Mole Memory Gardens

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ISBN: 978-606-8366-12-8

John MoleDaniela Clinescu: Romanian version, Interview,John Moles Poems of Light

Mary Mole: Illustration on the cover VIC (Cristina Ioana Vianu): Photographs

Editing, proofreading: Ligia-Doina ConstantinescuTechnical editing: Lidia Vianu

IT Expertise: Cristina PetrescuPublicity: Ruxandra CmpeanuLogo: Manuela Stancu

These poems have appeared before in: Counting the Chimes: New & Selected Poems, 1975-2003 (Peterloo, 2004); The Other Day(Peterloo, 2007); The Point of Loss (Enitharmon, 2011). Acknowledgements are due for their republication.


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John Mole: The Memory of Gardens. Amintirea grdinilor.

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John MoleThe Memory of Gardens

Amintirea grdinilorParallel Texts

Romanian translation by Daniela Clinescu


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Table of Contents

John Mole: The Memory of Gardens Amintirea grdinilor, in English and in Romanian. p. 4

Love/Iubirea. p. 5The Mountain/ Muntele. p. 6Wings /Aripi. p. 7To his love, sleeping/Iubirii sale, dormind. p. 8Happiness/ Fericire. p. 10The memory of gardens/Amintirea grdinilor. 12The settlement/Aezarea. p. 13Serenade/Serenad. p. 15The loss/Pierderea. p. 16The quilt/Cuvertura. p. 17

Con amore/Con amore. p. 18La jeunesse/La jeunesse. p. 20This moment/Cndva. p. 22Not too late/Nu-i prea trziu. p. 24After rain/Dup ploaie. p. 25Berries/Fructe de pdure. p. 27Remission/Remisie. p. 28A dream of bed-time/Vis. p. 29Not snow/Nu zpad. p. 30

Daniela Clinescu: Interview with John Mole, in English and in Romanian. p. 31Dana Clinescu: John Moles Poems of Light. p. 56


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John MoleThe Memory of Gardens

Amintirea grdinilorParallel Texts

Romanian translation by Daniela Clinescu


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LOVE

This is a word intact. The centuryHas smuggled it into our keeping.

We have built it a shelter

Amongst ashes, marked with a cross.

How it survived its passport

Baffles us. We ask no

Questions. We suffer its hurt look.

It deserves peace.

Gently between our joined hands

It pulses, becomes the light

Of our gaze across a landscape

At the cold dust endlessly rising.

IUBIREA

Acesta-i un cuvnt intact. Timpulni l-a aruncat ntru pstrare.

Din cenu l-am pus la adpost,

i-am nsemnat locul cu o cruce.

Cum de-a supravieuit acestei treceri,

Mare minune! De ntrebat,

Nu ntrebm. l suferim aa rnit cum e.

I-a venit vremea s se odihneasc.

Plpnd, ntre-ale noastre mini mpreunate

Pulseaz, devine lumina

Pe care privirea noastr o-arunc peste privelite,

Peste pleava rece ce se ridic la nesfr

it.


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THE MOUNTAIN

Pure thought, a drift

Of exemplary silenceCovered his tracks.

He was lost there,

Held between the summit

And his shadow, waiting. . .

Then, as a plumed light

Brushed across his face

Without reflection

Teach me, he said,

The origin of air

And the mountain opened its wings.

MUNTELE

Gnd pur, o avalan

De tcere exemplarI-a acoperit paii.

Acolo sus, pierdut,

intuit ntre pisc

i-a lui umbr, n ateptare

Apoi, o lumin naripat

i terse chipul

Fr a se lmuri

nva-m, spuse el,

Despre originea aerului,

Iar muntele i deschise aripile.


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WINGS

Whether or not they are of angels

Or just the makeshift would-be

Of human flight from humdrum

To grace, theirs is a sudden restlessness

On buoyant shoulders, an uplift

Aimed at joy and making it.

So for every earthbound thought

Theres the counter-weight,

A grief that covers its face in shame

Then rises with the season

As if from sleep, unfolding wings

To journey through the brightness of the air.

ARIPI

C-or fi sau nu de ngeriSau doar paliative-nchipuite

Ale zborului omului din banal

ntru graie, al lor e un zbucium neateptat

n umeri avntai, nlare

ntru bucurie i facerea ei.

Iar pentru fiece gnd mirean

O greutate li se-adaug,

O suferin al crei chip de ruine i l-a acoperit

Ca apoi s-i vin vremea a se ridica

Ca dintr-un somn, deschiznd aripi

ntru cltorire n plin strlucire a vzduhului.


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TO HIS LOVE, SLEEPING

(Jules Supervielle: La Dormeuse)

Because when faces close

They still converse

In questions and answers

Beneath their repose,

And because you are two

With the one face

Doubly wiseAnd just as true

When, sleeping, your eyes

So sweetly abscond

To a country beyond

Their lids as they fall

Or when they return

To the world we call

Ours with its clouds, trees,

IUBIRII SALE, DORMIND

(Jules Supervielle: La Dormeuse)

Pentru c atunci cnd chipurile nchin

nc mai au ceva a spune

Prin ntrebri i rspunsuri

De dincolo de ale lor odihn,

i pentru c tu eti de fapt dou

Cu acest chip

Dou dimensiuniLa fel de autentice

Cnd, n somn, ochii ti

Se sustrag domol

Ctre un trm de dincolo de

Ale lor pleoape lsndu-se

Sau cnd se ntorc

n lumea creia-i spunem

A noastr, cu ai ei nori, arbori,


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HAPPINESS

Dont tell me again that it writes white

As if there were nothing else to say about it,

As if white were nothing to write home about

Or that home was never a fit subject.

Yesterday we pegged sheets on the line

And they were beautiful when we took them in,

A cool bright acreage of summer eveningAs we sank our faces in their folding.

FERICIRE

S nu-mi spui iar c fericirea las coala alb

Ca i cum despre ea nimic n-ar fi de scris,

Ca i cum n-ai putea scrie celor de-acas despre ceva alb

Sau c cei de-acas n-ar fi niciodat un subiect prea bun.

Ieri am ntins cearafuri la uscat

i tare plcute-au fost cnd le-am adus n cas,

O-ntindere luminoas, rcoritoare de sear de varFeele afundndu-ni-le n ele -mpturite.


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It pleases me to remind you of this

However commonplace its whiteness,

And of the bedroom shutters brilliant white

So intimately closed against the heat.

White is the promise of a subject matter

Where sleep or love will never have gone better.

Plcut mi este a-i aduce aminte de-acestea,

Orict de comun ar fi a lor albea,

i de albul briliant al jaluzelelor din dormitor

Att de intim trase peste zpueala de-afar,

Albul este promisiunea unui subiect bun

n care somn i iubire nicicnd nu s-au potrivit mai bine.


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THE MEMORY OF GARDENS

Glazed pots after a stormAnd waters underhang

On black wrought-iron arm-rests

Threaded with convolvulus,

The window-frames

Reciprocally white, their

Lucent-beaded latticing

A jewelled absence, yours

And mine, two faces

Pressed against the years

Between us looking out

Then in to where we lay together

Listening to rain, unclouded

By the memory of gardens

We were born to leave.

AMINTIREA GRDINILOR

Ghivece smluite dup furtuni picturi de ap atrnnde

De mnere negre de fier forjat

ncolcite de rochia rndunicii,

Ramele ferestrelor

Reciproc albe, descriu

Pnz, numai broboane translucide,

O absen de giuvaeruri plin, a ta

i a mea, dou chipuri

Alturate n lupta cu anii

Dintre noi, privind nafar

Apoi nuntru nspre locul unde mpreun stm

Ascultnd ploaia, nseninai

De amintirea grdinilor

n care ne-am nscut pentru a le prsi.


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THE SETTLEMENT

Steam from an electric kettle

Shrouds its click, then

Two cerulean mugs across the lawn

This droughty summer

Come as a libation

Weighted, brimming, answering

The love that reaches

Out for them, still reaching

For the girl who held them

Balanced just the same

Though in a greener garden

Twenty years ago, held now

Against their soon becoming

Shards discovered in a dry bed

AEZAREA

Aburi dintr-un ceainic electric

nvluie al lui declic, apoi,

Dou ceti, ca ceru-albastre, peste cuprins,

Aceast var torid,

Vin ca o srbtoare,

Generoase, pline ochi, n rspuns

Iubirii ce-i ntinde brae

S le ia, nc ntinznd brae

Dup acea tnr care le inuse

n echilibru, exact la fel,

Dei ntr-o grdin mai verde,

Acum douzeci de ani, inute-acum

Peste-n curnd oale i ulcele

Descoperite ntr-un pat vechi


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Dusted over.

Shrouded too

But by blue dazzle, light years

From such thoughts as these,Imperious, perching

On a terra-cotta chimney

Rising from gold thatch,

A gull there briefly

Lifts its Roman head.

Prfuit.

nvluit

Dar de-un farmec de-azur, ani lumin

Deprtare de gnduri ca acestea,Arogant, cocoat

Pe-un horn de teracot,

Semeindu-se din stuful auriu,

Un pescru, scurt, iat,

Salt al lui profil roman.


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SERENADE

Let be the laughter in the hanging gardensAnd the dial ablaze, the green man

Flourishing his sleeves and up to mischief,

Where the cat extends and rolls its silver fur

Across a sun-spot, where all points of light

Play leap-frog dazzle in a water-bowl

And everything is animation, interlace,

The best of being here, a setting-down

On lease from shade and shadow, out

Into the primal space, the freely-given

With the cost not counted, where the two of us

Lie down together, laughing, and let be.

SERENAD

S rdem n voie n grdini suspendateCadranul scnteiaz, ugubul cel verde

i suflec mneci i se pregtete de trsni,

Acolo unde ma se-ntinde i-i nfoaie blan argintie

ntr-un petec de lumin, unde toate scnteiele din soare

Te orbesc sltnd ntr-un vas cu ap

i totu-i animaie, mpletire,

Tot ce-i mai bun din a te-afla aici, un asfinit

Fr de umbr i penumbr, dincolo

Pe un trm primordial, cel druit,

Fr de pre numit, unde-amndoi

Stm ntini unul lng altul, rznd, n voia a toate cele.


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THE LOSS

All winter something tightened its grip

Which was not exactly cold or lonelinessBut an icicle cry, a bright ring of distress,

A muffled sounding with pain at the tip.

It was not exactly what they had decided

Either between them or by individual choice

Left undiscussed. It was not a distinct voice

But a last-chance line which would not go dead.

Often they woke together in the early hours

To shift to back-to-back then sleep again,

Never to give the accident its name

Because the night was over and the loss was theirs.

PIERDEREA

Toat iarna ceva i-a nsprit strnsoarea

Care n-a fost chiar rceal ori singurtateCi un strigt glacial, un cerc incandescent de neputin

Un zgomot nfundat ornat cu suferin.

N-a fost cum tocmai hotrr

Ei ntre ei ori fiecare-n parte

i nu mai discutar. Nu era o voce distinct

Ci o replic ultima lor ans ce nu vroia s piar.

Adesea se trezesc mpreun-n zori de zi

Ca s se ntoarc spate-n spate i s mai doarm iar,

Nicicnd spunnd accidentului pe nume

Pentru c noaptea era pe duc, iar pierderea a lor.


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THE QUILT

It was not a crack in her glassBut a web so finely spun

The light was caught in it.

It was not a hole in his heart

But her needle and thread

Slipped easily through.

It was not the love they made

But a patchwork pattern

Little by little stitched up.

It was not what they gave each other

But the last thing taken

From an emptied room.

CUVERTURA

Nu era o crptur n paharul eiCi o pnz att de meteugit esut

De s-a prins lumina-n ea.

Nu era o gaur n inima lui

Ci ale ei a i ac

Ce cu uurin s-au mplntat.

Nu era dragostea ce-au cunoscut

Ci modelul fcut din petice

Bucat cu bucat nsilate.

Nu era ceva ce unul altuia i-au druit

Ci ultimul lucru luat

Dintr-o camer golit.


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CON AMORE

She practises the clarinet,Her back turned to a spacious window.

No sound reaches the garden.

Music, on a stalk of silence,

Waves behind glass.

She turns her own pages.

Phrase by phrase

The theme is movement only

As the flowers all know

Inclined towards her.

Love must blossom on its stalk

CON AMORE

Exerseaz la clarinet,

ntoars, cu spatele la o fereastr larg.

Nici un sunet nu ajunge n grdin.

Muzica, pe o tulpin a tcerii,

Unduiete dincolo de sticl.

i ntoarce singur paginile.

Fraz cu fraz

Compoziia este doar micare

Aa cum o tiu i florile toate

nclinate spre ea.

Iubirea o fi-nflorind pe-a ei tulpin

nainte ca ea s-o-aud,


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Before she hears it,

And the pages turn

Like a white rose opening.

Iar paginile se-ntorc

Asemenea unei roze albe deschizndu-se.


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LA JEUNESSE

Straight from her doorThrough rows of vines towards

The river, one white bucket

Swinging for Sunday, the air

Fleshed out with heat

So plump this risen morning

Purpling to ripeness

But not yet, but not quite

Yet among these sunflowers

Leaning their weary faces

Huge and vacant

After her, so stooped

So nodding, and the one

Note tolling distantly

Across the river Mort

La mort comme a aussi la mort

LA JEUNESSE

Direct de la ua eiPrintre rndurile de vie nspre

Ru, o gleat alb

Cltinnd de duminic, aerul

Vizibil de dogoare,

Att de bogat aceast diminea ce s-a ivit,

Rumenit de copt,

Dar parc nc nu, nc nu preaTotui printre aste flori ale soarelui

Cobornd fee istovite

Imense i pierdute

Dup ea, att de aplecate

Tot ncuviinnd, iar cea

Not rsunnd n deprtare

Dincolo de ruMort

La mort comme a aussi la mort


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THIS MOMENT

There was this moment

At a height in Perugia

With the stone wall

Balancing my bottled water

While I placed one hand

To rest, palm-down,

And felt a warmth so sudden

That I lay my arm along it

To the elbow in a fusion

Of well-being, gazing out

Across the roof-tiles

Heated terra-cottaTo the mountain range

CNDVA

Se-ntmpl cndva

n Perugia, undeva la-nlime

Pe un zid de piatr

Ce-n echilibru inea sticla mea de ap

Cnd mi-am aezat o mn,

Cu palma-n jos, s m-odihnesc,

i-am simit de-odat o cldur

De-am aezat tot braul de-a lungul lui

Pn la cot, ptruns

De-o stare de bine, privind n zare

Peste-acoperiurile din plci

De-ncins teracotPn spre lanul muntos


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Which wrapped its arm

Around my vision,

As a campanile in the middle-

Distance soundedWith an incidental note

And everything was,

For this moment, whole.

Al crui brami mbri privirea,

n vreme ce-o clopotni

La jumtatea distanei rsun,

Glas al contingentului,i totul era,

n acel cndva, desvrit.


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NOT TOO LATE

I tell myself I have neverTold myself this before

And the gate swings open

On rusted hinges. Look,

Theres a party here

In a walled garden

With lanterns, flambeaux,

And the counterpoint

Of unfamiliar conversation.

My god, its been going on

All the time

And just next door.

Now I want more of this

I tell myself,

Just more of it, and more.

NU-I PREA TRZIU

mi spun c niciodatNu mi-am mai spus una ca asta pn acum

Iar poarta se deschide

Scrind din balamale. Uite,

E o petrecere pe-aici

ntr-o grdin ntre ziduri

Cu felinare, tore-aprinse,

n contrapunct cu

Stranii conversaii.

Dumnezeule, aici au fost

Dintotdeauna

i chiar alturi.

Acum mai vreau,

mi spus,

Mai mult, mai mult.


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AFTER RAIN

Walking around the block

to shrug off wearinessand notice perhaps

how a letterbox shines

or gutters drip,

how the fishbone skeleton

of an aerial swims

in a black cloudand a doorstep cat

DUP PLOAIE

Plimbndu-m prin cartier

s mai scap de-urti poate s observ

cum strlucesc cutiile potale

sau streinile picur,

cum scheletul ca de pete

al unei antene-noat

ntr-un nor negruiar o m-n prag


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has resumed its watch,

is to come back

into language, the promiseof finding words

for company

and what the sun can do.

i-a reluat pnda

e prilej a-mi regsi

limbajul, e promisiuneac voi afla cuvinte

s-mi in companie

i de ce anume e soarele n stare.


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BERRIES

Thrusting my stained hand

through a web of dew

at sunrise, keeping the promise

made last night

to bring them back for you,

I think of your fingers

on my lips last thing

before we fell asleep

and how I slipped from bed

like a thief this morning.

FRUCTE DE PDURE

Vrndu-mi mna ptat

printr-o pnz de rou

la rsrit, pstrndu-mi promisiunea

fcut seara trecut

s i le-aduc,

m gndesc la degetele tale

pe buzele mele asear

nainte s-adormim

i cum m-am strecurat afar din pat

asemeni unui ho, dis-de-diminea.


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REMISSION

To live in anothers painso close, and celebrating

every second of relief,

is to hope that something

miraculous may happen,

that intimacys thief

will not break through again.

Just to remember the thrill

of entering our first home

together, not on lease

but in full possession,

when you turned with that smile

which lit up your face

for a long, long while.

REMISIE

S trie

ti cu durerea altuiaatt de-aproape, srbtorind

fiecare secund de uurare,

nseamn s speri c ceva

miraculos s-ar putea-ntmpla,

c houl de intimitate

n-are s scape iar.

Numai s ne-amintim ncntarea

la intrarea n prima noastr cas

mpreun, nu nchiriat,

ci pe deplin luat,

cnd te-ai ntors cu-acel zmbet

ce-i lumin chipul

pentru mult, mult vreme.


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A DREAM OF BED-TIME

Often theyd stand beside the yarrow

In their yard, the clustering flat-toppedBunch of it, the yearning yellow

Taller than them both, much taller

Than her son whod clutch at a single stem

And bend it, face to face. Hed watch her

Watching him, that sidelong glanceAt each of them, that dressing-gown

An ever brighter yellow, but not innocence

Or childlike candour, more a complicity

Which sometimes let the stem bend back and sometimes

Snapped the head off, asking Do you really love me?

VIS

Alturi de flori de sorocic stteau ades

n curtea lor, plrii turtite n mnunchi crescnd,Galben mcinat de dor

Mai nalt dect ei doi, mult mai nalt

Dect al ei fiu, ce apuca doar de un fir

i-l ndoia, fa n fa. i o privea

Cum l privea, acea privire lung pe furiCtre fiecare din ei, acea rochie

Un galben i mai arztor, dar nu inocen

Sau candoare de copil, mai degrab o complicitate

Care uneori lsa firul s revin, iar alteori

i smulgea capul ntrebnd Chiar m iubeti?


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NOT SNOW

Not snow, but the thought of it

As a white breast feather

Or the first few steps

Across a promised land.

The shadow of happiness

Printed on muslin,

A nightgown foldedAnd sheets hung out.

Not snow, but a winter garden

Blazoned with light,

Curtains drawn back

From the drift of sleep.

NU ZPAD

Nu zpad, doar gndul la ea

n chip de pan alb de pe pntec

Sau primii civa pai

Pe un trm fgduit.

Umbra fericirii

Impregnat pe o muselin

O cma de noapte-mpturiti cearafuri ntinse-afar.

Nu zpad, doar o grdin iarna

nobilat cu lumin,

Draperii trase-n lturi

Din deriva somnului.


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Daniela Clinescu

Interview with John Mole

Daniela Mihaela Calinescu (D.M.C.): Some of your words seem

meant for the reader, to surprise or shock him/her; some other words

seem put aside for you to heal or find delight in the written word;

there are instances when you seem to grab with passion a sublime

instance and make it immortal through words. Are there instances

Daniela Mihaela Clinescu (DMC): Parte din cuvintele

domniei voastre par menite pentru cititor, s-l surprind sau s-l

ocheze; altele par s fie puse deoparte pentru tmduire personal

sau pentru ns

i plcerea de a scrie; sunt momente cnd lsaiimpresia c nfcai cu pasiune o clip de sublim i o imortalizai


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when you write exclusively for you?

John Mole (J.M.): These are very interesting distinctions you

make between the deliberate and the accidental. For me,

writing poems is nearly always a journey of discovery. I like

that statement of Theodore Roethkes in his villanelle The

Waking: I learn by going where I have to go; and Ive always felt

that I understand exactly what Picasso meant when he said I

do not seek, I find. As a predominantly lyric poet, I tend to trust

the musical phrase to reveal its meaning to me, and a poemgrows from this trust until it finds its shape. Of course, there

are occasions when Im conscious of wanting to make a point

or develop an argument thought out before I begin to write,

but this is usually when Im addressing a political theme or

taking a satirical approach. There might then be an element of

wanting to surprise or shock the reader. The poems in The

Memory of Gardens, though, dont fall into this category. As to

whether I ever write exclusively for myself, thats a difficult

prin cuvinte. Exist monente cnd scriei exclusiv pentru

dumneavoastr?

John Mole (JM): Interesante sunt distinciile pe care le faci

ntre deliberat i accidental. Pentru mine, a scrie poezie este

mai tot timpul o aventur a descoperirii. mi place afirma ia

lui Theodore Roethke din vilanela The Waking: nv

hazardndu-m ncotro am de mers; iar eu am simit

dintotdeauna c neleg cu exactitate ceea ce avea n vedere

Picasso cnd spunea, Eu nu caut, eu gsesc. Fiind

predominant un poet liric, nclin s am ncredere c frazamuzical i reveleaz nelesul fa de mine, i un poem

crete din aceast ncredere pn cnd ajunge s ia o form.

Desigur, sunt i situaii n care sunt contient c vreau s

spun un anume lucru sau s dezvolt un argument elaborat

nainte s ncep s scriu, dar acest lucru de obicei se ntmpl

atunci cnd abordez un subiect de natur politic sau apelez

la satir. Prin urmare, se prea poate s vreau s surprind sau

s ochez cititorul. Poemele din Memoria Grdinilor, ns, nu


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question to answer. Certainly I am absorbed as I write, and in

that sense Im thinking entirely about the making of the poem

and not how it is likely to be received, but if by the time it has

been completed, it does not include the reader then, for me, itwill probably have failed.

D.M.C.: In the poem Continuum you write:

[...] PoemsAre the living counterweightTo absence, gestures

As precious and uniqueAs those my loved onesHave already made through me

In parting, finding wordsFor this, the moment

When almost at loss for them

They gaze at her beauty

intr n aceast categorie. n ceea ce privete ntrebarea dac

scriu vreodat exclusiv pentru mine nsumi, este o ntrebare

grea. Cu siguran sunt absorbit cnd scriu, i n acest sens

m gndesc exclusiv cum s scriu poemul

i nu cum ar puteafi primit, ns dac pn n clipa cnd ajung s-l definitivez,

nu l include pe cititor, atunci, pentru mine, va fi fost probabil

un eec.

DMC: n poemul Continuum scriei:

[...] PoemsAre the living counterweightTo absence, gestures

As precious and uniqueAs those my loved onesHave already made through me

In parting, finding wordsFor this, the moment

When almost at loss for them

They gaze at her beauty


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with my eyes and answer itAs I do, hoping we speak the truth.

Is writing poetry a craft that you embrace for the nobility of

it or do you see it as your innate talent to which you feel indebted?Moreover, do you also write to honor your disciples?

J.M.: Im not at all sure about nobility and disciples. These

are rather elevated terms. I do, however, regard poetry as a

calling. Where the call came from initially I cant exactly say,

although it almost certainly stems from an early love of

rhymes, riddles, childrens games, all of them rooted in

rhythm and the play of language. I think it was Patrick

Kavanagh who said that he dabbled in verse and it became his

life. For me, there came a point at which when I considered

what I was doing, it seemed inevitable, and that, rather

wonderfully, I had no choice in the matter. This introduced

responsibilities, above all to work at the craft, to learn my

trade. As for feelingindebted', yes. If I have a gift, Im giving

with my eyes and answer itAs I do, hoping we speak the truth.

A scrie poezie este un meteug pe care-l cultivai pentru nobleea

sa, sau este un talent nnscut cruia v simii dator s-l folosii?n plus, scriei i pentru a v onora discipolii?

J.M.: Despre noblee i discipoli nu sunt tocmai sigur.

Acetia sunt mai degrab termeni pretenioi. ns ntr-

adevr privesc poezia ca pe o chemare. De unde o fi pornit

iniial aceast chemare n-ati s spun, dei mai mult ca sigur

izvorte dintr-o mai veche dragoste pentru rime, ghicitori,

jocuri pentru copii, toate acestea ancorate n ritm i jocul de

cuvinte. Cred c Patrick Kavanagh a fost cel ce spunea c a

nceput prin a cocheta cu versul, pentru ca apoi acesta s

devin viaa lui. Pentru mine, a venit o clip cnd, reflectnd

la ceea ce fceam, chemarea de a scrie prea inevitabil, i de-

a dreptul minunat; nu aveam scpare. Acest lucru a atras iresponsabiliti, n primul rnd s-mi cultiv meteugul, s


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thanks for it every time a poem comes out right.

D.M.C: You are using much of an allegro tempo when playing with

words (riddles, poems for children, rhymed recipes) and you rather

ponder on heavy subjects as if you allowed word to embrace the

silence of a deep thought, to give time for the image to earn shape.

Is this something you plan ahead or is it rather intuitive?

J.M.: I think Ive already addressed this. In the poems that

mean most to me I have, I hope, given time for the image to

earn shape, as you put it. Patience is of the essence, though

there are also those lucky occasions when a thought or

perception comes immediately and lights up the whole poem;

when, as Robert Graves says, lightning interpenetrates the

dance. Because not everyone will know it, and because I know

of no better description of poetic composition as I have

nvmeserie. Ct despre a m simi dator, da. Dac am un

dar, i mulumesc ori de cte ori un poem iese aa cum

trebuie.

DMC: Folosii mai degrab un tempo allegro cnd v jucai cu

cuvintele (n ghicitori, n poeziile pentru copii, n reetele culinare

rimate) i mai degrab cumpnii asupra subiectelorgrele ca i cum

i-ai permite cuvntului s mbrieze tcerea unui gnd profund,

astfel nct imaginea s aib timp s ia form. Acest lucru vi-l

planificai aprioric sau este un fapt intuitiv?

JM: Cred c am atins deja acest subiect. n poemele cele mai

importante pentru mine, am oferit, sper, rgaz imaginii s ia

form, dup cum spui. Rbdarea este a esenei, dei exist i

situaii norocoase cnd un gnd sau o percepie mi apare

spontan i lumineaz ntreg poemul; cnd, cum spune Robert

Graves, trsnetul strfulger dansul - lightning interpenetrates

the dance. Pentru c nu toat lumea s-ar putea s-o cunoasc, i

pentru c nu am tiin de o mai bun descriere a compoziiei


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experienced it, let me quote Gravess Dance of Words:

To make them move, you should start from lightningAnd not forecast the rhythm: rely on chanceOr so-called chance for its bright emergenceOnce lightning interpenetrates the dance.

Grant them their own traditional steps and posturesBut see they dance it out again and againUntil only lightning is left to puzzle overThe choreography plain, and the theme plain.

D.M.C.: Three lines are very, very dear to me Teach me, he said, /The origin of air/ And the mountain opened its wings. (The

Mountain). I have already told you that you remind me of ourgreat

poet and philosopher Lucian Blaga; I would see the mountain as a

symbol for stability, strength, precious heritage, spirituality,

monastic dwelling, wisdom, depth of thought and maybe many other

values; what surprises me is your associating the origin of air with

it. Do you mean that we originate from and feed on the abovementioned, or maybe there is something else you meant?

poetice aa cum am experimentat-o eu, d-mi voie s citez

din poemul Dance of Words al lui Graves:

To make them move, you should start from lightningAnd not forecast the rhythm: rely on chanceOr so-called chance for its bright emergenceOnce lightning interpenetrates the dance.

Grant them their own traditional steps and posturesBut see they dance it out again and againUntil only lightning is left to puzzle overThe choreography plain, and the theme plain.

DMC: Trei versuri mi sunt foarte foarte dragi: Teach me, hesaid,/The origin of air/ And the mountain opened its wings.(The

Mountain). V-am spus deja c-mi aducei aminte de celebrul

nostru poet i filosof (romn), Lucian Blaga; a vedea muntele drept

simbol pentru stabilitate, trie, motenire de pre, spiritualitate,

sla monastic, nelepciune, profunzimea gndirii i poate multe

alte valori; ceea ce m surprinde este asocierea muntelui cu the

origin of air. Vrei s spunei c suntem produsul celor mai susenumerate i c ne hrnim cu acestea, ori poate ai vrut s spunei


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J.M.: Because these lines are dear to you, and Im so pleased

that they are, I would rather not risk flattening them beneath

analysis or explication. Let them remain a mystery to both of

us. Besides, I get a little suspicious of symbols. Now I look

back at them, yes, those lines are surprising, and I seem to

remember that they surprised me at the time, so much so that

I knew the poem had come out right!

D.M.C.:A surprising perspective on music I found in Con Amore:

She practices the clarinet,Her back turned to a spacious window.



Waves behind glass.

altceva?

J.M.: Pentru c aceste versuri i sunt dragi, i sunt att de

ncntat de acest lucru, parc n-a risca s le stric farmecul

printr-o analiz sau o explicaie. S le lsm s rmn un

mister pentru amndoi. n plus, sunt cam rezervat cnd vine

vorba de simboluri. Acum c m uit din nou peste ele, da,

acele versuri sunt surprinztoare, i pare-mi-se c i pe mine

m-au surprins atunci, att ct s-mi dau seama c poemul a

ieit aa cum trebuie!

D.M.C.: n Con Amore, am gsit o perspectiv surprinztoare

asupra muzicii:

She practices the clarinet,Her back turned to a spacious window.



Waves behind glass.


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Phrase by phraseThe theme is movement only

As the flowers all knowInclined towards her.

Love must blossom on its stalkBefore she hears it

And the pages turnLike a white rose opening.

You clearly lock the sound behind a shut window and as a

result the visual exacerbates. The scene earns tremendously, there's

so much physical interpretation of music in the absence of music

itself. (And now I am addressing the musician in you). You have

mentioned that improvisation would be one thing that your poetry

writing and music performing have in common. Now, when John

Mole, the jazz clarinetist, improvises, does he use the visual? Is there

a sequence of images going through your mind that you force into


Phrase by phraseThe theme is movement only

As the flowers all knowInclined towards her.

Love must blossom on its stalkBefore she hear it

And the pages turnLike a white rose opening.

n mod evident, nchidei sunetul dincolo de o fereastr

(nchis), astfel c vizualul este exacerbat. Scena se mboge te

extraordinar; gsim o att de ampl interpretare a muzicii n

absena muzicii nsei. (Iar acum m adresez muzicianului din

dumneavoastr). Ai menionat undeva c poezia pe care o scriei i

muzica pe care o interpretai ar avea drept element comun

improvizaia. Ei bine, cnd John Mole, clarinetistul de jazz,

improvizeaz, folosete el vizualul? Exist o succesiune de imagini

n mintea dumneavostr pe care le transformai sau poate le invitai


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becoming, or maybe invite to becoming music?

J.M.: This question interests me a lot, and makes me look

again closely at the poem. One thing I notice and it may

surprise you that I didnt notice it before (at least not

consciously!) is that the music . . . waves behind glass' . At the

time, Im sure that this was a visual image, the stalk of

silence being the figure of the girl whose playing I could not

hear, but the word waves (also as I see now) suggests sound

waves, so we have a synthesis of the visual and the auditory.

The music, though absent (as you note) is, at the same time,present in the image. Although the sound does not reach the

garden, it nevertheless informs the poem, which in itself, I

hope, becomes a musical performance. As to whether a

sequence of images goes through my mind when Im

improvising, no, I dont think they do. When playing jazz, its

usually with other musicians in a kind of conversation,

exchanging phrases, listening to how they pick up on mine

and answering theirs. I do find it fascinating how visual artists

s devin muzic?

J.M.:Aceast ntrebare m intereseaz foarte mult, i m face

s m uit din nou cu atenie la poezie. Ceea ce remarc -- i s-

ar putea s te surprind c nu am observat pn acum (cel

puin nu n mod contient!)este acel vers the music waves

behind glass/ muzica valuri dincolo de sticl. Atunci, sunt

sigur c aceasta a fost o imagine vizual, stalk of

silence/tulpin a tcerii fiind silueta fetei a crei interpretare

la clarinet nu o auzeam, dar cuvntul waves/valuri

sugerereaz unde sonore; prin urmare avem o sintez ntrevizual i auditiv. Muzica, dei absent (dup cum observi

tu) este n acelai timp prezent n imagine. Dei sunetul nu

ajunge pn n grdin, el totui insufl poemul, care devine

el nsui, sper, o interpretare muzical. Ct despre faptul c o

succesiune de imagini mi-ar trece prin minte cnd

improvizez la clarinet, nu, nu cred c se ntmpl aa. Cnd

interpretez muzic de jazz, o fac deobicei mpreun cu ali

muzicieni sub forma unui fel de conversaie, dialognd prin


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respond to music. Jackson Pollock, I believe, painted while

listening to jazz, and this can be seen, rhythmically, in his

canvases. In Walt Disneys Fantasia,theres a sequence where

the screen is filled with moving patterns, while an orchestral

version of Bachs Toccata and Fugue plays on the soundtrack.

But when Im writing, although I often find myself visualising

a scene, a location, a kind of sacred place what the painter

Paul Nash called a charged landscape which somehow

energises my thinking/feeling, Im not aware of any narrative

sequence.

D.M.C.: You have already written to me about your search for the

spiritual/mystic in the immanent. Do you think that words have the

power to mystify the demystified or do they rather have the power to

bring to surface the mystic of the hidden mystified? How do you see

fraze muzicale, ascultnd cum ei rspund la ale mele i

rspunzndu-le i eu. Chiar mi pare fascinant cum artiti

vizuali reacioneaz fa de muzic. Jackson Pollock, cred,

picta n timp ce asculta muzic de jazz, iar acest lucru se

poate vedea, din punctul de vedere al ritmicitii, n pnzele

sale. n Fantasia, producie Walt Disney, exist un fragment n

care ecranul este umplut cu modele n micare, n timp ce

coloana sonor interpreteaz o versiune orchestral la Toccata

i la Fuga lui Bach. Eu, cnd scriu, dei m gsesc adesea

vizualiznd o scen, o locaie, vreun fel de loc sacruceea

ce pictorul Paul Nash numea un peisaj cu ncrcturemoional(a charged landscape) care ntr-un fel mi

energizeaz gndirea/simirea, nu sunt ns contient de

vreo succesiune narativ.

D.M.C.: Mi-ai scris deja c v preocup cutarea

spiritualului/misticului n imanent. Credei c au cuvintele puterea

de a mistifica demistificatul sau au mai degrab puterea de a aduce

la suprafa misticul din mistificatul ascuns? Cum v vedei


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your words--as knowledge seekers or knowledge carriers - ?

J.M.: Much of what I write is domestic in its subject matter,

and this sometimes lays me open to the charge of being

unadventurous and limited. But I like to take the familiar and,

as it were, de-familiarise it. Which may be why I am

particularly fond of riddles. Often when Im giving talks

about poetry to children, I begin with this riddle by my friend

Kit Wright:

I go through the wood in silenceAnd come out onto the snowWhere I leave my printsThough I have no footsteps,Where I speak your heartThough I cannot breathe.

propriile cuvinte asemeni unor cuttori de cunoatere sau de

purttori de cunoatere ?

J.M.: Mare parte din ceea ce scriu eu vizeaz domesticul ca

tematic, motiv pentru care uneori sunt expus acuzei de a fi

prea prudent i limitat. ns mi place s iau familiarul i, de

fapt, s-l de-familiarizez. Motiv pentru care i sunt un mare

amator de ghicitori. Adesea, cnd le vorbesc copiilor despre

poezie, ncep cu aceast ghicitoare a prietenului meu, Kit

Wright:

I go through the wood in silenceAnd come out onto the snowWhere I leave my printsThough I have no footsteps,Where I speak your heartThough I cannot breathe.

Pdurea n linite l traversez

i ies pe zpadunde las urmedei nu am urme de pai,


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Almost always the answers I get are beautifully imaginative

the wind, a ghost, a spirit ; so theres a collective gasp ofamazement and recognition when I explain that it is, in fact,

the lead in a pencil! We then talk about this, and how nothing

is too small, too ordinary to make a poem. As Edward Thomas

once wrote in a review, anything, however small, may make a

poem; nothing, however great, is certain to. I absolutely agree

with this, and I hope, in a roundabout way, it answers your

question.

D.M.C.: What's an empty frame to John Mole-the-adult and

what's an empty frame to the child in you? I found fascinating your

The Boy and the Sky. Is there a story behind this poem?

unde dau glas inimii taledei s respir nu pot. (trad. n.)

Aproape de fiecare dat rspunsurile pe care le

primesc sunt n mod minunat pline de imaginaie - vntul, ofantom, un spirit - ; urmate de expresia unei uimiri i a unei

confirmri colective cnd le explic c, de fapt, este vorba

despre mina unui creion ! Apoi vorbim despre asta, despre

cum nimic nu este prea mrunt, prea comun ca s ajung

poezie. ntocmai cum Edward Thomas scria undeva ntr-o

recenzie, orice, orict de insignifiant, poate deveni poezie; nimic,

orict de mre , nu e sigur c poate. Sunt perfect de acord cu

acest lucru, i sper c, aa pe de parte, i rspund la ntrebare.

D.M.C.: Ce reprezint o ram goal pentru John Mole-adultul i

ce reprezint o ram goal pentru copilul interior? Gsesc c e

fascinant poezia The Boy and the Sky/ Biatul i cerul. Exist

vreo poveste n spatele acestui poem?


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J.M.: Yes, there is a story. My grandparents did indeed have a

rather dark house in which, half-way up the stairs, there was a

window in the roof, rather like a ships porthole. During the

day it let the light in, sometimes brilliantly, sometimes

clouding over, but, at night, it became a black disc, which

played on my imagination, much as it does on the boys in

that poem. Its all about the way in which childhood fears can

fill that empty frame you mention. The reference to The Man

on the Stairs is to that well-known rhyme by Hughes Mearns,

which goes:

Yesterday upon the stairI met a man who wasnt there.He wasnt there again today.I wish, I wish hed go away.

Incidentally, the poem is a sestina, a form which seemed

appropriate to the obsessive nature of the subject matter,hammering away at nothing as one of the six repeated

J.M.: Da, exist o poveste. Bunicii mei ntr-adevr aveau o

cas cam ntunecat ncare, undeva pe la mijlocul scrilor, se

afla o fereastr n acoperi, cam ct un hublou de vapor. n

timpul zilei permitea luminii s intre n cas, uneori

strlucitor, alteori mai puin, din cauza norilor, dar noaptea,

devenea un disc negru, care-mi stimula imaginaia, cam aa

cum o face imaginaia biatului din poezie. Totul se refer la

modul n care temerile unui copil pot umple acea ram

goal despre care vorbeti. Trimiterea la The Man on the

Stairs/Omul de pe scri este anume la celebra rim de

Hughes Mearns, care sun astfel:

Yesterday upon the stairI met a man who wasnt there.He wasnt there again today.Oh, how I wish hed go away.

Incidental, poemul este o sestin, o form care mi s -a

prut potrivit pentru natura obsesiv a subiectului abordat,care reitereaz obsedant leitmotiful nothing, printr-unul


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words.

D.M.C.: For whom do you write? You don't teach your own poems

(modesty is honorable), so you don't get first-hand feedback from the

young generations interested in poetry (or maybe you do?). Yet you

seek to surprise and shock your readers. How do you see your

readers?

J.M.: I never taught my own poems when I was a teacher, not

out of modesty, but because I didnt (and still dont) want to

impose upon a readers response. I am always very pleased toanswer questions about them - as Im doing here since this

often leads me to make fresh discoveries. Like the one your

question about Con Amore did. When giving readings of my

work, I always try to involve listeners in the process by which

the poems came about, and to encourage them not to hold

back out of politeness if they have doubts or reservations.

Candid feedback, however expressed, is always instructive.

din cele ase cuvinte care se repet.

D.M.C.: Pentru cine scriei? Nu v folosii de propriile poezii cnd

predai (modestia este onorabil), prin urmare nu obinei imediat

un feedback de la tinerele generaii interesate de poezie (sau poate c

da?). i totui cutai s surprindei sau socai cititorii. Cum v

vedei cititorii?

J.M.:Nu am predat niciodat propriile-mi poezii pe vremea

cnd am fost profesor, nu din modestie, ci pentru c n-am

vrut (i nici acum nu vreau) s forez un rspuns din parteacititorului. mi face ntotdeauna o mare plcere s rspund la

ntrebri despre ele cum fac acumpentru c asta m

determin ades s descopr lucruri noi; asemeni aceleia

legat de ntrebrea ta despre Con Amore. Cnd citesc n

public poezii de-ale mele, ntotdeauna ncerc s-mi implic

asculttorii n procesul prin care s-au creat poeziile, i-i

ncurajez s nu se abin din politee s vorbeasc, dac au

dubii sau rezerve. O prere onest, indiferent cum este


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D.M.C.: I could notice a passion for light in your poems, an

aesthetics of light I would call it, especially in the poems in The

Memory of Gardens volume. At times, the light you bring into the

poem is cold and serene (in the wings in The Mountain or

Wings), or warm and intimate (the white of the sheets in

Happiness), or the light of a gaze seems demiurgic (in Love). I can

see light in the bright ring of distress (in The Loss), in the dial

ablaze (in Serenade), in the white rose (in Con Amore), in the

white bucket (in La Jeunesse), in the white breast feather or thewinter garden/Blazoned with light (in Not Snow), in the gaze of

the moonlight (in The Trick), to unexpectedly read some other time

that that Light is orange (in First Fruit). What would darkness be

to you, apart from the infinite secret holder (in the riddle of The

Telescope)?

J.M.: I think you have been wonderfully attentive, and I dolike that phrase an aesthetics of light. Darkness and light, I

exprimat, este ntotdeauna instructiv.

D.M.C.: Am observat o pasiune pentru lumin n poeziile domniei

voastre, o estetic a luminii a numi-o eu, mai ales n poemele din

volumul Memoria Grdinilor. Uneori, lumina pe care o aducei n

poezie este rece i senin (n aripile din Muntele sau Aripi ), ori

caldi intim ( albul aternuturilor din Fericire), alteori, lumina

unei priviri pare demiurgic (n Iubire). Vd lumin n un cerc

incandescent de neputin (din Pierdere), n cadranul scnteiaz

(din Serenad), n roza alb (din Con Amore), n gleata alb (din

La Jeunesse), n pan alb de pe pntec sau n o grdiniarna/nnobilat de lumin (din Nu Zpad), n privirea

lunii/the gaze of moonlight (din Trucul), ca alteori, n mod

surprinztor, s citesc c Lumina este portocalie (din Primul

Fruct). Ce anume ar fi ntunericul pentru domnia voastr, nafar

de un pstrtor de infinite secrete (n ghicitoarea despre telescop)?

J.M.: Cred c ai fost minunat de atent i chiar mi placeformularea o estetic a luminii. ntunericul i lumina,


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suppose, are complementary. Out of the one comes the other,

and towards the other we all travel. I cant improve on your

other phrase the infinite secret holder. As a famous scientist

once said, the universe is not only more mysterious than we

suppose but more mysterious than we can suppose. I go along

with that.

D.M.C.: How important is to you the translation of your poems into

another language?

J.M.: I am very interested in the difference (or overlap)

between translation and transliteration. Up to a point, I agree

with Robert Frost that poetry is what gets lost in translation,

and it is impossible for even the best translator to catch every

nuance, but how else are we to be introduced to the work of a

poet who does not write in our language? Im particularly

fascinated by what goes on when a poet and his/her

translator work together (as up to a point you and I have been

presupun, sunt complementare. Din una iese cealalt, iar

ctre cealalt cltorim cu toii. Nu tiu cum a putea spune

mai bine dect cum spui tu pstrtor de infinite secrete- the

infinite secret holder - . Aa cum spunea cndva un faimos om

de tiin, universul nu este doar mai misterios dect

presupunem, ci mai misterios dectputem noi presupune. De

aceeai prere sunt i eu.

D.M.C.: Ct de important estepentru domnia voastr s v vedei

poeziile traduse n alt limb?

J.M.: M intereseaz foarte mult diferena dintre (sau felul n

care se suprapun) traducerea i transliterarea. Pn la un

punct, sunt de acord cu Robert Frost c poezia este ceea ce se

pierde prin traducere, i c este imposibil pn i pentru cel

mai bun traductor s prind fiecare nuan, dar cum altfel

am putea lua cunotin de creaia unui poet care nu scrie n

limba noastr? Sunt n mod deosebit fascinat de ceea ce se

ntmpl cnd un poet i traductorul lui/ei lucreaz


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understood a childs mind so intimately, he replied simply I

wasthat child; I cant improve on that answer.

D.M.C.: What would you trade your craft for? Maybe to find out

the origin of air? Or do you rather learn about the origin of air

writing poetry?

J.M.: Henri Matisses answer to the question Do you believe in

God? was Yes, when Im working.I cant imagine trading my

craft for some external revelation. That sounds too much like aFaustian pact! It might turn out to be a terrible

disappointment.

D.M.C.: There is one perspective that you have on the child in you

that absolutely surprised me. You say in your article Where the

Poems Come From: The child is father of the man and the man

remains for ever in the presence of that child. The two of them havegrown into a poet together. When I think of the role of a father, the

copii, Maurice Sendak, a fost ntrebat cum de nelege att de

bine mintea unui copil, a rspuns simplu Eu eramacel copil.

Mai bine n-a putea-o spune.

D.M.C.: Pe ce ai da la schimb meteugul domniei voastre? Poate

pentru a afla originea aerului? Sau poate aflai despre originea

aerului scriind poezie?

J.M.: Rspunsul lui Henri Matisse la ntrebarea Crezi n

Dumnezeu? a fost Da, atunci cnd lucrez. Nu m pot imagina

dndu-mi meteugul la schimb pe vreo revelaie extern.Asta sun mult prea mult a pact faustian ! S-ar putea dovedi

o teribil dezamgire.

D.M.C.: Avei o perspectiv asupra copilului din dumneavoastr

care absolut m-a surprins. Spunei n articolul intitulat De unde

vin poeziile: Copilul este tat pentru brbat, iar brbatul rmne

pentru totdeauna n prezena acelui copil. Amndoi au crescut

mpreun ca s dea natere poetului. Cnd m gndesc la rolul


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following come to my mind: protector, provider, teacher of how and

why, preserver of knowledge, etc. From what I read in your poems,

the child appears to me as an enhancer; the adult/the teacher in you

knows that a child has huge potential in seeing things (and here

seeing means genuinely experiencing life at a sensorial level). The

child offers you first hand sensorial perception; the adult in you

coats/endows these perceptions with meaning; the craftsman in you

turns the whole of it into poetry. This is how I see the child-

man/adult-poet rapport in your poems. The child in you is more of a

facilitator that feeds your poems with ingenuity, authenticity, but

most important, with universal instances familiar to any reader that

allows his/her self to keep the child inside very much alive. How

much do you agree with this?

J.M.: Ill try to engage with your insights which I find very

impressive and encouraging by making a few passing

observations and, where possible, giving direct answers. First,by completing the quotation from Wordsworths poem My

unui tat, mi vin n minte urmtoarele: protector, ntreintor,

ndrumtor, pstrtor al unui tip de cunoatere, etc. Din ceea ce

aflu din poeziile domniei voastre, copilul mi apare asemeni unui

potenator; adultul/profesorul din dumneavostrtie c un copil are

potenial enorm de a vedea lucruri (i prin a vedea neleg a

percepe viaa n mod autentic, la nivel senzorial). Copilul v ofer

percepii senzoriale n mod nemijlocit; adultul din dumneavostr le

confer neles; poetul-meteugar le transpune pe toate n poezie.

Astfel neleg eu raportul copil-brbat/adult-poet din poeziile

domniei voastre. Copilul interior este mai mult un facilitator care

hrne

te poeziile cu ingenuitate, autenticitate, dar cel maiimportant cu momente universal familiare oricruia dintre acei

cititori care permit sufletului lor s pstreze copilul interior ct mai

viu posibil. n ce msur suntei de acord cu aceste aspecte?

J.M.: Voi ncerca s comentez observaiile talepe care le

gsesc ct se poate de impresionante i ncurajatoarefcnd

cteva observaii tangeniale i, acolo unde mi va fi cuputin, dnd rspunsuri directe. Mai nti, s completez


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Heart Leaps Up, to which I was alluding in my article:

The child is father to the man;

And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.

Its the phrase bound each to each that is important to me,

emphasizing the continuity of a life, and the way in which it

becomes an accumulation of experience and the emergence of

an understanding. To use your own terms, the inner child is

indeed a facilitator and enhancer, a living presence in the

adult I have become. Another passage, again from

Wordsworth (the childhood section of The Prelude), begins

Fair seedtime had my soul, and I grew up/ Fostered alike by beauty

and by fear. Its those primal encounters that nourish ones

growth as a poet, I believe; felt intensely but not yet

understood. When they are recollected by the adult, they are

literally recollected from the memory bank and remembered(that is, put together as a body and informing the poems

citatul din poemul lui Wordsworth, My Heart Leaps up, la

care fceam trimitere n articolul meu:

The child is father to the man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.

Versul Legai unul de altul prin fireasc pietate(Bound each to

each by natural piety) este important pentru mine, accentund

continuitatea vieii, felul n care ea devine o acumulare de

experien, precum i emergena unei nelegeri a lucrurilor.

Ca s folosesc termenii ti, copilul este ntr-adevr un

facilitator i un potenator, o prezen vie n adultul care

am devenit. Un alt pasaj, din nou din Wordsworth (partea

despre copilrie din Preludiul), ncepe astfel: Fair seedtime

had my soul, and I grew up

Fostered alike by beauty and by fear. Sunt acele prime ntlniri

care alimenteaz transformarea cuiva ntr-un poet, cred eu;

simite din plin, dar nu nc n

elese. Cnd sunt rememorate

de adult, realmente sunt re-colectate din baza de date a


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shape). Fostered seems to be the key word here (as in foster

parent). The poet can be said to have been adopted by the

experiences and helped by them to grow. I hope this makes

sense. I think it is saying very much the same as you; so in

direct answer to your asking How much do you agree with

this? it looks as if we are indeed pretty much in agreement.

D.M.C.:And as I used the word facilitator, I think that the child in

you does a wonderful thing: the adult regains/saves for the comfortof his soul presences (your word in the text) that the child shaped

through his senses and the poet shapes through his words. The poet

in you seems to let the child express himself whenever

disappointment insinuates itself or whenever mortality forces you

into acknowledging it. Do you see the child in you like this?

J.M.: Yes, I do see the child like that, but he can also be playful

memoriei i re-trite (i anume, sunt integrate ntr-un tot, sau

corp, care va lua forma unui poem). Luat n grij par s fie

cuvintele potrivite aici (ca n copil luat n grij). Se poate spune

despre poet c a fost luat n grij de propriile -i experiene de

via i ajutat s creasc. Sperc m nelegi. Cred c spune

foarte mult cam ce spui tu, i ca s-i rspund direct la

ntrebare, se pare c suntem ct se poate de mult de aceeai

prere.

D.M.C.: i pentru c am folosit cuvntul facilitator, cred c acest

copil din domnia voastr face un lucru minunat: adultulrectig/salveaz pentru confortul sufletului su prezene

(cuvntul v aparine) crora copilul le-a dat un contur prin

intermediul simurilor sale, iar poetul le d contur prin intermediul

cuvintelor sale. Poetul pare s lase copilul s se exprime ori de cte

ori se insinueaz vreo dezamgire sau ori de cte ori mortalitatea

insist s fie bgat n seam. Aa v vedei copilul interior?

J.M: Da, aa vd copilul, dar el poate fi la fel de bine jucui


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and subversive. He is certainly there in the disappointments

and confrontations with mortality (which intensify as one

grows older), but those presences can also insinuate (your

word again) a lightness of being, a playfulness. Children are

often told by adults, irritated by their behaviour, to grow up.

In other words, to behave, outwardly, like an adult.

Sometimes I think that it is one of the responsibilities of the

poet not to confuse outward appearance/behaviour with the

inner life. But that is perhaps to raise other issues with which

we are not concerned here.

D.M.C.: Going back to your words 'The child is father of the man

[...], a question comes to my mind: has the child in you been

teaching you something or has he been more of a comforting

presence ?

J.M.: I dont think theres a simple answer to this question, but

it may be implicit in some of what I have said so far; a

continually enabling presence rather than a comforting one.

subversiv. Cu siguran este acolo n dezamgirile legate de

mortalitate sau n confruntrile cu aceasta (care se intensific

odat cu naintarea n vrst), dar acele prezene pot

deasemeni insinua (din nou cuvntul tu) o bucurie de a fi, o

dispoziie spre joc. Adulii le spun adesea copiilor, iritai

fiind de comportamentul lor, maturizeaz-te. Altfel spus s

se poarte, n aparen,ca un adult. Uneori cred c este una

dintre responsabilitile poetului s nu confunde aparena /

comportamentul aparent cu trirea interioar. Dar acest

aspect ar deschide o alt discuie diferit de aceasta.

D.M.C. ntorcndu-m la cuvintele domniei voastre: 'The child is

father of the man [...], o ntrebare mi vine n minte: v nva

copilul interior ceva anume sau este mai degrab o prezen care

v alin?

J.M.: Nu cred c exist un rspuns simplu la aceast

ntrebare, dar ar putea decurge implicit din ceea ce am spus

pn acum ; o prezen permanent motivant, dect una care

J h M l Th M f G d A i i di il


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Comforting suggests to me a kind of maternal consolation, a

wiping-away of tears, while teaching sounds rather too

instructive. Some way between the two perhaps ? Lets just

stick with the notion of presence as a travelling companion.

D.M.C.: In your poem The War, I find another very productive

role of the child in you: he awakens and nurtures the ludic part of

you; teaching to young pupils is playing with an educational

purpose; playing jazz is playing with notes, rhythms, moods to

experience another way of expression and communication; writingpoetry can be playing with words (apparently) in order to actually

find or reveal the hidden meaning of them. What I find in this poem

is the purpose for which an adult in your world invites a child to

play (You try, We used to bet/on who could make it longest); this

is how the adult can cope with grief. You never met him is like the

promise of a story never to be told but yet for the adult reader to

speculate on ('speculate on... a dear task to children and accessibleto adults to equate it with some heard of/already lived experiences).

s m aline. Alinarea mi sugereaz un tip de consola re

matern, o tergere de lacrimi de pe obraz, n timp ce a

nva mi sun cam prea instructiv. Poate, ns, undeva ntre

acestea dou? Hai s pstrm noiunea de prezen n chip

de partener de drum.

D.M.C.: n poezia Rzboiul (The War), descopr un alt rol foarte

productiv al copilului interior: el trezete la via i hrnete

dimensiunea ludic a persoanei dumneavoastre; a preda elevilor

presupune a v juca cu ei n scop educativ ; a interpreta jazz

presupune a v juca cu notele, ritmurile, strile, cu scopul de aexperimenta noi modaliti de exprimare i comunicare; a scrie

poezie poate presupune a v juca cu vorbele (n aparen), cu scopul

de a gsi de fapt sau a scoate la iveal nelesul ascuns din ele. Ceea

ce gsesc n aceast poezie este motivul pentru care un adult din

lumea domniei voastre invit un copil la joac (You try,We used

to bet/on who could make it longest); acesta este modul n care

adultul face fa suferinei. You never met him sun asemeni unei promisiuni de poveste ce nu va fi spus vreodat, dar n contul

J h M l Th M f G d A i ti di il


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The aunt teaches the child how to chew gum playing with gum; thus

she initiates a game with some sort of educational purpose (for the

child), but she also initiates a grief-relief game. The child enjoys it,

it's like an initiation for him; the adult regroups emotionally

(Everyone was happy, almost)-- the child records the happiness

around him (everyone was happy), the adult records, mentally, the

emotional scar (almost) as you, the adult, had learnt the story

hidden in You never met him by the time the poet put it all in

words. Does this make sense to you?

J.M.: Im glad you like The War. In recent years it seems to

have become one of my more popular poems, and your

analysis of what it describes does indeed make sense to me,

explaining very clearly what takes place between the narratorand the aunt, and how the poem itself negotiates between the

creia cititorul adult poate specula (speculai pe baza. este o

sarcin de lucru ndrgit de copii i accesibil adulilor,

permindu-le acestora din urm s o exchivaleze cu vreo alt

experien de care au auzit sau pe care au trait-o deja). Mtua l

nva pe copil cum s mestece gum, jucndu-se cu guma; astfel ea

iniiaz un joc, unul cu scop educaional, ntr-un fel (pentru copil),

dari un joc de eliberare a suferinei. Copilul se bucur de joc, est e

asemeni unei iniieri pentru el; adultul se regrupeaz emoional

(Everyone was happy, almost)copilul nregistreaz fericirea din

jurul lui (everyone was happy)- , adultul nregistreaz, mental,

cicatricea emoional (almost), dat fiind faptul cpoetul, adult, de-

acum, a aflat ntre timp povestea ascuns dincolo de cuvintele You

never met him. Au sens pentru dumneavoastr toate acestea?

J.M.:M bucur c-i place Rzboiul (The War). n ultimii ani

se pare c a devenit unul dintre poemele mele ceva mai

cunoscute, iar analiza pe care o faci chiar are sens pentru

mine, explicnd foarte clar ceea ce se ntmpl ntre narator imtu, precum i modul n care poemul nsui negociaz

J h M l Th M f G d A i ti di il


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experience of the child and the understanding of the adult.

Im pleased, too, that you pick up on almost. Its placing at

the end of the line after the slight pause insisted upon by a

comma, gives it stress and emphasis, and (I hope) provokes

just the kind of attention you have given it. So when you ask if

what you have said makes sense to me, I can only reply Yes

and Thank You!

ntre experiena copilului i nelegerea adultului. M bucur,

de asemeni, c vorbeti i de almost. Prin plasarea

cuvntului la finalul versului, dup pauza scurt asupra

creia insist printr-o virgul, acesta capt accent i emfaz, i

(sper eu) provoac anume acel tip de atenie pe care tu nsi

i-ai acordat-o. Astfel c atunci cnd m ntrebi dac are sens

pentru mine, nu pot dect s-i rspund Da i Mulumesc !

John Mole: The Memory of Gardens Amintirea grdinilor


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Daniela Clinescu

John Moles Poems of Light



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Translating John Moles poems has been a wonderful

and privileged journey through light. I have been working

specifically on rendering multiple metamorphoses of light as

depicted by John Mole in his poetry, and I have been

preoccupied to transfer as accurately as possible the images he

has created, as the latter are rare pieces one may encounter in

contemporary poetry. This volume, entitled The Memory of

Gardens, after one of the poems included in it, is an art gallery,

in which the reader can find exhibits that outpour light in

silence. The volume looks like a collection of paintings in words

that would easily fit under the heading: The Metamorphoses of

Light.

John Mole is a keen observer of the profane and the

ordinary light, with a great potential to transfigure itself into asacred one. Light in his poetry seems meant to immortalize, to

Traducerea poeziilor lui John Mole s-a dovedit un

minunat i privilegiat periplu prin lumin. M-a preocupat

n mod deosebit redarea multiplelor metamorfoze ale

luminii aa cum John Mole le-a ilustrat n poezia sa, i am

cutat s transfer prin traducere, ct mai fidel posibil,

imaginile create, pe c acestea sunt exemplare rare n

poezia contemporan. Acest volum, intitulat Memoria

Gradinilor,dup una din poeziile incluse, este o galerie de

art, n care cititorul poate gsi exponate care silenios

revars lumin. Volumul arat ca o colecie de tablouri n

cuvinte care lesne s-ar putea ncadra sub titlul:

Metamorfozele Luminii .

John Mole este un fin observator al luminii profane

si obinuite, care are un potenial apreciabil de a se reveladrept lumin sacr. Lumina din poeziile sale pare menit



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frame bits of experienced and cherished life. The poet engages a

fight with his own mortality, with the help of descriptive words

that trap inside them drops, or pulses, or promises of light,

which cry out loud transcendence. The space he depicts is a

domestic one, with a great potential to prove rich in exquisite

glimpses of immanence. The backyard gardens become the

gardens of Eden that we were born in to leave - to use John

Moles words - , or the gardens that have no need to become

anything else; they actually are hidden paradise gardens here

on earth, gardens that open to those capable to see.

Love is one poem in which the feeling appears as

nourished by a preoccupied, alert, and caring couple that

attempts to fight mortality through the power of their gaze.

Love gets transfigured and grants the two demiurgic powers:

Gently between our joined hands/ It pulses, becomes the light/ Of our

gaze across a landscape []. This is rather a profane light, which

s imortalizeze, s nrmeze frnturi de via, trit i

mprtit. Poetul iniiaz o lupt cu propria-i mortalitate,

prin intermediul cuvintelor descriptive, care pstreaz

captive n ele picturi, impulsuri sau promisiuni de

lumin, prin care transcendena strig din rsputeri.

Spaiul pe care l evoc este unul domestic, dar cu un

potenial considerabil de a se dodovedi bogat n frme

desvrite de imanen. Grdinile din spatele casei devin

grdinile edenice, n care ne-am nscut ca s le prsim -

ca s folosesc cuvintele lui John Mole - , sau grdinile care

nu trebuie s devin orice altceva; ele nsele snt realmentegrdini paradisiace ascunse, aici pe pmnt, grdini care se

deschid celor capabili s vad.

Iubire este un poem n care sentimentul apare aa

cum e nutrit ntr-un cuplu preocupat, precaut i afectuos,

care ia iniiativa de a lupta cu mortalitatea prin puterea

luminii din privirea lor. Iubirea se transfigureaz i confer

celor doi puteri demiurgice: Plpnd, ntre-ale noastre mini

mpreunate/Pulseaz, devine lumina/Pe care privirea noastr o-



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turns into a sacred and a redeeming or redemptive one, thanks

to its descending from love; as such, this light is a promise of

regeneration. The couple works tacitly, aware of their mission;

they act instinctively, without negotiating or planning ahead;

they know that love has huge potential to regenerate from its

own ashes, and feed the creative potential of the couple.

In The Mountain, we witness another sort of light: as a

plumed light/Brushed across his face/ without reflection. Thisbeaming feathery presence is associated with that of a

mountain, the secret holder of the origin of air - as John Mole

sees it - that enables one access to knowledge by opening its

wings; we notice an awakening of the mountain and a promise

of knowledge to be accessed. The inquisitive mind that

addresses the mountain in hope for some sort of ascent does get

a response, but in exemplary silence. This time, like some sort of

good omen, light prefigures the promise of tapping into hidden

arunc peste privelite. Aceasta este mai curnd o lumin

profan, care devine sacr, izbvitoare sau mntuitoare,

graie faptului c descinde din iubire; ca atare, aceast

lumin este o promisiune de regenerare. Cuplul i vede

tacit de treab, contient de misiunea sa; cei doi acioneaz

instinctiv, fr s negocieze sau s planifice ceva n

prealabil; ei tiu c iubirea are un potenial remarcabil de a

se regenera din propria-i cenu i de a alimenta

potenialul creativ al cuplului.

n Muntele,suntem martorii unui alt tip de lumin:

o lumin naripat/i terse chipul/Fr a se lmuri. Aceast naripat prezen nimbat se asociaz cu cea a unui

munte, pstrtor ascuns al originii aerului - cum l vede

John Mole -, munte care nlesnete accesul la cunoatere

prin deschiderea aripilor; remarcm o trezire a muntelui

i conturarea unei promisiuni de accesare a cunoaterii.

Mintea iscoditoare care se adreseaz muntelui cu sperana

de a i se permite vreo ascensiune, de orice natur ar fi ea,

primete ntr-adevr un rspuns, ns ntr-o tcere

John Mole: The Memory of Gardens Amintirea grdinilor.


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truths or answers. Thus whereas in Love we saw a demiurgic

light, this time we perceive something of a more ascetic, cold,

impersonal, and yet illuminating one.

In Wings, the angels make you think of auras, of

luminescent presences. The sudden restlessnessand the buoyant

shoulders add dynamism and dramatism to the visual,

prefiguring and fueling the uplift aimed at journeying through

the liberating brightness of the air. In this poem, the wingspertain both to the profane and to the sacred, being the link

between the two, yet remaining wings that ordinary human

beings may grow. I would rather see the wings in The Mountain

though as pertaining to the ascetic.

In To his Love, Sleeping, we see how sleep facilitates

another type of existence; sleep opens two dimensions that the

poet has to decide on which to choose. There is a reference to

the mortals dimension: the light of your eyes, which stands for

exemplar. De aceast dat, ca un semn de bun augur,

lumima prefigureaz promisiunea de a accesa adevruri

sau rspunsuri ascunse. Astfel n timp ce n Iubire vedeam

o lumin demiurgic, de data asta percepem ceva mai

apropiat de una ascetic, rece, impersonal, ns

revelatoare.

nAripi,ngerii te duc cu gndul la aure, la prezene

luminescente. Vizualul ctig n dinamism i dramatism

prin zbucium neateptat i umeri avntai; snt imagini ce

prefigureaz i hrnesc nlarea ntru cltorire prin

eliberatoarea strlucire a vzduhului. n aceast poezie,aripile in att de profan, ct i de sacru, fiind legtura

dintre cele dou dimensiuni, rmnnd totui aripi ce pot

crete oricrei fiine umane. Aripile din Muntele, ns, mai

curnd le-a vedea ca aparinnd asceticului.

n Iubirii sale, dormind, vedem cum somnul

faciliteaz un alt tip de fiinare; somnul deschide dou

dimensiuni asupra crora poetul trebuie s decid pe care

s-o aleag. Exist o trimitere ctre dimensiunea



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the seductive, the profane, the inspirational, and the uplifting.

That secretive glow/behind shut lids is a reference to the promise

of an exquisite, divine, unattainable realm. This glow, though

tempting, is less precise; it is a glow of another dimension,

accessible through sleep. The light from this dimension is a

domestic and profane one. The glow is sacred, yet the poet is

privileged: he can perceive it while contemplating his beloved.

The poet has access to the glow of this other dimension through

the sleep of his companion; thus the couple seems to be the

secret formula that would help the artist access the veiled or the

hidden.

In Happiness, a cascade-of-light-poem, there is light in the

whiteness of a sheet of paper; there is light in white is the

promise of a subject matter - which would render it an

inspirational light - ; there is also light in the sheets pegged on a

line; there is light in a cool bright acreage of summer evening;

there is light in the shutters brilliant white. All this whiteness is

muritorilor: lumina ochilor ti, care desemneaz seducia,

profanul, inspiraia i elevaia spiritual. Cea strlucire

tainic/de dincolo de pleoape trase trimite la promisiunea

unui trm inaccesibil, divin, sublim. Aceast strlucire,

dei tentant, se sustrage unei reprezentri precise; este o

strlucire aparinnd unei alte dimensiuni, accesibile prin

somn. Lumina din aceast dimensiune este una domestic

i profan. Strlucireaeste sacr, dar poetul este privilegiat:

el o poate percepe n timp ce-i contempleaz iubita.

Poetul accede luminescena acestei alte dimensiuni prin

intermediul somnului partenerei sale; cuplul pare astfel afi formula secret care i-ar permite artistului s acceseze

ascunsul.

n Fericire, un poem-cascad-de-lumin, gsim

lumin n albul colii de hrtie; gsim lumin i n Albul

este promisiunea unui subiect bun, ceea ce o prezint drept

lumin-inspiraie; gsim lumin i n cearafurile ntinse pe

funie; gsim lumin i ntr-o-ntindere luminoas, rcoritoare

de sear de var; gsim lumin i n albul briliant al



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of a domestic yet incandescent light, one for the privileged.

Where there is light, a couple joins: sleep and love will never have

gone better; harmony, candor and love flourish under an

effusion of light. What is more, the poet enthusiastically and

dynamically enjoys being one of the protagonists.

In The Memory of Gardens, light is the belle of the ball. There

are different perspectives, different screens projected by light as

filtered through water, surfaces or glass panes. There is a

gyroscopic unfolding of shapes that light can take on in John

Moles poems; for instance, this wonderful image in Thewindow frames/Reciprocally white, their/Lucent-beaded latticing/A

jeweled absence, yours/And mine []. The frame is one motif

that John Mole uses quite often to immortalize portraits, in this

case, that of the couple. The image gives the reader the feeling

that the poet engenders material representations of the two

protagonists where they actually are not. The frailty of the tiny

drops of water that draw shapes of the two on the surface of the

windowpanes is actually the frailty of human existence, all

jaluzelelor. Tot acest alb este al unei lumini domestice, ns

incandescente, menit celor privilegiai. Iar acolo unde e

lumin, un cuplu se arat: somn i iubire nicicnd nu s-au

potrivit mai bine; armonia, candoarea i iubirea sunt n

floare sub o revrsare de lumin. n plus, poetul nsui

devine protagonist, participnd entuziast i dinamic.

n Memoria grdinilor, lumina este frumoasa balului.

Perspective diferite, ecrane diferite sunt proiectate de

lumina filtrat prin ap, geamuri sau alte suprafee. Exist

o desfurare giroscopic de forme pe care lumina le poate

lua n poezia lui John Mole; de exemplu, aceast imagineminunat din versurile: Ramele ferestrelor/Reciproc albe,

descriu/Pnz, numai broboane translucide/O absen de

giuvaeruri plin, a ta/i-a mea []. Motivul ramei este

destul de des folosit de John Mole, pentru a imortaliza

portrete al cuplului n acest caz. Imaginea d cititorului

sentimentul c poetul genereaz reprezentri materiale ale

celor doi protagoniti acolo unde de fapt nu exist.

Fragilitatea picturilor de ap care configureaz pe



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sparkling and precious in appearance, yet so vulnerable in

essence.

In Serenade, we experience the light of a torrid day: there

is a dial ablaze, in remembrance of the mortals time passing

and time being measured. This image of it strikes us visually

from the very opening of the poem, the mortality of human

nature being pinpointed. The sun-spot, the points of

light/[which] Play leap-frog dazzle in a water-bowl are again a

gyroscopic display of lights. Light is also made present by thevery mentioning of the opposites: On lease from shade and

shadow. The poem is a celebration of life under the reign of

light, and of escape from the realm of shadows. But there is not

just love and light; this time the sound joins in; the poet is not

just contemplating, he is fully enjoying it, through laughter.

In The Loss, the mood changes dramatically, yet there is

suprafaa geamurilor siluetele celor doi este de fapt o

trimitere la fragilitatea existenei umane - o existen n

aparen ct se poate de strlucitoare i preioas, dar att

de vulnerabil n esen.

n Serenad, experimentm lumina unei zile toride;

gsim un cadran solar care scnteiaz, ce ne aduce aminte

de timpul trector i msurabil al muritorilor. Imaginea ne

surprinde vizual chiar de la nceputul poemului, tema

naturii muritoare a fiinei umane fiind marcat.

Descoperim din nou o etalare giroscopic de lumini: un

petec de lumin, toate scnteiele din soare/Te orbesc sltndntr-un vas cu ap. Lumina este prezent i prin nsi

menionarea elementelor antonimice: Fr de umbr i

penumbr. Poemul este o celebrare a vieii sub imperiul

luminii i al evadrii din trmul umbrelor. ns nu doar

iubire i lumin gsim n poezie; de aceast dat i

auditivul i face loc: poetul nu doar contempl, ci se

bucur pe deplin, rznd.

n Pierderea, starea de spirit se schimb dramatic,



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some sort of incandescent light associated with heartache in a

bright ring of distress. In The Quilt, the immaterial becomes

tangible as in The light was caught in it. In Not too Late, an

intimate sort of light, of lanterns, signals a discrete and hidden

place that tempts the poet out of domesticity, only to

subsequently rediscover in Berries the warm light of sunrise,

when nature looks its best, all covered in dew.

Not Snow, the poem that closes this volume, comes as a

celebration of light and its potential for augmenting specks ofsacredness hidden beyond ordinariness. Have we ever seen

snow as a white breast feather, or a winter garden as blazoned

with light? Maybe we havent, but now we do. We have all

experienced the thrill of stepping across fresh snow; have we

thought of it as stepping across a promised land? Now we do;

with John Moles help, we can see. There is magic and sublime

in the mundane; snow is like a filter that makes you see beyond

the profane. Snow r

Mole Memory Gardens

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