Клюев Александр Сергеевич
Российский государственный педагогический университет
им. А.И. Герцена
доктор философских наук, профессор
Российский институт истории искусств
ведущий научный сотрудник
Klujev Aleksandr Sergeevich
The Herzen State Pedagogical University of Russia
Doctor Habil. in Philosophy, Full Professor
The Russian Institute of Art History
Leading Researcher
E-mail: aklujev@mail.ru
УДК – 304/7.01
ПОРТРЕТ НА ФОНЕ ИСТОРИИ
(Корина Юнгиату)
Корина Юнгиату (Corina Junghiatu) – выдающаяся поэтесса из Бухареста (Румыния). Она является заметной фигурой в современном литературном процессе.
Юнгиату получила степень магистра филологии, психологии, педагогики, а также степень бакалавра литературы и философии в Бухарестском университете. Постоянно совершенствует своё поэтическое мастерство.
К. Юнгиату свободно владеет пятью языками и пишет стихи, которые читают люди со всего мира. Среди сборников её стихов – «Изгнание на свет» и «Ритуал восхода солнца», нашедшие глубокий отклик у читателей. Готовится к печати третий сборник её стихов под названием «Духовные оттенки». Стихи Юнгиату переведены на 22 языка.
Литературные достижения Юнгиату отмечены многочисленными наградами, в том числе тремя престижными премиями Гуджаратской академии Сахитья.
В 2021 году Юнгиату получила медаль ордена Шекспира, а в 2022 году была удостоена премии Сахитья Пата.
Помимо писательской деятельности, Корина Юнгиату является главным редактором двух румынских литературных журналов «Verseum» и «The Poetry Tribune», организует международные поэтические фестивали и литературные смотры. Является основательницей литературного форума «Verseum». Вся эта её работа, безусловно, способствует развитию литературного творчества в различных странах.
В нашей подборке мы знакомим читателей с 10 стихотворениями Корины Юнгиату, в авторском переводе на английский язык.
Corina Junghiatu
SELECTED POEMS
- The Secret of Being
Human — an unfinished story,
a path full of questions,
a dialogue with the universe,
where God lays down His answers
in the whisper of the wind,
in the song of the birds.
Human carries within a secret beauty,
a calling that defies finitude
and opens toward eternity.
He is brimming with longings
and weighed down by shadows
so as not to be pierced by divine light,
so that God pulses silently
in his depths.
It is impossible that human,
by his very nature,
should not contain within himself
something that transcends his existence:
a fragment of infinity,
a seed of heaven hidden in clay,
awaiting its revelation
in the light of a new consciousness.
- Nothing
What is nothing?
It is the place where silences are born,
the essence of all that is absurd,
an absence that gnaws from within,
a void that erodes our being,
like a decay of the soul,
stripping us of any meaning.
For, in the face of nothingness, what are we?
Specters trembling at the thought of death,
clinging to illusions,
so as not to fall into the abyss.
But the abyss is not empty, as it seems,
it is filled with all we wish to forget,
filled with us, those who linger, suspended between the moment that dies
and the moment yet to be born.
What, then, is a nothing?
A mirror reflecting all we failed to love enough,
to forgive, to let go.
- The Tree
Beneath the grey arch of the sky,
a tree rises,
an icon of eternity,
defying the passage of time,
weaving its roots
into the deep fabric of the earth.
The light that envelops its body
does not burn, but breathes,
a secret breath of life
flowing over its bark
like a liquefied golden serpent,
in a symphony of colours and forms,
as in a Renaissance painting.
Its branches, fine embroideries of light,
reach toward the sky,
yet spread out
like veins embedded in the void,
where reason
dare not penetrate,
for logic unravels
before this divine spectacle;
only the eye of the soul can penetrate
the architecture of the branches,
traversing its mystery.
The tree stretches not toward the heights,
but toward the abyss that embraces
the beginning with the end,
fulfilling itself in the eternity
of an endless circle,
between roots and branches,
a connection between the cosmos and Earth,
creating a perpetual cycle of life
in the eternity that pours forth
from its green heart.
- The Alchemy of Flight
I am a butterfly in the window of time,
born from the eye of a spark,
a glowing ember hidden beneath the flesh of clay.
I am a tiny universe in motion,
a point of light scattered
in the fabric of reality
that unravels endlessly.
I grew on the tip of a needle,
a tightrope walker of fragility,
caught between height and abyss,
somewhere in a corner of a dream.
I stayed there, inert,
with my soul settled
on the threshold between today and yesterday,
watching as my crystal wings
melt in the slanting rays,
leaving behind a trail of ash
or perhaps of dreams.
I wondered then:
perhaps even flight
is just another fall,
another way of descending within ourselves.
- The Call of Intuition
Intuition springs from a divine truth,
like a lightning bolt piercing the night
from the depths of the subconscious.
Intuition is the echo of an ungraspable reality,
a tremor that courses through the soul,
bearing profound revelations
which the soul recognizes
as part of its own substance.
Listen to your inner call,
for it knows more than words,
more than reason, wandering lost
in the abyss of thoughts.
In that primordial silence,
before any reflection arises,
lies the living truth,
whispering to you from the depths of the universe,
from the place where meaning begins.
Intuition is the divine voice that calls you:
it does not ask, does not question, does not judge,
nor condemn you to certainties;
it only reveals the path
toward a light that penetrates beyond the mind,
toward the light where essence dwells,
toward the wisdom from which you may be reborn.
- The Spirals of Time
Time, this eternal mystery, is nothing more
then a cosmic spiral,
twisting mysteriously within itself,
grinding existence
into the dust of ephemerality.
Each moment is a fragile bridge between experiences,
a strange dialogue between desire and helplessness,
between the dream of being and the sadness of not being.
What is time, if not a fantasy of fate,
a game of fleeting moments?
And each second
is yet another drop from the collective memory,
woven and unravelled,
like a thread of sand in an hourglass,
unyielding and relentless.
I wish to seize a moment,
to crystallize it in eternity,
to place it within the heart of my soul,
to let it shine in the shadow of ephemerality,
a symbol of the aspiration to escape
from the snares of time.
- A Black Swan
Under the stained glass of the sky,
with a ceiling that seems to shatter
in invisible lines,
the wind unravels the chimaeras,
leaving behind echoes
crushed in the wake of footsteps.
Amid this spectral universe,
in the heart of emerald water,
a black swan, clad in a gown of stars
with feathers in the hue of alchemy,
unfolds between the secretive black
and the blue of eternity,
drawing circles of light
that defy gravity.
Its movements transform into liturgies,
becoming incantations of the spirit
in a symphony of unexpressed emotions.
At the threshold of sunset,
when the sun, rebellious and bloodied,
leaves scars on the texture of reality,
the swan, with wings bathed in azure,
vanishes into its own shadow,
transforming into a dream,
leaving behind
the memory of an ephemeral destiny,
where each flight is a journey
towards the essence of the self.
In watching it, I grasp the sublime fragility
of all beings who, like the swan,
are condemned to dance
on the stage of the infinite,
with wings spread wide,
ready to embrace THE LIGHT.
- Echoes of Silent Pain
What if,
from a barely perceptible touch of consciousness,
you could slip into another’s skin,
into the abyss of their sorrows,
bearing the weight of a pain not your own, yet one that devours you?
Once,
I too, blind in my naivety,
believed I could shatter
into a thousand fragments,
to be everywhere and nowhere,
to embrace the chaos of Selves
that tear each other apart.
In a whirlwind of foreign identities,
I lost myself, believing
I could feel the pain of every existence,
as if every wounded soul
was a reflection of my despair.
Empathy, this curse,
breaks you down
until nothing remains of you,
just a mute ache,
a wound that never heals.
- Parallel Universes
In the dawn of a dream,
where space unravels its edges
and constellations recompose into echoes,
two lovers seek each other
through parallel universes,
their absences vibrating
on unknown frequencies.
She, a blue light,
with moonlit eyes,
walks upon crystal shores,
leaving ephemeral traces
in the sands of other realities.
He, a blazing meteor,
loses himself in fields of
unimagined flowers.
Between them, time flows both ways,
building a bridge of particles
between dimensions,
and they meet like two waves
that cannot occupy the same space
but tremble at the same vibration.
- Autumnal Illusion
Tears drip from the syllables of rain
onto the prison bars of branches,
cloaked in gray shrouds,
while metaphorical mists hang in emptiness,
like triumphal arches
draped in a crepuscular veil,
unraveled from the crowns of trees.
Blood-red rubies and blonde opals
are engraved in the bronze of leaves,
flowers burn in the silver cup of frost,
an apple with a core of light
hangs from a branch,
while waxen grasses,
arranged like honeycombs,
sway in the foam of the wind
that echoes through shadows.
On the shoulders of the sky,
the autumn dusk is orchestrated
in violet, white, pink, and blue,
a true Byzantine painting
sketched in the hollow of the horizon,
from which bloodied poppies fall,
and the compact, transparent clouds
from the flora of polar stars
turn into fiery clusters on trays of embers.
Nuclear butterflies from diaphanous snows
announce winter — the prelude to reincarnation.
