The Thoughts Of Poor Dionysus Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

Oh! The big-bellied flask is good only as a candlestick.
Sizzling, the candle burns its tallow dripping on the wick.
And in this poverty get inspired and sing: versifier.
Money… I haven't seen in ages. Wine… I didn't drink for a year.

I'd give a kingdom for a cigarette. Snowy clouds pile up in an out of this world way.
But where do I get a cigarette? The wind makes the window squeak easily.
The tomcats miaow in the attic. Each turkey has a blue crest,
And all walk through the yard with short steps, being in thought.

Ah! What a cold weather… I see my breath. And my sheepskin cap
I pulled it down hard over my ears, down to my elbow. I don't even sweat.
Like a gipsy who pokes his finger from first to last
I test with my elbows, through the thin sweep-net wall
— To see if the weather gets milder at all.

My God, why am I not a mouse? At least it has fur on it.
I could eat my own books. I won't even think about frost.
A piece from Homer's work would seem to me yummy and sweet.
The hole in the wall might look like a palace,
And a poster on the wall will look like my spouse.

There are my room's corners: with long cobwebs, and dusty walls.
I like to look at the red bedbugs, how they swarm.
It's hard for them on my skin, and on my hay mattress.
They don't even have anything to suck, in such large numbers.

They came out for a walk. What a polite party…
Walking, an old bug steps devoutly.
That one is a cavalier. Really, does it know French? It is fast.
The one that circles the crowd is a dreamy kid.

Ah! I'm cold. Look how a black flea hesitates on my hand.
Shall I moist my finger in my mouth? No, let the poor thing go. I won't catch it.
Settled on some woman, I know he will see the devil.
But I, what do I care about this poor "guy? " What for should I get rid of it?

And indifferent as he is, the tomcat purrs on the fireplace.
Hey, come here to have a talk, tomcat you — my unique friend and clock.
I may empower you as mayor, if there is a cats-village in this world.
So once and for all, you shall know what gentry is. Poor thing you…

What this cute "guy" thinks, as he sits and purrs non-stop?
What thoughts line up each time in his cat-dream?
Perhaps a female cat with white fur lures him with her love.
Did she grant him rendezvous at the shed, at garret, or at the gully?

Would I be still a poet if there were only cats in this world? It is no different:
Miaowing in lofty odes tragically caterwauling — a Tomcat…
He lay all day in ambush for the mouse's tail. He lay idle in the sun
At night in the garret, on the veranda, at eaves: he is in awe at the moon.

If I were a philosopher — I would be left forever without feelings.
I defend the ideals on the subject of people's choices.
And I am generous to the young cats. Young female cats I protect.
I show them that the world is a dream—a routine dream— of a tomcat.

Or like a priest in the temple dedicated to the Cat Deity
Who, after His form and likeness, had created the cat's family?
I would shout: Oh, cat kin you! Cat kin you! Oh my,
It is bad for your soul that you do not fast in lent, cat family.

Oh! Amongst you are those who do not believe the wording of the law.
One brain is superior to other brain. One being is a cut above other being.
The catkin's fate opened it up for them! Oh, atheistic guys,
Don't you fear hell and its spirits — the bats?

This is preposterous! — Any good cat should spit on you.
Don't you see how much wisdom is in your brain?
Oh, you cats with no heart — He gave you claws to scratch.
And He gave you whiskers to purr. Do you want to feel Him with your paw?

Ah! The end of the candle quenches in the short-necked bottle.
Old man, go to sleep. It got dark. Can't you tell?
We may dream favours and gold — I in bed, and you in the corner.
If I could at least sleep… The sleep is a thought's remainder.

Oh, cover my body with your silent harmony,
Come, sleep you, or come death you. It is the same for me:
If with cats, fleas and with the moon, I have a party
Or if I don't: to whom, does it bring a thing? Poetry is poverty.

(1872 December 1)

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