National Translation Month: Adina Dabija, Translated by Claudia Serea

Beautybeast by Adina Dabija

Welcome to the National Translation Month! This is a new project initiated by Loren Kleinman, Director of the PCCC Writing Center, who asked me to guest-edit a month-long celebration of translation for the PCCC blog. I hope it will catch on and become a regular feature, much in the same way that National Poetry Month in April has become. During the month of February, I will post essays about the craft of translation and poetry translations from the Romanian, Arabic, Persian, Russian, and Bulgarian, requested specifically for this project from various translator contributors.

To get started, I’d like to share with you a new book by an award-winning Romanian poet, Adina Dabija. The book is titled Beautybeast and was published last fall by NorthShore Press, Alaska. Adina Dabija’s poems have the freshness of a wind gust that steals the unsuspecting reader’s hat. Lighthearted, irreverent, and playful, this self-exploratory collection combines a strong discourse with startlingly original ideas for a dazzling result. One of the most acclaimed poets of the Romanian new generation, Adina Dabija brings new energy to the American literary landscape.

Here is what Andrei Codrescu said about her work: “My disposition and appetite for poetry were immediately aroused by these poems, like a bear’s nose awakened by the scent of honey in August. They are beautiful, fresh, naughty, full of life, and quite intelligent.”

Below are three sample poems with their Romanian counterparts. Check out the book and another poem on the publisher’s site: http://www.northshorepressalaska.com/Dabija.html.

And remember, in February and beyond: read, write, and share your favorite translated poems.

—Claudia Serea

The tramcar 16

Henry Miller’s books are the most important poems

I wrote one night.

Riding the tramcar 16,

Miller’s texts were my pretext.

Because of them, I only lifted my eyes

and the Gypsy’s mouth was the night,

his gold teeth the stars.

That’s when I was the most famous poet.

That’s when I papered the car with lines I forgot

as soon as the tramcar went on.

Now, I’m writing passionate love poems

with the steam of sauce.

They live as long as my lover still has food on his plate.

He just doesn’t know he’s eating poetry.

They say if you don’t write, you could get sick,

but to write is technically impossible,

because the poem simply flows from a piece of cheese

—and who adds a word

is a tablecloth.

That’s why I’m a poet, you see,

because the cheese hole may be a secret exit.

I never wanted readers, but wedding guests,

and for rhyme, dumplings with lemon zest.

I only write to make my lover love me,

and for my mom, to see me on TV, hi mom!

I am really going through some devilish acts,

like combing my hair with my boots—here are the facts:

my mom would sign her name on the hangers

when she lived in the dorm,

but I can’t scribble even a poem.

It’s useless: hundreds of lines I’ve forgotten on the back seat,

what a mess, in a generosity fit.

I made love to my own ideas

as beautiful as cigarettes,

then I forgot them and they were smoked in secret

by the student Andreas.

My poems are on the walls of the tramcar 16.

Forgotten by me, unknown by you, they are real.

One night, a drunk threw up in the last car and saw them.

Tramvaiul 16

Cărţile lui Henry Miller sunt poeziile cele mai importante

pe care le-am scris într-o noapte.

În tramvaiul 16, la ceasuri înaintate

textele lui Miller erau pretextul meu.

din cauza lor era suficient să ridic privirea

şi gura ţiganului era noaptea, iar dinţii de aur stelele.

atunci am fost eu cea mai mare poetă.

atunci am tapetat eu vagonul cu versuri pe care le-am uitat

îndată ce am coborât mai la vale.

Pe aburul de la sos scriu acum versuri pasionale

care trăiesc atâta timp cât iubitul mai are în farfurie.

iubitul nu ştie că mănâncă poezie.

Cică dacă nu scrii te poţi îmbolnăvi,

dar să scrii poezie e tehnic imposibil,

căci ea izvorăşte pur şi simplu din bucata de brânză.

Cine adaugă ceva e o muşama.

de aceea sunt eu poetă,

pentru că gaura din brânză e o ieşire secretă.

nu voi dori însă niciodată cititori, ci nuntaşi.

Şi pentru rimă să-mi aduceţi papanaşi.

dacă totuşi scriu uneori e numai ca să cuceresc un amor

sau ca să mă vadă mama la televizor, salut mamă,

dar cu mine se petrec fapte cu adevărat locuite de draci

cum ar fi că mă pieptăn cu zimţii de la bocanci.

Mama îşi semna umeraşele la internat,

dar eu nu-mi voi scrie poeziile.

e inutil: sute de versuri au fost uitate,

ce dezordine, pe bancheta din spate,

într-un acces de generozitate.

am făcut dragoste cu propriile mele idei,

la fel de frumoase ca ţigările,

şi apoi le-am uitat ca ele să fie pe ascuns fumate

de elevul andrei.

nu aveţi decât să mă credeţi pe cuvânt: sunt poetă.

Poeziile mele sunt pe pereţii tramvaiului 16,

uitate de mine, neştiute de voi, şi totuşi întâmplate,

doar un beţiv

a vomitat în ultimul vagon şi le-a văzut într-o noapte.

Ianus, potbellied and baldheaded

I saw Ianus fucked-up by life.

He’s got a small child, a potbelly and a bald head.

He works as a graphic designer at The Truth.

Ianus, who was laughing at the potbellied, baldheaded men,

cursing and writing poems,

is now a graphic designer at The Truth,

has a respectable air,

drinks beer on the terrace of The Free Press House

and says “When I was young.”

But let’s not be fooled by his appearance:

this, right now, is Ianus’s youth,

not the one before.

This is his true poetry.

He gave up the idea of being Marius Ianus.

He is free now, no longer an imitation of himself.

He finally found a straight way toward failure

that all of us follow.

Failure can only be enlightening.

I was reassured when I saw Ianus again,

happy in the flow of time.

He, who dreamed of revolutions,

lives on. A fly moves lazily along his arm

with which he raises the beer to his mouth.

Ianuş cu burtă şi  chelie

L-am întâlnit pe Ianuş futut de viaţă.

Are copil mic, burtă şi chelie

e tehnoredactor la adevărul.

El, care râdea de burtoşii cu chelie

înjura şi scria poezii,

e acum tehnoredactor la adevărul

are un aer respectabil,

bea bere pe terasă la Casa Presei Libere

şi spune „când eram tânăr”.

Să nu ne lăsăm înşelaţi de aparenţe:

aceasta de acum este tinereţea lui ianuş

şi nu cea dinainte.

Aceasta de acum este adevărata sa poezie.

A renunţat la ideea de marius ianuş.

e liber, nu se mai imită pe sine însuşi.

A găsit în fine calea sinceră spre ratare

pe care o apucăm cu toţii.

Ratarea nu poate fi decât iluminativă.

M-am liniştit când l-am revăzut pe Ianuş

vesel în şuvoiul timpului.

El, care visa revoluţii,

trăieşte, o muscă i se plimbă leneşă pe braţul

cu care duce berea la gură.

My Gypsy skirt

My rambles through the world mix up with my skirts.

My states of aggregation disguised in bleeding colors

—my Rue Saint Catherine green pants,

my red Bucur Obor Market dress,

—they are only stripes in my Gypsy-style skirt

with which I cover the earth.

Through the door of the washing machine,

I watch the colors mixing,

the streets, the smells, the feelings.

I see all the countries, all the men I loved,

and the world is whole again.

This way, I get high with a dollar and fifty cents

and the hot wash for whites

in the laundromat on Morris Park Avenue.

The washer rotates before my eyes

the avenues’ green scarves with the streets’ blue buttons,

my small drug dose, my little New York madness.

My life is not set to Cold/White Load, but to Hot/Mixed Load,

and I don’t care if this stuff really cleans,

for I come here every evening with my laundry bag of clean,

colorful clothes,

hoping to wash them to the final meaning of the thread,

the riot of mixed-up strings,

until the stitches and distances tear apart

and all makes profound sense again

within my Gypsy skirt.

Fusta ţigănească

Odată cu fustele se amestecă preumblările mele prin lume,

stările mele de agregare deghizate în culori care ies la spălat

pantalonii verzi rue Saint-Catherine cu fusta roşie Bucur Obor

nu sunt decât frânturi din fusta mea ţigănească

cu care învelesc globul pământesc

Prin ferestruica maşinii de spălat

privesc cum se amestecă culorile,

străzile, mirosurile, sentimentele,

cum se unesc toate ţările lumii şi toţi bărbaţii pe care i-am iubit

iar lumea e iarăşi una.

Aşa mă îmbăt eu cu un dolar şi cincizeci de cenţi

programul fierbinte pentru rufe albe

de la o spălătorie de pe Morris Park avenue

care îmi învârteşte prin faţa ochilor

bulevardele fulare verzi cu străduţele nasturi albaştri

micul meu drog, mica mea ţicneală de new York

viaţa mea nu e Cold/ White Load ci Hot/Mixed Load

şi chiar că nu-mi pasă dacă chestia asta curăţă

căci eu seară de seară vin aici cu acelaşi sac de rufe curate şi colorate

în speranţa că în final se vor rupe toate până la înţelegerea firului

până la dezmăţul aţelor amestecate

până la ruperea cusăturilor şi distanţelor

pentru ca totul să capete din nou sensul profund

al fustei ţigăneşti.

Adina Dabija

A poet and playwright, Adina Dabija now lives in New York, where she practices oriental medicine. Her first book, poezia-papusa, was awarded the Bucharest Writers’ Association Guild Prize. Her second book, Stare nediferentiata, won the Tomis Award. Beautybeast, translated by Claudia Serea and published by North Shore Press in 2012, is her first collection of poetry appearing in English. 

Claudia Serea

Claudia Serea is a Romanian-born poet whose poems and translations have appeared in 5 a.m., Meridian, Harpur Palate, Word Riot, The Red Wheelbarrow, Green Mountains Review, and many others. A two-time Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she is the author of Angels & Beasts (Phoenicia Publishing, Canada) and The System (Cold Hub Press, New Zealand).