there is



Frica. Te impinge din mai multe parti deodata, fara sa stii. E acolo, ca intr-un colt al camerei, obiectuala si totusi fara sa fie vazuta. Sistemul de roti. De cind te nasti, faci impresie.

Impresionezi, impregnezi ce?

Omul palid, plapind, transparent. El nu impregneaza.

Copacii au o usoara influenta asupra celorlalti copaci din jur. Impreuna creeaza o retea mai stabila decit in izolare. E o tacuta coapartenenta.

Gindul ca peste un timp – nedefinit – ce vezi pe fereastra va disparea sau va fi reconfigurat. Cind se taie un copac sau un pilc, se impune o imagine, se propune altora. Omul a inlocuit.

Dispunerea ferestrei mele e si ea un construct. Ceea ce vad are un inceput, a mai fost vazut exact asa acum douazeci de ani, si de atunci incoace. Aleile din fatza ferestrei formeaza un X; un chiasm finit. X-ul sta pe o linie, ca pe un caiet. Inutil sa ma intreb ce semne sintem pentru o privire de sus. Noi privim in fata, daca privim.

Oameni, ciini. Veverite, pasari, pisici. Eu si ciinele. Biciclete, trotinete, ghiozdane, tipete. Rar.

Vintul. Mugurii de la fereastra, aproape ca bat in geam. Dezvoltarea lor lenta inspre o imprimavarare iminenta, timpul vorbind printre crengi, un fel de infasurare-desfasurare, un fel de semn care nu mai inseamna nimic.

Ce sa insemne un semn? O prezenta, raspund. Ce e o prezenta?, intreb. Un raspuns posibil, care sa impinga mai departe altceva decit timpul. Deci timpul e ceva aleator impins sau cel care impinge aleator?

In lipsa obstacolelor intrebatoare, in lipsa celor care sa dea din miini.

Timp, mina, voluta, explicatie, ton, desfasurare, dialog, asteptare. Un fel de a spune ca te intrebi existind. Un fel de a te adresa intr-o limba comuna, desi de nedefinit. A lasa loc celuilalt, a fi diferit si respectuos:  a lasa locul, la limita.


Gasesc pe net (o fereastra din alta fereastra din alta fereastra):

The Good Life

by Mark Strand

You stand at the window.

There is a glass cloud in the shape of a heart. There are the wind’s sighs that are like caves in your speech.
You are the ghost in the tree outside.

The street is quiet.

The weather, like tomorrow, like your life,

is partially here, partially up in the air.

There is nothing that you can do.

The good life gives no warning.

It weathers the climates of despair

and appears, on foot, unrecognized, offering nothing,

and you are there.


Nu stiu ce inseamna „There is nothing you can do”. Si nici vederea unor batrini intr-un film in care ei se dezbraca, in intimitatea lor batrina. Unele lucruri nu trebuie rostite, unele imagini nu trebuie vazute. There is nothing you can do – unde? There is nothing you can do – in ce vorbire? Da, the good life poate sa nu iti dea nici un warning. Dar sub warning traim acum, zi de zi. Si pielea noastra o stie, invata asa cum toti batrinii pamintului au invatat-o cindva. As vrea o mingiiere batrina pe o mina batrina. As vrea sa stiu ca singele a alergat inauntru, dar n-a spus: there is nothing you can do. E de datoria singelui sa se opreasca. E de datoria mea sa gindesc ca viata nu e despre ce se colporteaza de obicei. Si ce o sa faci in pamint? – Voi trai mort mai departe, intr-un warning.

Voi incerca sa vorbesc prin peisaj.



Attila József

Welcome for Thomas Mann

Like a tired child who’s been bathed and fed
and has now reached his peaceful bed
still begs “Don’t go. Tell a story”
(so the dark night won’t burst in a hurry),
and while his little heart anxiously beats
he knows not which of two treats
he wants more, the story or that you stay,
so we ask you to tell us a story today.
Tell us like you do, because you are just,
about how in spirit you are joined with us
and of how together with you we stand
who possess concerns worthy of man.
You know well how the poet feels:
tell what’s true, not just what’s real,
the rays of light that illuminate our mind,
since without each other we’re all blind.
As Hans Castorp looked through Madame Chauchat’s chest,
let’s look through each other and see the best.
Your gentle voice always rises above the clatter—
tell us of beauty and the problems that matter
and lift our hearts from mourning to desire.
As you’ve heard, poor Kosztolany’s life has expired,
and mankind, as did he with his cancerous fate,
struggles with more than one monstrous state;
with dread we wonder how we might be betrayed,
from where will new beastly ideas invade,
is there a poison brewing that soon we will face—
for readings like this, will there still be a place?
The point is, when you speak, we don’t fade,
the men remain as men are made,
the women, women, kind and free,
and all of us human, though that’s dwindling rapidly . . .
Have a seat. Kindly start to tell your tale.
We will listen, enthralled, all without fail,
and some of us will happily gaze at the sight
of a European amongst the white.




In my eyes grief dissolves;
I ran like a deer;
Tree-gnawing wolves
In my heart followed near.

I left my antlers
A long time ago;
Broken from my temples,
They swing on a bough.

Such I was myself:
A deer I used to be.
I shall be a wolf:
That is what troubles me.

A fine wolf I’m becoming.
Struck by magic, while
All my pack-wolves are foaming,
I stop, and try to smile.

I prick up my ears
As a roe gives her call;
Try to sleep; on my shoulders
Dark mulberry leaves fall.

Translated by Vernon Watkins