• Radu Vancu in translation

Radu Vancu in translation

Life of proximity. Morning

It’s excellent, in general, not to live,

not to open the eyes, to hunker down under the blanket

as if in a textile coffin, comfy, just a touch too small.

But then come the filter’s borborygma, and Elite’s flavour,

and the world which mustn’t exist

finally incarnates from her voice.

With dead sleepy eyes, you slowly-slowly get it together:

yes, it’s the world in which he killed himself when you were 19

& in which mom is suspected with breast cancer.

Bring the theodiceans, to kick their asses.

Sitting up on the bed, you strain and plunge

like a frogman among wobbegong dorsal fins.

And surprise – the air is not liquid, is not a sea

jam-packed with ravenous sharks. The air hits your head

like an invisible cast iron plaque, and she asks:

“Why do you groan?” Hair stood up for fear,

you stumble to the bathroom, close the door and listen your heart:

the-best-pos-si-ble-world-the-best-pos-si-ble-world-the-best-

Translated by Radu Vancu

Memories

When you watch the rain through the window at the faculty office

and memories and raindrops make your flat soul tremble,

so your mind spreads outward in wider and wider circles.

When long-forgotten harpies unfurl invisible wings and in your flesh soon

a flight deeper than flesh itself struggles. When with cracked lips

your soul softly whistles a wistful bittersweet tune.

When the rain has stopped and the vodka is but a memory,

as much memory as my father, also manacled to vodka by handcuffs

probably always a reminder to him, with the same evil disposition

with which it serves as a reminder to me, that being Vancu is hard labour, and

with a subtle wickedness taut about the soul’s wrist, more tightly

clasped with every drunken spree, ever more regrettable handcuffs.

When he hanged himself, before the paramedics arrived

I gave him artificial respiration – the last gasp of air wheezed from his lungs

and life soared all around and death soared all around and rather absurdly

I thought he still kept breathing, I came near to a romp,

his air was my air and I’m not dead yet, and with deaf ears

I heard the paramedics say: he’s dead. Memories make you happy.

Translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Radu Vancu

Reasons for survival

Happy the monster who can view his memories

without hatred and disgust.

Why would he be sentimental like that serial killer

who smiles tenderly watching the news

as his victims flash by?

To not hate & not love your memories –

As you realize that one of them can approach

the lukewarm light in your mind, crush it

like a viper. Without hate, only for the sake

of survival. Like  pressing DELETE

to remove a typo.

Immediately after, run to the kitchen,

to the refrigerator, remove the bottle, go to the cupboard

for the glass, for quick, short shots

all for the sake of survival

and still deleting all with one click,

then admire yourself at your leisure: glory to thee,

you are about to become happy.

Translated by Martin Woodside

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