Ana Blandiana, aka Otilia Valeria Coman (Blandiana is the village where his parents came from), is a poet and essayist contemporary Romania. He was born in the city of Timisoara March 25, 1942. She graduated in Romance Philology at the Faculty of Philology of the University of Cluj (1963 - 1967). His debut was in 1964 with the poetry collection First Person Plural, to be followed: The heel vulnerable (1966) The third sacrament (1969), October, November , December (1972) sleep in sleep (1977), The eye of the cricket (1981), Stella of prey (1985), The architecture of the waves (1990), Last sun (2000) , reflux meanings (2004). The Blandiana has always been a fervent supporter of civil rights in Romania under the Ceausescu dictatorship. Before the 1989 revolution, had the courage to challenge the dictator in numerous interviews and public statements. For this reason, in the last two years of the Ceausescu government, the work of Ana Blandiana was essentially banned in Romania and his books were removed from all libraries in the country.
Over the years, the poet was a guest of universities, colleges, cultural organizations across Europe, participating in conferences and festivals throughout the poem. His poems, as well as other writings (essays, short stories, novels), have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the UK, USA, Italy, Spain, France, Belgium, Germany, Austria, Netherlands, Finland, Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, Rep . Czech, Brazil, Cuba, Turkey, Syria, Greece, China, Japan, Israel, Albania.
After 1989, his translations, and literary essays, have become articles of political analysis on the major newspapers, especially those in Germany, and many were the calls for public lectures, seminars, symposia and round tables in the main European countries.
The Poetics of Blandiana
That is a poem that grows steadily over time, slowly, almost with a certain aristocratic detachment, because, as the author writes in his essay The poetry, silence and sin, "I am a poet, I can not afford to become a writer of verse." A paradox that reveals the character of this secluded and melancholic poetry that can listen to the voices of nature and then bring them back in the verses in a voice clean, simple and essential. Poetry that does not try to surprise or delight, there is no anxiety to show skill, technical ability, originality, form, or a totally new thought or disconcerting. Hence the idea of \u200b\u200bpoetry is the perception of reality (of death and life) that comes from deep and quiet reflection, a subtle glow which highlights the shadows, details, the grain of the bark of trees, the colors of things, light, and "others", or of those around us or, by contrast, the black solitude. The beauty of the poetic world of Blandiana, lies in the gestures, the sudden detachment, and - especially - in the look that captures and not torn, but not refined in the dark reflection, that goes by, probe into the abyss, in the land in search more tenacious roots or secret, shadows of clouds that send messages incomprehensible and never neglects the yellowed piece of grass or stepped on, the heart of a walnut, and the eyes of the trees. A poem that is able to see the surface, the silence, but without getting lost in abstractions or lost in the deep or the deep search (and find) into the surface, in the visible.
The Poetics of Blandiana
That is a poem that grows steadily over time, slowly, almost with a certain aristocratic detachment, because, as the author writes in his essay The poetry, silence and sin, "I am a poet, I can not afford to become a writer of verse." A paradox that reveals the character of this secluded and melancholic poetry that can listen to the voices of nature and then bring them back in the verses in a voice clean, simple and essential. Poetry that does not try to surprise or delight, there is no anxiety to show skill, technical ability, originality, form, or a totally new thought or disconcerting. Hence the idea of \u200b\u200bpoetry is the perception of reality (of death and life) that comes from deep and quiet reflection, a subtle glow which highlights the shadows, details, the grain of the bark of trees, the colors of things, light, and "others", or of those around us or, by contrast, the black solitude. The beauty of the poetic world of Blandiana, lies in the gestures, the sudden detachment, and - especially - in the look that captures and not torn, but not refined in the dark reflection, that goes by, probe into the abyss, in the land in search more tenacious roots or secret, shadows of clouds that send messages incomprehensible and never neglects the yellowed piece of grass or stepped on, the heart of a walnut, and the eyes of the trees. A poem that is able to see the surface, the silence, but without getting lost in abstractions or lost in the deep or the deep search (and find) into the surface, in the visible.
poem by the anthology Once the trees have eyes (2004, Donzelli)
Frabotta Translated by Bianca and Bruno Mazzoni (ed. e)
I KNOW THE PURITY
I know, the purity fruit, children are not born of virgins
,
is the supreme law of impurity
the tax on life.
Blue butterfly caterpillars produce, fruits
produce flowers all around, the snow is
family,
the warm earth is infected.
Pristine ether asleep
atmosphere teeming with microbes,
can not be born if you do not, but if there
the grave awaits you.
is spoken in a happy mind,
pronounced, the ear defamation,
on the scales which weigh
- silent dream or fame?
between silence and guilt
what to choose - herds or lotus?
Oh, the drama of dying white
or death to win anyway ...
(from The vulnerable heel, 1966)
SHOULD
We should be born old,
already endowed with intellect,
able to choose our fate on earth,
paths which start from the intersection of '
origin and irresponsible is just the desire to go forward.
Then, going, rejuvenate, rejuvenate increasingly mature and strong
reach the door of the building, cross it and love coming
adolescent boys
be the birth of our children.
would be older than us anyway, we
taught to speak, we'll be rocking to fall asleep,
disappear and we increasingly becoming smaller,
as a grape, a pea, like a grain of wheat ...
(from The vulnerable heel, 1966)
LINKS
Everything is myself.
Give me a leaf that does not look like me, help me to find an animal
not groan with my voice. Where the
roamed the earth splits open and the dead who
my countenance
see them embraced in other dead procreate.
Why so many ties with the world,
many ancestors and descendants forced
and all this nonsense look alike?
M'incalza the world with my one thousand
faces and I can not defend myself if not raging against me.
(from The Third Sacrament, 1969)
OLD, hermits
aged hermits in the woods,
the wolf's skin was stuck to the body, the hair
sews eyes, the stage
their ears and beard make us the hive bees.
not remember why they came here
and have long since lost the word
they had to shout to the world.
From time to time, in the form of an eagle descends
a sign of the will of Heaven, but the old men play
put flowers in the feathers of the bird
and angered the Lord does not include
who have forgotten what hatred.
(from The Third Sacrament, 1969)
EARTH WHICH WILL COME
speak on the earth from which we come.
I come this summer, is a country
fragile that any leaf
falling, can annihilate,
but the sky is so heavy that sometimes weighs
of stars to the ground and if you approach
feel the grass tickle
the stars smiling, and the flowers are so many
you complain
orbits burned by the sun, and just round
hang from every tree;
from where I'm not missing that death,
and such is the happiness that almost
you fall asleep.
(October, November, December, 1972)
TREES WERE BOTH EYES
Once the trees have eyes, I swear
,
know for sure that I saw when I was a tree,
I remember wondering at the strange
hemi wings of birds darting in front, but if the birds suspected
my eyes, this
no longer remember.
vain now I am the eyes of the trees.
Maybe I do not see why
tree no longer, or perhaps
slipped
long roots in the earth, or perhaps
,
Who knows, had seemed to me only
and trees are always blind ...
So why when I approach
I feel that I follow with the eyes,
in a way that I know, because
when
rustle and ogle with their thousand eyes,
I want to scream -
What have you seen? ...
(October, November, December, 1972)
ARE LIKE A HORSE'S EYE
'm like a horse's eye
sheltered from the world. Do not ask me when I
you
such as trees and flowers as I met
. I see only the
path and occasionally
cloud shadows
send me messages that do not understand.
(October, November, December, 1972)
BACK IN THE VILLAGE WHERE
In the village where cuckoo clocks back
crumble
time and large parts of silence
lie scattered in the dust of path.
The hands are moving solicitous, insisting
to indicate something unwatchable.
The hours have fallen by much,
hands relentlessly chase
and disoriented, occasionally,
the cuckoo appears and announces the end of the world, singing.
(from Sleep in sleep, 1977)
EPITAPH
stayed here
smell of paper written by a penalty
barely comprehensible,
too frail god of the temple called
childhood -
sacrifices and whole quarters of sins.
Stay here, buried in
rhymes that you can not hear more
, reluctantly
holy but holy bishops in whole sloth
between angels and ruthless.
sleep here in peace and dreaming
apotheosis
not know how many Job
for prisons and fire
patiently passed to a paradise of sugar
tuber.
Sleep Here,
già traversed twice, the sod is
lieve you the written word.
(from Eye of the Cricket, 1981)
hide and seek And then, the churches they start sliding on the asphalt
as ships loaded with horror, the tower is
'
mast and sails in the wind
that always changes direction
so that, if you go down the street
distracted
any time can put you in a church
crazy,
eager to hide.
(from The architecture of the waves, 1990)
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