![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/12\/codrut.jpg\")
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MARIANA CODRUT (1.11.1956)<\/p>\n
1. noua zi<\/p>\nR\u00eendunica din cuibul de sub strea\u015fin\u0103 se puse pe ciripit. Desigur, saluta noua zi. Iat\u0103, cum nu?, pere\u0163ii \u00eencepuser\u0103 s\u0103 se albeasc\u0103, se cr\u0103pa de ziu\u0103. \u00cembujorat\u0103, mama s-a ridicat din pat, s-a \u00eembr\u0103cat t\u0103cut\u0103, f\u0103r\u0103 zgomot \u015fi a ie\u015fit din cas\u0103 \u2013 cu porcul \u015fi cu g\u0103inile nu-i de glum\u0103 la ora asta, rup u\u015file de foame! Iar vaca trebuie muls\u0103, c\u0103 \u00eendat\u0103 trece cireada pe la poart\u0103.<\/p>\n
Noaptea plouase bine de tot. Cu cizmele de cauciuc \u00eenc\u0103l\u0163ate direct pe pielea cald\u0103, f\u0103r\u0103 \u015fosete, mama clef\u0103i prin glodul ogr\u0103zii ba spre poiat\u0103, ba spre ocol, ba spre magazie, \u00eentreb\u00eendu-se poate a mia oar\u0103: m\u0103i, cum o fi ar\u0103t\u00eend ofi\u0163ereasa aceea din al doilea r\u0103zboi mondial, pr\u0103v\u0103lit\u0103 de pe murgul cel falnic? Abia plecase biata rusoaic\u0103 de la vecinii p\u0103rin\u0163ilor dup\u0103 ce-\u015fi sp\u0103lase s\u00eengele femeiesc \u00een ligheanul cerut prin semne. Abia ajunsese \u00een popu\u015foaiele satului de pe malul Prutului, c\u00eend un glon\u0163 \u00eent\u00eempl\u0103tor \u2013 de-al ru\u015filor? de-al rom\u00e2nilor? de-al nem\u0163ilor? \u2013 i-a g\u0103urit capul. \u015ei a\u015fa a g\u0103sit-o un cons\u0103tean, cu fa\u0163a \u00een glod. Iar calul (murg, da, da, spuneau gospodarii \u00een \u015fura c\u0103rora se primenise), ia-l de unde nu-i! Cu mintea necoapt\u0103, mama n-a \u00eentrebat atunci: dar fata cum era? \u015ei chiar dac\u0103 ar fi \u00eentrebat, probabil i s-ar fi r\u0103spuns doar at\u00eet: frumoooas\u0103, bre, omule, ce s\u0103 mai vorbim?! Abia mult mai t\u00eerziu, mai ales c\u00eend ploua, mintea ei nu mai sc\u0103pa de obsesia: ce ochi avea rusoaica? \u015ei p\u0103rul\u2026?<\/p>\n
Dumnezeu s-o ierte, s\u0103raca!, spuse tare, turn\u00eend gr\u0103un\u0163ele \u00een troac\u0103. Apoi \u015fi-a f\u0103cut cruce, poate a mia oar\u0103.<\/p>\n
\u00cen urma mamei, tat\u0103l s-a sculat \u015fi el iute \u015fi lipa-lipa descul\u0163 p\u00een\u0103 la geam. Cu o m\u00een\u0103 \u0163in\u00eendu-\u015fi izmenele, cu cealalt\u0103 d\u00eend deoparte de-un lat de palm\u0103 storul, arunc\u0103 o c\u0103ut\u0103tur\u0103 afar\u0103: s\u00eermele de rufe str\u0103luceau \u00eembrobonate cu mii de m\u0103rgele de ap\u0103, zarz\u0103rul \u015fi salc\u00eemii grei de frunze erau uzi, porti\u0163a \u015fi gardurile de sc\u00eenduri, ude \u015fi negre. Doar o dung\u0103 de zare sclipea luminoas\u0103. Cu col\u0163ul ochiului, v\u0103zu flaneaua ro\u015fie a nevestei \u00een drum spre f\u00eent\u00een\u0103. Ar fi trebuit s\u0103 se \u00eembrace \u015fi el \u015fi s-o porneasc\u0103 la treburi, c\u0103 doar nu-i duminic\u0103. Acu\u015f! S-a furi\u015fat \u00een cel\u0103lalt pat, la picioarele copilei care dormea cu fa\u0163a la fereastr\u0103. Fetica, fetica!, murmura lini\u015ftitor \u00eenghi\u0163indu-\u015fi cu zgomot scuipatul, \u00een timp ce-\u015fi strecura cu grij\u0103 sexul \u00eent\u0103rit \u00eentre petalele ei roz\u2026<\/p>\n
R\u00eendunica din cuibul de sub strea\u015fin\u0103 \u00eencepu s\u0103 se zbat\u0103 \u015fi s\u0103 \u0163ipe ascu\u0163it: uciga\u015ful azurului, uciga\u015ful azurului, uciga\u015ful azurului! Poate c\u0103 cineva ar fi priceput ce zice. Dar nimeni n-a auzit-o, to\u0163i fiind ocupa\u0163i cu ale lor. Primele raze de soare pip\u0103iau fruntea umezit\u0103 de somn, intrau printre pleoapele transparente ale feti\u0163ei. Iar \u00een ograd\u0103, lighioanele h\u0103mesite zbierau \u015fi b\u0103teau din aripi, ned\u00eendu-\u015fi r\u00eend la m\u00eencare.<\/p>\n
* Cu acest text literar Mariana Codrut a obtinut Premiul Spiegelungen pentru proza scurta pe anul anul 2020 la cocursul ” Microlite:dincolo de Celan”, organizat de Institut f\u00fcr Deutsche Kultur und Geschichte S\u00fcdosteuropas al Universitatii Ludwig-Maximilian din M\u00fcnchen.
Ca urmare “Noua Zi” a fost publicata in reviste din Germania si Ucraina.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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the new day<\/p>\n
The nestling swallow under the eaves started chirping. Of course, greeting the new day. Well, why not?, the walls had begun to whiten, the dawn was breaking. Blushing flushed, mother got out of bed, dressed silently, noiselessly, and went out of the house – with the pig and the hens, it’s no joke at this hour, they break the doors of hunger! And the cow must be milked, because the herd any moment now will pass by the gate.<\/p>\n
In the night it rained heavily. With her rubber boots directly on her warm skin, without socks, the mother splashed her way through the muddy yard, now to the barn, now to the cowshed, or to the storeroom, wondering for the thousandth time: man, what would that World War II officer’s wife looked like, fallen off her noble chestnut stud? The poor Russian woman had just left her parents’ neighbors after washing away her female blood in the laver asked for by signs. She had just arrived in the village’s maize on the bank of the Prut River, when a stray bullet – from the Russians? from the Romanians? from the Germans? – pierced her head. That’s how a fellow villager found her, with the face in the mud. And the horse (chestnut, ye, ye, said the householders in whose barn she had freshened up), vanished into thin air! With a green mind, the mother didn’t ask then: but what was the girl like? And even if she had asked, she would probably have been answered just that: pretty lady, man, what more can we say?! Only much later, especially when it was raining, did her mind not escape the obsession: what eyes did the Russian woman have? And the hair …?
God forgive her, poor thing!, she said loudly, pouring the grains into the trough. Then she made a cross, maybe for the thousandth time.<\/p>\nAfter the mother, the father got up quickly and stealthily barefoot to the window. With one hand holding his drawers, with the other hand setting aside a palm wide the blinds, he peeked outside: the wires of laundry shone adorned with thousands of water beads, the heavy leafy apricot and acacias were wet, the gate and plank fences, wet and black. Only a horizon stripe shone brightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wife’s red flannel on the way to the well. He should have gotten dressed and set to work because it’s not Sunday. Soon!
He snuck into the other bed at the feet of the sleeping child facing the window. Girlie! girlie!, he murmured soothingly, swallowing his spitting with a noise, while \u2011 he carefully slipped his hardened sex between her pink petals …<\/p>\nThe nestling swallow under the eaves began to struggle and scream shrilly: the killer of the azure, the killer of the azure, the killer of the azure!
Maybe someone would have understood what it was saying. But no one heard it, all being busy with their own. The first rays of sunlight were touching the sleep-dampened forehead, coming through the little girl’s transparent eyelids. And in the yard, the famished beasts were screaming and flapping their wings, not taking a turn to eat.<\/p>\n
*With this literary text Mariana Codrut won the Spiegelungen Prize for short prose for 2020 at the competition “Microlite: beyond Celan”, organized by the Institute f\u00fcr Deutsche Kultur und Geschichte S\u00fcdosteuropas of the Ludwig-Maximilian University of Munich.
As a result, “New Day” “was published in magazines in Germany and Ukraine.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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2. drum rece<\/p>\n
ca s\u0103 nu te supui, stai singur. e secolul supunerii.
ca s\u0103 nu aderi, stai singur. e secolul ader\u0103rilor.
ca s\u0103 nu fii \u201e\u00een r\u00eend cu lumea\u201d, stai singur.
e secolul neie\u015firii din r\u00eend.<\/p>\nchiar c\u00eend \u0163i-e pu\u0163intel dor
p\u00een\u0103 \u015fi de vorb\u0103raia menit\u0103 s\u0103 ucid\u0103 lini\u015ftea
– lini\u015ftea e cea mai mare sperietoare a vremii -,
alegi s\u0103 fii singur. un individualist, un ins dubios!<\/p>\nst\u00eend sub copaci cu capul plecat pe o carte
(te \u00eencearc\u0103 \u00een glum\u0103 c\u00eend \u015fi c\u00eend teama
pentru g\u00eetul dezgolit la ceaf\u0103), e\u015fti fericit:
tocmai ai aflat<\/p>\nc\u0103 \u015fu\u015faua colbuit\u0103 spre drumul jude\u0163ean
unde frigul te alb\u0103strea \u00een copil\u0103rie se cheam\u0103
drum rece, c\u0103 drum rece era \u015fi peste sat,
calea p\u0103s\u0103rilor migratoare spre delt\u0103.<\/p>\ndar: \u00een zilele c\u00eend nu mai \u00een\u0163elegi nimic
\u015fi c\u0103r\u0163ile nu-\u0163i mai spun nimic
iar str\u0103inul se desparte \u015fi de el \u00eensu\u015fi.
c\u00eend auzi pulsul singur\u0103r\u0103\u0163ii b\u0103t\u00eend ritmic
\u00een cap ca un ciocan, anxietatea \u00ee\u015fi ridic\u0103
botul ud de s\u00eenge din pieptul t\u0103u,
sigur\u0103 de sine \u015fi lacom\u0103 ca leul
c\u0103lare pe antilopa \u0163intuit\u0103 la p\u0103m\u00eent.<\/p>\nf\u0103r\u0103 puteri zile \u015fi zile pe ghea\u0163a de-un deget
(ce transparen\u0163\u0103!), \u00eenviezi brusc la vederea
fe\u0163elor din str\u0103funduri. tot aplecat,
formele ira\u0163ionale s\u0103 le distingi
\u00een evantaiul lor de sensuri, \u00eencerci s\u0103-\u0163i spui
singur o poveste. \u00eens\u0103, la fel de abur,
de imponderabil ca atunci c\u00eend e\u015fti fericit,
\u00ee\u0163i dai seama c\u0103 ai uitat toate cuvintele.
doar apa fo\u015fne\u015fte dedesubt \u00eencontinuu.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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cold road<\/p>\n
so as not to obey, stand alone, it is the century of obedience.
so as not to adhere, stand alone, it is the century of adherence.
so as not to “comply with others”, stand alone.
it is the century of not getting out of line.<\/p>\neven when you miss a little
even the chatter meant to kill the silence
– silence is the greatest scarecrow of the time -,
you choose to be alone. an individualist, a shady fellow!<\/p>\nsitting under the trees with your head bowed on a book
(jokingly now and then you fear
for the bare back of your neck), you are happy:
you just found out<\/p>\nthat the cobbled path to the county road
where the cold blued you as a child is called
cold road, that cold road was also over the village,
the path of migrating birds to the delta.<\/p>\nbut: on days when you no longer understand anything
and the books don’t tell you anything
and the stranger is also parting with himself.
when you hear the pulse of loneliness beating rhythmically
in your head like a hammer, your anxiety rises
its blood-soaked snout from your chest,
self-assured and greedy like the lion
riding on the antelope pinned to the ground.<\/p>\npowerless for days and days on the one-finger ice
(what transparency!), you suddenly come alive to the sight
of the faces from the depths. still bent over,
the irrational shapes to distinguish
in their fan of meanings, you try to tell yourself
alone a story. but just as steamy,
as imponderable as when you’re happy,
you realize you’ve forgotten all the words.
only the water rustles underneath continuously.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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3. (\u00eemp\u0103r\u0163it…)<\/p>\n
\u00eemp\u0103r\u0163it \u00eentre umilin\u0163\u0103
\u015fi orgolii dezastruoase
primind \u00een plex propriul
vaier r\u0103sfr\u00eent de cuvinte
el \u2013 un condiment pre\u0163ios
scos de zile mari
pentru v\u00eenatul la tav\u0103 \u2013
\u00ee\u0163i reaminte\u015fte
c\u00eend nu e cazul:
eu s\u00eent poetul!<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
(din vol. “existen\u0163\u0103 acut\u0103”, C.R., 1994)<\/p>\n
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(divided…)<\/p>\n
divided between humility
and disastrous egos
receiving in the plexus his own
groan reflected in words
he – a precious spice
taken out on special days
for the hunt on the platter –
reminds you
when it is not the case:
I am the poet!<\/p>\n
(From the volume “acute existence”, C.R., 1994)<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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4. ce spui, Doamne, tuturor<\/p>\n
ce spui Tu \u00een acela\u015fi timp la to\u0163i
n-are nici o logic\u0103 pentru mine \u2013
eu s\u00eent asociala incapabil\u0103 s\u0103 aud\u0103
vorbele zise tuturor deodat\u0103.
zi-mi doar mie ceva
(dar nu singur\u0103tate, nu fric\u0103
sau revolt\u0103, le \u015ftiu),
ceva puternic p\u00een\u0103 la implozie.
voi fi numai ochi \u015fi urechi
\u015fi voi \u00een\u0163elege totul \u00een felul
\u00een care iarna \u00een\u0163elege ning\u00eend.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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Lord, what you say to everyone<\/p>\n
what you say at once to everyone
makes no sense to me-
I am the asocial unable to hear
the words told to everyone at once.
tell only me something
(but not loneliness, not fear
or revolt, I know them),
something powerful to the point of implosion.
I will be only eyes and ears
and I will understand everything the way
winter understands by snowing.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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5. luna asta<\/p>\n
plutind ca o ra\u0163\u0103-nfoiat\u0103 deasupra
(noi s\u00eentem \u00een ad\u00eencuri, dedesubt)
nu are nici o leg\u0103tur\u0103 cu singur\u0103tatea noastr\u0103,
cu fruntea pur\u0103 a mamei din tinere\u0163ile ei
exterminate de istoria rom\u00e2neasc\u0103
ori cu ecranul luminos \u00een care m\u0103 v\u0103d.
ea e din alt\u0103 tara.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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this moon<\/p>\n
floating above like a fluffy duck
(we are in deep, below)
it has nothing to do with our loneliness,
with the pure forehead of mother from her youth
exterminated by Romanian history
or with the bright screen in which I see myself
it’s from another country.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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6. cum curge ploaia<\/p>\n
ascult darabana ploii pe blocuri, franche\u021bea ei pur\u0103. franche\u021bea ei absurd\u0103 \u00eentr-o \u021bar\u0103 unde p\u00e2n\u0103 \u0219i moartea e un politician: nu-i pas\u0103 de aparen\u021be, nici de ce se ascunde sub ele, un singur \u021bel pomp\u00e2ndu-i s\u00e2ngele-n inim\u0103 \u2013 s\u0103 \u00eenving\u0103.<\/p>\n
cum curge ploaia \u00eentr-o \u021bar\u0103 de politicieni, un teatru \u00een care personajelor de prim-plan le-au luat locul maimu\u021bele cu funduri ro\u0219ii\u2026 c\u0103-i iarn\u0103, c\u0103-i var\u0103, fug maimu\u021bele de lumin\u0103: jos, \u00een cuibul \u0219obolanilor. sus, \u00een podul cu molii drogate cu aburi de f\u0103in\u0103. dar team\u0103 n-au: steaguri ale dezastrului, pe acoperi\u0219uri flutur\u0103 pieile nobile puse pe be\u021be.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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how the rain flows<\/p>\n
I listen to the drumming of rain on the blocks, its pure frankness. its absurd frankness in a country where even death is a politician: it doesn’t care about appearances, nor what hides beneath them, one goal pumping its blood to the heart – to win.<\/p>\n
how the rain flows in a country of politicians, a theater in which the leading characters were replaced by monkeys with red bottoms\u2026 be it winter, be it summer, the monkeys run away from the light: down under, in the rat’s nest. up, in the attic with flour steam drugged moths. but they have no fear: flags of disaster, noble skins on sticks flutter on the roofs.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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7. ritual<\/p>\n
\u00een fiecare diminea\u0163\u0103
rup cordonul visului
\u015fi intru \u00een realitate
cu inima grea de team\u0103
de ru\u015fine
de g\u00eenduri st\u0103tute.
m\u0103 \u00eenv\u00eert printre voi
\u2013 animal stupid care
oprindu-se \u00een r\u0103stimpuri
prive\u015fte \u00een jur suspicios
\u015fi \u0163ip\u0103 f\u0103r\u0103 pricin\u0103.
\u00een fiecare diminea\u0163\u0103
pornesc \u00een c\u0103utarea
unei lumi vii
cu inima grea
de team\u0103
de sil\u0103
de g\u00eenduri st\u0103tute.<\/p>\n
(Poezie publicat\u0103 \u00een vol. “existen\u0163\u0103 acut\u0103”, Cartea Rom\u00e2neasc\u0103, 1994, cenzurat\u0103 fiind din vol. anterior, “tabieturile nop\u0163ii de var\u0103”, C.R., 1989.)<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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ritual<\/p>\n
every morning
I break the dream cord
and enter reality
with a heart heavy of fear
of shame
of stale thoughts.
I’m among you
– stupid animal that
stopping at times
looks around suspiciously
and screams for no reason.
every morning
I start looking
for a living world
with a heavy heart
of fear
of loathing
of stale thoughts.<\/p>\n
(Poem published in the vol. “acute existence”, Cartea Rom\u00e2neasc\u0103, 1994, censored from the previous vol. “habits of the summer night”, C.R., 1989)<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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8. macesul din magazia de lemne<\/p>\n
in acest ultim patrar de secol fara nici un curaj sa fii inlocuitoarea domnisoarei batrane moarte (in aprilie) de lupus tuberculos
(cate un starc argintiu in balta argintie tremura soarele toamnei).
sa fii o mica pata portocalie vaslind in centimetrul tau de aer printre cateva planuri de lectie si imaginea domnisoarei profesoare cu trei pisici in brate.
(in fata, campul deschis inspaimanta).
cand in magazia de lemne
macesul suporta dogoarea intunericulu<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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the rosehip in the woodshed<\/p>\n
in this last quarter of a century without any courage to be the replacement of the old lady who died (in April) of tuberculous lupus
(a silver heron in the silver pond trembles the autumn sun).
to be a small orange spot oaring in your inch of air between a few lesson plans and the image of the teacher with three cats in her arms.
(in front, the open field frightens).
when in the woodshed
the rosehip bears the sting of darkness.<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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9. natura nu e bovaric\u0103<\/p>\n
natura nu e bovaric\u0103, nu se d\u0103 drept alta niciodat\u0103:
nici hr\u0103nit\u0103 cu lecturi romantice regina-nop\u0163ii
nu-\u015fi uit\u0103 locul. ploaia nu merge prin ora\u015f aferat\u0103
ca o actri\u0163\u0103 \u015fi, chiar c\u00eend cade oblic, vorbe\u015fte direct,
r\u0103spicat \u2013 \u015fi ei \u00eei e sil\u0103 de bolmojeala oracular\u0103.
viespile \u00eemb\u0103tate de alcoolul perelor
au viziuni extatice f\u0103r\u0103 s\u0103 ne cear\u0103 voie \u2013 doar \u015ftii,
tu ai cules perele din iarb\u0103! v\u00eentului nu-i pas\u0103
ce credem noi despre el, nici tunetul nu se ded\u0103
la spectacol (m\u0103 gr\u0103besc s\u0103-\u0163i spun tot,
timp nu mai e mult pentru noi\u2026).
to\u0163i \u00ee\u015fi vorbesc limba matern\u0103 firesc, natural,
cu m\u0103re\u0163ie. noi de ce n-am face la fel?<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
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nature is not bovaric<\/p>\n
nature is not bovaric, it’s not pretending to be someone else:
nor fed with romantic readings queen-night
never forgets her place. the rain doesn’t walk through the city fussy
like an actress and, even when it falls obliquely, speaks directly,
bluntly, and she’s sick of oracular mumbling.
wasps drunk on pear alcohol
they have ecstatic visions without asking our permission – you know it,
you picked pears from the grass! the wind doesn’t care
what we think of it, the thunder does not
show off itself either (I hasten to tell you all,
there is not much time left for us\u2026).
they all speak their mother tongue innately, naturally,
with greatness. why shouldn’t we do the same?<\/p>\n\u00a0<\/p>\n
traducere, M. M. Biela<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[45,40],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10578","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-mariana-codrut","category-romanian"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10578","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=10578"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10578\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10581,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10578\/revisions\/10581"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=10578"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=10578"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=10578"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}