joi, mai 29, 2014

Life has walked through my rooms

future sound of poetry I - acrylic/canvas 80x100 - iulia pana




tonight I thought to confess to you
my life took a walk through
the unknown house where I am the master of ghosts ...
ghosts so ugly
they can no longer scare me
so life took a walk
putting me to the test
but I could not help
my only thought,
to confess to you
even if it would be
the simplest confession
about me ...
so I will say that my life
walked through my rooms
and abandoned me
when I tried to say
only in my mind
that one night when life walked
in my memory
it could find
nothing
but
you.


    translated by Adrian G. Sahlean

duminică, mai 25, 2014

Fairy tales and dragons






I dream of myself in the neighborhood.
my neighborhood
where the grass did not grow
just reinforced concrete
among sea-saws of shriveled wood.
a crazy geometry structered everything for us
the buildings ordered us.
there were narrow alleys
like wrinkles on a forehead
we meandered through them
like drops of sweat
always looking for a new place to hide

then

I see myself on the stairs by the elevator
the small manufacturing flaws
in the sandblasted glass door
gave me the priviledge
to understand the world and how it was born
when my young neighbors made claustrophobic love
waking up dazed in a spacecraft
taking them to the 10th floor
the blue floor where they vowed to each other
to stay together forever
surrounded by concrete

nothing was a joke

I slide on the red iron tobogan
forged in an infantile form
that marked us for misbehaving
to the market place with all the people
at the the rapist-murderer’s public sentencing
then queuing for meat
where we heard the echo of sighs
from a young woman
who had an illegal abortion
in the basement
in her family’s storage space...
that night a silver bowl rose
through the ventilation holes
changing into sequins,
the girl had become sparkly
like a dazzling gown
my memories also glitter
precious beads on my patriotic necklace

I see myself on the bulding terrace
where in summer tv antennas were poles for hammocks,
then fractals to capture
extraterestrial movies and games
from other worlds
the hot tar smelled of freedom
like spiced meatballs on grills
while we the building’s children
with thousands of guitars
matched the nation’s voice from stadiums.

then

my song about you and your history
sadly trickling down the buiding’s lip
slipping through the precast joints
into my teenage room
where posters stood for furniture
and the phone was
as now, a red ear

in my neighborhood girls ran with their lovers
straight from the beach,
leaving their towels as decoys
they would send me their letters with no addressee
so I failed the high school entrance exam
then, what a scare
the interview with
the charming plainclothes officer
a heavy 24 carat chain
to carry to the death
people were workers and glissened in the sun
a national-naive painting
the building had stairs of steam
and peepholes
the elevator doors were kept open for me
even without a car
I’ve been afraid of depths ever since

when the games were finished,
fairy tales began
from the mouths of the stories
dragons with seven heads appeared
smiling our way
people on my street wore colored glasses
I remember how fashionable stickers were
each window had one character assigned
there was a huge crack in the building
on my alley
late evenings or mornings at dawn,
my rebel friends would pass though it
I never saw them again
though during humid summers
their silhouettes appear in the hot air
like templates for ghosts

from the cubed houses, cut in concrete
custom-made
human mammals emerged.
the shoemaker ran out of glue
and lifts and heels
because we all wore wings and claws
in my neighborhood joy was best friends with death
and my world rested
on an imported crutch
on words without sound
in an alien world
from neighborhood tales alone

in my neighborhood
natural periscopes grew among the buildings
like tulips and chrysanthemums on patchy grass
so we had calligraphed signs
"do not pick the flowers"
my neighborhood was a fairyland
but in each tale
as in a perfect matrix
dragons with seven heads appeared
and from story to story
in thousands of pages
how many dragons
were split in two and multiplied?
and what I say now
is a never-ending story...


translated by Adrian G Sahlean

vineri, mai 23, 2014

Ebony bones



what can I say to you,
in this fainting relativity
this light pink
with lovely reflections
as if the world pays to see
our dreams turned into
neon signs...
ebony bones
where pain strikes
I don’t know what this means for you,
but love does not wait
it’s the river the world floats on
the blind world, you know
I don’t have much to say
we are parts of a secret body
the tower where we could live
is far away
it could collapse in the distance
waiting for us
like a mere pebble
on a hillside
so fragile is the music moving us
only the secret body fights on...!
it only fears the color black
and Father Time


translated by Adrian G Sahlean

marți, mai 06, 2014

Experi-mental poetry

E aşa , o chemare canibalică,
ecoul din mine sau
un ţipăt rotund în carnea dulce
alte scâncete mici înăbuşite între buzelebureţi
în bumbacul din tricoul alb, în stratosfera
patului ravaşit în care ele
ecourile ratate devin
căutările ce pe ascuns se agaţă de urechi
spun un vers cânt o gamă trupul se gândeşte
ce să facă cu mine cu mintea mea
care n-are habar
mă înghite ca pe un şir de cuvinte
cine e această doamnă poetry şi cine o ţine de mână ?
O, ţine bine să nu-i piardă îmbraţişarea,
torsul curbat  desenat pe cearceaf,
mai atrăgătoare decât încercarea mea
mai ademenitoare în note pastelate
Clar adunate din emoţii şi spaime
e o nouă senzaţie, să mă las copleşită?
se pliază se lipeşte ca un mulaj mă strânge în
propria-mi carne mă umple de sânge proaspăt.



Experi/mental poetry


It’s like… a cannibal’s call,
the echo inside me or
a rounded shriek in my sweet flesh
small muffled whimpers
between my lips-sponges
in the cotton of my white shirt
in the stratosphere of the disheveled bed
where missed echoes become searches
secretly clinging to my ears
I say a verse play a scale my body ponders
what to do with myself with my mind
that has no clue
it swallows me like a string of words
who is this lady poetry
who holds her hand?
oh, hold tight, don’t lose her embrace,
the curved torso drawn on the bed sheet
more appealing than my attempts
more alluring in pastel tones
gathered from fear and emotion
it's a new feeling, should I let it
overwhelm me?
it wraps around it molds like a cast squeezes me in my own flesh

fills me with fresh blood.


Iulia Pana’s Golden Meter 



 by Ileana Marin
Ileana Marin


este profesor afiliat la University of Washington, Seattle si colaborator al Centrului de Excelenta pentru Studiul Imaginii, Bucuresti. Specialista in literatura comparata si studii despre text, Ileana Marin publica studii despre materialitatea textului, despre literatura si arta de secol XIX, precum si despre cultura romana. Este membra fondatoare a Societatii Culturale Romano-Americane din Seattle.  










Rigla de aer -Tracus Arte 2013

                                    Iulia Pană și etalonul ei poetic de măsură

Volumele de poezie ale Iulie Pană sunt răsfirate pe aproape 20 de ani: de la Imagine simplă care i-a adus premiul de debut la Festivalul de la Sighet în 1996, la Statuia Zilei de mâine doi ani mai târziu, de la Noaptea Scorpion din 2003, care a primit premiul filialei USR Dobrogea, la Contrasecunde în 2008 și acum Rigla de aer, cel mai dens metaforic dintre ele, probabil pentru că este, poetic vorbind, și cel mai autobiografic. Fără a fi un ciclu narativ, fără a miza exclusiv pe transferul emoțional dintre subiect și eul poetic, volumul Rigla de aer este autobiografic în măsura în care dezvăluie în poezie ce înseamnă să fii poet.

Cheia acestei lecturi este dată de primul poem. Experi/mental poetry propune una din temele recurente ale volumului și anume ce înseamnă să scrii poezie. Este un text auto-portret în care poezia, ca un iubit după o noapte de dragoste, apare într-una din cele mai reușite imagini plastice ca “torsul curbat desenat pe cearceaf” (5). Iulia schimbă rolurile de gen în care poezia era femeie, muză, inspirație, pentru poetul îndrăgostit. Poezia, de data aceasta, este un accesoriu feminin, un tricou, un mulaj, un contur, este forma în care se ascunde poeta, este intimitatea carnală care vrea să-și găsească o ieșire. Dacă mă gândesc că tricoul, mulajul, cearceaful sunt toate albe, atunci poate că poezie este chiar urma lăsată de corp pe suprafețele care devin un alt fel de hârtie. Poezia nu se scrie cu stiloul pe hârtie, ci cu atingerile corpului viu de carne și sânge, înregistrate pe suprafețele albe. Înregistrările acestor zone de contact între corp, obiecte și alte ființe sunt poemele din volum.

Fiecare poem se naște dintr-o metaforă de un lirism cotidian care surprinde tocmai prin limbajul nepretențios. Metaforele Iuliei nu înșeală niciodată, ci spun, paradoxal, “lucrurilor pe nume”, transformându-l pe cititor într-un martor al experiențelor poetice îndraznețe și-l invită la autoexaminare. Dealer-ul de somn este imaginea comercializată a sincerității în iubire pe care adesea o ascundem în spatele unor lucruri mărunte; puiul de cangur, de exemplu, definește frica fiecăruia de a ieși din zona de comfort în ciuda bravadei. In pantofi cu cuie mișcarea este inversă: poeta încarcă poetic o metaforă goală, iar expresia a “bate cuie-n talpă” este rastălmăcită în sensuri multiple. Poezia este o avalanșă de expresii, în care cele idiomatice își găsesc sensuri noi cum ar fi “cuiul în talpă”. Cuiul din talpă nu te doare și nici nu te împiedică să alergi pentru că este literal pantoful de atlet care te propulseaza peste obstacole. Realitatea imediată este poetică așa cum o doză de cola sau sprite este asemeni unui plămân care a inspirat dar care nu poate expira fără ca cineva să nu deschidă clapeta de aluminiu pentru a elibera presiunea dinauntru. Ce-ar fi dacă ne-am imagina că de fapt nu suntem decât niște doze de aluminiu, fiecare cu eticheta ei? Reificarea comercială a ființelor nu este posibilă atâta timp cât limbajul se reinventează și poezia ne salvează de la fi reduși la o marfă de consum.

Poezia transcrisă digital dă seama de noul mod de scriitură în care tehnologia se substituie caligrafierii care fusese conotată cu poeticitate în sine. Iulia găsește in digitalizare un mister pe care-l sparge ca un hacker. Codul de bare din eu nu mă mai văd identifică ființa superficială sub care pulsează inima, simbol recurent în volum. În era “social media” cuvintele sunt palpabile și inefabile deopotrivă, dar întotdeauna puternice ca să poată crea lumea din jur în al cărei iureș ne prind poemele Iuliei Pană.

Volumul Rigla de aer se citește dintr-odată. Dă dependență și îl recitești de fiecare dată cu alți ochi, adică cu ochi noi care găsesc sensuri noi. Pentru mine, tema autoreflexivității textului scris digital este pretutindeni și niciunde pentru că deși am toate dovezile cum că textul a fost scris pe computer, poemele le citesc pe hârtie, iar ultimul mă asigură de concretețea scriiturii paradoxale: electronice, multimediale, digitale și atât de concrete.

o linie îngroșată a pus capăt tăcerii, ultimul poem, este dedicat grafemelor scriiturii, fie ca ele sunt tușe, borduri de stradă, sau chiar străzi, fie că sunt liniile palmei. Scriitura este impregnată în spațiul construit sau natural, de fapt tot construit atâta timp cât ii construim sens. Compusă din linii de separare între lumea fenomenală și lumea textului, scriitura este locul de întâlnire dintre cele două lumi devenind astfel epiderma universului.

Iulia Pană este numele cel mai potrivit pentru o poetă: este chiar ea, Iulia Pană, pana care scrie digital poezia.







Iulia Pana’s Golden Meter 
Iulie Pana has published five poetry volumes over almost twenty years. In 1996, she published The Simple Image, which was awarded the debut prize at the y Sighet Poetry Festival and after two years, The Statue for a Day. It was, however, The Scorpion Night from 2003 that brought her the prize of the Dobrogea Branch of the Romanian Writers’ Association. In 2008, she explored the process of writing as a way of understanding the passing of the time in Counter-seconds. Her most recent volume, The Rule Made of Air, is her most metaphoric of her volumes, probably because it is the most autobiographic. Although it is not a narrative cycle and it does not rely on the emotional transfer from the poetic subject to the poetic I, The Rule Made of Air is autobiographic because it reveals what means to be a poet: the poet is the one who cares about words and suffers when they become meaningless or clichéd, empty vessels of conventional expression.

Iulia’s poems recover the inherent lyricism of the everyday language and transforms this recovery into the theme of the volume, as Ben Marcus did in his last novel The Flame Alphabet. While Marcus created a dystopian world in which the high toxicity of words killed people, Iulia Pana reconstructs the world with words that she has already cleansed of toxicity by extracting them out of idiomatic or fixed expressions, and by giving them an unexpected context. The key for this reading of the volume is the first poem, Experi/mental poetry, which launches one of the recurrent themes: what it means to write poetry. More than anything else, the poem is a self-portrait of a poet who sees a poetic trace anywhere she turns her eyes. The imprint of a curved torso on a bed sheet, a T-shirt that still shows the contour of a body like a mold, function as graphemes of corporeal alphabet inscribed on white fabrics and surfaces that become a sort of paper. Poetry is not simply written with a pen on paper; it is written with bodies made of flesh and blood recorded by the poet.

Each poem of the volume comes out of a metaphor that surprises the readers’ expectations. The Sleep Dealer is the title of a poem in which the search for love coincides with the search of unique expressions of love. The reading of the poem feels more like witnessing a woman giving birth to a poem. The poet finds out that it is possible to express sincere love only when she avoids using words which have been abused in commercials or clichés. In her search for authenticity, Iulia creates dissonances similar to dodecaphonic music only to bring it to a harmonious end. In Shoes with High and Sharp Heels she does the opposite: Iulia recharges poetically an empty metaphor, and creates word games by reshuffling expressions that contain the word “shoe”.

Familiar things are poetic, too. For example, a can of Coca-Cola is like a person whose lungs are full of air which cannot be released. We all wear our labels on the outside, proud of our identity. What if we believed that we were nothing but some aluminum cans? What makes us different from goods? What saves us from falling from our already fallen status even lower to the level of products for sale? Iulia’s answer is “poetry”. Only poetry can make us different from any other goods. As long as we are capable of writing and reading poetry we are allowing poetry to reinvent us as pure beings.

Digitally transcribed poetry can also record the way in which writing has changed because of the new technology. The computer substitutes for calligraphy, which was, by definition, poetic. Texts written on computers hide a mystery that entices the poet to hack the code to get access to the pulsing heart. The bar code from I Cannot See Myself Anymore replaces the superficial person with a reading device for which words are both palpable and ineffable. In the era of social media, the words become feelings and a simple click on the “like” button takes care of a second of emotion. Iulia makes the reader beware of replacing real emotions with their hypertextual versions whenever there is interaction on facebook and that’s why she strives to bring emotion back into words.

Emotions matter to Iulia. In Thin Thread, Nice Memoire she appeals to our childhood memory in order to recover the sediments of our innocence and with it, our lost poetic soul. The childrens’ bedtime song about a spider’s net on which one, two, then many more elephants were swinging is the intertext that structures unconnected memories and transforms them into a poem. There are not many literary intertexts in Iulia’s poems, yet there is one in A Salty Drop which recalls Eminescu’s Gloss. These two completely different intertexts indicate the two extremes between which Iulia’s poetry unravels: from the anonymity of a children’s song to the celebrity of a national bard’s masterpiece. The huge spectrum of tones that she is able to harmonize offers the reader addiction to her poems. With the second reading new meanings, new connections, and new intertexts surface, all increasing the self-reflexivity of the text.

The last poem of the volume, a bolded line ended the silence, is dedicated to writing. Wherever she looks Iulia sees graphemes: streets, border stones, or palm lines. Writing is impregnated into buildings and nature alike and as long as the poet makes sense of what she sees she builds for her readers a poetic reality. Separating the real world from its poetic version, writing is the realm where the two collide. Writing, thus, is the skin of our universe. Just think, my reader, that Iulia Pana has the right name for a poet: “pana” in Romanian means “quill” and “feather”. I prefer  “quill,” because Iulia herself reflects the gift of writing.


ebony bones- amazon

http://www.amazon.com/Ebony-Bones-Iulia-Pana/dp/1512242519/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1440349159&sr=8-2&keywords=iulia+pana