- Poets
- Mihai Eminescu
- Epigones [Epigonii]
When I watch the golden ages of the dear Romanian writings
I am sinking in an ocean of sweet dreams and pleasant tidings
And around me seem to wander lovely springs that give me shivers
Or I see the nights are stretching above me dark starry seas,
And bright days, and young green spinneys, nightingales, which sing in trees,
Fountains of the thorough thinking, tuneful songs flowing like rivers.
I see poets who wrote nicely, in a language sweet as honey:
Cichindeal, the golden-mouthed one, Mumulean, a bit uncanny,
Prale, with capricious temper, and Daniil, short and sad,
Văcărescu greatly praising human love in early spring,
Cantemir planning his actions with the daggers, like a king,
Beldiman, who used to herald all the wars wicked and bad.
And Sihleanu, silver lyre, Donici, nest of education,
Who, as only rarely happens, did engage in meditation
The long ears or the big antlers, which a roebuck is displaying
Where are now his placid wise ox and his fox with cunning mind?
They have left with all their treasures and they never looked behind,
Like did Pann, Pepelea's godson, who was clever as a saying.
Eliade, built from visions and old stories, with their glitter,
From the Holy Bible's wisdom, from predictions bleak and bitter,
All the truths concealed by legends, by the Sphynx and its tradition;
Mount with rocky head, which always in the storm remains resolved,
Representing for the people an enigma still unsolved,
Watching from beyond the black clouds of the foolish superstition.
Bolliac portrayed the bondsman, how in brazen chains he crawled;
To the country's large black banners, Cârlova his army called,
Casting spells over the shadows of the past to bring them here;
And like Byron, beaten harshly by the wild winds without scope,
Quenches now Alexandrescu the flame of the holy hope
And eternity unravels from the ruins of a year.
On a bed with snow white linen, like a shroud, a swan is lying,
A pale maiden with long lashes and mild voice, who's slowly dying –
Her life was a steady springtime, but her death is something wrong;
And her handsome and young poet looks at her amazed and fears,
From his lyre flows some music, from his eyes hot bitter tears
Thus began Bolintineanu his pathetic lovely song.
With his voice a little rusty, Mureşan shakes off his shackles
Breaks the copper strings in anger, with stiff hands removes the hackles,
Calls the stone to come to life now, like a poet who makes rhyme,
Plucks the sorrow of the mountains and reveals the fate of trees,
Feeling rich in destitution sets like stars on the blue seas,
Priest of our harsh rebellion, prophet of the signs of time.
And Negruzzi wipes the thick dust off the old forgotten records,
As beneath, on fusty pages, lie the great Romanian brave lords,
Written by the ancient wise hand of the laymen so astounding;
Dips the quill for the depiction of the long forgotten days,
Paints again the gloomy pictures, showing all the wicked ways
And the harsh deeds of the rulers who were pitiless and cunning.
And that king of rhyme and poems, always young and full of passion,
Who plays readily the leaf flute and the pipe, with much compassion,
Who narrates so many stories – frolicsome Alecsandri,
Stringing precious pearls for future on a star's pale shining ray,
Now pervades the time and ages, a marvel as bright as day,
Laughing through the tears when singing the sad fortune of Dridri.
Or when dreaming a sweet shadow with wings silvery and shiny,
Having eyes like mystic stories, innocent, profound and tiny,
Smiling like a pretty maiden, speaking mildly, with precision,
He then places on her forehead a tiara of stars bright
On a golden throne he sits her, to rule over worlds that fight
And because he loves her greatly, he will write: “The poet's vision”.
Or remembers the sad doina of the hero from the highlands,
Dreams about the deep dark waters and about the grizzle islands,
Dreams about the groves and thickets covering the rounded hill,
He awakens in our bosom the strong yearning and desire
For our homeland, for the icons, for the history entire
And for our mighty Stephen, royal bison, somber, still.
…......................................................................................
And we? Epigones pathetic...without feelings, broken harps,
Short-lived figures full of passions, old and ugly empty hearts,
Laughing masks, fixed with great caution on a nature mean, naive;
Our God is just a shadow, our country just a phrase
Everything in us is shallow, all is luster without base;
You believed in your own writings, we have nothing to believe!
That is why your words were holy and your writings were so smart,
For they came out of your thinking, for they came out of your heart,
Stately souls, still young and lively, even though you're very old,
Turns the wheel of time abruptly, you're the people of tomorrow,
While we are the past, disheartened, comfortless and full of sorrow;
Always empty on the inside, for the world is mean and cold!
You, engrossed in holy thinking, seek ideals in your days;
We patch up the sky with dim stars, smear the sea with our waves,
For our sky is gray and frigid – our sea is frozen, dead,
But you always follow quickly your exquisite cogitation,
And on sacred wings you're searching for a glowing destination,
Following the stars in heaven, always going straight ahead!
With its golden lamp, the wisdom, pale, but everything refining,
With its royal smile and kindness, like a star that's always shining,
Lights your path of life, which surely will be covered by red roses.
Your soul is a charming angel, your heart a harmonious lyre,
While the wind, with its warm breathing, peaceful music will inspire;
And in this deceptive wide world your eye palaces discloses.
And we? Lack the look attentive and the vivid sublime dreams,
Our feelings are deceptive, our paintings are just schemes,
Watch this world with cold detachment – you are visionaries though,
Life is only a convention; what's true now becomes a lie;
You have fought in vain and hunted what is evil for the eye,
And you've dreamed of golden ages in this world of tears and woe.
“Round and round the wheel is turning, life and death are always fleeting”,
In this world so ephemeral there's no purpose, there's no meaning;
People make symbols and icons of all trifles in their head;
They call holy, good and lovely what is really without worth,
On a pile of various systems split their thinking from the birth
And with images and pictures dress a body empty, dead.
What is sacred cogitation? Just a skillful combination
Of some things which are not real; a sad book, a speculation,
Which confuses all the readers who in it put all their trust,
What is poetry? An angel with pale face and clear deep eyes
An exquisite game with icons, trembling voices, gentle sighs,
Purple robe and gold adornments covering the heavy dust.
You are visionary natures, but I say to you good bye,
You snatched songs from the rough billows, made the stars above to fly,
And renewed the muddy wide world, which was making such a fuss;
But we think we're only fine dust and know everything will die
Dumb and genius, small and famous, sound and soul and the blue sky –
All is dust...The world entire...and the same dust is in us.
Added by: Octavian
Translator: Octavian Cocoş
Language: English
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Gérard de Nerval
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Giorgios Seferis
Giosuè Carducci
Giuseppe Ungaretti
Guillaume Apollinaire
Gunnar Ekelof
Gunter Grass
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Hafez
Heinrich Heine
Henry Wadsworth Longfillow
Henry Wadsworth Longfillow
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Jenny Joseph
Jidi Majia
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Joan Maragall
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John Berryman
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Jorge Luis Borges
Jorge Teillier
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José Emilio Pacheco
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José Martí
José Saramago
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Louise Gluck
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Màrius Torres
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Maxim Gorki
Menelaos Ludemis
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Miguel Perez Ferrero
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Murilo Mendes
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Rafael Obligado
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Saadi
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Sándor Márai
Sandor Petofi
Sappho
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Seamus Heaney
Serghei Esenin
Silva Kaputikyan
Sir Muhammad Iqbal
Sohrab Sepehri
Stephane Mallarme
Stephen Crane
Sylvia Plath
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Tadeusz Różewicz
Tahsin Saraç
Taras Șevcenko
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Ted Hughes
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Tomas Tranströmer
Tóth Árpád
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Vera Pavlova
Vicente Aleixandre
Victor Hugo
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Vladimir Maiakovski
Vladimir Nabokov
Voltaire
Vörösmarty Mihály
W. H. Auden
Walt Whitman
Walther von der Vogelweide
Wang Wei
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William Wordsworth
Wislawa Szymborska
Yahya Benekay
Yuri Kageyama
Majoritatea oamenilor au câte 12 perechi de coaste. Unii oameni au câte 13 perechi de coaste.
1936 -S-a născut Marin Sorescu, poet, dramaturg şi eseist, ministru al Culturii (1995), membru al Academiei Române (Premiul mondial de poezie "Fernando Riello", Madrid, 1983; Premiul Herder pentru întreaga operă, 1991) (m.06.12.1996).
1970 -Are loc, la Bucureşti, adunarea generală de constituire a Academiei de Ştiinţe Sociale şi Politice (19-20.02.1970).
”Poezia sa, în cea mai mare parte, deşi construită în note grave
Cuvinte mari, abia atingându-se..., valery
Cultivare, cultură și împărtășire!
Zidul de Mărgean, narcispurice
Scrierile poetului conțin informații atât despre motivele și
Trilogia HISTORIARUM, nicu hăloiu
Cartea poate fi achiziționată de pe site: libris.ro
Pelerin pe Calea Luminii - 101 sonete creștine, maria.filipoiu
Vă mulțumesc din suflet domnule Andrei Stomff, pentru minunata carte
Zidul de Mărgean, Emilian Lican
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