Biography of Dan Danila
Dan Danila is a poet and painter living in Leonberg, Germany, since 1990. He was born in 1954 in Romania, where he graduated the Arts High School of Sibiu.
His poems, short stories, translations and graphics have been published by leading literary magazines in Romania, Germany, Denmark, Canada and the USA.
He has published five books of poems in Romanian, and has also translated into Romanian five book-length selections of French and German literary works by François Villon, Rainer Maria Rilke, Wolf von Aichelburg and Georg Scherg.
For his translations of Rilke's poetry, he won in 2000 the LITERART XXI Award. He is a member of the Romanian Writers' Association.
Dan Danila's Works:
° Found in a Drawer,1993
° The Rescued Park,1994
° A pseudo Treatise on Evening,1998
° Restlessness of Words,2004
° Poems – Wolf von AICHELBURG,1996
° Ballads – François VILLON,1997
° Summer Diversion – Georg SCHERG,1998
° Verses – Rainer Maria RILKE,1999
° Selected poems – Rainer Maria RILKE,2002
Dan Danila Poems
The Poets' Congress
Hypotheses were assumed, proofs were furnished, many old treatises consulted and after a long dispute,
I, the taster of late autumns, hardly remembering the tobacco flower spying the shivering hoary lake – can sometimes hear my heartbeat.
The inborn haughty to believe that flowers are so nice for us and birds are singing just to please the bored mankind. Death himself
I was born one noon of a torrid summer on Grandfather's farm – my hair was golden like ears of wheat, it was just harvest time and every soul was out,
Eve - A Tale Of Paradise
She was a green-eyed cat and could be silent for days on end, strolling about the Garden, going through spicy clusters, stomping tortuous paths with the bare soles of her feet.
As unreal as silent, blue-eyed cats touching your body in the dark when you cannot sleep,
Let us write a love poem on the latest snow, before the wind carries our words, our breath to the northernmost lands. Let us remove, just a bit, the cover of the field
I'm longing for a warm summer rain with its bolero tune of raindrops – their obsessive little noises impacting my ear-drums – down abandoned alleys
A Pseudo Treatise On Night
I too once had the same obsession of writing out a treatise on night, but her stillness made me shiver. I would have preferred to listen to her high
Wan like the first snow, bare, newly born among invisible gods, captured by the fragrance of saps, hidden away in resonant trunks.
I met the old pilgrim, the bearer of shades, a mantle breathing near his body, very slow transitory sign
Searching for a speechless mediator, a lover steals a red rose, with deep roots in secret alliance by darkness and night, illuminating the thorns with a flash-light.
The Golden Age
When I was a pale boy, the world was a bewitched and mindful place, with melted gold-light in the eyes and running over shells ashore
I wonder now and then, looking down, like a willow recalling the water mirror even when the wide river is frosted, what has become of the apple tree I set
The Golden Age
When I was a pale boy, the world
was a bewitched and mindful place,
with melted gold-light in the eyes
and running over shells ashore
to catch an echo or a rainbow.
Life was a grave and serious play:
I built of sand a narrow castle
for seven wounded tin-plate soldiers,