marți, 19 iunie 2018

IN SEARCH OF JOY by George Anca

George  Anca

IN  SEARCH  OF  JOY


How is joy between man and God?


            "The Ode of Joy", both Schiller's verses and Beethoven's music may surprise out of Europe, for instance as "folklore" in a program of Korean minority in China, or during the mess in any church in the world. Religious joy and human search for it are subject to some gene indicating the type of God according to inborn creed. Can indeed one change religion inherited from parents with a new one belonging to the other? Can one live down the joy of a belief with another quite different from the former? Has a man as Panait Istrati writes four lives in one? Is child Krishna in Mathura, the seducer Govinda-cowboy in Vrindavana, and coachman of Arjuna in Kurukushetra war of Mahabharata one and the same god, one and the same man? The fear turns into joy especially when music and dance, poetry and drama, prayer and silent meditation, all beauty of the world energizes the happening of life and death. The joy of death is not compulsory for heroes or avatars, but an epitome of purpose of man in the world, eventually his Dasein, with Heidegger's concept.
            In fact, it is difficult enough to follow the joy on life or in a specific culture. It is like a lie in front of truth or sorrow. Or is it the truth itself in some momentary eternities of perishing being? One can die out of joy, other can enjoy death of many or few. How can be conceived the joy of a murderer? How can be compared to the joy of the victim? If everybody kills everybody, while God is dead, what more remains for joy? Who says let no human realization including self-killing, be out of joy like a black hole.
            The city of Florence is giving joy to mankind. If only its lilies will remain after Apocalypse some joy is still flourishing. Some girls are called Gioia. La Blache Ophélia flotte comme un grand lys. (Rimbaud).
            The Apocalypse has in its name the very lady author of Pralaya, Kali, mother and destroyer of the world, giver of joy.

Anthropology of Non Recognition


There is no need to say that making literature as anthropology and anthropology as literature one loses one’s chance to be recognized within either of them. But the theme of recognition itself can be a joint topic, on top of it may be Kalidasa’s “Recognition of Sakuntala” (Abhijnan Sakuntalam). Even after some two thousands or one thousand and a half years it seems that Dushyanta recognizes his deserted wife almost for the sake of their child, successor to the throne.
A XIX century’s replica is Cãlin, poem by Mihai Eminescu, in which the recognition of the deserted bride, after years, starts by meeting the child.
Philosophy of recognition in modern times includes patterns drawn by Hegel, Pascal or Lacan. An anthropology of recognition would record also discrimination between cultures and their representatives to the extent of cultural cannibalism, colonialism-globalism, glocalocalism, etc. To be recognised during or after demise is very little related to one’s will. It seems rather an outer concept. It is quite hard to enjoy the non-recognition, but after all, then it is time to find God. Does God recognise a person unrecognised even by self? Is it possible to get God’s message when all expectations are transformed in lost obsession of Divinity?
Two poems of different ages and others reveal the devotion-recognition to Goddess or simply Woman. Shankaracharya’s Saundaryalahari and Dylan Thomas The Ballad of Long Legged Bait are almost at the antipodes one from the other, yet they may meet either in Shakta cult or in surrealistic mysticism of woman. Sanskrit worshipper makes a cosmic prayer to the Divine Mother on the whole and part by part, while the Welsh ballad writer thinks of woman in pieces thorn apart by sharks and lovers. While the religion – recognition of Uma, Daughter of Himalaya attracts hotly tantric and advaitin followers, the woman-bait is recognisable only through song recreation of the victim in tune with legions of raped and kidnapped heroines like, for instance: Kira Kiralina of Romanian ballads and Panait Istrati’s novels, in which the heroine kills herself in order not to be captured by the rapists. In another ballad by Ionel Zeana, hundred virgins chose to kill themselves instead of entering the harem of the invaders.
The woman is recognised as Goddess and as a bait almost in the spiritual inspiration, once an enthusiastic devotion, twice even still more literary as empathic ballad. The joy and sorrow come together as the characters are concerned, but both works convey either advaita-nondual, or Donne’s love canonization in the same move as prayer and chatarsis causes- effects.
From thousand to thousand years, from Sakuntala to Saundaryalahari and ballad Goddess-bait other characters and feelings are transformed or forgotten also as recognition of the fact that recognition is not possible. 


LA GIOIA (Avoiding murder by life)


            Toward ending a novel entitled La Gioia, an own life, dedication “per la citta di Firenze” appeared in mind both as appropriate in ICAES context and as key in a possible thriller form according rather to reception than original narration. The character Gioia, if real, belongs to Florence, if invented, is an anthropologist’s thrill, i.e. late Romulus Vulcanescu. Out of three sons, during the years, two hanged themselves, the oldest one, Mihu, did it in Florence, after Uffizzi was bombed and his nearby accommodation was spoiled. Woman Gioia fictionally suspected by anthropologist, became la Gioia, as life, free of murder. The paper continues the novel with an anthropological open epilogue eventually in Indore, India, and back in Firenze.


Kali and Barbara


            Black Goddess Kali is beyond my series of anthropological novels Indian Apokalipse, while Barbara is an unanswered name. Indeed, when once I asked poet Gheorghe Pitut, what’s the name of your daughter? His answer was, I don’t tell you. Even I had ready more than one novel, the series started, by chance, via Paris, with Medea (Mother Medea in Paris). Was Medea another Kali or simply Barbara? But trying to enumerate the titles of the series I missed one: Fear of the Orient, either of long time since written, or rather because of global deconstruction including Orient-Occident double. Having not what to fear anymore because of unanswered names in the theme of this paper.


Esoterica Left For Fiction


            It was the case of young Patricia. She came to Balkans and proposed to the IUAES, in 80’s, a commission of the body which was actually the theme of 2002 Inter-Congress in Tokyo. She invited me in New Jersey for two paid conferences on situation in Romania and also took me in a drive among Washington facts of arms. She told she left esoterica and started writing stories.  I read and commented for her next day, missing some deer. It was my last day in my first America (esoterica). For some reasons I was called in the evening by madame Esthère who urged me never search Patricia in order to be forgiven.
            The paper opposes some literary works of anthropologists and anthropological works of writers. With special references to Lucian Blaga and Seamus Heaney.


Hanuman and Baudelaire in Mauritius


            Hanuman belongs to humankind as well as to divine lore of lord Rama. His faithfulness and brave cleverness are epic epitome of a sanctity soldier. Out of India, his worship turns into a consciousness of radical ecumenism through which such fantastic, sometimes humorous monkey-man-god gives happiness to everyone in his/her own way of life and expectation.
            Speaking on Hanuman in the islands of Mauritius, surrounded by larger ocean – Tagore’s ocean of silence – no fighting anymore a demon ruling another island, but demons inside ourselves, I remember a young rebel embarked by his forester father for India in punishment, and left by the captain of ship in Mauritius to collect him and return. He eventually remained in modern time an epitome of cursed poet, claming, for instance in A une malabaraise, Indian atmosphere for what was, in fact, his imagination in Mauritius. From here, both Hanuman and Baudelaire guide us to faith.





In Search Of Joy
Florence, XVth ICAES, July 2003


Wulf And Eadwacer

Celtic Poem


            It is to my people as if one gave them an offering.
            Will they feed him, if he feel want?
                        It is not so with us.
            Wulf is on an island, I on another;
            Closely begirt is that island with bog;
            Cruel men are there on the island;
            Will they feed him, if he should feel want?
                        It is not so with us.
            I waited for my Wulf with far-wandering yearnings,
            When it was rainy weather and I sat weeping.
            When the warlike man wound his arms about me,
            It was pleasure to me, yet it was also pain.
            Wulf, my Wulf, my yearnings for thee
            Have made me sick, thy rare visits,
            A woeful heart and not want of food.
            Does thou hear,Eadwacer? Our cowardly cub
            Wulf shall bear off to the wood.
            They can easily sunder that which was never joined
                                                                                       together,
            The song of us two together.



Show Me, Dear Christ, Thy Spouse, So Bright And Clear

John Donne


            Show me, dear Christ, thy spouse, so bright and clear
            What! is it she, which on the other shore
                        Goes richly painted? or which rob’d and tore
                        Laments and mourns in Germany and here?
                        Sleep she a thousand, then peeps up one year?
                        Is she self truth, and errs? now new, now
                                                                                       outwore?
                        Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore
                        On one, on seven, or on no hill appear?
                        Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights
                        First travaile we to seek and then make love?
                        Betray, kind husband, thy spouse to our sights,
                        And let my amorous soul court thy mild dove,
                        Who is most true, and pleasing to thee, then
                        When she’s embrac’d and open to most men.



Self-Portrait

R. Raj Rao


                        I, Raj Rao, 32
                        Am a festering poet worn to the bone.
                        Lice live in my hair, mice have bitten my toes.
                        I have protruding teeth, a fungoid groin.
                        I smell like a horse.
                        My nails with which I sometimes scratch my
                                                                                           verses
                        Are grown and black in my and twisted out of
                                                                                           shape.
                        There are holes in my teeth that let out slime.
                        I am a yahoo in sex: I drink even your urine.
                        My beard is a stubble.
                        My feet are huge with patches of white.
                        The sputum in my throat poisons the air.
                        Worms crawl in my stomach.
                        I belch in public, retch after meals.
                        I think every day of death.
                        Awakened by nightmares, I often howl at
                                                                                          night.
                        I claw at my hair, byte my own flesh
                        And scream until my voice cords snap,
                        Smashing everything I can lay my hands on.

(From An Anthology of New Indian English Poetry, Edited by Marakand Paranjape, Rupa & Co, Calcutta, 1993)



The Farewell To The Brethren Of
St. James’s Lodge, Tarbolton

Robert Burns


                        ADIEU! A heart-warm, fond adieu!
                                    Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
                        Ye favour’d, ye enlighten’d Few
                                    Companions of my social joy!
                        Tho’ I to foreign lands must hie,
                                    Pursuing Fortune’s slidd’ry ba’
                        With melting heart, and brimful eye,
                                    I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa’.

                        Oft have I met your social Band,
                                    And spent the cheerful, festive night;
                        Oft, honor’d with supreme command,
                                    Presided o’er the Sons of light:
                        And by that Hierogliphic bright,
                                    Which none but Craftsmen ever saw!
                        Strong mem’ry on my heart shall write
                                    Those happy scenes when far awa’!


                        May Freedom, Harmony and Love
                                    Unite you in the grand Design,
                        Beneath th’ Omniscient Eye above,
                                    The glorious ARCHITECT Divine!
                        That you may keep th’ unerring line,
                                    Still rising by the plummet’s law,
                        Till Order bright completely shine,
                                    Shall be my Pray’r when far awa’!

                        And You, farewell! Whose merit claim,
                                    Justly, that highest badge to wear!
                        Heave’n bless your honor’d, noble Name,
                                    To MASONRY and SCOTIA dear!
                        A last request permit me here,
                                    When yearly ye assemble a’,
                        One round, I ask it with a tear,
                                    To him, the Bard, that’s far awa’!

(From British Poets and Secret Societies, by Marie Roberts, Croom Helm, London, 1986)



A Song Of The Rosy-Cross
W.B. Yeats

                        He who measures gain and loss,
                                    When he gave to thee the Rose,
Gave to me alone the Cross;
                                    When the blood-red blossom blows
                        In a wood of dew and moss,
                                    There thy wandering pathway goes,
                        Mine were waters brood and toss;
                                    Yet one joy have I, hid close,
                        He who measures gain and loss,
                                    When he gave to thee the Rose,
                        Gave to me alone the cross.



Creative Fancy

Rig-Veda 1-6.3


                        Nature’s beauty is an art of God.
                        Let us feel the touch of God’s invisible
                        hands, in everything beautiful.
                        By the first touch of His hand rivers
                        throb and ripple.

                        When he smiles the sun shines, the
                        moon glimmers, the stars twinkle, the
                        flowers bloom;
                        By the first rays of the
                        rising sun, the universe is stirred;

                        The shining gold is sprinkled on the
                        smiling of buds of rose;

                        The fragrant air is filled with sweet
melodies of singing birds;

The dawn is the dream of God’s
creative fancy.


Cows

          Rig-Veda 6-28.6


                        Ye cows, you fatten the emaciated,
                        And you make the unlovely look beautiful,
                        Make our house happy, you with pleasant
                                                                                        lowings,
                        Your power is glorified in our assemblies

(From The Holy Vedas, Pandit Satyakam Vidyalankar, Clarion Books, Delhi, 1983)



Kotikkulakar

Cuntarar


                        Why do you live alone
                        On the seashore battered by fierce winds?
                        My sin is great
                        That I must see you thus.
                        Handsome Lord at Kotikkulakar,
                        who keeps you company here?

                        It is because you once
                        devoured the ocean’s poison
                        that you now favor Paravai, the sea?
                        Handsome youth at Kotikkulakar,
                        bordered by bush groves,
                        why do you live alone here, my Lord?

                        O supreme Lord who lives south of joyful
                                                                                Maraikatu
                        where many devotees sing your praise,
Handsome Youth at Kotikkulakar,
where flowering groves abound,
why do you live alone, my Lord?

This is a great wilderness
resounding with the hoot of the owl,
which terrifies the beautiful Goddess;
cruel wicked hunters live here.
Handsome Lord at Kotikkulakar,
why have you made for yourself
a temple in this place?

You who share your body
with your spouse with long, kohl-darkened
                                                               eyes,
Lady Ganges lives in the same frame.
Tell me why you have taken
yet another companion,
the Lady of the Forest,
with bracelets on her wrists,
to live with you
in the temple of Kotikkulakar
with blossoming groves?

Sharing your form with the Goddess
whose mound of Venus is like a cobra,
you dwell south of Maraikkatu
fragrant with maravam trees.
Handsome Youth of Kotikkulakar     
full of kuravam groves,
my Lord, you live alone
with darkness for your friend.

Dear ambrosia who dances
with the sounding warrior’s ring,
the music of drum and flute,
Handsome Youth of Kotikkulakar
bordered by flourishing groves.
O God, why do you live alone, my Lord?


Did you find Orriyur a mortgaged town?
Did you leave Arur,
thinking it a strange place?
O Handsome Youth crowned with the young
                                                            moon,
my Lord of Kotikkulakar,
why do you live alone?

Though Vishnu the Strider
and the god with four heads
could not measure your form,
you wander as a homeless beggar.
Is this the reason, o Lord,
that you have made your temple
on the shore where wild hunters live?

Those who know these ten verses
composed by the poet of Arur           
in praise of the handsome young Lord
of Kotikkulakar, the shrine at land’s end,
south of Maraikkatu and many other towns on
                                                            earth,
will surely abide in Shiva’s glorious world.

(From Poems to Siva. The Hymns of the Tamil Saints. Indira Viswanatham Peterson, Motilal Banarsidas, Delhi, 1991 / Princeton University Press, 1989)



Garabi / The Song Of The Dance

Pir Shamas


                        Today we found joy in our hearts,
                        through the worship of the True Guide, o!
                        Do not be led astray, o foolish folk,
                        but take the secret into your hearts.

                        These temples and idols are a
                        deceit, so why revolve in this circle?
                       
                        Worship the True Guide, the Light, the
                        Light, for the Guide is the Glorious Lord.

                        If you regularly offer the tithe in full,
                        you will be gainfully rewarded.

                        Those perfect believers will rule
                        who proceed upon the True Path.

                        You may dance by day and night,
                        but nothing will be achieved.

                        All these idols are of stone, and
                        they do not speak at all.

                        Why do you let yourself be led astray in
                        vain, where these are man-made objects?

                        The deity of dance is false, for
                        where is Bhavani found in it?

                        It is the divine Guide whose power
                        is complete, for it is there that they all dwell.

                        See how false all the worldly creatures
                        are, whom you have known since birth.

                        Accept Ali as the true manifestation,
                        and you will gain your reward.
                        Your sins and faults will be removed,
                        and you will attain high station.

                        Thus did the true Guide explain the
                        truth to them, but they did not recognize it.

                        All the people listened to him,
                        then spoke in replay:

                        If you come tomorrow night,
                        let us dance together.

                        Pir Shamas the Guide spoke thus:
                        “Proceed in awareness, o!”

(From Ismaili Hymns from South Asia. An Introduction to Ginans. Cristopher Shakle and Zawahir Moir, Curzom, 2000/ 1992,Unesco)


Nasadiya-Sukta

Translation by J.Muir


            Then there was neither Aught nor Naught, no air nor
                                                                        sky beyond.
            What covered all? Where rested all? In watery gulf
                                                                        profound?
            Nor death was there, nor deathlessness, nor change of
                                                                        night and day.
            That one breathed calmly, self-sustained; naught else
                                                                        beyond it lay.
            Gloom hid in gloom existed first – one sea eluding                                                                           view.
            The One, a void in chaos wrapt, by inward fervor
                                                                                    grew.
            Within it first arose desire, the primal germ of mind,
            Which nothing with existence links, as sages searching
                                                                                    find.
            The kindling ray that shot across the dark and drear
                                                                                   abyss –
            Was it beneath? or high aloft? what bard can answer
                                                                                    this?
            Those fecundating powers were found, any mighty
                                                                         forces strove –
            A self-supporting mass beneath, and energy above.
            Who knows, who ever told, from whence this vast
                                                                        creation rose?
            No gods had then been born – who then can e’er truth
                                                                                disclose?
            Whence sprang this world and whether framed by hand
                                                                        divine or no –
            It’s Lord in heaven alone can tell, if even he can show.

(From Invitation to Indian Philosophy. T. M.    Mahadevan. Arnold Heinemann, 1974, 1982.)



Lawrence’s Florence

Apud D. H. Lawrence


(Cipriano with Evening Star and all Eminescu. Marchesa. Aaron’s Rod vs Blow-Up)
           
            Florence-Firenze-Fiorenze – the flowery town; the red
                                                                                    lilies.    The Fiorentini, the flower souled. Flowers with good
                                                            roots in the mud and
            muck, as should be; and fearless blossoms
            in air like the cathedral and tower of David.
            I love the cathedral and the tower. I love its pinkness
and its paleness, it is delicate and rosy, and
the dark stripes are as they should be, like the
tiger marks on a pink lily. It is a lily not
a rose: a pinky white lily with dark tigery marks.
And heavy too, in its own substance: earth-substance
risen from earth into the air; and never forgetting
the dark, black fierce earth – I reckon here men
for a moment were themselves, as a plant in
flower is for the moment completely itself.



Final Of  Ballad Of The Long-Legged Bait
Dylan Thomas

Down, down, down, under the ground,
Under the floating villages,
Turns the moon-chained and water-wound
Metropolis of fishes,

There is nothing left of the sea but its sound,
Under the earth the land sea walks,
In death beds of orchards the boat dies down
And the bait is drowned among hayricks,

Land, land, land, nothing remains
Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech,
And into its talkative seven tombs
The anchor dives through the floors of a church.

Good-bye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon,
To the fisherman lost on the land.
He stands alone at the door of his home,
With his long-legged heart in his hand.
Guzman
Apud  Nonsense Verse and Winter

We’ll go home by water, says Brian O’Linn
Carabi Toto carabo Nambi-Pamby’s never old picking
                                                                        gold
Sonnet found in a deserted mad-house by anon
Cameleopard Thomas Hood you are old father Lewis
Humpty Dumpty Yonghy-Bonghy-Ba Hoddy Doddy
                                                                Parabonzi
Bonzi-ba cold are the crabs reci raci poet of nonsense
Dorinda Hilaire animula vagula blandula bog dood
Iris Murdoch our Lord was a Jew our Lord was the Son
                                                                 of God
Kingsley Amis if anyone in the Mess admired
                                                                 Mussolini
Doris Lessing I saw Mrs. Fortescue going off to work
Alan Sillitoe I walked through the mountains and
Woods of Transylvania over the high Carpathians
Across the great plain through Bucharest and across
The Danube again vide Guzman, Go Home



(Joy Alone Is Ours)

Appar


                        We are slaves to no man,
                        nor do we fear death.
                        Hell holds no torments,
                        we know no deceit.
                        We rejoice, we are strangers to disease,
we bow to none.
Joy alone is ours, not sorrow,
for we belong for ever
to Sankara, who is the supreme Lord,
our king who wears the white conch earring on
                                                          one ear,
and we have reached
his beautiful, flower-fresh feet.

The wide world is our home,
generous householders in every town
give us food.
Public halls are our only shelter; we sleep
in Goddess Earth’s loving embrace –
all this is true.
The Lord of the warlike bull has taken us.
We lack nothing, our trials are over now.
Why need we listen to the words
of men who parade themselves in silk and
                                                            gold?
We are innocent men.

We do not consort with women;
we rise before down to bathe
and chant Mahadeva’s name,
our sole ornament is the sacred ash.
Tears, wailing from our eyes like monsoon
                                                            rains,
proclaim the melting of our stony hearts.
Why need we obey the commands
of kings who ride on elephants?
We are free from bonds!

Shiva devotees are our only kin,
we wear nothing but the waistband and the
                                                        loincloth.
Even our enemies cannot harm us;
all evil is turned into good for us,
and we never will be born again.
Our tongues chant “Hail Shiva!”
good name of the Lord
with the sweet, golden konrai wreath.
We are devotees of the Lord
whose blazing forehead eye
reduced crocodile-bannered Kama to ashes.

We will yield to no man;
none on earth can equal us.
We do not follow small gods,
we belong to Lord Shiva’s feet alone.
Surely we lack nothing!
Deadly disease has fled, leaving us untouched.
We live on the merit
of having taking refuge
in the good Lord who is crowned
with a garland of skulls.

They alone may rule us,
whose tongues chant the name
of Shiva with the holy coral-red form,
the Lord whom the thirsty-three gods
and all beings praise
as the first among the three,
the eight-formed deity.
Even if the king of this entire rose-apple land
were to command us,
we need no obey –
we are not criminals or thieves.

Our sole duty is joyfully to sing
the glory of him who manifests himself
as the moving and the still,
as earth, water, fire, wind, and sky,
as the small and the great,
as hard to reach, yet easily attained
by his lovers,
as the highest reality, immeasurably great,
as infinite Sadashiva, as you and me.
Why should we parrot the words of devils?
We are blameless men.

Every day we meditate only on the Lord,
ruler of all the worlds,
king of Himalayan gods,
him who blazed up as fire,
god who bears the white ash on his red body,
good lover of the mountain’s beautiful
                                                daughter.
We have since long renounced the doctrines
that the Jains, who eat standing,
had taught us.
Who are you to us?
And who is your king?

The Lord with the matted hair
and the conch earring on one ear,
with his body adorned by the ash and the
                                                          snake,
bull rider clad in the tiger skin
and the silver-spotted skin of the deer –
he is the king who rules us, you see!
We are not servants of the king who
                                                 commands
you and all his troupes –  
we are free from all bounds!

We have the good fortune of singing our Lord
to our hearts’ content,
of repulsing the shameless Jain monks.
The king of immortals,
the Lord who graciously rules us,
Shiva, the god of gods, who rose as the flame
which Ayan and Mal could not know,
dwells in my heart.
If death himself were to declare
his dominion over us and command us to serve
                                                               him,
we would refuse,
for the Lord’s eight attributes are ours.

(Translated from Tamil by Indira Peterson)
           

Panthomyotomia
           
pulchra puellula ridet  Venus illa venenum
tevaram satarudriya rayanas Appar Campantar
                                                        Cuntarar
om-namo-Narayanaya Shiva is jiva jiva is
                                                             Shiva
thou art I the seer or the seen horns of a hare
kasyatyantam sukham upanatam duhkham
                                 ekantato va (Meghaduta)
yad evapantam duhkat sukham tad rasa
                                 vattaram joy after sorrow
high way of Aryas Harya Hellas Helespont Her
                                                                 Sir
Tara laughs on pyre on lotus Bhuvanesvari
                               smiles Bhairavi with book
sukham tvidanim trividham tat sukham
                                      sattvikam tat sukham
rajasam smrtam sukham mohanamaatmanah
                                        tat tamasam (Geeta)
om triyambakam yajamahe sugandhim pushti
                                                   vardhanam
urvarukam eva bandhanat mrityor mukshiya
                                                  ma amru tat
oh an Hellespont of cream of Hereford
we’ll go home by water says Brian O’Linn

four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the
                                                             chess
cupidinous death the fleecy sun go back from
                                          Troy Colchis India
the rhime of the ancient mariner  is an ancient
                                                        Mariner
the whole of the sea is hilly with whales
                                             (Dylan Thomas)
dasein brahman atman openent Vincent mates
                                                             Gates
sein bei schon-sein schon-sein-bei being-
                                            already-alongside
atma caivantar – atma ca paramatma nir-
                                                      atmakah
aty-atma nish-kalaatma ca sunyaatma sapta-
                                  bhedakah (seven selves)
 Kali is representative of the East and the
                           Madonna of the West (Jung)
central component of a happy life is a special
                                           kind of enjoyment
            the life is the constantly renewed desire for
                                                                 recognition
            a form of desire that desires another desire and
                                                   demands recognition
om namaste Ganapataye tvameva pratyaksham
                                                      tattvamasi
Ishvara created the universe for the sheer joy
                                                            of it
long live Trotsky Ayyappa Paniker in
                                           Maharajakathagal
a wild animal is a pious being who fulfils the
                                                     will of God
the patient speaks Romanian so it must mean
                                            something to him
those who lead provisional lives are in mental
                                                             cases
risk of being manipulated by unconscious in
                                         enantiodromic way
when a thing suggests beauty or harmony in its
                                                              form
it always had more to do with the truth than it
                                                            is ugly
Yamato shi Uruwashi Yamato happy hollow of
                                                          our land
Lawrence briefly hoped that the novel could be
                                                    republished
 by the Parisian firm of Conrad through the
                                                        influence
particularly of Prince Antoine Bibescu
a pain of joy the feeling that they had
                                    exchanged recognition
possessed him like a madness like a torment
a trespass ugly-beautiful in solitude of
                                                   strangeness

to Bolsh or not to Bolsh the beastly Lazarus of
                                                   our idealism
Lorenzo’s flute Aaron on Arno his rod with
                                                scarlet flowers
I have no obligation to say what I think after
                                   sufficient extermination
evadere at auras send us new nymphs with
                                               each new moon
hic depositum est corpus Ionathan Swift abi
                                               viator et imitare
Harris miscarries what is man but a topsyturvy
                                                          creature
the blind man these times of dark palpable joy
the dream concerned an injured peacock and a
                                               protective lady
why didn’t wring that b-peacock’s neck that
                                                           b-Joey
I had no grudge against him by Jove though I
                                          have he haunts me
I believe there is devil in him I hate the brute
                                    rotating unequal eyes
I dessay I dare say ‘sruth God’s truth Penzance
I never knew there was cancer in our family
opponent mates in honor of hero Ion
                                                     Grigorescu


Yeats stylistic arrangements of experience
comparable to the cubes in the drawings
of Windham Lewis and to the ovoids in the
sculpture of Brancusi A Vision p 128 Yi
greyer floridity changeling out of the unknown
dowdy an almost after-death love Indian
                                                   communism
to me the whole joy is in the living personality
                                                     the curious
personality of the artist mourir in tel pays
            David Dravid via Lorenzo in Firenze Lawrence
                                                                 in Florence
            Gulf war II decapitation evil vs evil makara
                                                           mithuna mesha
            Au revoir Gigi D. H. Lawrence Lost Girl
                                                               garibi hatao
            Shivapithecus-Ramapithecus quaternary
                                                                  hominid
Punjabicus Indicus dhodias in Valsad Maria
                                                            tribe
Alvina was a lost girl Ovid isolated in Thrace





           Bibliography


Was the Ramayana copied from Homer? K.T. Telang, 1873, 1976.
Dravidian Gods in Modern Hinduism. W.T.Elmore, 1913, 1984.
Thirty Minor Upanishads. Translated by K. Narayanaswami Aiyar, 1914, 1987.
Sculpture inspired by Kalidasa. C. Sivaramamurti, 1942, 1984.
New Experiments in Kalidasa. Satyavrat Shastri, 1991. Eastern Books, Delhi.
The Vicissitude of Aryan Civilization in India. M.M. Kunte, 1880, 1984.
The Faber Book of Nonsense Verse, 1979.
Global transformations. A.K. Giri, 1998, Rawat, Delhi.
Dream Analysis. C. G. Jung, 1938, 1938, Routledge.
The Anthropology of Evil. Basil Blackwell, 1985, David Perkin.

The Cambridge Editions of the Works of D. H. Lawrence

Yeats the Initiate. Katheleen Raine, 1986, Dolmen Press.
Ganapati. John A. Grimes, 1996, Sri Satguru, Delhi.
Humor in Kalidasa. Gayatry Verma, 1981, Atma Ram.



BY THE SAME AUTHOR


Poetry
Invoca\ii, 1968
Poemele p`rin\ilor, 1976
10 Indian Poems, 1978
Ek shanti, 1981
De rerum Aryae, 1982
Upasonhind, 1982
Ardhanariswara, 1982
Mantre, 1982
Sonhind, 1982
Norul vestitor (Kalidasa), 1983
Gitagovinda (Jayadeva), 1983
Sonet, 1984
50 doine lui Ilie Ila]cu, 1994
Doina cu varia\iuni, 1995
Doine [n dodii, 1997
Waste, 1998
Decasilab, 1999
Balada Calcuttei, 2000
Sonete thailandeze, 2000
Orientopoetica, 2000
Malta versus Trinidad, 2000
Mamma Trinidad, 2001
Milarepa, 2001

 

Prose

Eres, 1970
Nana in the Himalayas, 1979
Parinior, 1982
India.Memorii la mijlocul vie\ii, 1982
The Buddha, 1994
Maica Medeea la Paris, 1997
Miongdang, 1997
Sub clopot, 1998
Pelasgos, 1999
Frica de Orient, 2001
Buddha ]i Colonelul, 2001
Furnici albe, 2001
Poeston, 2001
Baudelaire ]i poe\ii rom@ni.Coresponden\e ale spiritului poetic, 2001
Sanskritikon, 2002
La Gioia, 2002
Dodii, 2002
În recunoaştere, 2003

Drama
Good luck, Radha, 1979
Pancinci, 1982
XII by Horace Gange, 1984
Teatru sub clocot, 1997
Templu [n elicopter, 1997

Essay

Baudelaire ]i poe\ii rom@ni, 1974
Indoeminescology, 1994
Articles on Education, 1995
Haos, temni\` ]i exil la Eminescu, Cotru], Gyr ]i Stamatu, 1995
Lumea f`r` coloana lui Br@ncu]i, 1997
Ion Iuga [n India, 1997
Beauty and Prison, 1998
Some features of private-public link in Romania, 1998
From Thaivilasa to Cosmic Library, 1999
Ramayanic Ahimsa, 1999
Aesthetic Anthropology, 2000
Edgar, Who does (not) need libraries, 2001
Toward a L.M.C. Gypsy library. Spre o bibliotec` romaii L.M.C., 2001



CURRICULUM VITAE

Dr. GEORGE ANCA



Born 12 April 1944, V@lcea, Romania. Romanian citizen. Married to Rodica Anca. One daughter, Maria Anca.

STUDIES
Philology (1966); PhD (1975) Bucharest Univ.; Specialization: Rome Univ. (1975), Italia; Delhi Univ., Sanskrit (1982-1983); television U.F. Maukley, USA (1980).

KNOWN LANGUAGES
Romanian, English, French, Italian, Hindi.

EMPLOYMENT
Reporter Romanian Radio Broadcasting (1967-1969); Editor “Colocvii Journal” (1969-1971); Press-attaché, Ministry of Education (1971-1976); Lecturer Faculty of Journalism (1976-1977); Visiting lecturer University of Delhi (1977-1984); Director, Central Library Polytechnics Institute Bucharest (1984-1987); Director General, Central Library of Education (since 1988).


MEMBERSHIPS
Romanian Writer’s Union; International Academy “Mihai Eminescu” (organizer & President) permanent Council of International Union of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences; Ethnological Society of Romania (Vice-president); International Association of Educators for World Peace (National Chancellor accredited to UN); Romanian Group for Pugwash (organizer); Romanian-Indian Cultural Association (President), Associate Professor University of Oradea.


PUBLICATIONS (selection)
Books: Invoca\ii (1968); Eres (1970); Poemele p`rin\ilor (1976); Ardhnariswara (1982); Parinior (1982); Mantre (1982); Pancinci (1982); Sonet (1984); XII by Horace Gange (1984); Upasonhind (1982); Indoeminescology (1994); The Buddha (1994); 50 doine lui Ilie Ila]cu (1994); Chaos, Prison, Exile (1995); Orientopoetica (2000); Jayadeva’s Gitagovinda (tr. 1983); Kalidasa’s Meghaduta (tr. 1984); Eminescu’s Luceaf`rul in Sanskrit (ed. 1983); Books filmd edited, e.g. Latinitas (1982-1984); Liber (since 1990); Bibliotheca Indica (since 1996); Over hundred studies presentations / papers / articles / lectures to international congresses and universities (anthropology, education, literature, linguistics, librarianship, journalism, politics sciences / China, England, France, Germany, India, Israel, Italy, Yugoslavia, Korea, Malta, Mexico, Moldova, Portugal, Romania, Russia, Thailand, Trinidad Tobago, USA).

COURSES TAUGHT
Romanian (elementary, intermediate, advanced); French; Italian; Latin; Comparative Literature and Theatre; Press Practice; Comparative Poetics (Sanskrit-Latin European); Conflict and Peace Education; Aesthetic Anthropology.

FIELDS OF INTEREST
Comparative Literature; Cultural Anthropology; Poetics and Alamkara; Theatre of Language, Onto-poetics, Anthropoetry; Translating cultures; Romance Languages; Indo-European: Nostratic.

REFERENCES
Romanian literary dictionaries, Cambridge Who’sWho, World of Learning, The Encyclopaedia of Distinguished Leadership, etc.