Spirit

TWO POEMS BY IRINA NECHIT

Art by Tony Brinkley

Translator’s Note

I came across the work of Irina Nechit (1962- ), who lives in the Republic of Moldova, while reading a two-volume anthology titled Un Secol de Poezie Româna Scrisă de Femei (A Century of Romanian Poetry Written by Women). I was attracted immediately to her voice, its intimate timbre, and to her poems’ blend of realism and surrealism. Extended metaphors and textured images often function as apt signifiers for emotional turmoil and as sharp socio-political critiques.  

 

In the case of “Beyond,” I was taken with the startling images and the tensions created by Nechit’s juxtapositions. She mentioned that the poem emerged from her obsession with pantheist worldviews and the presence of the cosmos within us, humans. It’s especially in the summer, she added, that “we feel the exultation of nature and the Creator at work in the spectacle of all that blooming, the ripening of fruit, the unleashing of natural forces.”  

 

As Nechit noted in our correspondence, “Tyranny” was written as a response to Putin’s invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. It’s a protest against his dictatorial drive to subjugate Ukraine. The Z and V letters painted on Russian tanks became symbols of the invasion. As a poet, I was particularly drawn to how Nechit captures, with such economy of language and dramatic intensity, the psychology of despots. Her background as a playwright and leanings toward postmodern absurdism serve the poem well. With just a few details she particularizes this oppressor (see his beard dipped in honey and the seven saucers), while also inviting us to recognize in him all tyrants. 

 

As a translator, I am drawn to work that facilitates encounters with another poet’s and culture’s particulars but that I can also immediately ‘hear’ in English. Nechit’s dictions and images lend themselves effortlessly to the process of translation. Before I translate the words, I spend time with a poem until I feel I have inhabited its voice and images. If I cannot clarify for myself, or in consultation with the poet, what the poem is doing and how, or feel that I cannot hit, in English, the right registers, I abandon the translation, afraid to do it a disservice. In these two poems, the most difficult decision had to do with the use of punctuation. As a translator, I am aware that punctuation and syntax sometimes work differently in the languages I translate from and into, and that replicating the original’s gestures in the translated text is not necessarily an act of faithfulness. For instance, comma splices feel natural in a Romanian poem as they are not grammatical mistakes, but they raise eyebrows in English. My decision, in this case, will be driven by how I want the poem to be received in the host language (English), so generally I will go with conventional punctuation. In the case of the poems included here, I decided to preserve the comma splices in English for reasons of pacing and tonal fluidity. 

Mihaela Moscaliuc

Two poems

Translated from Romanian by Mihaela Moscaliuc

Beyond 

Summer boils in corners, 

crawls with the vipers, 

gallops across meadows whipping the sides of horses,  

summer calls 

from the vocal chords of an infant,  

the red vortex of a rose, 

the striped abdomen of a wasp, 

summer is on the other side 

of this wall riddled with cracks, 

the levee collapses, 

the river overflows, 

summer, summer, where is summer?  

it rubs its feet against crickets, 

it thrashes in the throat pouch of a pelican, 

it swishes in the gullet of a nightingale, 

it lingers around me, 

licks my calves, 

then hides and I no longer know 

where my summer is, 

the one siphoned through mother’s milk, 

fewer and fewer seedlings float in my blood, 

fewer and fewer cells in my flesh 

boast a sun in place of a nucleus,  

fewer and fewer butterflies draw close  

lured by the glint in my eyes 

to singe their wings.  

Tyranny  

The tyrant opens the newspaper, 

sniffs the seven porcelain saucers,  

dips his beard in honey,  

opens the carafe filled with blood, 

orders his beloved dog: 

on your knees! 

you too on your knees!  

The tyrant tears up the newspaper, 

spills the carafe on his knees, 

with his fist smashes 

his reflection in the mirror, 

throws the seven shaking saucers  

out the window, 

plays the lyre: 

oh, the honey of tyranny!  

The newspaper ascends to the throne.  

The tyrant pelts it with two raw eggs, 

dips his quill in blood,  

writes in capital letters:  

ZZZ 

VVV 

yells to the sun:  

on your knees! 

you too on your knees! 

Two poems

By Irina Nechit

Acolo, dincolo  

Vara fierbe în cotloane, 

se târăşte împreună cu viperele, 

galopează pe pajişti plesnind crupele cailor, 

vara e acolo, 

în coardele vocale ale bebeluşului, 

în vârtejul roşu din mijlocul trandafirului, 

în abdomenul tărcat al viespii, 

vara e dincolo 

de zidul cu milioane de fisuri, 

digul cedează, 

râul se revarsă, 

vara, vara, unde-i vara?  

se freacă de picioarele greierilor, 

se zbate în guşa pelicanului, 

gâlgâie în gâtlejul privighetorii, 

se gudură pe lângă mine, 

îmi linge pulpele, 

apoi se îndepărtează, se ascunde  

şi nu mai ştiu 

unde-i vara mea pe care am supt-o cu laptele mamei, 

tot mai puţine răsărituri îmi curg prin sânge, 

tot mai puţine celule din carnea mea 

au câte un soare în loc de nucleu, 

tot mai puţini fluturi vin să-şi ardă aripile 

ademeniţi de strălucirea ochilor mei. 

Tiranie  

Tiranul deschide ziarul, 

adulmecă cele șapte farfurioare de porțelan, 

își moaie barba în miere, 

destupă garafa cu sânge, 

îi strigă câinelui său iubit: 

în genunchi! 

și tu în genunchi! 

 

Tiranul rupe ziarul, 

varsă garafa pe genunchi, 

sparge cu pumnul 

imaginea sa din oglindă, 

le face vânt pe geam celor șapte 

farfurioare tremurătoare, 

cântă la liră: 

o, mierea tiraniei! 

 

Ziarul urcă pe tron. 

Tiranul aruncă în el cu ouă crude, 

își moaie pana în sânge, 

scrie cu litere mari: 

Z Z Z 

V V V 

îi strigă soarelui: 

în genunchi! 

și tu în genunchi!