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Aseara cautam o carte si tot cotrobaind prin diverse sertare si rafturi mi-am gasit o cartulie draga pe care nu o mai vazusem de vreo opt-nou ani,  probabil. Am spus vazusem voit – nu citisem sau rasfoisem. Uneori am impresia ca simpla vedere a unei carti pe care ai citit-o candva te face sa iti reactualizezi continutul. Sa creasca o data cu tine. Asta insa se desprinsese de mine.

Ezra Pound – Cantos se numeste cartulia. Un volumas mic, cu o coperta dintr-un carton subtire, urat, scoasa in 1983 la Junimea. (O sa o iau la munca sa fac un scan si sa-l pun aici.) Cred ca am cumparat-o in primul an de facultate de la vreun anticariat, desi nu vad nici o stampila de spate. Un volumas din 1983 care contine si ideograme chinezesti pictate. Pentru cei care nu stiu, Pound baga in poeziile lui si semne chinezesti sau grecesti. Incepe extraordinar, mitic-fabulos (argonautii):

Apoi ne-am intreptat spre corabie,
Am impins-o in valuri, despicand cereasca mare,
Am inaltat catargul si-am intins panza,
Am transportat pe puntea acestui negru vas
Oile si propriile nostre trupuri ingreuiate de plans,
Iar vantul umfla panzele manandu-le inainte…

Nu o sa scriu acum o exegeza despre Pound. Nu sunt in masura, in primul rand. Si in al doilea rand deja se gasesc suficiente materiale pe Internet. Daca aveti chef, incepeti cu articolul din wikipedia si apoi mergeti pe linkuri upsteam. Nici nu o sa vorbesc despre aspectele biografice mai inedite – in esenta, anti-semitismul lui fervent, colaborarea lui cu regimul lui Mussolini si apoi internarea intr-un lagar aliat. Pentru mine Pound este numai poetul.

Tin minte cand am citit prima data o poezie de el. Scrisoare din Exil. Cred ca aveam vreo 17 ani si am fost profund impresionat. Era intr-o antologie Nobel contra Nobel. Am cautat-o astazi insa n-am dat repede peste ea, asa ca la sfarsitul postului voi trece versiunea in engleza. Cred ca e mai bine asa, de fapt. O traducere este intotdeauna imperfecta. E o epopee in optzeci de versuri. Cat de lirica si cat de ferma in acelasi timp, cat de supla si cat de laconica. M-am sculat de dimineata cu feelingul ei in cap. Cu ideea de prietenie adevarata, peste timp si vicisitudini. Si cu sentimentul ca, intr-un fel, cu totii suntem niste functionari chinezi torturati de micile presiuni cotidiene si nemaiavand de multe ori energia sa ne intalnim cu bunii si dragii prieteni decat prea rar. Dar poate asa este viata, nu? Iata cum se termina:

And once again we met, later, at the South Bridge head.     
And then the crowd broke up—you went north to San palace.
And if you ask how I regret that parting?
It is like the flowers falling at spring’s end,
                    confused, whirled in a tangle.
What is the use of talking! And there is no end of talking—     
There is no end of things in the heart.

Am pus toata poezia in postul acesta. Sunt convins ca multi dintre cei care au ajuns pana aici o vor sari. Pentru ca din pacate societatea, scoala, sistemul nu ne invata sa citim poezii. Din contra, ni se spune prea des in prea multe forme ca poezia este o chestie simandicoasa, elitarda, patetica si lipsita de utilitate. Pentru cei care au insa o farama de timp o sa spun doar atat (desi nu sunt convins ca eu am dreptul sa spun cuiva ceva): Sunt 80 de randuri. Ati citit mai multe cuvinte  (mosty junk) pe blogul asta in postul de fata. Post care nu are decat scopul sa prezinte poezia. Post care e doar ambalajul. Poezia e adevarul continut. So go for the real thing.  Poezia vorbeste sufletului daca o cititi cu atentie, si nu ca pe un articol din Libertatea. E frumoasa. Si daca macar o persoana o va citi si isi va aminti de ea peste ceva timp, inseamna ca lumea e un pic mai buna (mai departata de instinctual si de imperativele animalice ale supravietuirii, si mai apropiata de idealurile de libertate pe care doar creatiile spirituale de prim rang le pot concretiza; libertatea umana nu se castiga prin vizite la hipermarket sau mall).

Exile’s Letter

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By Ezra Pound

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  From the Chinese of Li Po, usually considered the greatest poet of China: written by him while in exile about 760 A. D., to the Hereditary War-Councillor of Sho, “recollecting former companionship.”

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  SO-KIN of Rakuho, ancient friend, I now remember That you built me a special tavern, By the south side of the bridge at Ten-Shin. With yellow gold and white jewels                     we paid for the songs and laughter,         5 And we were drunk for month after month,                     forgetting the kings and princes. Intelligent men came drifting in, from the sea                     and from the west border, And with them, and with you especially,         10                     there was nothing at cross-purpose; And they made nothing of sea-crossing                     or of mountain-crossing, If only they could be of that fellowship. And we all spoke out our hearts and minds …         15                     and without regret. And then I was sent off to South Wei,                     smothered in laurel groves, And you to the north of Raku-hoku, Till we had nothing but thoughts and memories between us.         20 And when separation had come to its worst We met, and travelled together into Sen-Go Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning and twisting waters; Into a valley of a thousand bright flowers …                     that was the first valley,         25 And on into ten thousand valleys                     full of voices and pine-winds. With silver harness and reins of gold,                     prostrating themselves on the ground, Out came the East-of-Kan foreman and his company;         30 And there came also the “True-man” of Shi-yo to meet me, Playing on a jewelled mouth-organ. In the storied houses of San-Ko they gave us                     more Sennin music; Many instruments, like the sound of young phœnix broods.         35 And the foreman of Kan-Chu, drunk, Danced because his long sleeves Wouldn’t keep still, with that music playing. And I, wrapped in brocade, went to sleep with my head on his lap, And my spirit so high that it was all over the heavens.         40   And before the end of the day we were scattered like stars or rain. I had to be off to So, far away over the waters, You back to your river-bridge. And your father, who was brave as a leopard, Was governor in Hei Shu and put down the barbarian rabble.         45 And one May he had you send for me, despite the long distance; And what with broken wheels and so on, I won’t say it wasn’t hard going … Over roads twisted like sheep’s guts. And I was still going, late in the year,                     in the cutting wind from the north,         50 And thinking how little you cared for the cost …                     and you caring enough to pay it. Then what a reception! Red jade cups, food well set, on a blue jewelled table; And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning;         55 And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the castle, To the dynastic temple, with the water about it clear as blue jade, With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums, With ripples like dragon-scales going grass-green on the water, Pleasure lasting, with courtezans going and coming without hindrance,         60 With the willow-flakes falling like snow, And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset, And the waters a hundred feet deep reflecting green eyebrows— Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight, Gracefully painted—and the girls singing back at each other,         65 Dancing in transparent brocade, And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it, Tossing it up under the clouds.                       And all this comes to an end, And is not again to be met with.         70 I went up to the court for examination, Tried Layu’s luck, offered the Choyu song, And got no promotion, And went back to the East Mountains white-headed.   And once again we met, later, at the South Bridge head.         75 And then the crowd broke up—you went north to San palace. And if you ask how I regret that parting? It is like the flowers falling at spring’s end,                     confused, whirled in a tangle. What is the use of talking! And there is no end of talking—         80 There is no end of things in the heart.   I call in the boy, Have him sit on his knees to write and seal this, And I send it a thousand miles, thinking.                  (Translated by Ezra Pound from the notes of the late Ernest Fenollosa, and the decipherings of the Professors Mori and Araga.)