Before I delve into more serious Nichita territory, let me start with this tragicomic poem about a rebellious cat. Not part of his "serious" poetic opus, "The Tomcat's Ballad" is a fun, tongue-in-cheek kind of poem, brilliantly written--and of course, only pallidly translated by yours truly.
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BALADA MOTANULUI de Nichita Stãnescu Motan m-as fi dorit sã fiu cu coada-n sus, cu blana-n dungi, cu gheare si mustete lungi, c-un ochi verzui si-un ochi capriu. La ora când tiris-grapis zapada noptii se aduna eu, cocotat pe-acoperis, sã urlu a pustiu la luna. Si-atuncea, sapte gospodine sã dea cu bolovani în mine si sã mã-njure surd, de Domnul, ca le-am stricat, urlind, tot somnul. De sus, din virful saptaminii, sã le rinjesc urlat, scirbos: iubesc doar locul nu stapinii, precum fac ciinii pentr-un os. Si iarasi sapte gospodine sã dea cu bolovani în mine, iar eu sã urlu, urlu-ntruna atât cât n-o apune luna. Motan m-as fi dorit sã fiu cu coada-n sus, cu blana-n dungi, cu gheare si mustete lungi c-un ochi verzui si-un ochi caprui. Când zorii ziua o deznoada sã mã tot duc, sã mã tot duc si tinicheaua prinsa-n coada s-o zdranganesc pe strazi, nauc. Jegos si obosit, apoi, cu matele în liturghie, sã mã adun, sã mã-ncovoi prin albiturile-n fringhie. Ca-n fata unui sobolan spinarea sã mi-o fac colan sã scuip, sã scuip si-n urma iar hai-hui sã plec pe strazi, hoinar. Pisicile de prin vecini sã le gonesc pe la pricini, sã-mi fete fiecare-un pui c-un ochi verzui si-un ochi caprui. Iar când o fi uitat sã mor la circiuma din mahala sorbita-n calea pumnilor posirca acra viu sã stea. "Hei... viata, viata... iesi din cort hai, pune-mi-te iar pe dant... te uita... zace colo-n sant motanul mort, motanul mort..." |
THE TOMCAT'S BALLAD by Nichita Stãnescu Sometimes I wish I were a cat My tail stuck up, my fur all sheen Claws at the ready for combat One eye is hazel, and one green. When in the middle of the night The crawling snow is gently strewn, Perched on the roof, I think I might Howl loudly at the quiet moon. And then would seven housewives throw Stones aiming at their slumber’s foe, And they would curse, and they would weep-- The howling had disturbed their sleep. Atop my fiefdom, I would groan, And grin obscenely to their face: A mongrel begging for a bone, I’m not; instead, I need my space. Again would seven housewives throw Stones aiming at their slumber’s foe, And I would howl and bay as long The moon is up, where it belong. Sometimes I wish I were a cat My tail stuck up, my fur all sheen Claws at the ready for combat One eye is hazel, and one green. When dawn unfurls the day so pale I’d leave, and travel in a daze, A tin can fastened to my tail I’d rattle down the old streets’ ways. And filthy as I am, and beat, With my gut growling for a meal Among the clotheslines and their sheets, I would coil up without a squeal. As if I saw a gnarly rat My back would arch and I would spit And spit behind, for I’m a cat, And I would roam the streets half-lit. The cats who’re in my neighborhood I’d chase with gusto, so my gene Would travel quickly to their brood: With one eye hazel, and one green. And when it’s time I died, forgotten, Down in a slum bar full of waste, Their sour hooch that tasted rotten Would suddenly acquire taste. “Hey, life, oh life, come out,” they’d stutter, “Come out and dance, get out of bed, “Look over there, down in the gutter, “The tomcat’s dead…the tomcat’s dead…” |
