Nicolae, sadly, died in March of 2021 of complications due to Covid. He is missed by many.
He was born on July 15, 1948 in the village of Codreni, in
the Cainari region of the Republic of Moldova. The Cainari region was part of
Romania until June 28, 1940 when it was granted to Stalin by Hitler as part of
the Molotov-Ribbentropp Pact.
A 1972 graduate of the State
University of Chisinau, he is the author of many volumes of poetry and essays,
among them The Third Eye (1975), Pure Water (1980), In The Name of Orpheus (1983), The
Unsigned Painting (1985), A Wing
Under The Shirt (1989), Blackbird Once Wild, Now Tame (1992), The Teardrop That Can See (1994), Stone Egg (1995), and Freedom Has God's Face (1997).
Volumes and collections of his verse
have appeared in translation in ten different countries. He has translated into
Romanian the works of Lorca, Jukovski, and Goethe. He has also authored a
variety of high school textbooks on Romanian history and literature.
Starting in 1986, he was the editor
of Literature and Art, a weekly left-wing
newspaper devoted to the democratization of Moldova, its continued
independence, and the fight against a return to totalitarianism. He was
also a representative in the first Moldovan Soviet parliament to be chosen in free
elections.
He was past president of the
National Association of Moldovan Scientists, Scholars and Artists, and received several local and international awards for his poetry. These include The Youth Award, in 1997, the proceeds
of which were used for the digging of a new well in his native village,
Codreni. He received the 1988 Moldovan
National Poetry Prize, and the 1994 Columna
Prize for Poetry from the Romanian Academy of Arts and Letters.
Renowned as a publicist, a journalist, a historian, an educator and a poet, he was also a Deputy in the Parliament of the Republic of Moldova from 1990-94, and from 1998-2001,
In the summer of 1993, while living
as the guest of Efim and Olga Onefrei, in the village of Gratieşti, a young
teacher of Romanian named Svetlana Onefrei introduced me to his poetry. I was seeking a Moldovan poet who had never appeared in
translation in the West, and one who did not write in Russian, but in Romanian.
Moldova had been an independent republic for a little over one year, and its
people were embracing a return to the Latin alphabet, Romanian as its national
language, and a version of its own history unaltered by a Soviet bias.
I found such a poet in Mr. Dabija, who follows the tradition of the
great Romanian romantic, Mihail Eminescu (1850--1889). At times bucolic, and
pious, he writes in formal meter, with rhyme, and often employs biblical, as
well as natural imagery, such as the rose. He employs surrealism as part of a
tradition in modern Romanian literature known best, I suppose, by western
readers in the plays of Ionesco.
He also writes doinas, which are
folk lamentations usually sung a capella or with an accompanying guitar, or pan
flute. Lyrical and very sad, these doinas are an ancient part of both Romanian
and Moldovan folk culture alike. Dabija's poems, My Lost Hotin Realm, Doina,
and The Ballad of Toma Alimos are all
examples of doinas. In translating them, I tried to keep as much of the rhyme
as possible. In all the other poems in this collection, I didn’t adhere to the
rhyme scheme,choosing instead to translate with an ear to essential meaning and
texture.
Once called Moldavia, the Republic
of Moldova became independent in 1991 for the first time in its centuries-long
history. Moldova has been a piece of territory ruled by Romans, Cossacks,
Ottomans, and Stalinists (Soviets), to name a few. It was known as Bessarabia
while under the rule of Czarist Russia from 1812 to 1918. From 1918 until 1944,
it was handed over piece by piece to Soviet Russia as part of the
Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. It became a satellite republic of the USSR, providing
wine, cognac, and exotic fruits.
Sections of Moldova were granted to Ukraine when Stalin, as the
anecdote goes, took his crayon and decided where Moldova should be. In his
doina, My Lost Hotin Realm, Nicolae laments the true loss of the village of Hotin, which is now located in
the Bukovina section of Ukraine. I had the chance to visit Hotin with a native,
Constantin Colancha, and learned first-hand that in many Bukovina villages, such as Hotin, Romanian is the first language spoken at home. Russian, and Ukrainian are spoken often in public when appropriate, or necessary, due
to survival. Hotin is also the site of the medieval Hotin Fortress, built on
the Dneister River to protect Roman lands from marauding Turkish invaders.
Under Communist rule, the Romanian language which Moldovans have always
used, was regarded as a kitchen language, labelled "Moldavian" by the
Soviets and taught and printed only in the cyrillic alphabet. With Perestroika,
and independence, Romanian in the Latin alphabet, labelled officially as
Romanian, returned to Moldova as the state language and is now celebrated annually at the end of August as one of Moldova's most important national holidays.
It's still common, though less so with the passing of time, and as the Soviet generation passes on, to hear Moldovans raised during the Cold War period lament they don't know their
native tongue as well as they know Russian. This need and desire for a return
to a native language and identity is a theme throughout Mr. Dabija's poetry. In
Sad Rain, Moldova is a country broken
in half by its current western border, the Prut River, which divides Moldova
from Romania.
In the book’s title poem, Blackbird
Once Wild, Now Tame, Mr. Dabija
expresses anger and regret at what he sees as the passivity of the Moldovan
people who, he believes, have neglected their cultural heritage for a “feeder
full of grain”. Obviously, as a conquered nation, Moldova hasn’t had much of a
choice regarding an acceptance or rejection of what the powers in Moscow
provide for them. However, Nicolae Dabija and many other Moldovans do not blame the Soviets entirely for a lack of action
from their own people toward positive, constructive change.
The blackbird, a
symbol of freedom and independence in Moldovan folklore, should not be caged or
domesticated. Moldova was conquered by the Soviets, as Mr. Dabija writes in Barbarians, but do the Moldovans try
hard enough to turn their conquerors away? Though a market economy and friendly
relations with a democratic Russian Federation may help Moldova advance and develop,
does this newly formed republic benefit in the long run by neglecting its own
ethnic heritage? And if it does, what will Moldovans lose versus what they may
gain?
On one hand, Mr. Dabija's politics are to the left and do
not always sit well with former Soviet bureaucrats who nowadays may
conveniently label themselves champions of Democracy. On the other hand,
religion plays a large role in many of Dabija's poems. From a western point
of view, this could be construed as conservative. However, since religion
was essentially forbidden throughout the Soviet Era, it saw a rise in popularity throughout the nineties and early oughts, and avant garde, to a degree, for some artists from former Soviet bloc countries to use in
their work as a way to disassociate themselves with the atheistic oppression of
the past.
These poems first appeared in 1992,
in Mierla Domesticita, published by
the Writer's Union of Moldova as part of a series edited by Mr. Leo Butnaru, in
the city of Chisinau, Republic of Moldova. I will be forever grateful to Nicolae and to Mr. Mihai Cimpoi for giving me permission to make these translations.
It's also my pleasure to thank Svetlana Onofrei for introducing me to
Mr. Dabija's work. I would like to thank Nellie Miteveechi, Gheorghe
Tolfan, Constantin Colancha, Pavel Pripa, Varvara Colibaba, Julia Igniatuc,
Zina Borsch, Larisa Aladina, Ludmilla Cravchenko, Valentina Shmatova, Marianna
Dabija and my wife,
Angelica. Without their friendship, linguistic knowledge,
guidance and affection, I would not have been able to complete this endeavor.
To all of you I make a simple toast: Noroc, cu drag, pentru voi.
Below are samples of original poems followed by my translations as published.
MIERLA
DOMESTICITĂ
Pasare crescută cu grăunţe,
ce s-a desvăţat demult să zboare,
vezi cum vîntul, umilit, tresare
atingîndu-se de penele ei unse,
şi in ochii ei – cum cerul moare.
Mută umblă printre orătănii
şi adoarme grasă pe stinghii;
pasărea amiezilor pustii
timpu-şi pierde-n căutarea hrănii
sau batjocorită de copii.
Lîngă vraful cela de grăunţe
cîteodată stă – parcă-a murit,
şi sub ceru-n treuce prăvălit,
tot mai mult aduce-a rîigîit
cîntecul, ce dat i - i s-o anunţe.
Numai ochii ştiu să o denunţe,
cînd o boare de vîntuţ tresare,
pe această mută zburătoare
ce-a schimbat un cer fără hotare
pe o troacă plină cu grăunţe.
BLACKBIRD
ONCE WILD, NOW TAME
See this bird, once wild, now raised on grain
long ago it forgot how to fly.
See how the humble wind startles
her greasy, lethargic wings.
And in her eyes how the sky perishes.
Mute, moving among other fowl
falling asleep upon her perch
this is the bird of senseless afternoons,
losing time searching for food
enduring the cruel jokes of children.
Near that mound of grain
she sometimes sits as if stuffed by a taxidermist
the sky dumping her reflection
into her feeder.
More and more her music
sounds like a pig belching,
not the beautiful song of liberty she once stood for.
It’s her eyes that give her away.
A breeze awakens her from a stupor,
this voiceless aviator
who renounced a boundless horizon
for a feeder full of grain.
PISICA
În teatrul nostru raional
mureau pe scenă mari actori,
ce seara erau regi şi prinţi,
iar ziua – simpli croitori.
Dar într-o seară – Desdemona
cînd fraza şi-o pîngea, peltică,
şi-Othello o strîngea de gît –
trecu pe scenă o pisică…
Şi spectatorii nu priveau
cum moare ea, la o adică, –
ci au întors cu toţii capul
şi se uitau după pisică…
Şi multă vreme – după-aceea –
mergînd spre case-n urbea mică,
pe stradă – spectatorii încă
se mai gîindeau la cea pisică…
THE CAT
Great actors were perishing on stage
in our regional theatre.
Though each evening they were kings and princes
by day they were simple tailors.
One night, when Desdemona
cried out, lisping
as Othello grabbed her throat,
a cat crossed the stage.
The spectators didn’t watch
how Desdemona was dying.
They all turned their heads
to watch the cat.
And a long time after that
going home down the road
in our little town
they were still thinking
about that feline.
BARBARII
Ţară părăsită de barbari,
nu ai uitat să plîngi, să ari?!
Stau lîngă-un şes, ce-şi zvîntă flora,
care mă-ntreabă cit e ora.
Aud prin lume cum se plimbă
popoarele fără de limbă;
cu zeii tăbîrciţi în cară –
popoarele ce nu au ţară.
Ce caută? – mă-ntreb. – Ce vor,
aceste oşti, ce nu mai au popor?!
Ele pe cine apără de cine,
dacă se-opresc în lacrime la mine?!
Iarba-i nervoasă. Frunza – trează.
E ora cînd si bezna luminează.
Şesu-i absent. Tăria-i plînsă.
E ora cind se zice: “AŞA E. ÎNSĂ….”
Pădure-n floare de salcîmi –
icoană plină cu păgini.
Eu cum îngenunchez, pios,
ei îmi pun coarne, pe din dos.
Lume născută din cuvînt,
Cu bolta dată la pămînt.
Cu panseluţe şi cicori,
În care-ai vrea s-adormi, să mori.
Să te trezeşti, după o vreme, mut,
să afli că barbarii au trecut.
BARBARIANS
Country forsaken by barbarian
conquerors
have you forgotten how to cry, or to plow land?
I stand near a field, drying its flora in the sun,
asking me what time it is.
I hear how in this world walk Peoples without a language
their gods tossed into a cart.
Peoples who have no country.
What are they looking for? What do they want?
These armies who no longer have a nation,
whom do they defend if they halt in my tears?
The grass is nervous. Leaves awaken.
It’s the time when even darkness is a form of light.
The field is missing, its strength lies in its tears.
It’s the time when it’s said, “THAT’S OKAY, BUT….”
A forest of acacias in bloom
is like an icon full of pagans.
While I am kneeling piously, they are secretly unfaithful
crowning me with satanic horns.
Universe born of a word, with the sky given to the earth,
with pansies and chicory to fall asleep in and die.
And if only to awaken, after a time, dumb
and to learn the barbarian conquerors
have finally left.
MI-I TEAMĂ DE O CARTA
Mi-i teamă de o carte (o văd ades şi-n vis),
pe care aş deschide-o-nfrigurat
şi-n paginile ei aş da deodat
de toate versurile ce încă nu le-am scris.
De care suflteful mi-i,însă, îmbibat:
precum de apă un burete; şi solie –-
din partea lor – mi-i orice vis curat,
şi mi-i devreme ora cea tîrzie.
Parcă mă văd citind – in acea carte
doar pin’la mijloc orice poezie,
ştiind ce-i scris, deodată, mai departe,
cum dintr-un rînd poemu-ntreg învie.
Şi ochii-ar lunea, pustii de gînduri –
ca peste un destin ce se amînă–
peste acele, dragi şi sfinte, rînduri,
precum transcrie de-o străină mină.
Nescrise foi se vor sălbătăci-n sertare;
şi in amurguri vechi, cu iz amar, --
eu cartea ceea-aş, răsfoi-o, arare:
ca osînditul propriul dosar.
MY FEAR
OF A BOOK
I’m terrified of a book (often witnessed in a dream)
which, once opened, would be frozen
and in its pages I would arrive, all of a sudden
to every verse I haven’t yet written,
but by which my soul is nevertheless imbibed,
like the water in a wet sponge.
I see myself reading that book
only until the middle of every poem
and I see every spotless dream
ambassadors have sent from their republics,
though it’s still early in this late hour for me,
as I learn at once what is written further along.
In one line a poem is resurrected,
and the eyes slip, devastated by ruminations
over a destiny that’s postponed,
over those dear and saintly lines
transcribed by a strange hand.
Unwritten pages going wild in a locked drawer,
turning that book over in the ancient twilight
with a bitter smacking of my lips
as if that book was my doomed private dossier.
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