ELENA ȘTEFOI
( Poems from A Grammar of Tower of Babel. Parallel texts, translations Ana Olos, foreword Lidia Vianu, MTTL, 2014 )
Canadian Autumn
Luminous clouds blue foliage
red from green melt gold
my step among nomad people
over bridges and footbridges
gang planks and passages
from rivers to brooks
at all locks and waterfalls
through all forms of lateness
not at all tired
colours elixirs divine imprints
balm from the west to the east
scrolled sash adornment on the road
to which the world from within me clings
without knowing why you aren’t anymore
wishing it minced broken on the wheel
with the meaning of the old story
otherwise in no way
September Day
Ruby sunset light
music and ecstatic expressions
on the alleys of Major Hill
Ashininabe the guide
clings to youth on the pedestal
paying attention only to her schedule
of genuflexions and other historical exercises
I stop at the Japanese Zen garden
near the Museum of Civilizations
and all at once the Lord’s hand
overturns on me
an immense and sparkling barrel of honey
I bathe in the lenience of the solstice
from head to toe from my skin to the marrow of my bones
my entire being sets itself into order
like a blessed score
on which soon the masterpiece
will be written
in the Noose of Summer Light
Circus-like danger
sweet and mysterious
the devil himself
an acrobat detached from the troop
fixes elegantly his neck
in the noose of summer light
setting on fire both
the underground glances
and the celestial whirl
an ardent symphony pours
from his horns over the city
a pair of sober swans
descend from his soles into the depths
I talk to them –
in my mind from afar
I know I have won ,
I tell them tender words
in my grandmother’s idiom
and they slide fearfully beautiful
towards the bank of the Rideau Canal
to feed from my palm.
Meetings at the Museum of Civilizations
A fearless flame
descends the stairs in front of the museum
while a frightened to death wave
climbs them
on the green, close by,
Archambault’s People
are calling me by my name, are curtseying to me,
white and filiform
one of the statues separates from the group
takes me by the hand, whispers endearments
with my mother’s words, with my grandmother’s voice,
with the love of the whole succession of women
from our family
who gave birth by mistake
from time to time to a rebel spirit