Born Again-In Exile: Poems in the Original American& in Translation (From the Romanian)

By Mirela Roznoveanu

"Within the tradition of polished verse, Mirela Roznoveanu has accomplished an astonishing marriage of Romantic elements. The elegance of Brecht and Rilke converses with the occasional surrealism of Rimbaud, flavored by a Baudelairian melancholy which moves the reader between the streets of New York City and ancient landscapes both historical and mythological. A good portion of the text is translated from the Romanian, and these especially seem masterfully rendered. At a time when formalist experimentation dominates much of the poetic scene, it is wonderful to have a collection that reaffirms the beauty and craft of the image within the geography of self discovery."-William James Austin,WilliamJamesAustin.com,kojapress.com

"This is the voice of a poet who identifies herself with Iphigenia by redeeming herself, transcending personal drama and sacrifice, and triumphing in the realm of culture and creation."
-Nina Cassian

Translating Mirela Roznoveanu one cannot help being reminded of intensities and flights of the imagination from such distinctive poetries as those of Emerson, Dickinson, Plath, and Stevens.
-Heathrow O'Hare

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 27, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595766413

Mirela Roznoveanu

Mirela Roznoveanu is a native of Romania who immigrated to the United States. Her literary works in Romanian include novels, critical essays (among them the vast Civilization of the Novel: A History of Fiction Writing from Ramayana to Don Quixote), and poetry. She has published in English two books of poems, Born Again – in Exile, and Elegies from New York City; a collection of novellas, The Life Manager and Other Stories; and literary criticism. Mirela Roznoveanu has been always a writer pursuing her way to perfection and artistic development. These trends could be seen from her earlier works, such as her manifesto of her Romanian debut volume in Romania, “Lecturi Moderne” (Modern Readings, 1978). Mirela is among those writers and critics who have sought over recent years to turn the energy of their native cultures into a complex work with signifi cant moral and aesthetic connotations. Alexandra Conte is a musician, teacher and illustrator. She graduated the Academy of Music from Bucharest, Romania, and worked at the Metropolitan Museum of Art since 1976 being associated with Julliard School of Music. She wrote several illustrated musical books for children. This book is a proof of the deep friendship and cooperation between Mirela and Alexandra, which we hope will continue! Enjoy!

Book preview

BORN AGAIN—IN EXILE

Poems in the Original American&

in Translation

(from the Romanian)

by MIRELA ROZNOVEANU

Versions by HEATHROW O’HARE

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

BORN AGAIN—IN EXILE

Poems in the Original American& in Translation (from the Romanian)

All Rights Reserved © 2004 Poems in the original American, Mirela Roznoveanu; Translation Copyright, Stefan Stoenescu

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

iUniverse, Inc.

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Publisher’s Reader and Consultant Charles M. Carlton, Professor of Romance Linguistics (Emeritus), University of Rochester

Annie Gottlieb—Copy Editor

ISBN: 0-595-31831-2

ISBN: 978-0-5957-6641-3 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Part I

Part II

SONGS

REVELATIONS

Part I 

BORN AGAIN—IN EXILE

Poems in the original American

A writer is born twice: the first birth marked by

entry in the Civil Registry, and the second when

starting as a published writer. Exile was to be

my third birth; the chance of my life.,.. and

that birth was the most painful. The pain and

struggle of exile has made me a new person.

M.R.

53rd STREET

My previous and future lives

look like 53rd Street in Manhattan

with its MOMA and at the corner

the startlingly snobbish Fifth Avenue

with Madison Avenue—the savage one—one block away

and further down Park Avenue with bulls running

under its sidewalk.

I’ve always taken my break on the cruelly enchanting

Lexington Ave.

zestfully walking down 53rd Street

stopping over at little parks and lobbies

and at strange atriums dreaming of real nature

all the while looking forward to reaching Third Avenue

with its fumes and smog from the skyscrapers’ air conditioners

and with its supermarkets swarming with people

as if it were the last day in the universe.

I’d walk then to Second and then to First down to the heavenly

East River—

yet I’d always feel I’d missed something fundamental.

Maybe the sense of normal life?

Or of the shared life with a mate?

Tired, I’d decide to go underground.

I would exit by train crossing the river Styx

for the Heaven or the Hell of the Kingdom of Queens.

BORN AGAIN—IN EXILE

It’s snowing in Washington Square

and this morning Melpomene is hiding behind her smile.

The homeless and the freethinkers who usually mill around

the Fountain and the Arch

are gone, leaving the place to the screaming kids enjoying

the snowdrifts.

I went to my favorite shop to buy myself a regular coffee.

There were only a few people there—it was already

a New Yorker’s white Saturday—

when I suddenly bumped into Ovid, across from Sullivan Street.

Just then the wind blew the lid off my coffee cup

and several hot drops hit my face.

Has he escaped from Tomis, the place of his relegation?

Has finally Augustus pardoned him for the misdeeds

of his old Roman days?

Countless times Ovid and I enjoyed each other’s company,

the winter of our lives, at the edge of the Black Sea,

where I had spent my childhood and my youth

(the twenty hundred years between us did not matter)

apprehending life through Ovid’s eyes.

Speaking in a low voice, looking around

as if fearful of the military of the new Empires

which again and again

have taken over the Pontus Euxine in an endless nightmare,

Ovid has told me about life’s freedom,

instructing me about the goddess of art,

which made me dream of the New Rome.

On my way back from Sullivan Street

I couldn’t decide whether I was born or am living in exile.

Could I indeed have finally reached Rome?

THE NEST

In the heart of America I discovered a nest.

It was in the middle of a scorching summer,

Nebraska’s cornfields hungrily pulling down the horizon,

that someone gingerly touched my hips. I allowed myself

to be abducted.

My entire life had been a restless scouring of continents

in search of a peaceful spell.

Hoeing the soil, I grew roots and leaves and relished

the unbelievably fine taste of the whitish sap

climbing up from the ground through my veins.

Soon a robin blessed my right shoulder with an egg,

adding some blooms and a few splinters of wood.

Scared, I would keep vigil over the turquoise oval for days,

watching and holding my breath,

thirstily waiting for the miracle to happen.

Days on end under the cruelest sun,

I checked every