Denisa Duran translated by Florin Bican
Denisa Duran (b. 1980) is a Romanian poet, translator and cultural manager, author of four poetry books: the award-winning debut collection Pufos şi mechanic (Fluffy and Mechanical), Bucharest, 2003, was followed by the bilingual book Omul de unică folosință / Disposable People (translated into English by Florin Bican), published by Galway Print in Ireland (2009) and promoted during a reading tour in Cork, Limerick, Galway and Dublin; in 2012 she published Sunt încă tânără (I Am Still Young) – a selection of which was included in the anthology The Most Beautiful Poems from 2012; in December 2014 her new book came out, Dorm, dar stau cu tine (I Am Asleep, Yet Keep You Company), accompanied by illustrations. She signed her first three collections with her maiden name of Denisa Mirena Pişcu.
Selections of her poems have been included in several national and international anthologies and translated into: English, Czech, Bulgarian, German, Italian, Turkish, Arabic and Finnish.
| Amintirile atârnă în mine Amintirile atârnă în mine grele ca nişte mere verzi cu viermi. Viermi şi sub ţărână, departe, în adânc, au spălat oasele alor mei. Netezesc mormântul Netezesc mormântul, smulg buruienile, trag cu mâinile de pământ, ca de-o pătură, încercând să-i trezesc. Oamenii se adună în jurul lui Tatăl mânca din mâna mea cu greu. Şi a murit. Oamenii se adună în jurul lui grijulii, preocupaţi să nu se molipsească de moarte. Candele Am fost ieri pe la Europa să împrumut o cană de ulei pentru prăjit cartofi (sunem mulţi şi mereu se termină uleiul de parcă l-ar da cineva pe gât). E drept, E. nu ştie şi nici nu e treaba ei, dar o părticică din uleiul pe datorie, încleiat sau lucios, eu îl pun la candelele aprinse pentru morţii mei şi ai săi. | Memories Hang Inside Me Memories hang inside me as heavy as green apples ridden with worms. Worms under the dirt, deep down in the earth, have also washed clean the bones of my people. I Level the Grave I level the grave, I pluck out the weeds, I tug with my hands at the earth as if it were a blanket, attempting to shake them awake. People Gather Around Him The father would eat out of my hand with difficulty. And he died. People gather around him reluctantly worried lest they catch death. The Lamps I Light Up Yesterday I dashed over to Europe to borrow some cooking oil for frying potatoes (there’s too many of us and we keep running out as if someone were guzzling the stuff). Truth be told, E. doesn’t know, nor is it her business, that I pour the tiniest portion of the oil on loan, be it rancid or fresh, into the lamps I light up for my dead and for hers. |