Four translated poems in Cordite Poetry Review

4 Translated Vasile Baghiu Poems

Translated from Romanian by Cristina Savin

Link to the page in The Cordite Poetry Review

The following four poems have been selected from two volumes of poetry: Rătăcirile Doamnei Bovary [Madame Bovary’s Wanderings] and Cât de departe am mers [How Far We’ve Gone], published in 1996 and 2008 respectively. Vasile Baghiu coined the term ‘chimerism’ – a cross between bovarysme and literature – which he defined as a kind of escapism; the creation of a parallel universe or counter-reality through which to escape the everyday struggles of 1980s Communist Romania. Four elements are intrinsic to the concept of chimerism: ‘imaginary journey’, as a means of evading the socio-political constraints and the cultural provincialism of the time; ‘disease’, as a reality devoid of superficiality and flippancy; ‘transfiguration’, as a way of creating new experiences; and ‘science’, as poetic adventure in a space that has rarely been explored through poetic means. The driving force and key inspiration behind chimerism, as Baghiu himself confessed when I interviewed him in 2017, was Thomas Mann’s bildungsroman The Magic Mountain, along with poems depicting sickness and human suffering, which Baghiu read throughout his teenage years.

Baghiu’s poetry is dominated by a reality-memory dichotomy. Its uniqueness resides in the fusion of imagery, self-discovery, escapism, and a sense of freedom. The verse is crisp, clean and economical, thus making the process of translation similar to cutting, shaping and polishing a diamond. What struck me more than anything was the visual element that dominates most of Baghiu’s poems; after reading volume after volume, I was left with the distinct impression of a painting waiting to be discovered and understood. While sound and rhythm are also present, I felt that the true meaning was hidden in the visual imagery, and as a translator I focused on capturing both the visual elements and the meaning behind them, and on delivering poems that preserve the freshness and authenticity of the originals.

Another key element was the translation of certain Romanian words and names. For example, I pondered over the translation of poezia [poetry] in the poem ‘As it happened’, because I was looking for a way to keep some of the original flavour in the translation. So, I settled for the archaic, poetic English word Poesy, which is closer in sound to the Romanian word and adds an element of musicality to the imagery. Turning a common noun, poezia, into a proper noun, Poesy, was a deliberate choice, as I felt that Poesy itself played a key role in the story.

I applied similar considerations around maintaining authenticity to the translation of foreign names, such as that of Nicolae Bălcescu (including its original spelling with diacritical marks) in the poem ‘Those were tumultuous times’, to give the Australian reader a taste of Romanian culture. I felt there was no need for added explanations or references about Nicolae Bălcescu himself (he was, for the record, an important political and intellectual figure and leader of the 1848 Wallachian revolution) because for me, the message of this particular poem – estrangement, memories and regret – was sufficient to convey its Romanianness.

                                                                           Cristina Savin

As it Happened

Yesterday I had a chance encounter with Poesy
on the rocky shore of Loch Long.
The place was empty and I think
Poesy felt comfortable even though she was neglected,
forgotten, amidst fragments of wood and dead algae.
For a while now I have believed that Poesy
was not just something written on a piece of paper,
but now I had the proof.
I recognised it from a distance,
in the loch’s waves resembling those of the sea,
in the breeze and the seagulls,
in the persistent gale bringing masses of clouds
and floating them away
as in a fast-moving motion picture,
and in other details, not so easy
to depict.
I had the camera with me, and so
I took some pictures,
to impress my friends,
because I knew they wouldn’t believe me.
Later that night, the images I downloaded
were unclear on my computer screen.
I resigned myself wistfully, and today
I am content to write about it, as it happened.
And I am still certain
that yesterday I had a chance encounter with Poesy.

Întâmplare

Ieri m-am întâlnit cu poezia
pe malul plin de pietre al Loch Long.
Locul era pustiu şi cred
că ea se simţea bine aşa cum era, neglijată,
uitată, printre bucăţi de lemn şi alge uscate.
Bănuiam eu chiar mai demult
că poezia nu este ceva scris pe hârtie,
dar acum aveam proba.
Valurile, ca de mare adevărată,
briza marină, pescăruşii,
vântul insistent care aducea grămezi de nori
şi îi purta mai departe,
ca într-un film rulat cu viteză,
şi încă alte amănunte, nu prea uşor
de descris
toate m-au făcut s-o recunosc de la distanţă.
Aveam camera la mine, aşa că
am făcut mai multe poze,
ca să-i impresionez mai târziu pe prieteni,
pentru că ştiam că nu mă vor crede.
Seara, când am downloadat imaginile,
pe monitor nu a apărut nimic clar.
M-am resemnat cu tristeţe, iar astăzi
mă mulţumesc să scriu aici.
Încă sunt absolut sigur
că ieri m-am întâlnit cu poezia.

Those Were Tumultuous Times

Those were tumultuous times but I always came back home in autumn,
when it was cold elsewhere in the world,
in Palermo where Nicolae Bălcescu, stricken by tuberculosis, perished
and an inscription on marble was left on a house to remember him,
in Salonic or in Marseille and even further South, in Alexandria.
With furtive glances, mother put food on the table,
its fragrant vapours overwhelmed me
with memories and regrets.
I dropped the spoon into that broth
and walked out, as tears invaded my entire being,
but she understood the estrangement that vanquished my heart.
A gentle conversation followed, and we were both looking down
over my colourful luggage
that remained unpacked
as I prepared for my next journey.

Era o Vreme Acerbă

Era o vreme acerbă însă reveneam întotdeauna acasă toamna,
când se făcea frig în oricare parte a lumii,
la Palermo unde a murit Nicolae Bălcescu bolnav de ftizie
şi a rămas o placă de marmură pe o casă acolo,
la Salonic sau la Marsilia și incă spre Sud, la Alexandria.
Mama se uita pe furiș la mine așezându-mi mâncare dinainte,
Cu aburi fierbinți, aproape să mă pierd
în amintiri și regrete de-a valma.
Odată am lăsat lingura în acea fiertură
și brusc am ieșit cotropit de plâns,
și ea a înțeles străinătatea care-mi ocupa inima.
Urma o convorbire ușoară, mereu cu privirile în jos
peste bagajele mele colorate
pe care nu le mai desfăceam
trebuind să merg mai departe.

Tourists

Time stood still on Vienna’s Ring Road
watching the tourists rushing
with maps in their hands,
searching for the sign that showed them
how close they are to History.
I watched seagulls
glistening above the channel,
on Untere Donau Strasse,
in late autumn.
It was in that place that I thought about Time
more than I would normally do.
But Time already stopped
in those places,
sitting on a bench, smiling,
laughing in fact at my impetuosity
to take pictures of everything, in every place.

Turişti

Timpul s-a oprit pe “Ring”-ul Vienei
privind turiştii grăbiţi
cu hărţi în mâini,
căutători ai acelui semn care să le arate
că sunt aproape de Istorie.
Am văzut pescăruşii
sclipind deasupra canalului,
pe Untere Donau Strasse,
pe o vreme de toamnă târzie.
Acolo m-am gândit la timp
mai mult decât aş face asta
în condiţii obişnuite.
Dar el se oprise deja
în acele locuri,
zâmbind pe o bancă,
râzând cu adevărat de graba mea
de a fotografia totul peste tot.

Some Would Say that this Is Love

You are now far away, but
I feel you in every fibre of my being.
Some would say that this is love.
The journey from Kilcreggan to Cove
took me a while,
but I endlessly talked to you in my head
and I contemplated the tortuous trees
and the rocky strands in those places.
From a yard, a fat dog
leapt at me,
barked angrily,
then stopped behind the fence
and watched me
as I walked pensively
on the deserted road.
Your presence palpitates within my blood,
as I wander aimlessly on these hills
covered in clumps of reed mace,
where sheep and lamb are grazing placidly,
alongside slabs of wood and bristly plants.
You seem to have a way
to always be a part of me
and of these words I write.
Your presence is more powerful
when you are not with me
even though I cannot embrace you.
Some would say that this is love.

Se Spune ca Asta ar Putea fi Dragoste

Tu eşti departe acum, dar
te simt în fiecare por.
Se spune că asta ar putea fi dragoste.
Drumul de la Kilcreggan până la Cove
mi-a luat ceva timp astăzi,
dar am vorbit mereu cu tine în gând
şi m-am uitat la copacii contorsionaţi
şi la malurile stâncoase din aceste locuri.
Dintr-o curte, un câine gras s-a repezit
înspre mine,
a lătrat furios,
apoi s-a oprit în spatele gardului
şi a început să privească
cum mă îndepărtez gânditor
pe drumul pustiu.
Tu pulsezi în sângele meu,
în timp ce rătăcesc pe aceste dealuri
pline de tufe de papură,
printre care pasc în linişte oi şi miei,
pe lângă gardurile din lespezi şi plante spinoase.
Tu ai un fel al tău de a te infiltra
în tot ce are vreo legătură cu mine,
cum se întâmplă şi în cazul acestor cuvinte.
Tu ştii să fii cu mine
chiar mai bine când nu eşti
decât atunci când pot să te îmbrăţişez.
Se spune că asta ar putea fi dragoste.

Cristina Savin is a freelance translator based in Melbourne, Australia. She is the French-to-English translator of Marie Lion and philosopher Marcel Gauchet. Her translations from Romanian have been published in Cordite Poetry Review, The AALITRA Review and Bordertown. Cristina is an assistant editor at The AALITRA Review and is currently undertaking a PhD in Translation Studies at Monash University.

Vasile Baghiu is the author of seven collections of poems, including The Taste of Alienation, The Manner, The Sanatorium’s Ghost and Depression. He has also published a collection of short stories—Departure Point—and three novels: The Hospice, Plans in Life and Happiness under Limits. He was awarded the Aurel Dumitraşcu Prize and the Prize of the Romanian Union of Writers, and is known for coining the poetic concept of 'chimerism'.