Poet, Exile

Poetry in Translation (XCVII): Gabriela Melinescu, “Birth of Constellations” (Ivirea Stelelor)

Other people are born here, on Earth,
In a fresh scent of salt and milk.
The buds burst out biting the twigs,
With the silky movement of a serpent.

Would you, one evening, leave me again
Like a translucent bone on the hot sands
And fretting on the sky’s pavement, oh, Mater,
Would you ever remember our love?

In Româneşte de Constantin ROMAN
(Londra, Octombrie, 2011)
Copyright 2011 © Constantin ROMAN, Londra

Nichita Stanescu and Gabriela Melinescu

Caligula Equestrian Statue (BM)

Sculpted Head:
Rodica IULIAN *b Romania,1931)

“He was handsome, the child-Caligula
He was serene the child-Caligula
He had a child-like smile
The child-Caligula.
I ought to have bought him a fair yearling
One hundred yearlings
For him to have a whole Senate of yearlings
To play with
And to let them be
Yearlings, true yearlings
Each and every one of them ridden
By the child-Caligula
The child-Caligula
Never Caligula – the adult.”

(Iulian, Rodica, Stained glass- Poems, page 28,
Translated by Constantin Roman)
(Published in: Blouse Roumaine – An Anthology of Romanian Women, by Constantin Roman)
http://www.blouseroumaine.com/

Dylan THOMAS

Dylan Thomas (1914-1952)

The Hand that signed the Paper

Mâna ce-a pus pecetea

Mâna ce-a pus pecetea, a-nvins cetatea;
Cinci degete au drămuit suflarea,
Si decimând o fire, au sfârtecat o ţară;
Cinci prinţi, tăind un cap incoronat.

Un braţ de fier e prins de-o fiinţă suptă,
Crispate mâini se strâng pe frânte scuturi;
O pană pe raboj a stins o luptă
Ce-a stins in gât un murmur.

Dar mâna pe răboj are lingoare,
Lăcuste fac prăpăd si-i foame tare;
Dar mare-i mâna ce apasă ţara
Pecetea unui singur Domn.

Cinci prinţi sfidează orice-nduplecare
Cu aprigi ochi privind o ţară frântă;
In cer sau pe pământ fără iertare;
Căci mâna n-are lacrimi ca să plângă.

Versiune in limba Română:
Constantin ROMAN
© Copyright October 2011

Sigillium

The Hand That Signed the Paper

The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.

The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,
The finger joints are cramped with chalk;
A goose’s quill has put an end to murder
That put an end to talk.

The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever,
And famine grew, and locusts came;
Great is the hand that holds dominion over
Man by a scribbled name.

The five kings count the dead but do not soften
The crusted wound nor pat the brow;
A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven;
Hands have no tears to flow.

Dar mâna pe răboj are lingoare, Lăcuste fac prăpăd si-i foame tare; Dar mare-i mâna ce apasă ţara Pecetea unui singur Domn.