On this day 24 years ago, Nichita Stanescu died. December 13th, 1983. He was just 50 years old.
Nichita taught me what poetry is. I discovered him when I was 12 or so, thanks to an exceptional teacher, to whom I owe much more than I could ever repay her (and than she could ever imagine). Because of her I started reading his poetry, and I can't imagine how much I understood at the time, but I know I understood this much:
This came from another realm. The land of Ur-poetry. If language were a tri-dimensional space for us to move and play within, his poetry was like the fourth dimension of language. It was just as incomprehensibly beautiful, odd, out of this world. And it transformed me forever.
The day before he died, he wrote this poem. I can't find a full version of this anywhere on the net, so I'm just transcribing this from memory--from the memory of my 13-year old self. I am aware that this memory is patchy beyond repair, so before I go back to Romania and retrieve my old Nichita volumes, I'm afraid that's the best I got. So, here goes.
| Sa ninga peste noi cu miei doar astazi, Sa ninga inima din noi. Noi niciodata nu am fost noroi O spun si mieii care ning pe noi. O, dulce, mult prea dulce tu, fecioara, Care mi l-ai facut pe Iezus chiar din flori Ce zici ca ninge mieii peste noi Ce zici ca ninge mieii peste seara Si pe zapada ca noi ningem amandoi. |
Let lambs snow over us today, and only, Let our hearts inside us snow within We never, ever made of dirt have been The lambs say so, who're snowing without sin. Oh, sweet, oh much too sweet you virgin bright Who did make Jesus out of flowers, you Who say the lambs are snowing over us, Who say the lambs are snowing over twilight And over snow that we are snowing, too. |
