Vio

“Cincispreze ani

tematoare, mama
imi aranjeaza fusta proaspat scrobita
sperand ca diseara sa nu fiu o ispita

tematoare, mama
ma lasa la party pana la un'spe jumate
numarand secundele peste cu ferocitate

tematoare, mama
imi explica ce si cum despre sex
alegand cu grija doar cuvinte din dex

tematoare, mama
imi face cadou numai carti
obiecte de recuzita si harti

tematoare, mama
schimba canalul cand e un film mai asa
si evita sa-mi explice ce-i je ne sais quoi

tematoare, mama
a ascuns pozele ei sexy din tinerete
si cand le-am gasit a facut fete-fete

tematoare, mama
evita sa-l sarute pe tata pe gura
si nu scapa nicicand vreo injuratura

asa ca eu
cu primul baiat pe care il plac
o sa fac tot ce mi-a zis sa nu fac.”
― Iv Cel Naiv, Uibesc

“A German or a Russian mamaloschen (mother tongue) pedigree made for two wildly different translations of the same verse by the American Yiddish poet H. Leyvik.

"Dos turemdike lebn in der turemdike shtot", translated "The towering life of the towering city" (Yiddish turem, "tower," of German origin) became in another version "The imprisoned life of the prison city" (via turme, "prison", from Russian).

I discovered this old "plot" in a recent lecture, a volume on American Yiddish Poetry, by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav. One of those gentle epiphanies that only apparently obscure footnotes or references could reveal.

In a frivolous gesture, I concocted an improbable rendition based on both translations, a slice of contemporary universal metropolitan spleen:

The imprisoned life of the towering city.”
― Harshav

“Regular maps have few surprises: their contour lines reveal where the Andes are, and are reasonably clear. More precious, though, are the unpublished maps we make ourselves, of our city, our place, our daily world, our life; those maps of our private world we use every day; here I was happy, in that place I left my coat behind after a party, that is where I met my love; I cried there once, I was heartsore; but felt better round the corner once I saw the hills of Fife across the Forth, things of that sort, our personal memories, that make the private tapestry of our lives.”
― Alexander McCall Smith, Love Over Scotland

“It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane.”
― W.G. Sebald, Vertigo