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/

In Praise of the British Chicken

Ode to a British Chicken

My British Chicken,
I’m truly smitten
‘cause, if you vanished
I ‘d be really lost.

I‘d rather have you roasted,
As without you
My Menu, on the spot,
Will soon be tossed.

My ever-present chick,
You’re inexpendable
My gas ring will be pining
Without you

An Old Flame

And British Gas
For sure, will be insolvent,
As its best client,
Now will go to pass.

My dearest fowl
You got a life in prison
With all your sisters, without rhyme or reason,
All jam packed cheek by jowl.

In batteries you are now a statistic,
Industrial gulag, which puts to shame
A number rather more characteristic
Of Soviet era, at its grimmest game.

Junk Food

My dearest Supermarket, I’m addicted
To buy for ever all your tasteless junk,
As my dependency is now to be predicted
A boring number of a faceless skunk.

Your sheer manipulation, so disgusting,
Is flying in the face of common sense.
Blindfolded crowds are being hold to ransom,
Automatons with limbs, but without brains..

In my despair I’ll try to be more vocal
But am afraid, as being middle-class,
I will be deemed to fart above my station
And turn my reputation to an ass.

Post Script:

This being said, I praise Edwina Currie,
The Minister of salmonella fame,
Who caused the British Egg to go and hurry
To clean its act, in spite of all its gain.

Copyright © Constantin ROMAN
London, October 2011

Edwina Currie Memoirs

I shall defend the House of my Father against wolves...

VATRA STRAMOSEASCA

(Gabriel ARESTI, 1963, “NIRE AITAREN ETXEA”)

Voi apara

Vatra stramoseasca

De haitele de lupi,

De seceta,

De camatari,

De Jude,

Voi apara

Vatra

Stramoseasca.

Voi pierde

Cireada

Livada

Si codrul de brazi.

Voi irosi

Dobanda,

Venitul

Si bruma de bani

Dar voi apara

Vatra

Stramoseasca.

Imi vor lua armele

Dar cu bratele goale voi apara

Vatra Stramoseasca;

Imi vor smulge

Bratele

Umerii

Si pieptul

Dar cu sufletul voi apara

Vatra stramoseasca.

Voi muri

Si suflul meu va pieri

Urmasii mei vor pieri

Dar vatra stramoseasca

Va dainui.

Inaltatoare.

(Rendered in Romanian by Constantin ROMAN, From the English translation of Tony STRUBELL)

London 14 July 2011.

———————————————————————————————————————

MY FATHER’S HOUSE

(NIRE AITAREN ETXEA)

Gabriel Aresti, 1963

I shall defend

The house of my father.

Against wolves,

Against drought,

Against usury,

Against the Justice,

I shall defend

The house

of my father.

I shall lose

cattle,

orchards,

and pinewoods;

I shall lose

Interests,

Income,

And dividends,

But I shall defend the house of my father.

They will take away my weapons

And with my hands I shall defend

The house of my father;

They will cut off my hands

And with my arms I shall defend

The house of my father;

They will leave me

Without arms,

Without shoulders,

And without breasts,

And with my soul I shall defend

The house of my father.

I shall die,

My soul will be lost,

My descendence will be lost,

But the house of my father

Will remain

Standing.

(Translation: Toni Strubell)

—————————————

NIRE AITAREN ETXEA

(Gabriel Aresti, 1963)

Nire aitaren etxea

defendituko dut.

Otsoen kontra,

sikatearen kontra,

lukurreriaren kontra,

justiziaren kontra,

defenditu

eginen dut

nire aitaren etxea.

Galduko ditut

aziendak,

soloak,

pinudiak;

galduko ditut

korrituak,

errentak,

interesak,

baina nire aitaren etxea defendituko dut.

Harmak kenduko dizkidate,

eta eskuarekin defendituko dut

nire aitaren etxea;

eskuak ebakiko dizkidate,

eta besoarekin defendituko dut

nire aitaren etxea;

besorik gabe,

sorbaldik gabe,

bularrik gabe

utziko naute,

eta arimarekin defendituko dut

nire aitaren etxea.

Ni hilen naiz,

nire arima galduko da,

nire askazia galduko da,

baina nire aitaren etxeak

iraunen duik.

© Gabriel Aresti, 1963

———————————–

Short Biographical NOTE:

Gabriel Aresti Segurola (1933 — 1975) was one of the most important writers and poets in Basque language in the 20th century. Very critical and controversial, he published many articles, which brought him problems not only with Franco’s regime but also with some of the mainstream Basque nationalism tendencies, because of his leftist social ideas. Gabriel Aresti was one of the greatest iidols of the modern culture in Basque language (though he always found the sources in the popular culture and the daily talking, opposing to the purists of the language), and as a Member of the Academy of the Basque language, he defended the unified Basque language, which he also used before it was adopted by the Academy in 1968. He founded the publishing house Lur, allowing new authors in the Basque language like Ramon Saizarbitoria, Arantxa Urretabizkaia or Xabier Lete to publish their first works.

William Butler YEATS (1865-1939) Anglo-irish poet, Nobel Prize for Literature

William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats  (1865–1939)

Poet Irlandez, Premiul Nobel pentru Literatura

MANTA CELESTA

Manta celesta de as fi avut

Cu flori de aur si  margarint,

Pe-a noptii straie, de-azur cernut,

In umbre diafane de argint,

Sub pasii tai de mult le-as fi  tinut.

Dar fiind sarac, doar vise de pripas

Mai pot s-astern pe drum, in calea-ti lunga:

Ai grije, cand pasesti, sa nu se franga,

Caci este totul ce mai mi-a ramas!

(Versiune in limba Romana – Constaantin ROMAN, Londra, Copyright 2010, All rights reserved)

Smaranda Braescu, World Champion at Parachute jumping, Pioneer Aviator, WWII Pilot

IN MEMORIAM SMARANDA BRAESCU

(English version by Constantin Roman)

SMARANDA, where are you?

Your pilot wings have taken to the skies

To lift you like a feather in your plane

Across the Ocean you have got from all

A hero’s welcome hailing you to fame.

But you refused all glitter and all gold

And chose instead returning to your nest

In the Carpathians a Squadron White you set

Your homeland to defend from mountain  crests

Against invaders from the East and West.

But soon corrupt elections cut your breath

And like your ancestors you took your case

Protesting at an outcome so unfair

And so the wrath of Gods brought you Despair -

A Fugitive to stay until the End.

As you conspired to reveal the Truth

You carried on your fight from underground

Your noble Creed which steeled a life so brave

When suddenly Fate would  curtail your youth

To bury you, deep, in an unknown grave.

No family or friends were there to grieve

To light a candle at a stranger’s quest

No Requiems were sung by bearded priests

When your remains at night were laid to rest

And no hushed souls would know whom to bereave.

But your example was not all in vain

As History again moved on its Wheel

And five decades of sorrows passed us by

We finally are Free to sing your name

And honour you, at last, the best we can.

Copyright Constantin ROMAN

London, September, 2010

(from the volume: “Random Poems”)

Extract from: “Blouse Roumaine – the Unsung Voices of Romanian Women”
http://www.blouseroumaine.com

She was the first female Romanian pilot, the European skydiving champion in October 2, 1931, skydiving from a record height of 6,000 m, landing in the Bărăgan Plain, the world champion in 1932 with a jump of 7200 m near Sacramento, California, and set a record crossing the Mediterranean Sea. In the States she was offered lucrative contracts at Hollywood (for stunt jumps) but she recoiled in horror and went back to Romania. She stopped over in Rome where she got a heros’ welcome and had an audience with the Pope who wanted to find out what it feels like up in the sky…

With the advent of WWII, Smaranda Bràescu enrolled with other women pilots in the ‘White Squadron’, active on the Eastern front, where Romania was trying to retrieve from the Soviets the provinces taken by Russia as a result of the Hitler-Stalin Pact. After 1944, Bràescu joined the 13th squadron, which was fighting the Germans on the Western front, first in Transylvania, then in Hungary (Nyiregyhaza, Miskolc) and Czechoslovakia (Rimaska Sabota, Trencin and Piestany). Although a war hero Smaranda Bràescu soon fell foul of the communist puppet régime which was installed in Romania by Stalin’s armies. She protested to the United Nations about the legality of the 1946 elections and her letter of protest to the Allied Command in Romania fell into the hands of a Russian general. Thereafter Smaranda Bràescu became a pariah and had to join the underground resistance in order to escape imprisonment and certain death. She operated under an assumed name, first from a convent and then as an anti-communist resistance fighter. She died of cancer at the age of 51, and was buried in Cluj, under her assumed name of Maria Popescu, in a grave on which her merits and real identity could not be spelled out. The people who helped her were hounded out and given long prison sentences, including the doctors who looked after her in hospital.

Smaranda Braescu, Romanian Pioneer Pilot and World Champion at Parachute Jumping

Smaranda, unde esti?
Te-ai avantat in zboruri printre nori
Din ceruri coborat-ai ca un fulg
Peste Ocean, cantata indelung
Urale ti-au adus de sarbatori.

N-ai vrut onoruri si nici bani mai multi
Cinstit-ai vrut sa stai printre Romani
Si te-ai intors atunci la noi in munti…
Cu “Escadrila Alba” ai rapus
Dusmani din Rasarit si din Apus.

In ’46 cand s-au masluit
Alegerile suflul ti-au taiat
Ca bunii tai cu jalba in protap
Mai-marilor de-atuncea te-ai jelit
Dar soarta ta fugar-ai fost sa fii.

Din talcul vietii tale ti-a fost dat
Sa nu renunti la lupta nici de cum
Cu fruntea-n sus sa mergi pe-acelasi drum
Cand boala floarea vietii ti-a curmat
Si-n groapa zaci sub nume de-mprumut.

N-au fost nici popi, nici rude, nici parinti
O candela sa-ti puna pe mormant
Nici vesnici pomeniri, pomeni sau sfinti
Nu s-au aflat s-aline trupul tau
De cine-ai fost sa sufle vre-un cuvant.

Dar pilda ta n-a fost intr-un zadar
Acum ca roata vietii s-a rotit
Si patru zeci de ani trecut-au, chiar
O strada cu-al tau nume in sfarsit
Te va slavi atata cum mai stim.

Copyright: Constantin ROMAN
Londra, Mai, 2006

Famine Emigrant Family, Sculpture detail, Custom House Quay, Dublin, Ireland, (copyright photo by Phil Pix 9with permission)

Famine in  19th century Ireland and in 1980s Romania: The emigrant sculptures are in memory of the native Irish who were forced into emigration during the Great Famine years due to ‘the potato blight’ which caused the rural population either to face starvation, or emigrate. Between 1845 and 1852  many people died and over a million left Ireland to escape starvation. The departure point with their few possessions was the nearby Dublin Docks, from where departed the steam boats to Liverpool . From there, many traveled on to New York to seek a new beginning in the United States. During the Irish potato famine the Romanian foreign minister Vasile Alecsandri (1821-1890), who met PM Gladstone offered to donate  a cargo of corn maize to  alleviate the  Irish famine: although corn flower was a main staple diet in rural Romania, this was completely unknown in Ireland (…): It is not recorded  if the offer was accepted and if it was what the Irish  made of it.

It is ironic that only four generations on from the Irish famine, during the 1980′s Romania which only a century earlier,  under the Ottomans, was considered the ‘granary of Europe’ fell under a ruthless dictatorship of the cobbler President Nicolae Ceausescu and as a direct consequence of it Romania’s population  was brought to near starvation by the communist  leader’s drive to pay off immediately the country’s foreign debts, This was incurred due  to an unsustainable forced  industrialization which was carried out by importing foreign technology and know-how resulting in a huge national debt. To repay it the bulk of Romanian home-produced foodstuff went to export, whilst the native population went hungry, reduced to eating chicken claws and knuckles, after queuing for long hours at state-owned shops, hoping to get something to eat: milk, eggs, meat were unobtainable and oil, butter, bread were rationed. To make things worse Ceausescu embarked on a nation-wide scale redevelopment which involved demolishing historic city centres to have them replaced by high-rise blocks of flats (of sardine-can size) to cram in the dislodged population.

The Poem “Exile” and the “Metaphysical Cat” respectively, by Marin Sorescu, are inspired by the grim reality lived by starving Romanians in general and the the inhabitants of Bucharest in particular, who were given only 72 hours notice before the bulldozers moved in to flatten their homes, to make room for Ceausescu’s megalomaniac Palace (the second largest in the world, built in 1980s -see photo blow). Out of a population of 22 millions several hundred thousand of ethnic  Germans emigrated to West Germany, during the 1970s and 1980s leaving empty once thriving historic towns and villages. Likewise the nearly one-million strong Romanian Jewish population  migrated to Israel during Ceausescu’s passport-for-dollars policy which brought much-needed hard currency but deprived the country of skilled professionals. Yet this was nothing compared to the bulk emigration of ethnic Romanians which was yet to follow:  millions of Romanians  fled the country before and especially after the dictator’s death, in 1989, to seek their fortune abroad. The fall of communism enhanced rather than put a stop to emigration, particularly of the young and the able-bodied skilled labourer and professionals, as the old mentality and bureaucratic control  perpetuated in the shape of a privatised Communism.

Romania has a declining demography with an increasing aged population.

EXIL

Au inflorit cartofii in Marmatia

si voi tocmai acum plecati spre sud

cind ceru-i aiurit si descusut

cind se confunda bocetul cu natia ?

Veti inventa durerea ca o tara

poate veti da peste-un mormant mai cald…

Scobim scobim cartofii de smarald,

saracii mei cartofi de piatra rara.

Ce zeu pastrat in saramuri celeste

ar fi dispus din nou sa ne adune ?

La noi la voi e plans de-ngropaciune

la voi la noi e-un capat de poveste

EXILE

As the potato flowers are in bloom
You take the road which ever us do part?
Now that the sky is gray and overcast
And tears confound the country and the doom?

The grief will be for you the new abode
Perhaps a warmer grave and newer ethos
We shall unearth those emerald potatoes
Those precious stones dug out from where we hoed.

What kind of God preserved in secret heavens
May still be glad to gather our bones
With you, with us we cry on our tombs
With you with us a story ends in ruins.

Translated from Romanian by Constantin ROMAN (London SW1, 25 June 2006)

Ceausescu's Folly built in the 1980s for which 40% of downtown historical Bucharest had been demolished

These are the ruins of the historical and residential centre of Bucharest, capital of Romania, during the 1980s. On the horizon, looming large is the largest building site in Europe making room for the second largest building in the world (after the Pentagon).
This was to become a monument to the glory of Nicolae Ceausescu, crowning thirty years of absolute power over a nation of over 20 millions.
People were given 72 hours to move out of their houses only to be crammed into concrete brutalist buildings on the outskirts of the city. In the process they abandoned in the street furniture and excess chattels as well as their pets: this accounts for the huge canine population of Bucharest which plagues the city well into the 21st century.
———————-
In a society which went through this trauma and now is subjected to a pre-programmed amnesia it may not be surprising that such memories are relegated to oblivion. There is even evidence of self-denial – making it all look that the ‘epoch’ (sic) of Nicolae Ceausescu was a “happy one” and that the brutalist building we see here being erected at a tremendous human sacrifice (like the pyramids) should become a ‘symbol’ of Romania (like Dracula!) and be considered to be a “monument of architecture”…

What we see before our eyes it is an act of deliberate and wanton cultural genocide – the razing of memory and of Romania’s past.
Historic churches (including the Vacaresti Monastery) were demolished and others were partially destroyed (Antim Monastery the Mihai Voda monastery) or “moved” to a new location (the Mihai Voda monastery church and scores of other churches moved and hidden from view behind brutalist concrete buildings).

Here was the historic downtown made of leafy neighbourhoods with ‘fin de siecle’ architecture of a charm which deserved the name of “Petit Paris” – alas no more – what was once “Little Paris” can be surmised only in the pages of impressions by Patrick Leigh Fermor, Satcheverell Sitwell, Olivia Manning, Marthe Bibesco, Matyla Ghyka or Paul Morand…
A Swiss 21st c visitor calls Bucharest a “Cannibal city” disfigured by billboards and crowded with ugly uninspired glass and steel architecture completely out of character with the city.

——————————————–
Mircea Dinescu: “THE METAPHYSICAL CAT” (“PISICA METAFIZICA”)

Poet’s NOTE:

Once upon a time, when we kept our sharp claws hidden in a velvet paw, an anonymous cat taught the Romanians a splendid lesson of Dignity: during a working visit on the Cathedral Hill in Bucharest, the “Most Beloved Son of the People”, accompanied by Raven, his favoured Labrador dog (Corbul – a present from the British Liberal party leader the Right Honourable the Lord David Steel of Aikwood, n.t.), descended from his official limo in order to admire the bulldozers inflicting a Hiroshima-like destruction to a historical residential neighborhood in downtown Bucharest. In the meantime a lone cat, which just lost its masters, was sitting on a pile of rubble, surveying like an omen the ruined housing estate, apparently defiant of the official visitor who just arrived.
At this point, Colonel Raven – because in those days all dogs belonging to the Comrade had grades, made a run for the ancient goddess, being encouraged to the task by its master. As it happened, just when action was meant to reach its climax, a lightning of claws emerged from the fur ball resulting in a fountain of blood and squeals. Uncle Nick flabbergasted by the shame inflicted on his gun dog, ordered his praetorian guard: “You catch that cat!”
In disdain, the culprit which was guilty of the punishable offense of undermining the national security, made itself scarce under a fallen fence and the lads sweated it out until late at night chasing up the illusory ghost of the cat, through the ossuary of a neighborhood, which only fourtyeight hours earlier was full of life and smelling the scent of lilac trees in bloom.
A few years later as a homage to this feline dissident master I wrote the following poem:

“THE METAPHYSICAL CAT”

(Pisica metafizica)

You catch that cat, shouted the Regent,
For it the Law can’t be so linient,
The foreign cat which does not give a dime
The Balkan cat, illegal and supine
Politically incorrect feline -
The hungry Balkan cat!
The metaphysics cat in search of trysts
Congenitally anti-communist
Consumerist who never tried alone
To strip a salmon fillet off the bone
Who never listened to the BBC
Who never went to Harrods for a spree.
How come that we inherited such cat?
Maybe from sermons of Adam Bhayat?
Or was it from some petty bourgeois gal
As surely not from the Neanderthal?
For Goodness’ sake do something with that cat!
Do kill it with a stroke of cricket bat
The Government will surely not complain
So long as it will not affect its gain
The bad-luck, idle cat and poor achiever
Which purrs and purrs whilst you all slog like beaver
Its languid manner shows its true disdain…
You Celtic ancestors, in overalls,
Do come and rescue us, heed our calls!

(Translated from Romanian by Constantin ROMAN, London SW1, June 2006)

PISICA METAFIZICA
de Mircea DINESCU
(Gandul, II, nr.329, Bucharest, 30 Mai 2006)

Pe vremea cand noi înca aveam ghearele îmbracate în catifea, o pisica anonima a oferit o frumoasa lectie de demnitate poporului român.

Aflat într-o vizita de lucru pe Dealul Mitropoliei, cel mai iubit fiu al poporului, însotit de cîinele favorit pe nume Corbu, s-a dat jos din limuzina sa admire joaca buldozeristilor „de-a bomba de la Hiroshima” din cartierul Uranus.

Pe o gramada de moloz, o pisica ramasa fara stapan veghea ca un duh al caselor demolate, ignorand parca voit alaiul oficial. Colonelul Corbu – caci ai cainii din preajma tovarasului aveau grade – s-a repezit spre zeitatea antica, încurajat de stapan, numai ca, în clipa fatala, un fulger de gheare izbucnit din ghemul îmblanit a transformat botul fiarei într-o fantana arteziana de sange si schelalaituri.

Atunci nea Nicu, îngrozit ca odorul sau a patit o asemenea rusine, a strigat catre garda pretoriana: „Prindeti pisica!”

Infractoarea ce adusese atingere sigurantei nationale s-a furisat însa dispretuitoare pe sub un gard prabusit, iar baietii au transpirat zadarnic, pîna pe înserat, fugarind stafia pisicii prin osuarul unui cartier care cu cateva zile înainte era înca viu si mirosea a liliac înflorit.

Profesoarei de disidenta felina i-am dedicat eu, cativa ani mai tarziu, acest poem omagial:

PISICA METAFIZICA
de Mircea DINESCU

Prindeti pisica!, a strigat regentul,
Pisica ce sfideaza Parlamentul
Pisica hamesita din Balcani,
Ca-i apolitica si ilegala
si fara buletin de Capitala,
Pisica hamesita din Balcani.
Pisica metafizica si trista
Prin nastere cam anticomunista?,
Cu gena dintr-o lume de consum,
N-a dezbracat în viata ei vreun peste
N-a cumparat jurnal în frantuzeste
Si nici gumari din magazinul Gum.
De unde dracu’ am mostenit pisica?
Din neorealismul lui De Sica?
Din mediul mic-burghez?
Din Neanderthal?
Faceti ceva! Dati-i în cap cu steagul
Caci nu va protesta areopagul
Din gaurile lui de cascaval.
Ea cîntareste lumea doar cu ochii
Ea poarta ghinionul precum popii
Ea toarce-n vreme ce voi toti munciti,
Lingoarea ei s-a cam mutat în lucruri,
Extrageti sabia din strung si pluguri
Voi, traci în salopete, si voi, sciti!

Vintila HORIA (1915, Romania-1992, Spain)

Vintila HORIA (1915, Romania – 1992, Spain)

(Poet, Novelist  Diplomat, WWII concentration camp Detainee, Exile, Academic, Winner of the  1960 Goncourt Literary Prize)

Écrivain français d’origine roumaine (Segarcea, Roumanie, 1915 — Madrid, 1992).  Son œuvre en langue roumaine ainsi que ses écrits en français, Journal d’un paysan du Danube (1966) ou Persécutez Boèce (1987), entre autres, sont marqués par le thème de l’exil auquel il a été lui-même confronté durant presque toute sa vie pour son opposition au régime communiste et son anti-soviétisme. Une campagne politique acèrbe menée par les milieux communistes en France, inspirés par les services secrets Roumains le contraignit à refuser en 1960 le prix Goncourt pour son roman Dieu est né en exil.

DEDICATION (Horia Vintila)

Through streets of Babylon I look confused

For Thee my Lord to come in your pursuit

My voice is hoarse and broken like a lute

Which lost its soul for being over used.

For Thee, my Lord, I search in vain the mornings

At crossroads laden with the traffic warnings

My restless body tired without reason

Through hints of winter and of barren season.

You see, my Lord? To cope I do not seem

As you elude me through this tangled maize

Give me a sign to dedicate in praise

My heavy pen, my poem and my dream.

Do steel my voice and make the strings resound

My  forehead with Thy gentle hands surround

To place me on the whiteness of the page

And live again Thy spirit as a sage.

Rendered in English by Constantin ROMAN

(all rights reserved, 2009)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7gLVe1p94k&feature=related

Inchinare   (Horia VINTILA)

Prin targuri, Doamne, sufletul mi-alunec
Si printre oameni in zadar Te caut.
Mi-e glasul rupt si ragusit: un flaut
Cu sufletul rapus de prea mult cantec.

Te-astept in dimineti intunecate,
Prin zgomotul rascrucilor umblate
Si-am obosit de cand Te caut Doamne,
Prin zvon de ierni si prin uscate toamne.

Nu vezi? Sunt singur si prea greu mi-e scrisul
De-a nu Te fi-ntalnit pe nici o cale.
Da-mi semn sa-nchin Minunatiile Tale,
Condeiul greu, poemele si visul.

Fa-mi glasul drept si coardele sonore,
Cuprinde-mi fruntea-n maini de aurore
Si lasa-ma pe albul unei pagini
Sa ma culeg sfios dintre paragini.

NOTE: The English version of this poem is to be found in the forthcoming  Anthology of Romanian Poetry in Translation:

Traducerea in Engleza face parte din Antologia intitulata “Poeme Razlete – Random Poems”, de Constantin ROMAN, editata de “Centre for Romanian Studies (London)”

“Poeme Razlete” – “Random Poems” by Constantin ROMAN, edited by the Centre for Romanian Studies (London)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7gLVe1p94k&feature=related

Melina MERCOURI (1920-1994)

Melina MERCOURI (1920-1994):

AMICI DE DEMULT

Amici de demult, tovarasi de drum
Cu pasii pierduti
Prin ce tari ratacind prin coclauri de scrum
Sunteti toti disparuti?
La ce lupte ne luam
Trup la trup inclestati
Ne credeam neinvinsi, desi fragezi eram
La cei doua’s’ de ani.
Rasul nostru voios rasuna peste tot
Cand pe lume-am venit
Cu nevolnice maini ne strangeam cot la cot
Rascolind din adanc un oras amortit.
Printre voi mai zaresc, doar priviri din trecut
Doar vre-un zambet fugar
Pe o poza de-album dintr-un timp nestiut
Si uitata-n sertar.
Caci la voi ma gandesc, amici de demult
Retraind un parcurs incercat de destin
Cu speranta aprinsa intr-un proaspat tumult
Ca pe-un vesnic taram sa ne reintalnim.
Amici de demult, tovarasi de drum
Cu pasii pierduti
Prin ce tari ratacind prin coclauri de scrum
Sunteti toti disparuti?

(Mes Amis d’hier, cuvinte de C. MESLE pe muzica de S. Xarhakos, pentru Melina Mercouri, 1971)

(Copyright – In Romaneste de Constantin ROMAN, Londra 20 August 2006)

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MES AMIS D’HIER …

Mes amis d’hier, mes compagnons,
Mes amis perdus,
Dans quelle île, quelle ville, dans quelle prison
Où avez-vous disparu ?
Nous prenions la vie au corps à corps
Nous mordions dedans
Nous étions fragiles et pourtant si forts
D’avoir ensemble vingt ans
Nous avions des rires à faire chanter
Les taudis du port
Et de ses révoltes à faire se dresser
Une ville qui s’endort
Aujourd’hui je n’ai de vos sourires
Et de vos regards
Qu’une ou deux photos qui s’en vont jaunir
Dans un livre ou un tiroir
Et pourtant c’est vous mes camarades
Que je vois toujours
Quand l’espoir nous prend dans ses embuscades
Quand nous parlons de retour
Mes amis d’hier, mes compagnons
Mes amis perdus
Dans quelle île, quelle ville, dans quelle prison
Où avez-vous disparu ?

Melina MERCOURI

Paroles: C. Lemesle

Musique: S. Xarhakos

(1971)

‘Queen of the Heights’, ‘Virtutea Aeronauticà’, (Gold Cross), (1897 – 1948) Pioneer aviator, first Romanian woman parachutist (1928), 1931 European parachute champion (6,000m), 1932 World Parachute Champion (7,200m), WWII fighter pilot, underground anti-communist freedom fighter, buried under an assumed name

Biographical Note:

Winner’s Glory:

” My life means nothing if I’m keeping it for myself. I dedicate my life to my country, and I want to live it in glory. I will only come back as a winner.”

(Smaranda Bràescu addressing American lournalists in 1931, in New York, before she beat the World record at parachute jumping, at 7,000 m)

Ethics:

” I brought a record to my country, and I can’t transform the glory into a business. I represent Romania and I must act accordingly.”

(Smaranda Bràescu, declining a lucrative contract for show jumping in America, after she beat the World record for parachute jumping, in 1932)

Extract Bio Note from the Anthology:

“Blouse Roumaine – the Unsung Voices of Romanian Women”:

http://blouseroumaine.com/buy-the-book/index.html

With the advent of WWII, Smaranda Bràescu enrolled with other women pilots in the ‘White Squadron’, active on the Eastern front, where Romania was trying to retrieve from the Soviets the provinces taken by Russia as a result of the Hitler-Stalin Pact. After 1944, Bràescu joined the 13^th squadron, which was fighting the Germans on the Western front, first in Transylvania, then in Hungary (Nyiregyhaza, Miskolc) and Czechoslovakia (Rimaska Sabota, Trencin and Piestany). Although a war hero Smaranda Bràescu soon fell foul of the communist puppet régime which was installed in Romania by Stalin’s armies. She protested to the United Nations about the legality of the 1946 elections and her letter of protest to the Allied Command in Romania fell into the hands of a Russian general. Thereafter Smaranda Bràescu became a pariah and had to join the underground resistance in order to escape imprisonment and certain death. She operated under an assumed name, first from a convent and then as an anti-communist resistance fighter. She died of cancer at the age of 51, and was buried in Cluj, under her assumed name of Maria Popescu, in a grave on which her merits and real identity could not be spelled out. The people who helped her were hounded out and given long prison sentences, including the doctors who looked after her in hospital.

But the wrath of the communist vendetta followed this woman-hero to her grave: twenty two years after “Maria Popescu” died, the tomb of Smaranda Bràescu was desecrated, the bones dispersed and the plot where her grave was located in the Central Cemetery of Cluj was sold to another family in 1970: now the conspiracy of silence was complete.

After the fall of Communism and 42 years after Smaranda Bràescu died, many a town street throughout Romania was named after her and in 1996 the President of Romania signed a decree for the award of the honorary parachutist battalion colours named after Bràescu (‘drapelul de luptâ al Batalionului 498 Parasutisti ‘Smaranda Bràescu’’).

In the summer of 2006, at the initiative of Tudor Sàlàgean, curator of the History Museum of Transylvania, the grave of the fallen hero was finally inscribed on a monument at Cluj Central Cemetery and a street in the city where she died under an assumed name was be named after her.

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Smaranda Braescu (1897-1948)

In Memoriam

Smaranda, unde esti?

Te-ai avantat in zboruri printre nori

Din ceruri coborat-ai ca un fulg

Peste Ocean, cantata indelung

Urale ti-au adus de sarbatori.

N-ai vrut onoruri si nici bani mai multi

Cinstit-ai vrut sa stai printre Romani

Si te-ai intors atunci la noi in munti…

Cu “Escadrila Alba” ai rapus

Dusmani din Rasarit si din Apus.

In ’46 cand s-au masluit

Alegerile suflul ti-au taiat

Ca bunii tai cu jalba in protap

Mai-marilor de-atuncea te-ai jelit

Dar soarta ta fugar-ai fost sa fii.

Din talcul vietii tale ti-a fost dat

Sa nu renunti la lupta nici de cum

Cu fruntea-n sus sa mergi pe-acelasi drum

Cand boala floarea vietii ti-a curmat

Si-n groapa zaci sub nume de-mprumut.

N-au fost nici popi, nici rude, nici parinti

O candela sa-ti  puna pe mormant

Nici vesnici pomeniri, pomeni sau sfinti

Nu s-au aflat s-aline trupul tau

De cine-ai fost sa sufle vre-un cuvant.

Dar pilda ta n-a fost intr-un zadar

Acum ca roata vietii s-a rotit

Si patru zeci de ani trecut-au, chiar

O strada cu-al tau nume in sfarsit

Te va slavi atata cum mai stim.

(Poem by Constantin ROMAN, London, May 2006)

Constantin Roman © 2009. All Rights Reserved

William B Yeats (1865-1939)

Amurgul intra-n Lissadell

Prin geamuri de la miaza zi

Doua papusi cu ochii vii

Recita versuri de rondel.

Dar coasa Toamnei necrutate

Rapune floarea de pe camp;

Cea mare-n temnita zacand

Ani grei – o viata fara parte,

Urzind tot felul si de toate.

Mezinei nu-i cunosc ce gand

Utopic se destrama-n vant,

Caricatura tineretii incercate,

De serbede, desarte idealuri.

Adeseori evoc acel tumult

In mintea lor, de timpuri de demult,

De casa parinteasca dintre dealuri

Imagini frante din acel

Taram sfiintit al tineretii

Doua papusi cu ochii vii

Recita versuri de rondel.

Voi sfinte umbre de efemeride,

Ce lupte serbede v-au incercat

Cu binele sau raul ati luptat

Nevinovate si splendide.

Sa n-aveti alt dusman decat uitarea;

Sa inviati s-aprind o lumanare

Si inca una, poate si mai mare

Incendiul sa incinga aprig zarea,

In vecii vecilor, amin, traind

Noi inaltat-am, Doamne, un palat,

Invinuiti fiind de un pacat;

Dar eu aprind o candela si-o sting.

[Versiune in limba Romana de Constantin ROMAN

( Constantin Roman © 2009. All Rights Reserved)]

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William B Yeats (1865-1939)

William Butler Yeats (by John Singer Sargent)

In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos,both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving Autumn shears
Blossom from the Summer’s wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams-
Some vague Utopia-and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
Pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.

Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.

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“Con Markiewicz” is Constance Georgina Gore-Booth, Countess Markiewicz, (1868-1927), daughter of Arctic explorer  Henry Gore-Booth, ( 1843-1900) 5th Baronet of Lissadell House, Co Sligo. After many years of neglect the house is now a memorial museum. Although coming from a privileged Anglo-Irish landed family of the “ascendancy” Countess Markiewicz was a fierce militant for the Republican cause and a supporter of Sin Fein, activities for which she was tried and condemned to death, a sentence which was commuted to life imprisonment. After the declaration of Independence of the Republic of Ireland Constance Markiewicz served as a Minister for Labour. Her national funeral was attended by over 300,000 mourners.

William B Yeats (1865-1939) was a friend of the Gore-Booth family and a frequent visitor to Lissadell House. He was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival, and along with Lady Gregory and Edward Martyn founded the Abbey Theatre, and served as its chief during its early years. In 1923, he was awarded a Nobel Prize in Literature for what the Nobel Committee described as “inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation;” and he was the first Irishman so honored. His reply to the many of the letters of congratulations sent to him contained the words: “I consider that this honor has come to me less as an individual than as a representative of Irish literature, it is part of Europe’s welcome to the Free State.

He is buried in Co Sligo.