Blackbird ArchiveThen Suddenly, in the Little Bar of Your Body, I Overturn the Table
They laugh. And in their mockery slap their buttocks.
Gather and bad-mouth each other in turn.
And using the jugular of the innocent as a straw, they sip their ponds of alcohol.
Their women have spread everywhere like traps.
Their most beautiful women dwell in the nose cones of bombs.
Their little faces are painted. They meow in silky tones.
Their fingers are starving.
You follow them down gravel steps.
And find yourself in the womb of brightly lit rooms.
Drawing rooms stuffed—like turkeys—with music paintings good literature.
Rooms that seem to be sprawling with one leg crossed over the other.
Thus seated,
They chatter, they ask you in jest,
“Well, my boy, where is your God now?”
“Is your God here?” asks the redhead whom you accosted
After a show at the Bulandra Theatre
And who now presses your hand against one of her breasts.
“No. He isn’t.”
“Maybe he’s just shy? Has your God hidden right here too?”
“No. My God’s not around.”
“Of course he is. I can feel him. I’m sure that your God
Also has an assignation with you here in the little bar of my body. . .”
“Be off with you then!” Suddenly
In the little bar of her heart
I overturn the table.
I half sit up and leave the bed.
As I always do from the beds of these women we’re constantly talking about.
Then at once,
My shoulders tower high above the pavement of Vlăhița Street.
At several crucial junctures, I’ve been exhumed
From graves where I’d begun to decompose.
I’ve forgotten simple lessons about emotion
From these dangerous encounters.
I’ve been lured once again.
Kept with my head underwater in a basin.
The bellies of those holes that held me
Were squeezed hard—as you do with frogs—in order to set me free.
How can they ask where my God is?
For years on end I went around with two molehills on my shoulders,
Like a pair of falcons.
I go to the city rarely.
I go to the city very rarely.
Only when,
Steadfast, I need to walk the narrow path
Among the shops with windows wrenched loose.
Against their metal corners
Cave bears and huge carnivorous beasts sharpen their teeth.
I’m immediately recognized and surrounded by natives
Who smirk. And in their mockery slap their buttocks.
I wander through town among all those who’ve become bored with
My trying to raise up my life.
This time
They merely strike my shoulders.
They thrust their shovels deep into the ground
And fling mountains of earth that tumble over me.
They smirk. And handle their tools with derision
as if helping me breathe with extra-large fans.
They urge,
“Tell us again, madman,
Where is your God?”
Daniel Bănulescu is the author of five books of poetry, În Șerpărie ( In the Serpents’ Den , Tracus Arte, 2013), Ce bine e să fii Daniel Bănulescu ( It’s Good to Be Daniel Bănulescu , Cartea Românească, 2010), Republica Federală Daniel Bănulescu ( The Federal Republic of Daniel Bănulescu , Vinea, 2000), Balada lui Daniel Bănulescu ( The Ballad of Daniel Bănulescu , Cartea Românească, 1997), and Te voi iubi pân la sfârșitul patului ( I’ll Love You to the End of the Bed , Cartea Românească, 1993). His novels include Cei șapte regi ai orașului București ( The Seven Kings of the City of Bucharest , Nemira, 1998), Cel mai bun roman al tuturor timpurilor ( The Best Novel of All Time , Cartea Românească, 2008), and Te pup în fund, Conducător Iubit! ( I Kiss Your Ass, Adored Leader! , Nemira, 1994). His first play, Cine a câștigat Războiul Mondial al Religiilor? ( Who Won the World War of Religions? , Cartea Românească, 2011) was translated into English by Alistair Ian Blyth and published by the University of Plymouth Press in 2010.
Adam J. Sorkin is a translator of contemporary Romanian poetry. His most recent publications include four 2014 books: A Sharp Double-Edged Luxury Object (Červená Barva Press) by Rodica Draghincescu (translated with Antuza Genescu); Gold and Ivy/Aur și iederă (Romania: Editura Eikon) by George Vulturescu (with Olimpia Iacob); and two from Diálogos Books, The Starry Womb by Mihail Gălățanu (with Petru Iamandi and the poet) and The Book of Anger by Marta Petreu (with Christina Zarifopol-Illias and Liviu Bleoca). Sorkin’s translation, with Lidia Vianu, of Marin Sorescu’s The Bridge (Bloodaxe Books, 2004) won the Corneliu M. Popescu Prize for European Poetry Translation. He has been the recipient of several awards for translation including theinaugural Ioan Flora Poetry Festival Prize for Translation (2011). Photo by Nancy Sorkin
Lidia Vianu is the author of several works of literary criticism, including The Desperado Age: British Literature at the Start of the Third Millennium (Bucharest University Press, 2004), Alan Brownjohn and the Desperado Age (Bucharest University Press, 2003), and British Literary Desperadoes at the Turn of the Millennium (Bucharest: ALL Educational, 1999). She is the author of two books of interviews: Censorship in Romania (Central European University Press, 1998) and Desperado Essay-Interviews (Bucharest University Press, 2006), along with translations, a novel, and three poetry collections. She translated Marin Sorescu’s poetry collection The Bridge (Bloodaxe Books, 2004) with Adam J. Sorkin, which won the 2005 Corneliu M. Popescu Prize for European Poetry Translation. Vianu has been a Fulbright lecturer at the University of California, Berkeley (1997–1998), and at the State University of New York at Binghamton (1991–1992). Vianu is a professor of Contemporary British Literature at the University of Bucharest, where she serves as director of the Centre for the Translation and Interpretation of the Contemporary Text. Photo by Nancy Sorkin