THE METAPHOR PRINCE AT METAPHYSICS' COURTS

POEMS

Toma George Maiorescu

Dr. George Anca

Translation from Romanian

by George Anca

The poems and meditations born within instability and tribulations of  a cagoule universe, under ever changing constellations, are dedicated with gratitude to my wife Tereza-Josef and to my daughter Daniela-Wanda, the only fixed stars, of first size on the vault of  fecund galaxies  stimulating spiritual performances.

            Their stable light in values, and equally shining in good or ill-fated conjunctions, penetrated my life in its roads, the expression, meaning and utterances of the spirit.

            The texts have been gathered selectively with careful consideration but also with the disquiet of capricious and aleatory subjective options of an octogenarian author in the present volume, entitled initially “Poet - between courts of metaphysics and cagoule universe”, modified ulterior into the actual one, The prince of metaphor at metaphysics' courts. In fact, they seem complementary or even, if we think well, identical in sense.

                                                                                                T.G.M.

POEMS - Toma George Maiorescu -
- selectie -

(beyond the seven rivers)

The Path

I don't sell and  don't buy

the ashes of Cross on which you've been harangued

but as a witness of that

dramatic crucifying 

I have the moral right to affirm

 that Cross

didn't putrefy in earth

 wasn't cut in talisman-chips

and was never consumed by flames

Immediately after what He

was descended and put in white shroud

the Other was raised on Cross

After the passing  of This

The Cross was taken over by Other

And in each moment by Other

Till the end of time

Therefore I tell you

I don't sell and don't buy

the ashes of Cross

but as witness

of its passing from One to Other

I want to ask you

to agree with the thought

that nobody can be saved

by Golgotha Path

Dynamic picture

 in the millennium outset

Mad cows run

mooing over Europe

Abbot Cleopa cries

Perish you Satan

Rusty spikes

In hearts of  rag

Marionettes search for self

A noble stock

The ghosts the wraiths

Come in strings

You smear windows and thresholds

With kerosene and garlic sauce

For it's Saint Andrew night

The frightened Pompeians

Rise from lava

To jump just into

A concave mirror

The night's whales

Water from bowls

Wolves in cagoules

Swim under water

The center of cart's wheel

Stays still

The moon-meteor stopped

In a stake

The revenue jugglers

Auction debts

The spiked boots

Stick in hopes

How masks and projects

Are changing

The cloned man

Smiles to prospects

Helps the transplant

Of sycophant brain?

Do you measure chronometric

Transitions in nothingness?

With whip crack

And in noise of caps

Sudden interferences

Of the synapses

When alarm bulbs

Flare in the Mall

On the streets multiplies

The naked king

The Russian roulette

Rolling age of coke

Asks the autonomy

Of non paradox

Stanislavski slept

with lousy in asylums

But art you find it not

In game of balls

The authentic isn't

Real-information

But rabid grace

But state of grace

One in three

On an endless field

in long coats of  flax

Moses and Muhammad wander

with no specially established direction

they look for fragments / tatters / crumbs

of children

torn up by bombs

I should extend Yevtushenko's metaphor

convoking him to removing of space

and Jesus

so completing a sense with which

I am sure

my friend the Russian poet

will agree

Hence on endless glass desert

lighted now by a sun dipped in blood

then by a moon yellow with fear

The Three

Moses, Muhammad and Jesus

(after the One-Unique was torn in three

and soul area parceled out)

seek together

for bloody hunks of  babes

They know:

without re-composition of the whole

the resurrection can not exist

Only later on

when shadows will lengthen

The Three will realize

that under bare-footed steps

grinding glass crocks

not only slits of children lie

but hacked into bits

their being

itself

That in fact

looking  together for the bits of those who

didn't succeed to touch the future

(and recomposing them

to restore to life)

They complete their torn Self

re dimensioning at the original stature

the One-Unique

nameless shapeless

out of all

out of each

the Indivisible

Semantic insomnia

the dementia of  over weighty words

running toward ribbon stretched at the end of the course

the anxious rhetoric of conventions

trying the canon on many voices

eviscerated syllables scanned unison

the metamorphosis of insignificant into personality

the ambiguous code of demimondaine conversations

seeking for phoneme's hidden face

the strengthening seduction of public discourse

tranquillizing spontaneous revolts

the provincial apologetic of notable syntax

the decolorizing petals of vocables

floating awkwardly like an useless cloud

inside out words

like a too worn-out coat

words stressed

            crippled

                                    torn into two

violated of sense

mumbling stammering

moribund words

bodiless contour

wandering out of joint

mouth full of  of earth

the tomb stone of  silence

fossilized semantic cemetery

depot of calcined hopes

illusions decomposed in rot

petrified in the dust of bones

Some Aryans

some Aryans

vegetarians

infested with genes

hallucinogens

of  acaridians

with braid

mounted on bed

look instead by binocular

through the tube of gun

curtain of smoke

the freedom

through bars of lock

the jackal's morals:

the corpse of brother

or of an equal

devour it

devourer

with sign in order

law border

the sign obtained

 just in the street

if you bring a carafe of wine at parade

 favors official

fibs electoral

(rectal-anal)

geniuses homeless

alms of  beetles

bulbs alarm red crying

you pull the check of  weapon

without knowing

who is handling

the automaton

for nailing

 trans planetary

blanket

cover battery

on broomstick

the armed detonator

flies on a broken road

           

when some Aryans

vegetarians

infested with genes

hallucinogens

of  acaridians

with braid

mounted on pedestal

look instead by binocular

through the tube of gun

Regression

Sometimes I pine after banks of grit stone

it grows in me

a longing for regression

mucilage

swamp

silt

the Eden of  beings water

which breath in whirlpools

from marsh themselves water

The viscous state calls me

the bronchi seek for air and water bubbles

blisters black pearls get broken on galleries

in order to settle in

muddy uterus-geneses

I am probably a creature of slime

the hot breath of methane

eagle slanting flying

song of  green frog

to paradisaical ooze alcove

How do neurons breath

in dense and hothouse state

how in bridges get they tied

over marshes

with the world outside?

of harmless-slippery

mud growing and decomposing the vital cell

through me?

I try to fraternize with

sonorous vibrations

unicellular bubbles

protozoan movements

 whistle of whirlpools

and I return rarely

almost involuntarily

toward the bodiless marsh of the swamp

primordial call

to original camp

Politically correct

I submit

to critical interrogation

(hic et nunc / here and now)

the symmetrical coronation

scaffolding

of cryptic aberrations

which condemn (with undermining)

any movement

flexibility

or de-mining

over

the absolute option

numerology

clay amulet

the rhythm of tide

or wadded groan

even dumb

the ritual in sawdust language

or let it be

wooden

over-ranged and solemn

bigoted and inept

of hierarchic-lithic scaffolding

of smoke and air

the air beating

on political corridors

will qualify

my lack of deference

not as reserve or difference

but attempt of pressure

or even diversion

as such

in continuation

gluing my revolver

by altar

screen

I will sardonically scrim

to the speculator

that in space mythic

called lamb-mioritic

only what doesn't happen

is correct and politic

how a third

grade cudgel

can't be stocked

flagellum

in pompous order

as frigid

argument

 feeling less

paradigmatic

by an emulator sarcastic

intransigent

obtuse and scholastic

absolute model

 sublime track

the pot calls the kettle black

The scare

Closed in cage

the bird-soul

forgotten its song

It believes that the hen hawk

pulled out

its head

For it

the nightmare

is reality itself

The bars of cage

are just the trees

of forest

Only the gate is

open

in its void

the hen hawk

Watches

Its cry

froze

in throat

Now

it wants to seize

also its heart

Has it heart any more?

Metaphysical tennis

On red slag arena

in Sevastopol street

the elan of metallic rackets

rises over the net of present

white skulls

the nacreous craniums

of Judaic middle age

fly whistling through the closed air

only mantles of barbed

ancestors are waving

over tomb stones

settled under the red slag

over the tied net

like a shroud

the brain pans - white-balls fly

through the hot air

and as if it is heard

echo of memory

gentle breeze in the foliage of almond

Isgadal veisgadal...

But where from one can take

in the select quarter

still nine Judaeans

to whisper a kadish*?

Isadora

The crossed palms

the solar plexus

veils-corolla reversed tulip

the black shawl *

the swan white throat

breath

flame

impulse

among saturated ensembles

(of course Meyerhold)

and pitch man on white background

announcing implacably the hour **

musical echo

gliding on a secret interior rhythm

through suspended gardens

seven clean rivers

Sodom and Gomorrah

between Self and Universe

Isadora

The silhouette detached from Attic amphora

mounts gently the foam-crest of wave

falls in abyss

whisper of pipe

cloud

slips in dream

rotates the storms of sea

blazes

whirlpools of energies

making and unmaking of movement

synergies

Perpetual flowing

Uninterrupted metamorphosis

The Gesture composes

recomposes itself

the body-expression

silence ascension fall

unchaining effusion

Voltaic arc

shock wave

tension

Biorhythms crush gravitation

Prayer? Levitation?

Perplexed biological tissue

Choreographic iron knots

split

ravel

Great Priestess

magic tremor

sacerdotal vibrations

torrid fluid

fusion into whole

halos of void

communion

Ancient lost contact

with Primary Force

the dance of fusion re knot

singular step

Is She Being with He Universe

Shiva – flame ever awaken

takes again dragon-fly-movement

creates new worlds

Cosmic harmony

and in the last cell

Isadora dances

………….

Metaphysical things

When the wing beating

of bird in Comana walnut

can cause flood rain

at Los Angeles or at Hong Kong

and the simple beating of gong

or percussion of a concert

unchains storms in the desert

it is confirmed what mathematicians

meta physicians astronomers good-fellows

or meteorologists with hirsute faces

call

restitution

of the lost unity

When the parameters of Nature

and control figures of Great Universe

are in a continuous change

                        / see:

                        movements of planetary ocean

                        air currents on Saint Gothard

                        avalanches waterfalls volcanic eruptions

                        Urania  apparitions

                        of prophets or wicked fairies

                        the blue rains of stars

                        secret erosion of banks

                        fantastic forms of the waves

                        pulsations of quasars

                        the gnashing of tectonic plaques

                        alternating the circle with the sphere

                        hope surfeit chimera

                        disquiets in Caesars' nights

                        or of the homeless

                        the algorithm of vast spaces

                        the Sybil rotation of stars

                        the style of life which separate us

                        and so forth

When the studies of dynamic systems

under Gothic vaults

determine chaotic turbulence

we may tattoo on forearm

with inks of dew

biological hour ciphered scholarly

4,6669

numerical constant

of our passing in naught

If the snow flake

-        the eternal unpaired construction -

cauliflower caterpillar chrysalis  crystal

lightning chasing Sunday's

white vestals

in basilica's square

there are repetitive structures of the

arbor tree

no eminent or emitter / of ideas /

convince us any more

that the degree of hazard

of irregularity

of chaos

/ even to Judeans see Cabala /

doesn't respect entirely

the ante-temple architecture

/Watched through a convex mirror

the naught is probably most

complex structure /

When over profane waters

/ still twinned with the sky-earth /

and disputable forms

of variable geometry

grinding wind contours

a violet cloud floats

The Primordial Ghost

/ surely the Saint /

nobody contests any more

be it astrologer monk or cellar man

that primary impulse

imposes iron laws

Only a flock of  gooses

hissing quarrelsome negates

what an entire

world knows

Relativity

I am the dust of  lane

wind scatters me

with speed of lance

rain chases me

in channels

black banal

soles walk

my neck

I have no roots

voided of term

the element carries me

from place

to place

I don't complain

that I'd be dust

and not rock

yet the world stays

on my shoulders

And the glory

spun by time

only to moment

in the street dust

returns

It drains toward moon

It drains toward moon

the yellowish honey

standing river

light

climbing

Blind flocks

remained behind

dark boars

to scratch

the nothingness

In the black holes

absorbed in vacuum

desert dislocated

and voids

divided

Like nimbus chaos

closed in a verse

the mirror smokes

o spurious

universe

The love

The love is self lake

erupted in fountain

to tie

earth with sky

We wandered through the Great Universe

We wandered somewhere through mountains

we two when evening reclined

its silence on blue violet shrouds.

The forests whistled secluded

in immense space amphitheater

and everything around prepared for sleep.

But walking under silver stars

forgetting of night and solitude

we stirred up paths holding our hands.

Big and black shadows floated everywhere

imperceptible movements and secrets

but we didn't feel them while advancing.

Then after you have stopped and I was looking

how you bowed  to tie your heavy boots

and asked: “Is it more yet? Far away?”

Perhaps I smiled. Just I couldn't tell you.

“You got tired my delicate star

but our way is still very long”

We wandered through the Great Universe

through subterranean labyrinth of feeling

and we are alone.

I didn't end my say when it was stirred

un-witnessed wind with cries of birds

with circles of immaterial and white devils

dancing and laughing foolishly with drums.

Caught in vegetable debauchery the forest cracked

birds fell from air rocks were moaning

with greenish lightnings like at world beginning.

You rolled at my chest trembling eyelids

with hair exhaling like wet hay on fields

and your white breath scorched on my lips.

Then silence again petrified.

Stars were falling on vault inscribing

giant trajectories through night.

Sweetheart let us follow them endlessly.

And we were descending a crest and mounted

on lips of precipices over waters

black snakes dragging among us.

But we sustained each other embraced -

such as the storm surprised us then -

with so much certainty in sights

that even the white moon among fir trees

was hiding its ironical smile.

And the down awakening blue

the silence up on violet crests

we stopped amazed for we were

upper then have started in the evening.

Sweetheart the love is a spiral

slope on superposed skies

always the same and all time ourselves.

Their light

Late love

like a river before flowing in the sea

(the fingers of sun on your body

your lips immense drought)

ships stream down aspired by the sea

like some planets in universe

only your eyes

guard the shore in tears

the waxy willow balancing its sadness

and as more alive their light

the darkness of world is growing

                                    1973

The moment

In that moment

suspended between words

like a bridge between banks

rainbow flourishing between stellar corollas

in that moment

exploding in endless universe

with petals and festoons of flowers

according to our measure

only ours

I stop from dream or from thought

and with enlarged pupil

stone-still like an idol in an ancient temple

I wait for you to come my goddess

with frighten eyes and burning of a secret joy

to deliberate

and to think together

each day a moment

a single moment

expanded after a measure of ours

endlessly

like a milky way hospitable to all lost ones

                                    1972

I wish

I wish to kneel down in your eyes

in the yellow circle closing itself

where a black squirrel rotates its fears

in the lighted circle through which a wild feline

jumps from your left shoulder

in the magic circle with lost key

in that solar circle

or pure and simple in that circle

in which you thirsted fir tree needles

so to feel you also in the top of my knees

                                      1968

Motion

I like to touch with sky of palm

more precisely with the point of incidence

between life line and luck line

where the mystery cross

the two cosmic levels

(the sacred zone of my universe)

to touch the sidereal mulberry with brown light

the summit of celestial hemisphere

of your breast

then the palpable passes suddenly

into the most rarefied abstraction

the fluid of  some unforeseen tensions

discharges

and pupils of my spread fingers

on the curve of your breast

start to glide slowly clustering

toward the top of smooth skull-cap

toward sidereal mulberry

with secret light

and a hot trembling current

mounting in bones marrow

spreads through the astral gulf

of my and your body

like a cosmic gulf stream of feelings

opening with the crush of  thaw

dumbfounded sky gates

                                                            1982

But you got frightened

I hardly started to feel the breath of your hair

to know if you are mountain lake or flame

Motionless was curtain of waves between our bodies.

(They remained thrown down in the snow

like two neighboring crosses.)

Only violet silence vibrated in retina

stunning in speed the turnings

the mountains cut impassively the night

with their gray saws

and the trees threw toward sky

black finger of glass...

It was perhaps Something...

But you got frightened

and everything became squeak

of steps on the snow.

                                                            1966

The reward

The darkness  breaths pores of sweetheart

dilated as well as pupils absorbing

her phosphorescent skin

the light gushing out of breast nipple

or lawlessness of my voluptuousness

her knees resound like a gong

in my left ear laid

on their round skull

the thought struggles in them

like a bird

and takes its flight

at once in four winds

O, my melancholy, my superb non reprimand!

I am full of not forgetting

chatting of false jewelry

or threat of wax dolls

with my shape and needle in the heart

now I feel deified

it is the reward of lack of memory

The silence

forgive me

Forgive me for that void between words

like a hole

like a lawn without flowers

like a no man's land

Forgive me for the silence gaped between us

like a waste land

like an interrupted road

like a precipice

I knew I could be with a word

demiurge

I knew that without it

I lose you

Forgive me for silence spread between us

like table cloth without dishes

like a white shroud

like a sprawling gate

Forgive me for a moment of truth

Apocryphal

No

between us  all bridges have not been burnt

yet it is the dragon tree

that which threw roots

over the precipice

but it is yet my illusion

that I can pass over anything

and I will reach the other bank

either through airy thicket of creepers

or even on a bridge of mist

bowed over fears

and you will be again gone on an island

and I will wander again the Ocean

                        swimming as once when

you moved to a star

and I will throw myself again in the depth of Space

to look after you

but you will be hidden in a galaxy

which doesn't appear on any map of sky

and because

between us all bridges weren't burnt

I will always look after you

and I almost discover you

for I understood in the end that I must find you

                        over what separates us

when you float through air with the night in hair

or when you lie beside

apocryphal and pagan

in my bed

I run toward you...

I run toward you calling you

white birds with yellow beaks

entangle in our locks

like a cry like a storm like an explosion

I run dislocating the motionlessness

in the contrary sense

toward you

my chest is like a drum

announcing the great appointment

the marked pillars of years

remained backward

the cuts wipe

I run after you calling you

you my first love

my youth in blue bloomers

I see your burning eyes

in pitch ether

I feel the blowing of your hair

with the white stripe on forehead

the pillars become ever smoother and white

and look the lawn with field flowers

in the middle the tree with birds

on which we notched the first sign

of love

Only the birds

forgotten their song

                                                1973

Readings of the sleep

ferocious are the readings of sleep

images decompose

the matter of illusion

the passing is only appearance of dream

you know that the shadow of your eyes

is my only reality

even if the memory

skates in other mirrors

                        the forests rehabilitates me

even if the carnation of nipples

decolonizes my lips

and under skin populations

of termites migrate

                        I don't worship the passing

even if desire throws me

in delirium of senses

and the sheet wet of rain

dries by whispers

                        I know: it is the matter of illusion

you do retain:

the comets crosses the night

without looking back

don't sound the absences

only the fixed stars

measure the time

                        they burn in circles of trees

my security is in your eyes

in their endless shadow the hope

and if you ask me

why do I decompose

the matter of illusions in gestures the forests in circles

stellar bombardments in syllables

and why do I share

the sadness of cannibals

when they scrutinize the future

you do retain:

the passing is only the hope of dream

if we will not know

to make the necessary distinction

between to live and to exist

and we will further violate

the territory of personal feelings

the hammocks tied by trunks

will detach from their knots

and we will collapse without trace

in the abyss of lack of memory

                                                1986

The Unicorn

at each step the strained body

vibrates like strings of a harp

stretched in the arbors

grace and mystery are in each starting

the horn lengthened toward a sensed horizon

seems an antenna detecting

shelters and secrets

veiled places from where springs water

from where the wind begins

from where the stars draw their fire

and from where the roots of rain

furious and savage is the seeking of the Unicorn

vital elan shackled

in each movement

suspicious and shy passes his body

from penumbra to penumbra

he steps aside from too lighted or too dark places

deciphers with the ray of his blue eyes

the secret features of stones

penetrates the signs in the bark of trees

pursues the vegetable line of  glade

avoids from far the places were it may be

the dragon fly with shape of woman

the man half water half earth

the animal-human body gushing from floral calyxes

and other lying apparitions

suspicious and secluded

with the horn stretched like an antenna

orientates after the fires in earth

and after iron after brimstone and jasper

after smell of burnt trace of wolf after thistles

after stellar coif

in top the horn

signals traps and neutralizes poisons indifferent

to

Pythagorean pentagon

cube – the consonant of universe

or other ciphering

only to the approach of a geometric sign

of the unique sign

his antenna starts to vibrate

in top of horn it kindles

a light of shining purple

an ancestral roar is strangled in thrilled chest

the body rears with stretched muscles like some ropes

the magic dance in circle

starts gracious and shy

under rain of silver rays

under pipe under whistle under flute

or other imaginary harmonies

and tired the Unicorn falls

kind and happy

at the feet of virgin whited by moon

He saw the Rhombus

                                                1972

The end sea lighthouse

a.

the white lighthouse from end sea

whitewashes the hotel room

under iodine breath of night

walls are extended in universe

and in its center

on the white sheet

you

the eyes enlarged by fear

aspires the night

the love is indeed a path

in the forest of the unknown

b.

a miracle world of underwater

with fishes of purple and wind flowers

blue arrows with yellow and mauve stripes

golden comets trains of bride

hedgehogs with stakes black suns of depths

I still see you

bizarre crossings of colors

grays with stripes of ocher and carmine

brick-red with olive and cinnabar

fishes-butterflies fishes-spade

dancing sea horses,

mysterious rotation

of stars in the depth

c.

there our eyes met

magically dilated through the magnifying glass

of frog man

dumb-founded by view and unforeseen

immense in their amazing

that our hypertrophied bodies

weren't of shark

but pure and simple under  waters

a body of man and a body of woman

slipping softly

toward a reef of corals

d.

when coldness takes in the stars

I still burn in your fever

e.

salty and heavy water

rolls on your horizontal body

spheres of air

like a stroking pass

among your sharp breasts

of aquatic deer

among stretched feet

to cut the water quicker

toward that white lighthouse

toward the lighthouse which whitewashes each night

the walls

at end sea

                                                1980

The butterfly and the rain

Butterfly little tiny butterfly

Falena Bombix hedge butterfly

the owl of cellar cries

little ghost strelitz nettle's

death's head Adam's head

wren greyish-white racketeer

cuckoo's petty pearl night's peacock

red Buffalo cabbage grower

beehive moth apple moth

wine moth lime moth

golden moth ashes moth

ephemera entering the door

colorful striated playful high quality

only the wings

wings are cut by rains

always by merciless rains

                        1980

Dream of a chorister

If even popular schools of art

spread as well in the old Sparta

instead of bel canto

would be taught Esperanto

and instead of figuration

in ancient chorus

I would navigate on a transatlantic

as a steersman in command

or even bottom hull mechanic

feeding myself with fish oceanic

and even if

at passing over Ecuador

I should imitate in choir

the speaking parrot

and at passing over tropics

I should take secretly di-strophics

and even if the ocean

would roll me in pitching

as barbarous as possible

it will be yet extraordinary

that I have in front a giant horizon

that I dream Esperanto

and speak romantic

Midsummer Holiday

Triumphal arches in green boasting reed

and garlands of  honey lotuses collected on mist

the tent stretched up to orchard bottom

and yellowish barley  through noon fever

and wedding of brigadier's daughter

in air the stabbed cry of  boar

the band covers it ably and subtly

                        “come with me

                        dear  child

                        to balance in merry-go-round”

the neighbor (who lived with his mother

till burial)

                        took out his baldness under sun

at metal-household again inventory

                        for “resettlement”

(soda? wood?  weanling?

at least it is not put a principality up to action

in pond nobody baths

on 24^th June it is bad day for drowning

in forest the schoolchildren compete

avid

“who gathers in casks

more caterpillars?”

Piki (that who has eaten the nose and ears

suckling-brother) competes he as well with thick-lipped Balan

“who breaks more windows at express  train”

necessary that international for Ruse

the first call of wedding is from 800 upper!

water doesn't flow

gardens reached lithic state

the mayor with late archaeological passions

                        unearths a neolithic hearth

only the barley in the field

and otters sleep bluntly

sleep of holiday

the village carries flowers at hat

and in throat towels

“come with me

                        dear  child

                        to balance in merry-go-round”

                        Comana 1983

Where the First Cry

if it would be only infested air

if there will be only sulfur and chlorine

the complicated chemical reactions of rain or of sun

burning our lungs

pulverizing in explosion of cancer nuclei

yet we would adjust our bronchi alike toads-frogs 

or we would breath perhaps through skin

we would climb over avalanches rocks and mists

rotating like vulture toward clouds peak

or we would descend perhaps like fishes

in the depth of depths and mother-ocean would adopt us

like the algae or in other times the primordial cell

but where do you find any more I ask / in space of ashes

that blue rag of sky

and where the Ocean / rising

other First Cry?

                                                            1983

With blue fires

When larch firs shake their squirrel tail

and the paths bath in liquid gold

my friend you do stop

on the Barzava bank

where waters close skies

where organ of alder blows the long horn

from silvery tubes

the requiem of summer

and trouts slipping phosphorescently

dart the evening silence

where cuckoo-clepsydra

counts the years

and fairies-vapor dance on water

where the moon spreads its money

and stags from moon water

where the seas

flow into seas

so that from collision of waves

stars be kindled

and from depths the sky

mounts over

the city with blue fires

The blue horse in the shadow cone

A

I find myself again with the ideas

sent at hibernation

void void void

like a breviary with torn out leaves

and I didn't observed when

around my brain grew

a translucent and superb cage

now I am straight astonished

I can't explain neither with help of syllogism

(which is more a simple arithmetical inequality

only the prerogative of multitudes theory)

how did it erupt from me with fluttering tail

in spite of climate of directed sleep

the shadow of this idea like a blue horse

the shadow of this idea is seen summery

and straightly somnambulist

B

Of course it wandered much

among convolutions

until started to walk in the night on roof

instead of sleeping in soft down

of con fraternal bed

it wandered much among barrages-slogans-traps

by night even on full moon

on the tapering mane of shadow

and when it neighed of happiness

that the moon is an isosceles rational triangle

in spite of all decrees which officialese it

in ellipsoidal forms

and of edicts abattoir-trains aiming at the holocaust of  horse

 race

he knew that  gained a historical  victory

over the sleep

C

However

it would be an error to believe

that awaken means at all costs

to walk in the night on roof

one can also run through draining channels

of the city

or on the contrary can stay quiet on a water edge

with a twig and a hook

fastened in the pitch thread torn out

from tail of the bird  with white-spotted legs

to be awaken doesn't mean at all costs

that one musts blow

in silver trumpets so that all walls

to fall at once

but probably to neigh of happiness

when the bell cuts the silence into two

like a sawmill

and you don't know

what new traps of sleep

wait for you implacably

beyond door

D

A horse mowing the field

with molars yellow of nicotine

or frightening the silvery fish

in black oil stream

or whipping with mane

the dust on alpha galaxy

or letting with wings glued

by wet body

absorbed in silence

by cosmic void

in order to return hoofs echo

toward the isosceles triangle of moon

and from here as a galactic tramming over vaults

of subterranean channels

like an echo of endless flight

like the echo of liberation cry

of idea in winter shadow cone

of same summery idea

which doesn't want to sleep

of same idea

with which I happened at once I don't know how

flying like a blue horse without reins

on this eviscerated paper

                                                            1980

The Zeta atmosphere

I

The life drains through pores

-        like sand of sand-watches -

the eyes on the slide of arteries

slips between heart and meridian 0

only the thought

mounting ice spider threads

seek for rain spring

II

It exists probably a leprosy of arbors

when their blood drains in earth

when leaves putrefy in roots

when thoughts burnt by drought are sloughing.

Only we believe in eternity of circles,

in symbol of the green

and blame the seasons for betrayal.

But before the beginning

it exists probably a leprosy of arbors.

III

If the abuses of eclipses will leave us indifferent

and the nails beds will tread our brain

only the nights taken on the back like some victuals

will save us from the song of cocks.

Crushed by wall the weeping is devoured by the absurd

the executioner makes his mask out of flowers garland and pleonasm,

the arbors indulge in metamorphosis of  mushrooms

and the rainbow unravels between yellow and equinox.

See why I seek for nails bed

I shout of pleasure when new circles of bronze envelop me

I stretch my nerves (good God!) for all dirty linen

and tramp happily with lead nails over the brain of yesterday

                        1965

Idols

Bronze idols

clay idols

smoke idols

I have strewn threads of lint on the way

the soles I smeared them with bitumen

with lock passed through lips I strangle the words

and I glue of wall so that neither shadow have volume

bronze idols

clay idols

smoke idols

                                                                        1965

Selena mirabilis

if you stretched me on deck

like on a dissection table

with nailed palms

with a gag into mouth

and you want to thrust in my heart

like to a doll of magic wax

a reddened spike

not to mention even in mind

the delirium of compass

and the drift of  compass less ways

yet you call me happy with ad hoc appellations

Greatness Excellency Adder

while wearing vainglorious hats with peacock feathers

you go round stuffed stag

and scratching it between horns

you scan peripatetic

                        “come on pirates to teach us

                        to be masters of collision

                        we are old born children mission

                        teach us be a coalition”

and again you catch the bellows to redden spikes

you knit cradles-coffins of willow or study by singing

                        application of multitudes theory

                        in recovery of stranded ships

but I stay crucified on dissection table

I look to the stretched rope between masts

lungs fishes octopuses viscera and kidneys

hanged in hooks for linen

balance in the spleen of a poop wind

a rag of parsley in the court

makes more than entire galactic soil

even if we have turned the anchor

and the ship started forward with all force

of its electronic systems

with the same tanned play-boys on board

in an invariable geometry and always checked

toward suspended gardens of inter galaxy

toward Paradise City

Euro-world

Selena Mirabilis

and so far

                                                1981

The chance

If we could hunt out the point

from which the space has started

and proclaim it the hub of the universe

marking it also with a marble carrot

as the  old Greeks have planted in their superb confusion

at Delphi

then we would know from where to begin

the extraterrestrial jogging in ever more accelerated speeds

(the only chance to leave the circle)

and if even so we couldn't step on the spiral

of any help being

neither anti gravitational exercises in void

nor the formula of golden section

nor cabala relations between different planets

                        and various points of infinity

nor dance holly-gully (as a reception

of future possible movements)

nor lethargic drift between life and sleep

enunciated sometimes as wake state

nor theory of probabilities the tarot of Pope's voyages

or the system of electronic control

                        for optimization of thought

nor foolish jewels of Dali

tele detectors of angels envelopes turned into false

 banknotes

nor Pythagorean pentatonic

and nor even the call to the small publicity of lost

objects

                                                to the makers of panegyrics or psalms

                                                to horse dealers conquistadors visionaries eunuchs messengers

                        play-boys pimps magi theologians drugged

                        merchants of munitions dissertations and diplomas

                        false penitents or false prophets (the true ones

                        have been compromised)

and we will can not hunt out the point

from which the space started in order to begin

our daily jogging

then I ask myself

can it exist yet the chance

to recover our identity?

                                                1982

I know but it isn't possible

When the ashes shadow

will float over zodiacs and computers

and antiquated ivy arson

will climb the walls

repeating the rules of good behavior

of cosmic geometry

and usual condolence for passing summer

you will try I know in the skin armchair

a new show-business

and it will not help you to pull out your solitude

in neon night

either the mask hollowed in cherry root

hanged on all corridors

in order you know that I exist

and you feel my presence

not as card perforation

not as a registration number

in indexes

number pursued by computers

binary

step by step move by move

I told you

we are not any more colored kites

gamboling on the blue sky

seeking for sun royal way

(aimed at sometime with sling by envious children)

even we want to hide

and seeking to squeeze

on narrow corridors of personal labyrinth

through catacombs of feeling

between penumbra and umbra of  caves

we don't succeed

as the duckweed covers the gulfs

and seaports succumb in sand

so also die the secret

the last cell

of anonymity

and the personal life

You want to feel me otherwise

to know me present

not as a card perforation

not like a registered number

but

like a gray hound walked

with naked soles on dew

by a teen girl 16 years old

or like an ace of clubs

in a four of a kind

yet unseen

I know

But it isn't possible

                                                1982

Plural

It can however  I am not right

that nobody still seek for the scape goat

that the singular was exhausted on strange counters

in smoke of bones or hooks of abattoir

that today the guilt complex is called plural

life-buoy for what it was and it is

that radiant Tomorrow is only one too long discourse

of inauguration

ever self identical in rural  feasts

and observation time filled of private

subterranean towns clowns and cisterns

Cyclone B isn't any more launched from  balloons

neutron focuses wait for eternal solutions

nobody drives any more convoys  of people or cattle

everything is conducted by computer terminals

we renounced to lose our illusions in sealed

wagons

wandering dead lines in the future

today is much simpler  more plain

the chiaroscuro melted in night or day

as Elytis says – everywhere shit

shit down and who knows  up what would be

I don't like questions like some waiting halls

nor frigate-answers disappearing on waves

the world is an immense take-off piste

with planes flying nowhere

it can however I am not right

and we would move this apparently sculptural time

even we push it on rather square wheels

for the right to life is called plural

                                                            1982

Sick prophets

Prophets sick of thyroid

wander walnut forests

on the back with canon-telescopes

to bombard the time

or at least to reduce it to

 quadri-dimensional nothing

to rebuild

the

pri-

mor

di

al

e-

ter-

nal

egg-

seed

of

all

what

it

is

and to deflower

(without pretension of stable)

the Virgin-Scribe

from Administration of Destines

surely They

put microphones in lichens

and megaphones in trees to announce

the funerary ghosts

that new moribund appeared 

(the souls are collected in jute sacks

impermeable by macro-molecular

                        hydrocarbons

                        to announce that

unfortunately we are not bi-cephalic

even we wear also mask

we haven't a head of man and one of woman

neither two sexes

we haven't two bodies

no matter that exist also

man-wolf     man-snake    man-bird

that exist also

centaurs    sirens    Capricorns

                        hypo-centaurs

                                                and so far

We have neither strange beauty

of asexual beings

of the evening star lying

in bison's grass 

and nor

of experimental

worlds

seen through canon-telescopes

by prophets sick of thyroid

but

we are what we are

that is the tetra-gram YHWH

the verb to be at person I

                                                present

therefore we are those who have left

the fear

after we embraced our umbra

and left the seed to fall

those who believe in magic

(not indispensable black)

of circles in walnut forest

putting a tampon with iodine tincture on

Time

                                                                        1975

Optimism

and if the way gets blocked

and words impotence starts

and evening lilac enters eyes

and mirrors are smoked

                                                you'll know that

                                                the time of wonders

                                                never passes

and if machines of illusions stop

and springs dry of roses

and you see that obscure oracles

pierced with moths the bride's train

                                                incline

                                                the bucket in fountain and call

                                                the wishers

and if your steps have frozen

and the soul hangs like a flag half mast

and the thought has been drawn on wheel

and the children want to see your will

                                                plug

                                                the stereophonic pick-up

                                                and washing machine of dreams

and when “Dead Dogs” would have unchain their decibels

you throw one more fist of silence

over your grave crumbled before time

and convinced that never  you

never will go to die at Venice

sing:

                                   

                                                            up to last fiber

                                                            up to last bone

                                                                        I believe in the light to come

1979

Labyrinth

We don't walk after Great Bear of illusions

electric guitar shouts our loves

but still more so their absence splashed with lime

romantic we de-mythologize  the sex

glue false rags on cowboy bluejeans

yellow hearts and red leaves on elbows

also the dream is a colored rag

on the public latrine perhaps

we carry universal mourning under nails

for the truth with neutron or entropy

we don't believe in social geriatrics

in philanthropic manicure

in political paints

in pious pomades

in slogans futurology resurrections

in miraculous elixirs

we don't drag after Great Bear of illusions

only that our walked-un-walked paths  

tangled in social cobweb

nowhere come out in clean spaces 

and don't find ways out of labyrinth

and alas

how could we pass through seas of absinth

and how to walk with boots of horse jobber

right over endlessness of sadness

in our soul

still impassioned

still haughty

not yet

suicidal

                                                                        1977

The nights whitened

And if I tell you: it can't any more

it is because the night have whitened

and colors senses remained uncovered

it is because an attempt against word was committed

and the ideas remained naked

like some statues without form

and if I tell you that it can't any more

that who has stabbed  the word

has attached wings on shoulder blade

and that who carries the knife in the back applaud

And if I tell you it can't any more

it is because the sense remained out of the word

wandering blind between mechanical gesture and noose

                        1970

My youth

In what distances

in what ancient world

did you get lost

my poor romantic youth?

(Blue wings

endless universe

infinite flight toward stars and verse)

Centuries

mist walls

time imprecisely harangued

inverse watch

wandered paradise

Like in fogs contours are done  

with ankles beaten in iron I run

Backward?

Forward?

I don't know...

All resounds

coffin hollow

crumbles in void

unravels

I seek and I'm afraid 

Where is its corpse?

Who carries it on shoulders

up on a pale cross? Where and Who carries it

towards seven time sealed Gate?

Backward?

Forward?

Only that remained me: words.

Lead timpani

crushed throats

glass eyes filled orbits.

Who

but Who

can answer me

Where is my Youth where?

Who can bring me thus

at the grave with pale cross?

(Blue wings

endless universe

infinite flight toward stars and verse)

                                    8^th December 1965

With Nichita about Nichita

In the last years He didn't seek for words any more

He distanced from them

horse which hurls from his top the dead  horseman

He didn't trust any more

the saddle full of old bloody shadow

and shacked it into earth

He didn't trust any more

the word power to erect essences

Ah, you miserable

words  - he was crying

do fall on me

In order to make Poetry by distancing from word

that means to divorce of poetry

or means to dynamite the mystery

I pray to wood and especially to oak tree

to mount me, its horse

So it means to shake the thinking self

To put instead of ice concept – the non-words

It means not to limit the self language

Are you of earth, you sorrel, he asked me

I am of earth, you arbor, I said him.

And so as much as he distanced from words

groping fumbling stammering babbling

he moaned and howled

self-li-be-ra-ting

as much Nichita approached to

the First Word

Nichita – the Word expressing its un-limit

Nichita – the Un-limit uttering its self

Nichita is a continuous

vertical flame burning

toward other Nichita

Nichita

man bird     stone horse     cold longing

eye god     sea egg     endless flow

the Song the one

Nichita the Pure State of Poetry

seeking

in despair

its Creature

                                                            1983

Snails

snails with crushed antennas

carry on the back

the spiral of their slipping life

grope the space

seeking for self

people carrying on shoulders

the burden of tangled paths

wander the space

seeking for self

like trace of silvery saliva

of snails with crushed antennas

the trace of man is paved

by oncogene smile

of despair

                                                            February 2008

Conditional with birds

If once all

birds would scheme

to fly from poems

as revenge against cages

                        protest against gray plumage

                        or pure and simple

                        to paint the air

the arbors would dry

and verses would hang from sky

as some branches without leaves

                                                1974

What is not written

Angel with burnt wings

with seven penitence psalms return

between dream and grave

only the shadow

of no sleep stretches

only the dry marjoram under box thorn

decorates the distance

(who planted phosphorescent arbors on moon

and who hanged in their branches

silky ropes?)

nothing excepting

the big repetition of passing

if we arrived over the crossing

                        of fire

I know that the returning way

is not written

in the universal guide

of dreams

                                                            1983

Words on stilts

Blear-eyed words

and saliva trickled in corner of the lips

mounted on stilts to ideas

make their apology to the vigor

They evoke to me the frights in maize field

which balanced by wind

could imagine themselves as

the pendulum tongues

of apocalypse

                                                            1983

Soliloquy

The gesture hanged in air is blind

Amnesia of deaf-mutes

who don't recognize the signs.

I thought: as long as we drugged

there is not coming out.

We draw the Word on catafalque

we wash it of make-up / we smooth its wrinkles

we take out its powdered wig

and chase the monsters of pressed cartoon

brasses and colored glasses.

We blow out the candles.

We seat it then (rising it carefully)

near the mirror, / face to face with it.

Naked

as it stayed once at origin.

Then – recognizing itself /

it will express itself

and the gesture will take again its trajectory

between desire and myth.

                                                1958

 

From fiord to fiord

From fiord to fiord

through magical circle

the distance calls us

 toward North

under ashes skies

pass smoke birds

 horizon drowns

in the fogs

where are you going

on crossroads air

the sea urges

you where?

Pole of storms

 white abysses

the oblivion

from my back pushes

                        Parallel 64, 12^th  Sept. 1975

The equinox storm

The Autumn equinox storm

booms in masts and in us

esteemed madam the dull clouds drag 

aquatic volcanoes and mud

and if a boiling hell exists

with pitch in soul it is esteemed madam

here under water mountains

the storm of Autumn equinox

                                    22^nd Sept.1975

The passengers

green explosion

the town contour of heart

the tramways slip yellow

emerald tunnels

spheres-mirrors

descend and mount in

            symbolic molecule

the passengers of naught

on space-slide

            slip and laugh   

with yellow teeth

in iodine light

and in contour of heart

carelessly walks

laughing

its dead scull

                                    Brussels, 1975

Silent Pythia

beyond the sacred way

mounting toward truth

conquerors of empires and slaves

beyond the polygonal wall

and the rock of Sybil

thesauruses portico

with offering vessels

and altars with geometrical idols

beyond the temple columns

from which doves are flying

stadium ramble

glorifying Auriga

beyond the lion body woman

and bird wings fastening the mystery

Dioscuri amazons heroes

priestesses carrying on head

burnt clay vessels with sainted water

beyond gods and pilgrims

came with humbleness from

world's crossroads

in a depth of the Mountain

Pythia stays

whirlpool of reddish vapors around

well smelling breath of wind

earth breath

laurel bitter taste

chew unconsciously

Pythia stays

on navel of marbles beside

the Universe Center (does It exist?)

but not the glorious Oracle

un-stringing the ball of destinies

but simply Pythia on the  high tripod

16 pitch small tails fallen on wax face

almond eyes

which never saw the Sun or the Moon

fixing the darkness

(and how many times she shared

the light of day and of night?)

Pythia stays

invaded by unknown melancholies

frightened by senses

shaken by a tearless weeping

(but who will tell her?)

mute Pythia stays

the woman bolted  in virginity 

Pythia

the light closed in under-earths

woman eternally virgin  chosen by gods

with ice shape of wisdom

pining with body in flames

for a Sun-Man

                                                1976

If it wouldn't exist

If Hellad wouldn't exist

spiritually I'd pine for it

if sky and sea wouldn't be

to dress it in the blue

of columns petrified by shadows

I'd have asked myself about

the sky

slipping under my legs

if the orators had terrible voices

like a discharge of clouds

for making themselves heard by multitude thunder

or pure and simple they were saying

as for themselves

with common voice

like distant sea whisper

stroking the shore

what everybody inside of self waited

to be told to.

                                                1976

When the wind

When the wind runs down the mountains

on marble steps

with resin breaths

like wine in amphorae

when olives green-silver

thrills of coolness

when Castile's spring

purifies virgin priestesses

and columns of Temple are plated

in reddish gold

when the sun falls in the sea

like athlete's disk

and crests light  vacillates between

the rhododendron's rosy and shadow's violet-blue

fishers' boats return from infinite

or from a universal fire

like a certitude that the day

drowned in waters

irreversibly

and fishes fly in twig baskets 

silver lightnings

indifferent to any Oracle

                                                1976

At the Wall of Tears

He led his “Uzi” weapon on the bank

tuck up his  khaki shirt

and deciphering secret graphic indications

started to wrap up on his forearm

the black bands.

Perhaps his parents' God

remained to Auschwitz or elsewhere

Perhaps as well God of his childhood

still didn't return from exile

but he tied on his forehead

the black little box with commandments

and with boots heavy of dusts

came near the Wall

O God help me to fulfill your commandments

(and not in the last turn the law of neighbor)

the soldier was praying balancing his lean body

in front of Wall

If tears versed at Wall would be collected,

drop by drop the world's heaviest river

would  start from here

If for each desire uttered here it would

kindle at least little rush-light flame it would be

so much light in the world that it wouldn't go in

either at least the shadow

of grass thread

Help me God to turn the sands

into fruitful orchards and Your light in love

for my neighbor

I thank you o God for this saint earth

from where I can't be chased any more (neither in abattoir convoys

nor like stray dog)

only because I am what I am

And if You are what You are God help

that loving my neighbor like myself

may he equally love me. / Amen.

                        Jerusalem,1988

Monads

pomegranates exploding like grenades

with thousands of anklebones

red by blood

in night silence

the monads pass

and history weeps

devils on branches of tree

black deers of rocks

one doesn't know if they are guarded

or they guard the man

from drought of hearths

the discreet purl

of eucalyptuses

lures Ocean vapors

the precepts help one to walk

World of Righteous

but not also customs of years

burkha amazons

mounted on motor bicycle

transfer the Koran

in speed shock wave 

paresis arabesques 

vainly are knitted

imperatively

on wall

time follows its way

even through dunes

through somnolent oases

in gulf noon

if sun however

in fire-locks

sets

it rises

in orchard

dream

                                                Marrakesh,1978

Stone time

dogs bark

indeed

to desert

even if it isn't

fool moon

Medina's saint

sleeps in coffin

of mine flowers

clay forts

still stay

as guard

of light

coming from Sahara

but blue horsemen

like a ray

in night

toward Guadalajara

here's the desert

mirage of colors

and turbans

stone fields

sleeping under dunes

on statues and palaces

caravans pass

 who knowing them?

who gathering them?

desert light

in soul

deep,

hanged in moon

daggers

North

will sing once

hosannas

to these brave

over rocky mountains?

my eyes smart

of views

and wind

my palate

splits

by thirst

the dreaming

too much

ends

bitter taste

of  dog roses

                                                            1978

Concert in mi minor

In Saint Irina's altar

under Byzantium cross

and acanthus leaves 

among copper canons

of Ottoman empire

with hairs on shoulders

with spectacles with golden rims

with eyes returned to him

the Soviet Jew

Ghideon Kremer

seeks for

Johann Sebastian Bach

Pigeons take their flight

under cupola of basilica-mosque

they rise from mi minor

to massacre of innocents

or image of stone Kaaba

they stop

on the blue

of a Deisis

miraculous and sad

and without getting tangled the notes 

listen how

in Saint Irina's altar

the Soviet Jew

Ghideon Kremer

seeks with closed eyes

for Johann Sebastian Bach

                                    Istanbul, 1974

Under a crude iron amour

Under a crude iron amour

in Piccadilly Place

lads with plaits on shoulders

and girls with nacreous jeans

stop their steps tired

by roads gathered in tibiae

undress super-stored rucksack

with which jump countries fence

how slips nails through gardens

immune to property titles

undress their illusions and identity

for an evening

for a single evening

lean their kitbag on the circular fountain

(with it they carry in the world

their sleeplessness hope anguish loves)

seeking for truth or other think yet undefined

or pure and simple seeking for self

from labyrinth to labyrinth

but fist of all the balance

as if would pass on a stretched wire

over  precipice between 20 and 21

they seat in circle

change a cigarette

a solitude confession

a bracelet with blood group

a bone totem

and naturally some  universal question

and even if the crud iron deity

didn't launch any arrow

(o will we pass anxieties threshold?)

she lay her tired forehead

on his tired shoulder

words don't take into account any more the roots

idioms lost their sense

questions postpone their definitive answer

on tomorrow / for next day evening

in Piccadilly or in other place

to Copenhagen Paris Katmandu or Athene

when metallic arbors light like some torches

on a foreign sky under a crud iron amour

with stretched bow

like an illusion

                                    London, 2^nd  Sept. 1975

Oceanic landscape

… between water and sky

closed in an iron cage

I climb in abyss

and slip in dream

and hangman-Time

lowers in chasm

Nadir to Zenith

which is unfulfilled

deserts of air

with no spirit

aquatic apoplexies

underground water columns

Cyclops  buildings 

in depth

under tropics

what it was and it's

one mixes on crests

hallucinating moon

in limestone

over a barbarous sun

parallel

billows and stars

reservoirs

of primary life

passing from winter

in summer

from night in sun

with no overwhelming

intermediaries

everything is nuance-less

and sudden

equation of Etruscan vessel

closed in an iron

 cage

I look through sky eye

wait

            wait

                        wait

Earth.

                                                Atlantic 1963 

Almost mono-rhyme conditional

And I cried to the Thessalonian: Iasso

Head compass on Burkina Fasso

To don't carry us from nose a

 Strumpet escaped of lasso 

Horses herd  remained. That so

To sport on autumnal lawns and go

To breed stallions of Orange and Nassau

And to don't wail us : we retired it

But we shared it with you empress

But we kept it out of sloth spite and distress

In your virgin forests dearest.

Anchor we didn't rise. Left where though

Wind beat on exile shore Ovidius Naso?

The hope in Helen? Just yesterday retired it.

In oceans not stranded yet in Thomasso?

in Rafaelian goblins of Arazo?

Or perhaps in glorious Fort of Tasso?

I don't know.

But plum jug I drunk it.

In a breath I drank it.

                                    Even if from Darm-el-Der

                                    announced is a dromedary.

                                                1987

El Resero

The horizon moans solitary...

Man Horse and Pampa -

Great Trinity:

El Resero -

astronomer, physician, astrologist

and poet

illiterate.

He knows all:

how earth breaths

moon phases

and from where wind starts,

he understands all after sun and clouds,

after cow bells lament,

after grass rustle and wind breath,

knows birds where they go

where cuckoo's eggs are hatched

how festoon mate is prepared

and when Zonda comes with dry wings,

knows why hogs prick up their ears and

when herds rear with ankles vibrating

knows heifer with shiny croup

and supple yearling

after stepping

and even breathing

what pains her what's wanting.

Where one finds medicinal roots

 how to make jicara from pumpkin tiuga

and how make concoctions

for collics...

He sleeps among grasses

covered by poncho and stars

with the boleador beside

friend with field gods and fairies,

with celestial signs

with lightning moon,

with quick summer rains

but mostly with a guitar.

            Man Horse and Pampa –          

the Great Trinity:

El Resero -  

the Horizon moans solitary

                        Argentinian Pampa, Septembre 1963

El Organillo

They chased him

people with no time for song,

by throwing indifference stones,

with  juke-box booing.

Pursued him on highways panting toward lanes

with sky roof,

with crossroads staggering in mud and dreams,

with shriveling children on fear steps,

but with  large open windows,

when at corners he pops singing,

the old, El Organillo.

They chased him

people having no time for song

and old, like song itself,

with an Iberian cap  on gray head,

with cape over bent shoulder

but his dignified step

(through it the whole vagabond world music

cries its right to life),

passes with his little box of wonders

through Bocca, through old port,

and at his song, little hoarse, little tired

blind windows light of shining eyes

and go aside.

He doesn't know Wagner

neither Verlaine's Autumn  violins

nor Uhland's ballads,

he doesn't know either “baby-rock”,

or “bossa-nova”.

His voice a little hoarse, a little tired,

echos only the tango,

- love, moon, sadness -

only the complicated and simple tango,

sometimes languorous,

about love of penumbra with lantern,

other time expressive

with port verb in taverns.

They chase him

people with no time for song,

by throwing indifference stones

people in whom the song died,

bur he,

El Organillo,

passes on crossroads staggering in mud

bent, with his little box of wonders

and with his voice, little hoarse, little tired,

gives to everybody,

a slice of moon, a bit of love, a tear

and a shiver of hope...

                        Buenos Aires, September 1963

Amazed I will be not

I

Fare-well, then, old Seaman

and San Domingo in dust carrying

high boots soft and hot traces

earth dry of Castile blood

  with ports balancing on hip

times gone

wrapping up creepers Genoa shelter

and mute cross in gray marbles

under which never led

of fevers down white bones

Far-well, then, old Seaman

you places saintly printing his trace

ringed shape with eyes of black lances

II

In everybody I think lives a Columbus

vibrating sadly lines in nature lull

or sails hanging from mutilated skies

memory algae drawing to depths the navy

split lips in Ocean thirst

or living presentiment of what we want and isn't

III

I followed all your ways

I rummaged dust of waters and stars

but didn't find

YET

the nearest

I navigate farther

with patched sails

but all stretched 

under sky falling in torrents

petrified like a stone

to yet unseen

realms

I navigate with steering wheel pressed in palms

                                                om my Ocean

                                                forward

sometime blushing never despaired 

other time tired never pessimistic

not a moment lacked of surety

(so many certitudes fallen

in uncertain fogs)

that amazed I will be not

when from blue centuries

my sight returned

will sea just real

THE ISLAND

on which I the first

putting foot

didn't foreseen it

                                                Atlantic, 1963

If

  If someone would send me a star

like to an average Magus or to a poet

I don't know if the water

would transform in wine or in vein

but I would see that interior signal

and would awaken

dressed in light

                                                1984

To pass beyond

I

To pass Beyond you Blue Knight – this is the problem

Beyond of objects dictatorship

automatism and myths

beyond you

to start in gallop

through onto-genesis

(not caring for contrary wind

and extrapolated stones)

over spaces of interference colors 

to chase the objects out of frame

to reach them in open field

to de-mine them of false identity

to split them into two halves

then again in two

once again and farther

up to point in which

areas separate from lines

the forms interpenetrate

mathematical laws become uncovered policies

and the point itself transposes in

spheres dynamics

in ordering chaos movement

in counterpoint-color

subordinating like a whirlpool

the linear vainglory

in ample musical curves

II

To pass Beyond you Blue Knight – this is the problem

Mounted folly like a typhoon  Beyond

toward incidence point between Real and Absolute

toward point from which solar systems burst

toward point in which springs of life boil

toward point in which it is born the

Birth

With the touch longed in the past

and from there farther to other past

and still farther

beyond obsessions of bison on walls

or vapor of Slav mystics

beyond circle segment vibrating transparently

of lens-lentil forms pulsating like some quasars

of broken lines brilliant like some lightnings

or multi-cephalic  signs of disappeared tribes

beyond in other past

from before memory

or from after

run with your touch-lance

Blue Night

without supposing

that Beyond

 and beyond of Beyond

stupefied you will arrive again

face to face to yourself

At your self

Closed in your own flight

To pass Beyond you Blue Knight is this the problem?

                        1974

The mire

Those departed still return

but no gift bring they in turn

golden apples are not growing in the stellar gardens up

do not pass even when sleeping over salty oceans gape

what has passed / is in the past

what remained / is fare-well made

what in mire / your attire

nobody's back to access

what time is spinning ceaseless

                                               

                                                fogs of light give us white dress

                                                from an old Dacian place  

if would fall again the manna

over mantle pax romana

                                               

                                                and the arrow be in fly

                                                back to quiver standing by

coming ones be going would

through the grasses of wormwood

in a dark as pitch waste land

           dog rose carrying command

in order to dream let say

if it's findable back way

toward silver gushing spring

caressing and whispering

golden apples are not growing in the stellar gardens up

do not pass even when sleeping over salty oceans gape

what has passed

 is in the past

what remained

 is fare-well made

what in mire

 your attire

       1976

Penumbra visions

- I will not bring you in pre-Adam sphere

and don't lie that sphere is perfection present

but Urania places interfere

with power of moon crescent

- Closed in flight

in elan

toward depth

the height

I am

perpetual passing

from a past

to another past

- Enigma mystery play call me

the night exults tropical flowers

dream love and fire only

bear abyss festivals

- I pass slowly

through mind

images

rotated in circle

I am

a fluid shadow

trying in vain

to encircle

- look to mirror watch dumb

erotic travesty dream metaphor

angels invite tragically  toward 

clay from the paradise orchard

- You see

the future in morning

 shine

while I  how

mist grows

cross of mine

                                                1975

Goya

The chiaroscuro whip snap

over cysts

tumors and discoloration of spirit

surgeon knife

extirpating

night cancer

                                                            1983

The egg form and the flaccid watches

                                                     for S. Dali

I

surely nirvana has form of an egg

even if surfaces are tri-dimensional

sea shores whited by sun

through window ovals

wax figures pass like in Grevin Museum

and diaphanous silhouettes don't project any more

on Ampurdan hills

watches are glued on dehydrated bodies

of dry arbors trunks

limp leeches sucking the time

no

the life is a dance on water

even if the apocalypse is confounded sometime

with apoplexy

even if we carry scholarly dialogues

with over-gelatinous cretins

we complex hydrocephalus

applaud rhinoceros

we passionate of anti-gravitation phenomena 

and find in congealment 

the much-searched panacea against anguish

of flaccid watches

I

surely nirvana has form of an egg

only for us to excite the hazard

after delirious-paranoiac system

let us dress in Rafael's mantle lined with purple

to wander through magic caves of subconscious

to inter-twist the sense organs

to conjugate photography with spatial technique

(we may not be bashful also Praxitelles was taking castings of craniums not

having been yet communicated the optimum speed of 11,000/sec.)

only that we proclaim the visceral  fame

and cybernetic model of pathological tie

supreme standard 

boredom – the tetanus of soul

embers the antique bust with helmet of atomic fireman 

equal shock with lunar module

III

only then

and even not then friend

(I researched all your masks

and lived again your adventures)

I don't know if I reached closer

to scandal making nihilist

touching the world with antenna-mustaches

and writing anonymous letters to self on address

            TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE DIVINE DALI

or to Apostolic fanatic dreaming universal monarchy

hiding a bomb of nihilist

when no one of them knows

even if two heads are planted on same trunk

that colors stridency

can not drown in brocade veils

that forms of things appear in superposed curtains

only after a dance of be-pop

and the watches even flaccid ones

repeat the circle

Surely nirvana has form of an egg

Mounting a blue goose

Into a left rotating water

a woman swims sucked by snakes

in her brace is not despair

even there are still days until fortnightly wages

Her head is cropped close

with black and viscous craters

fusses of triangular skulls

adders green lizards scabby frogs

and horn vipers

As if it isn't a woman head

but a gorgon

But she swims impassibly (even with pleasure)

I  set my astrolabe 

the genetic dowry

the photography with the five natural colors

(it is known of whom)

penknife for castrating cocks

(I never could understand

how a man like Pythagoras could believe

that in the other life he was a bird)

and I mount a blue goose

- No possible – I say. If I multiply

the 10 commandments by 4 cardinal virtues

and scrape the parchment with ponce stone

I reach the perfect shining number

I throw then in water

a root of wormwood (it neutralizes the poisons)

a fist of sage and savory (they change the bio-currents)

a cellar with salt (for taste)

and I repeat 40 times the known word.

Then I wait

When left rotating water start flowing inversely

and agitated but sustained movement of the swimmer

become superfluous

(this I realize after aquatic dance

of blue feather finely sharpened

lost by the wild goose)

I fling more

an arm of mallow and root of  burdock

pulled out from swamp

in order to hurry the healing of wounds

It isn't need to wait any more

Suddenly on the bank of water

bizarre and very different characters appear

vendors of indulgences and Selena grounds

wine falsifiers epileptics simulators and small

dictators

modest corrupter of majors sodomites with cut

nose

trainers of animals with split hoof

real agents soothsayers handicapped and

illiterate healers

All offer their services

But the woman is in water and sucked by snakes

and I in air riding a blue goose

What is to be done

I even don't finish my interrogation

when a vagabond fiddler

flutter toward me from an acacia tree

a purple sack

It could be supposed that he wants to seduce

                                                            the gone queen of a primary swarm

                                                or to stir a sidereal bull

                                                after extirpating its balls

Nothing of all these

The swimmer sucked by serpents

understands instantaneously the double sense of gesture

fluttered from acacia

Without any comment or a useless gesture

she enters at once in the sack with her last breath

and first cry

It is just her new yolk diaper 

Otherwise all is good appreciates apparently the Great Will

when it ends in applauds

Pythagoras the cock of the neighbor scrutinize the night:

cock-a-doodle-do

                                                            1986

The daemon  closed into copper

I wandered thirty two ways of wisdom

and arrived at the end of moving sands

I passed through savannahs mute interrogations

and the jungle of signs without signs

to marshes steaming  the reason

over straight mountains with glass walls like some axioms

and blue ices fields like pure ideas

I knew the triangles of hunger for  ideal

and crossed ways of migratory birds

seeking for a certain shore

I passed through hamlets haunted by sleep ghosts

through tentacled towns bathed in ashes colors

of indifference

and didn't find any one of the seven

palaces of light

(I cried also the name out seventy names

but neither one bush lighted)

Twenty eight days and nights

with whip knitted of hippopotamus skin

I hit the bronze gong of the temple

The moon returned in its initial position

the gate didn't budge

But the daemon closed into copper

like in a great mystery

dipped into  me

its bell voice:

                                                “Where from man comes and whither he directs

                                                On the same step stay Birth and Death”

It repeated what also the defeated from Armageddon asked

the twelve animals in testament of

the Teacher

words which return also in codex of vizir Ibn Al Kami

magi's books zohars

epistle of saints

repeated by inquisitors and prophets

soothsayers wizards church doctors and philosophers

free thinkers fanatics spirit pilgrims

copyists fools illuminated calligraphers missionaries

hunters of relics of titles of forgiveness

of blazons of soul

Who does hear me

Under ashes storm

the cortege of naked flagellant

whip their wounds and cry

They want to stop the plague and eclipses

disquiet and hunger

war fear and ravens clouds

May I mount with them toward black altar?

I know poppies are only the longing for light

of those from underground

When the mute of  dancers presses in fist

the corn cob

we pass once again the secret of initiation

But voice of my daemon closed into copper

will never resurrect the yellow corpses

cut by moon knives

It only puts questions

                                                1986

The counter

Did you read sometime

the counter of an electric chair?

Did you notice sometime / how much current consumes

carbonation of a man

how many kilowatts / how many kilograms of anthracite

how many liters of crude / how much sun / at primordial ashes?

Did you think sometime how much is consumed

in order to be consumed / in infinitesimal fractions 

of time / the energy accumulated

in millions of light-years

in order to be born

out of nothing / or out of all

the thinking matter / the spirit

or just / the reason to exist

of  Non-existence?

                                                1980

The bath

When my body  prolonged

slipped white in black-greenish water

outside was sun and valley leaves

looked for glass sound of river

And I was hearing it

My friends climbed the noon path

Someone was singing bronze ballad

or precipice roar caught in the reddish crock

The horn viper ran from their voice

and neither blackbird did blood 

but my body  prolonged

slipping white in black-greenish water

sub-earth plasma

birch trunk in river

was hanging in void / like a wedding skirt

put at drying on my stretched nerves

like a heavy sleep in an empty house

with closed shutters

or like a dream in an abandoned mill

grinding the flour of my bones

Or like a slope on water steps

How my body dips

in black-greenish water

and how the pores of my creature yawn their mouth

with greedy lips / dilated flashy

cups of leeches

You do enter me

heat my ice body

walk the shroud of my bones

rummage me / dance in me with no shyness

march in may blood

with parade steps of legions

tramp in festive forgetting / of my body

or fly in it buzzing

like bees on a wild lawn

or in a tile forest / flourished over night

you blessed vapors of the sub-earth

black-greenish waters / in which my body prolonged

plays white / like a salamander in fire

            Baile Herculane, 8^th June 1978                      

The angel feather

Once I changed an angel feather

on a horseshoe nail  (goat or devil?)

My friends wondered:

to give an angel feather!

With an angel feather

(of angel or even of a genius)

yet you don't arrive up – I told them.

The nail you beat in beam

and still you have a chance to climb.

                                    1983

The breakdown of angel

The vapor horses gathered on marsh

They beat with hoofs the white image

reflected in the black mirrors

Golden dust

the sun

wait

to breath in their mane

When herd takes its flight

with felt hoofs

over reed roofs

 the in-service cock is in measure

to announce with due vainglory

the down

                                                1984

The ghost of a horse

The ghost of a white horse

in trembling smoke of lane

through blocked pipes

from boulder to boulder

over puddle and swamps

on slippy boards

in fragile balance

the phantom of a white horse

mud bursts

through gates sprawling in hinges

through broken windows the air

filters stinks

the phantom of a white horse

under galleries with drawn shutters

the vapor contour of objects

is undoing and doing  back

incubation and universal

interpenetration of forms

the ghost of a white horse

wipes its croup

on town mist

                                                            1983

Hypnosis

When blue Algonquins

lemurs and demigods

will invite us to secret weddings

on sails and vessels

Sybil heraldic

will fill like hawk flight

Hairy pterodactyls

with parabolic eyes

will watch our arrivals in spaces

hypnotic  water-clocks

will sift in sand

cosmogonies

from other generations

exalted wrecks and epileptic archangels

with bashfulness of sexual obsessions

will strongly celebrate in table end 

the ellipses and oval forms

It is just magic meaning of Trojan horse

bought back  by an anonymous concubine

like frost ahead at 0 absolute 

be it only

when wedding animates

and the populations of white mannequins

slipping on abyssal axes

will aggrandize the para-logic delirium  

 and the way

                        apparently

                                                on verticals

                                                1975

Obsession

The breath

glues

on walls

The brain

drinks

ice fire

in pails

And knives

pierce

- cold borers -

the scull in flames

lightened

for ever

The word has

yellow- bittersweet taste

the rat

in its hole hides

it rotates

just in window

a bumble bee

It smells

the black corpse

in jet-black

The violet-blue eyes

are turned

toward Twilight

And the neighbor

has verdigrised  blood

Bandages run

dizzy

after bones

herpes snakes

with gnawed bodies

Mouth vault

dried

a pond

And ceiling

descends

always

over bones

over soul

yet heavier

and the ceiling

crushes again

my body.

                                                            August, 1956

Metaphysical picture

                                                                            to G. de Chirico

A

The absences live through their shadow

abandoned in them objects and beings

spacial magic in white mannequins

oracle enigmas and Autumn cold evenings

B

Asexually present in fallen universe

with gum heads united in system

the plaster matrons still stay on blue cube

an ovoid on neck and arms over thighs

C

The egg is red balanced in the pick 

in horses in tower in rhombus gladiators

on black table spirals chase one another again

an infinity of chalk squanders in gesture

D

Architecture in rectilinear shock

and sails of ships beyond the wall

mysteries converse toward us with heaving

assault of black fogs crude separations

E

When flat floors are still flowing orange

the buildings with towers are slandered in ocher

strangely the vault washes in the agony green

a mobile in space secretly hallucinating

F

The real propped up in the crutch of a frame

the windows of sleep  quarrels in nudity

crushed elements in bizarre geometries

motionless are waiting entries in perspective

G

Only the unique spectator prudent among silences

sees anything white with inexorable eye

in unseen knots he pressed ties continuously

objects finding themselves in anguish

H

Oracle enigmas and Autumn cold evenings

spacial magic in white mannequins

abandoned in them objects and beings

the absences live through their shadow

            Bucharest,16. Dec. 1973

  

The dialogue of some bees with the eternity

the bees of which queen gone in nuptial flight

            didn't return any more to hive  (it wandered in love

            thicket or have been wandered by cheating fiances)

started in hurry to build new cradles for

            mother-queen (how else could they quiet

the great disquiet regarding tomorrow change

            or even the succession)

only that the queen fed with the sweetest royal jelly

            heated by small bodies in honey comb cradle didn't

            seem to be neither a shadow at least of that lost

            in nothingness

but the bees didn't despair and built again new cradles

            and grew patiently other queens carrying

            luminous hope the icon of that which once was

            their queen and mother and so no one from the new queen

            face to that depicted  in

affective memory in ideal colors didn't succeed to be

            other than poor and pale copy of that

pair-less

they killed them one by one with fury and hate as if the poor

            new apparitions would have been dangerous

throne usurpers and when they have splashed with venom

            also the heart of the last

copy-queen unworthy  of course to carry in time

            the noble sign of perpetuation

in a brainless despair and heroic spontaneous sacrifice  they

            started to correct together and each in part

            what the nature itself had refused to them: in protected place in

            depths of honey combs started to depose with

            mad hope eggs

if we all will depose – they said to selves – it must that

out of millions of eggs at least one to match so that

            to grow from it the dreamed queen

where from to know the diligent and too soft flayers

            striving to save their tribe and kin that in nature

            it exists a damned event or the heaviness of a destiny

            according to which out of two eggs deposed by working bees

            can come out but dog bees where from to know them the absurd

of predestination

where from to know them that in nature exist bronze codes

            - laws – which don't open the circle neither to most

            generous intentions nor to the hottest

            prayers

and thus the hurried dialogue of some diligent working

 bees with the eternity has been cut inexorably

and suddenly

                        1983

           

Km 0

                                                            noon reporter sent in the place

saint george to photograph road stone on which

since tens of years or perhaps since ever is written (as a convention

between man and man or between man and worlds): km0 was telling me

with a funny  humor that there where I sent him it isn't

any stone

                                                            how that isn't I ask simply it

melted earth has swallowed it it has evaporated it isn't

                                                            how simply how it isn't I cry how did

it disappear with no anybody to observe without someone

making a sign without stopping from his way  someone and

to howl without that the decapitated to jump from his grave

without anybody to give alarm and awaken the planet

the quarter the cosmos it was stolen only stolen it was stolen

the kilometer 0

                                                            you realize if km 0 disappeared it

doesn't exist in fact neither km 7 nor 77 nor 777 at the power

7 with period or without nothing

                                                            it means that any starting point

disappeared that it doesn't exist any more neither right nor left neither up nor down neither forward nor backward it means that distance doesn't exist

any more with other words if I stretch a finger

nothing impedes to touch the bronze muzzle of

the stallion of  michel  the brave to remove the forefinger from

the big-ben at hour of good mercy to draw in ring finger the loop

of saturn and refusing the  cry on sand of the greek “noli

 turbare circulos meos”* to make and remake after imagination

or caprice all the universe circles

                                                            if 0 doesn't exist in fact

neither infinite exists and if it disappeared the illusion of endlessness and

any start was annihilated nothing remained but the printed

place like a regret on retina memory the place which

stayed once in appearance or specter km 0 neither that

1981

The sense of life is life itself

*

            The war is the supremacy of the blind biologic, exacerbation of disfiguring hate and of torturos cruelty, reversal of spiritual values, dynamitation of normal relations between man and nature, between man and man, between man and his self. The war is, as such, the absolutized pollution, the triumph of anthropofagy.

*

            The man: biological agressivity (the only species which has created and creates means of selfannihilation) but also an unlimited demiurgic power of creation. Atomic mushroom but also the intergalactic flight – a single and paradoxical reality.

*

            Question remains: the Hell or the Paradise? And between them a road strewn with traps. The way from biologic man to spiritual man.

            Does it stay in our power to identify the traps, to surpass them?

*

            Spiritual pollution, including, naturrally, also that political one, is as noxious as carbon dyoxid; by provoking the greenhouse effect or ozone stratum breaking it leads finally to man asphyxiation and planet desertification.

*

            Spiritual unity of world was gravely disturbed. Without an alternative life style, through values and for values, opposed to obtuse consumerism, without a radical attitude change toward nature – being not an inexhaustible resource tank, but the space of genesis itself -, without an integration into universe as cosmic beings we are we will can not save ourselves fom generalized pollution depression.

*

            The language is the most complex system of understanding of the Nature and its integration  through our own integration.

*

            Any temptation of the sacred belongs to strictest intimacy as pure personal problem. Thus,the dynamic curiosity of interogation, spiritual mystery, approaching to the Absolute dissolve or petrifie themselves in the blind alley of ephemerous certitudes, in doctrinary dogmas sclerosis or in mechanistic pomp of the virtual.

*

            If everybody perceives God according to own force of representation (dfined by subjectivity, culture, intelectual and affective horizon of the personality), it means that, in fact, in the last instance, God has as many „shapes and resemblances” as many individuals search his aproximation.

*

            There are not two identical individuals. The print of each is crushed just at birth. Any entity is a strictly singled out uniqueness. Somehow similarly it happens with the perception of God. From animistic totems to those anthropomorphic ones and from here to the omnipresent abstraction, with no name and shape, the scale of representation is diversified to the number of identities through differences in native feature and of those gained through knowledge.

*

            By developing the magic of sex and abdicating from resistance in front of vulgarity brutal aggression, we don't annihilate only aesthetical concept of the eternal feminine, but we impoverish the mystery seduction itself.

*

            In the shelves of my virtual library stay, aligned like som parade hussars, books I never turned over. Sometime I have impression that I scoured them  with attention and I appropriated their metaphoric universe like a common good belonging to all soldiers with decorative brandenburg.

*

            Each object, being or phenomenon carries in itself the germ of its disappearing. No the time passes, but we; I, the stone, bird, storm, locomotive, cloud. Past, present and future are not a convention, but hypostases of our passing. They are three hypostases of Fata Morgana.

*

            Thr truth is the shortest distance between two fixed points. The lie, shortest distance between two mobile points.

*

            Banjara is translated from Hindi through the entity which doesn't let itself closed; through the word emptied by the subtance of truth; through that who is not afraid of prisons of prejudices and thought cliches; by that who passes through walls; gets free from caves of stagnation and emptiness of ideas. In Romanian language, the most suitable translation for banjara would be the poet.

*

            In front of seduction of appearences, illusions and self-delusions – only the skeptical self-irony could still offer a life-belt.

*

            God invented poet in order to exist who continuate his creation and perfect his work.

*

            As much the expression is more foggy, so much, for some analists, its unsoundable profundities – more evident.

*

            The media scandal focalizes the reflector on some obscure character confering to him an aura which memory couldn't retain any more.

            If the character let himsefl caught in the mediatic trap, his landing on real realm will be hard, contusive if not dramatic.  

*

            The policy of  fight for power is conducted by only one principle: having not principles.

*

            The politics is an aphrodisiac: likewise to games of luck its ephemerides create stronger satisphactions than competition of compentnce should offer.

*

            The mode in which the Holocaust reflects in our consciousness is, in fact, the measure of humanity in us.

*

            If you invest authority in one who doesn't emanate own authority, the gesture will return over you. (First of all, you didn't understand that can not be incumbed from outside what is not intrinsic).

*

            A fist in mouth is a jump to dinosaurs.

*

            Rarely it happens that no the dead be guilty that he died.

*

            The rational man searches for adapting to him the  life environment and to adapt himself.

            The irrational man on the contrary: he destroys his life environment, self-mutilating.

*

            Knowing not to lose is a grave handicap of life philosophy with incalculable consequences in personlity becoming.

*

            Recognition of mistakes (the repentance for sins) is but a sine qua non condition of competitivity with self , a spiritual performance.

*

            The rain drop is ocean's hope messenger.

*

            The air flows around me carrying in itself , paradoxical, all syllables I ever uttered.

*

            . When the sense of life is life itself, the persuasive question remains: how would we peronalize the priorities so that the sense of life become indeed destiny

*

            If the profound global crisis finds its roots in humane conscience collapse, in spiritual emptiness, evidently, the love and ecumenism religions, in the sense of remaking world spiritual unity, could have a beneficial role in surpassing the collapse. Krishnamurti is, probably, right affirming that „anything outside is also inside you”. Are violence, hate, aggressivity, wars  not deriving from visceral instincts got off reason censorship, humanist education, tolerance and love of interhuman relations motivation of continuity?

*

            Crepuscle of colors the second language of emptiness.

*

            Wisdom becomes evident when out of grape beans press (experiences, informations, questions) gathered in autumn bunch biggins to drop the must of idea...

*

            Battle for a target will be gained by that who will detain the information.

*

            Friendship guided on a one way road  is doomed to perish.

*

            Greeting between the jailed is prohibited. I never could explain myself where from, to some neighbours, the psychology of the prisoner...

*

            If somebody breath in my nape it means that he runs after my head.

*

            If you want to clarify some problem and to discuss with yourself, do search the Other.

*

            Some friendships are like dentary thread, pleasant, useful, but get quicly used.

*

            The frequent awarding and proclaming  of some false values as models as well as the lack of reaction to laurels crowning of some conjecture interests becomes the most convincing certificate of hazard and arbitrary domination in a world of options relativized by dark relations and emptied of cult and most of all of culture of values.

*

            It depends on you, only on you, if a road crossing becomes or not an inition travel toward your profound Ego, toward revealing miracle, toward understanding of godhood.

*

            The culture starts when the criterium of value becomes functional.

*

            The ego is the unifying wave created by internal tensions movement.

*

            The sense of life is life itself.

The end of miracles

*

            When love ravels out also miracles end.

*

            Where talent appears, the melted lead of printigns starts flowing.

*

            A stupid who believes himself clever is more stupid than a stupid who knows his limits.

*

            The present is the minute when future passes in ito the past.

*

            Poetry is, I believe, the breath of human soul. An overflow of  superabundance. Of course between poet and his world there is a tragic divorce: limitations of external reality and unlimited spiritual horizon of the poet. Poetry is a protest against the limits.

*

            Poetry is also a dimension of hope. Even when poet crosses the obscure zones of the lack of solutions and even of sense, he doesn't loose his trust in man, conveying  through his poetry the sacred impulse, spiritual energy of Creation itself.

*

            But poetry is not only the reason of being of the poet, but also a sublimation of his existence. And this existential truth can not be inculcated from outside. Poet lives and breaths history through his poetry. Immortal history of human spirit. Politics breaths only the ephemeral of human condition. It circumscibes the history in a strictly delimitated time and space.

*

            Eugen Loinescu noted in „Sburatorul”: „A minister follows to another as according to a cosmic law. But to a great writer nobody can take his place. Is great just through individuality. Is an unique exemplar.”

*

            Language is vertbral spine of a nation.

*

            It can not be indifferent to us in what language it is spoken and in what language it is written! Can it be a more noble mission than reenthroning Romanian language in its imperial chair? It is the aristocratic mission of the writer, argument itself of his professional dignity.

*

            Between accelerated inconscience with which one consumes one's time in the most consistent part of his life and somnolent waiting of the end – the interval is insignificant, almost like a plasma  passing. 

*

            By aging we learn to be, indeed, young. That is good householders but also qualified squanderes of the living time.

*

            Existence tragedy: the old age runs toward us alert and sportive  while the wisdom has steps dragged by sclerosis.

*

            As much you laugh hesitantly so much the skeptical old age is nearer.

*

            In difference of verb to exist, state more vegetative than energetical, to live means to assume your life.

*

            Two people of same chronologic age have, in fact, different qualities, the state of human  person  being determined over all by its spiritual energy so different and so distinguished from an individ to another.

*

            Each poem, each book is a surpassing of limits, a penetration in the mystery in order that other more profound mysteries (Blaga) to open their pages.

*

            A way in remaking the world spiritual and moral unity would be the religions. I motivate and argumentate the concept of global ecumenism in the last volume of my pentalogy. The global ecumenism shows to be in this beginning of millenium still a hope, still a possibility of man salvation, the Judaic-Christian morals gaining a normative, universal sense.

*

            Joshua-Eshu-Isus was that who, surpassing tribal limits, opened to man from everywhere the horizon of rise over his condition enlarging to the scale of humanity the idea of the Unique God of Israel, inscribing thus religion of love in the universality.

*

            For history of human genre the Judaic-Christian ethics marks the jump from barbarous empire of instincts unchained in the horizon without limits of moral self-perfecting, in civilization.

*

            The perfection of man through love is at the same time also his deifying.

Contestants

            One after-noon in the '80s, at a table in the garden of Writers House, Petre Tsutsea held forth, in the presence of Aurel Dragos Munteanu and of undersigned,  on contesting as specific feature of Judaic kin and said: „Do you know who were the first discontented ones with the polytheism? The Jews. And they have invented the Judaism. And who were the first dicontented ones  with Judaism? The Jews. And they have invented the Christianity. And who were the first discontended ones with Christianity? The Jews. And they have invented the Marxism. And who were the first discontended ones with Marxism? The Jews. And now we are waiting to see what more are they inventing.

Between Blaga and Maiakovski

            I enrolled for Philosophy in order to attend Blaga (in parallels I was doing also the Letters). Still in high school, I was swinging between Blaga (all time on the night stand, idol of my intimacy with a poetry and a philosiphy which moulded on my affective sensitivity and meditative nature inclined toward philosophical speculation), on one side, and Whitman and Maiakovski, who conquered me through their liberty of expression and utopia of more generous world. Blaga was what I was, Maiakovski – what I aspired to be. This swinging between two models lasted until I found my own voice. Blaga was and remained my great spiritual master. He was not only a forerunner of my Ecosophy, but also the Professor who taught me the essence: „In art as well as in philpsophy - the purest expressions of the self -, if you are not yourself, you are nothing”. I wouldn't resume events and ideas from „The last examination with Blaga” (the hazard gave that I was just the last student examinated by Blaga as professor), but I can not abstain to reproduce a few dramatic lines from the letter which he addressed me at 29.XII.1948:

            „Do you know that I have no any more a chair at the University? It is said to be nominated to a research institute. And when I think that for years I was overruled by illusion that I was keeping beautiful courses? Do you see how strongly can we deceive ourselves over our activity?! Do write to me as often as possible. I wish you for new year only good, like to a good friend. Lucian Blaga”.

            Nightmare! To snatch away Blaga's chair, at 53 years and he to ask wirth candor „ Do you see how strongly can we deceive ourselves over our activity?!” O, God! What else should I add?!

The debut

            At an almost six decades retrospective, the first verse booklet was, in fact, a cry of  vainglory. Several high schools in Timisoara gave  the bacalaureat graduation in that year, 1947, at the Mlitary Lyceum. Welthy pupils crowded to the „meditations” of the future member of bacalaureat commission at Romanian language and literature. I refused to myself these meditations not only because I was from far the best in this matter, but also because I was writing poems and reports and, therefore, I considered myself a „creator of literature”. At examination it felt to me a text from a chronicler which I had to identify and comment. (Later on I was to learn from the „meditated” colleagues that it was Radu Popescu). I felt with brio. Of course, during summer I didn't open any textbook, in exchange I selected a sheaf of poems and a good friend typographer, Carol Trier (with whom I was working to the Page „Resita” of „Luptatorul banatean” (The Banat Fighter), collected in his free hours, letter by letter, the debut volume Lespezi pe un veac apus (Slabs on a faded age). I put on autumn session table, in front of each bacalaureat commission member, the plaquette of the pupil came to reexamination. You ask me how many poems did I retain for „Complete work”. For „Compete work” (if I would have intention to publish it) I would be obliged to publish all poems. The „Definitive work” which I published in five volumes (I Poems, II Proses, II The taming of the beast in man  or the Ecosophy, IV Talks in the twilight, V Five ship diaries  and the thorn crown), totalizing almost 3, 000 pages supposing a rigurous and exigent value selection, refused to me any republication from this first plaquette.

Contmporanul (The Contemporary weekly)

            I think still today that I had the privilege to be part in the „shock team” of George Ivascu, probably, the most talented builder of cultural opinion in the history of our press, started to transform an anodyne,  insipid and pseudocultural publication into a prestigious European magazine with a large opening to universality. Ivascu has been a catalyser of Romanian intelligence. On friday morning, the issue of „Contemporanul” (The Contemporary) meant The optimist's chronicle of George Calinescu, tablets by Arghezi, Geo Bogza or Grigore Moisil, chronicles and articles by E. Schileru, P. Comarnescu, Radu Popescu, Ion Frunzetti, Valentin Silvestru, Catrinel Oproiu, Eugen Simion, Nicolae Manolescu, Al. Mirodan, Ion Mihaileanu, Ioan Grigorescu, Paul Anghel, etc., etc.

            Weekly, upper: dynamic picture of ideas (orientations, tendences, literary currents, fine arts, film, science, education, music, external politics) in general synthesis articles, in the foot: concret phenomenon analysis – theater premieres, cymas, reviews, the edge column: day information on page field. The golden age of „Contemporanul” lasted exactly a decade and half. The epoch of „tightening the screw”, restarted after visit of dictatorial couple in Korea, meant also the gradual demolition of „Contemporanul”. First sign: the suspending of Bogza's tablet. The summaries came back to „Contemporanul” blackened by erasures and additions. The magazine imbues with service texts. The ideological tax becomes unpayable. Ivascu and Roger Campeanu arrive at „Romania literara” (Literay Romania).

            Myself, as a deputy chief-editor to a new magazine - „Romania pitoreasca” (The Picutresque Romania), which, I optimistic presupposed, will be not implied in politics, having as principal object the nature and eternal beauties of country.

            „Contemporanul” of its golden age remains yet long time a model for signiture quality, jornalistic species diversity, for its graphic look. I thing that even today most talented makers of journals would have something to learn by turning over Ivascu's „Contemporanul”.

The Intellectuals

            What happens with a people which sends away its intellectuals? With a society without interrogations, without problems, without alternatives, without solutions? Either it will grope in chaos, or will answer docile to dictate. A society without intellectuals resembles with a village without old people. It is a space out of which the memory was exiled. Where the self-consciousnes volatilized.

Mirror chips

            God, I, and the others constitute themselves in a relation implying all of us together and  each in part. Interactive oneness and specific difference multiplied at Planet inhabitants number. Each religion searches to offer the imprint of own perception and the image of own repesentation. Religions want to be the spokesmen of divinity, translating into language of people in whose middle they were leavened /formed some chips out of Absolute Idea mirror. As a matter of fact, in the inmost depths of his intimacy each man has his own mode in which individualizes the godlike features, percieves and represent them according to personal cultural-psycho-mental data.

I am what I am

            A special emphasis has the apparition, still from down of monotheism, of the word-concept YHWH, Iahveh. That is „I am what I am”. Sufficient to self. What a strong resonance can have this concept since thousands of years, when the modern physics, theory of S matrix bases its construction on „selfconsistency”! In the new vision the world of subatomic particles wouldn't be but a dynamic net of phenomena alike with the perpetually changing interior processes  in Oriental spiritualist philosophies. „Selfconsistent” is the indivisible universe, consituted from an immense net of interconnected and interdetermining relations. Any process follows a cosmic unitary model through the interior dictate propelled by the proper intimate nature. This interior impulse (in which it is imprinted yhe entire „map” of  Universe, „mathematic model”, „plane” or „programme”), impulse which structurates and destructurates, being the „essence” itself of nature laws, has it nothing in commun with what we'd like to call godhead?

Iahveh

            I am convinced that the  the translation of cosonants included in IAHVEH (in old Hebrew the vowels being aleatory) with „I am what I am” is imperfect. Semantically, faithful to the original, the Hebrew consonants are in consonance, probably, with „I am what it is”. Instead of tautology or a speculative „self-consistency”: holism (totality), omnipresence.

Tao and Christ

            At Chineses, Tao is the way, cosmic process, in which the multitude of objects and phenomena evolve in intimate order of everybody's nature, in part, but also of universal nature as a whole. „ I from myself nothing can do” - Jesus says. „Father in me, He is that who makes the work”. The cause of a process will be, also in the Christic doctrine, the active, intimate force, inside of things.

But to accomplish

            The entire work of Jesus, the mode in which he behaved with people, the kind in which he was feeling, keeping silent or expresses himself in parables, his psychology and message, universal humanist patrimony, carries the specific seal of Judaic Messianic idealism.

            Jesus belonged to the „chosen people” destined to spread the Teaching, in order that removing the accessories of temporality imposed by ephemerous imperatives of historical moment, to develop the Mosaic wisdom of love, to focalise and project the Judaism into another dimension („You don't be angry and don't keep anger on the children of your people. Do love your neighbour as yourself” transcribes Mozes the godhead Order in his IIIrd Book (Leviticus 19.18). Otherwise, Jesus who unbending had believed in Tora has been characterized as „ the most Jew among Jews” before anything else, because he attracted, like nobody other, non-Jews to believe in the One, in the Unique ineffable, indefinable God of Israel. „You do not believe that I came to spoil the Law and the Prophets, He was saying, I came not to spoil, but to accomplish” (Mathew 5:17).

Three conditions of ecumenism

            What can we do today? Of course, no statements. But, the proposal, to all religions, of a vital ecumenism founded on three simple conditions: 1. recognition of God's oneness, 2 . brotherhood of all His sons, and 3. freedom of the individual to perception of divine, of  Shape Less One, according to everybody's bio-cultural-psychological data. As each religion has its own spiritual  way in search of the Absolute, individualizing its options of representation, and each individual in part has his own mode to perceive God, to „conceive” him, to fix him in his mentalism conformable to odd particularities of his culture and subjectivity.

An Arbor

            I nourish the hope that Ioshua – Jesus to represent  the living feature of reconsideration, with no resentiments and dogmatic prejudices, of brotherly relation between Judaism and Christianity. The originary monotheism remains, I believe, in history, like a stately arbor with roots thrusted deeply in earth and crown propping up the sky through three strong branches: Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Jerushalaim

            Here the man met the Absolute.

            With sight lost in the cosmic horizon, breathing in chest rarefied air of heights, or crossing the endlessness of deserts, the man understood that Adonay ehad, Lord One is.

            Here the human mind has created the amplest synthesis of all times: the monotheism.

            Here the man searched a name for the Absolute.

            And he called it Iehova, „What It Is Because It Is”, „Unique”, „Master Of Universe”, „Almighty”, The Name Less”.

            Here the man carved in stone his Laws, fruit of his meditations, experiences and revelations. And there were born the decalogue of love for neighbour, the sacrosanct principles through which everybody, part of whole, can become the whole itself.

            Patriarchs, Profets and Apostles distributed to world peoples, like some victuals of hope, the spiritual message of Jerusalim and the light of its supreme revelation: the love.

(Long) POEMS

(The nostalgia of detachment from shore)

              

The dis-bounding and the alert colors

Primo tempo

1. baroness I draw bolt of portal

and take out my Roman sandal

and look at a world which

damned

I didn't invent

2.condemned

figuration episodic:

retina retains

intermittent spasmodic

3. lascivious

copper bodies

prolonged skeletons feline

with muscles in line

slip silky

undulating the voluptuousness in petticoats

of atlas ivory and ebony

(the rose-bonbon has lost since long

its relevance)

and look stupor

what is over

is trodden under foot

4. hallucinogenic and withered

males

in ragged undershirts

of harvard

but also the unseen sleeve

the  ace

change their ring from bottle

nose

and sex-angels-mountebanks

from the biceps and pectorals

(how the peacocks

wear their tails fan

pea-cock-ed )

damn hula-hoop

5. accumulated tension

in personal chakras

electrifies serene air

birds fall from flight

aware

interior voices free

like in a quadrille

tremble febrile

6. “with bot-ox and silicons

we pass  over rubicons

from the heels up to the plexus

we speak Texas language-sex us”

7. ecstasy hi purse-proud cute

slipperiness on the chute

fox

box

paradox

fuss

bus

trampolines

bottle wines 

come on pa

come papa

(with no adhesion to zen)

those not  subscribed to pen door

let us cry

“ole ole

babel tower is no more”

Fine del primo tempo

8. I am told:

if you want to draw own

villa with thermic pans 

but less rumors and foams

not haggling a briber

nobody stops you
(otherwise

kiss your eyes)

 drum beating cyber

to skin rats

fated fiber

seas fetid

and in matache place

to sell rats

as scraps

9. hope soap trope

we are in europe

Secundo tempo

10. my eyes marigolds

like to liquidated frogs

searching through ugrian marsh

or desert of judea

thoughts

weaved

in silk idea

11. john d. rockefeller

sipped

his schwartz with cream

reading the unique copy

printed for his whim

and for anything

moving in him

12. and why not

to find

knitted in cotton

i-d-e-a

ant bottom?

13. But

it was exiled since long

from explicit banal

and even from

personal canal

and a liquidated frog

to resuscitate

takes long

Tempo finale

14. idea

springs from intimacy

dethroned of role

(without it your alone

cut of you

you are no)

out of uranium grain

decoding mine waste damp

from regression imminence 

toward dummy cypher

from ingrate corrosive

retina incisive

from dream wandering

with cut neck

through festive markets

of  real deck

from trivial word corpse

of hyena vomited primitive

and sophisticated uttered

exponential-exhibition

from lucidity induction

as ice in inaccessible worlds

and irrational dict of chimeras

on ultra-sensible strings

from fear of the unsaid

and of guilt

from divine exile from bitter auto-da-fes

from nostalgia perhaps of guillotine

from heels gnawed in sea

foam

15. she

doesn't filter any more

the wind incidence point

and alert color or cartoon

of illusion 

decanted hermeneutic

of confusion

lines of blue-violet reflectors

on watch towers

sybarite effect of oleanders

and road sunk in landscapes 

with twilled flowers

the way out shell of renunciation

and collapses

night thigh implosions

short-circuited synapses

16. nothing passes

through sieve of trawls

stretched romantic

between hook of pontoons

and un-wean wave

erectile and semantic 

17. when your destiny was broken

the azimuth

mounts on your skull

but what is

beaten

for ever

in nail?

even if ties me

girdle planctronic

and clone cheats

seduction ionic

parrot kaka-do

says yes

and says no

or says

            come

                        but

                                    you go

18. hope soap trope

we are in europe

Tempo terminale

19. - do you feel?

in our nape mistral breaths

- miss trall you said where is?

- trade wind mistral

- magistral

 is ma-gis-tral

20. and while the universe

is in expansion

explosively expanded doughnut

and it extends on cyber-

unknown streets

in un-walked zones

it becomes rude

restricted in me

my inalienable

solitude 

21. I feel vulnerable:

transparent like in house

of poet breton

with glass walls

(and if you find

also a trace of baton

it is only for rhyme and

of course bon-ton) 

masterly

22. i stroll about with the bunch

of  wine

in mouth palate

walk the press

the dog rose clod

and i am scold by the big burg

that I drink heavily burgund

having no laptop at toilette

and at rounders mignonette

that i don't shake dust clean

and i sneeze 

when a dwarf is seen

that i screw up in myself

like of a drill

the sanctuary of all distances

kilometer zero

with its sacred consonances

depth springs

field hills

 nostalgia

family

pan-pipe

23. solitary

and as my nature

a little talker

i pass through my native village

masterly

24. i'm sorry in a

place ideal

space vital

village global

or

state global?

25. please excuse my stammering

to such a select feast 

in

sardanapal's name

but my word

escaped

from chain

so i repeat

ole ole toreador

babel tower is no more

from the heels up to the plexus

we speak Texas

 language-sex us

foxes boxes trampolines

paradoxes cotillions

canyons tourbillions

papillons for ions 

hope soap trope

we are in europe

p.s. on shore

with sight lost in fog

socrates empties a boll

of  hemlock

from a hovel with aback

one falls in well other in lack

Under bell

1

i awakened with face toward sheet

with palate burnt by empire ashes

ring bell chirped in my ears 

like in primary at big pause

with an effort of weight lifter

i trickled from the bed 

my members were sealed

like shutters of trade wagons

my joints cracked

i unpasted my mended eyelid

2

i was under the bell

of some americas calico and polyesters

striped embellished swelled

and superposed like cabbage leaves in brine

waiting for the meat-cabbage pot

under kilt

fluttering over me reeks

of a shape said baragladina 

crying from depth of lungs:

“scrap iron buying”

3

near me under bell

they also trembled like gel

princes  cocoons urchins

in their green snot and

fur-uncles – mouths of volcano

ejected with pas  magma green flies

the twins whistled from shinbone

4

after tower bells

ding-dong

announcing arrival of trafficking-commercials  

of fresh unaltered organs

the baragladina

stopping chewing

her stinking shag

renounces to quarantine zone

and changes his repertory

“ing-ing-ing”

5

my shoulders whined of sorrow

so much i agitated the red hemp linen

until saw also red in front of my eyes

but without purple in pupils like at white rabbits

but the swarm burnt vainly

and following its queen or chief with criminal record O.K.

with no more buzz

and not thinking to return

after an undetermined time

the insects-bugs-fliers

for I don't know to which species belong

or perhaps they were a mixture of all

flies weevils bees humble bees louses

mole crickets little butterflies bumble bees wasps  moths

mosquitoes locusts gadflies field bugs

lady birds

and other winged in entomological fauna

impossible to identify ad hoc 

they gathered around queen

or chief with washed criminal record

delegate plenipotentiary with their destinies

and started to build patiently

a hive-wasps nest-shelter

 in form of cluster

or stocking

between the horns of an old goat

with saffron and stoic eyes

munching impassible with sandy molars

as if rubbed into nicotine

thistles and teasels

all happened under the amazed eyes 

of dilemma-diplomatic chameleon

which lost its color in a bet

(the red hemp didn't recovered the swarm)

and couldn't decide itself

what color to adopt

6

the merchants-traffickers sensing

the concurrence occurrence

started to draw again the bells

just not believing that the baragladina

betrayed them (but does it exist betrayal in politics?)

that their testicles have been disconnected

from universal circuit

that were put out of function

of taxing grills and bribe indemnification

that in vein they performed

one by one

a triple back flip

 tearing in shreds their bottom

the colossus didn't let intimidated

neither to the apparition of a gun sighting telescope  in the belfry

and continues to agitate a weight balance

and color-photo with mother caterpillar showing

 from a golden Mercedes-ca-brio a yawning

of the  mouth with 24 karats plaque 

and yelling from depth:

“scrap iron buying”

7

“am” was in fact the signal

launched in the  blunt space

in codified language

disqualified and swollen

at funeral pomp

of organ butchers

“am” was equivalent to kidneys levers beef ribs 

lobes intestines bulbs corneas little marrows

and sometimes even vestiges of fresh and virgin brain

or much searched “disgusting limbs”

as expressed figuratively in the twilight of

the 17^th century a chronicler of virtuous

and chaste seal  

without knowing the secret inscriptions

of mobile and cryptic communications

and the speed of penitence release

                                                as i didn't  function a moment

as codes breaker and magician hacker

or axes installer

but having declared the  fortune up to ultimate

indispensable polymerized with moistness absorbent

including genetic inheritance

and being thus ensured  that respectful attention

                                                of evasions commissars

will shun me in unique and roundabout  sense  

with risk to support also the cost of bullet

                                                for it is question of us

those from under kilt cabbage leaves

panic started to wind my viscera

i felt that i suffocate under waterfalls

of super-miasmas of herrings macerated in incontinent

                                                urine

and seasoned with perfume type patchouli

of sub-quilt sauna

8

i knew that stinks can release

pestilential epidemics

that can cut even cattle legs

but didn't know why

being not at all epileptic

my ocular globs rotated in orbits

like merry-go-round boats

a white foam trickled from my mouth

like from a pricked polyurethane flagon  

and my tongue had swell

like ball to beat on the ground

or swelling puppet

9

abruptly

all of a sudden i felt

in the bottom of brain a terrible burning

a knavish wasp

had swollen me

or it was the needle of a venomous intramuscular

injection with a syringe of unique use 

i don't know

but my cortex stood on end

as if I was crossed

by an over-voltage current

gigavolt gigabyte

the blood infested of poisons and eye gums

clarified in a moment like

like the slops  in an ecologic laundry

and i awaken with face to sheet

observing with stupor

that my nose lost

its sense of melodramatic

or olfactory-aromatic  

orientation

with yet another rhyme

bluff-emblematic

honoring with respect

the  playful  dialect

10

- and baragladina colossus

- o yes opossums

furious on the cutters of necks 

(and not less of becks)

which started

 to lick victims' wounds

maddened by the swarm

of wasps and flying bugs

making looping on its loop

weaved seven times

it has rolled up its first seven

leaves of quilt

for protecting vegetable pomades on chicks

but as the swarm shown to be rabid 

it put over head a sack and then a blanket

and horrified that doesn't help at anything  

it mounted a broom

forgetting that it isn't  witch

that has no diction

(am-am-am)

based on no prediction

that invoking an order of interdiction

or restriction

refused to it any protection

and of course any bribe

11

disappointed

anointed

appointed

feeling boiling blood

risking to go out

and for avoiding any disregard

or fault

in orchard

alarmist laments of bell

she buttoned nervously the remote control

accessed with confidence the cyberspace

after all being a woman of carrier

not of stone even

have been more than once stoned

not because out of information services bricks

she would have built the  little towers  and towers of

undue profits

as for allowances on Selena soil

coffin nails or living flesh

she navigated intrigued on different sites

but terminal was fatally blocked

the satellite didn't couple

Google correct and cult

it entered no channel

no cable net

in crepuscular zone in trans-real

esoteric and occult

she couldn't escape with circadian  herds

have not how to disappear in the net

implant in naught

to evaporate

cornered by despair

she was surrounded by supposition

that remained

with same zero chance

like boars of Getic empires or exegetic

butchered in fold with euphoria yet apologetic

in hobbits' frenzy by trophies  just cynegetic

(with sensible discount but  ethic )

like buttocks tattooers

with Celtic zodiac motives or Levant maps

of navel teeth  mounters-jewelers

and of pirates in alpine abattoirs

when

 it appeared ad hoc (bomb!) ambulance

under a hunt advertize

electrocution orders

 rotisserie embers 

with cutlets nape spines

and beasts hearts

it surrounded slowly the homo-id

of straw and rags

planted in absence of dog

species lovingly squared

by a funny aspirant at genetic wig

and trans-planetary steering wheel

to mark territory

between seven waters

and she sat horridly and urgently    

on the smoked gridiron

anointed with chicory oil 

came from nowhere

unexpectedly and decent

on a farm border

or edge road

adjacent

and so

     lent-slow

on measure what

in the bunch of dog rose 

the grill flamed up  

the colossus started to evaporate

brief

to fly

toward ten sunny skies

near ash butterflies

downy vaporous clouds

and smoke bundles

in spite of matrons witches

in suave bell thunder

in flying bugs buzz

in urchins kit

whining

in tramping

of goats deers sheep and lambs 

 in hits climbing the harridan

in heaven

loving-choir-protector

baragladina out of décor

12

golden homeless bastard wings

darkish urchins gypsy kings

look how gathered over springs

wolf the lambs in pieces mince

then starts songs-manea-manolo

now in choir and then in solo 

when she climbs and climbs in stars:

“baragladina mum best

gave us brandy breast

for the princes

you made kisses

kids in choir

brought to fair

bastard solo

sang manolo

bingo bingo

world of gringo

mummy baragladina colossus

left orchard to Jesus

scolding who or boss us

climb to stars

escaping scraps

wrong for rest

to whom left?

bingo bingo

world of gringo

to whom mum  left you the clan?”

and i

wanting not to facilitate

a negative publicity

even on a felicity

half mast

i awakened yelling

with face in dust:

“scrap iron buy buying”

            Not at all metaphysical

adore and curse

whip stroke raise doom

repudiate

look seven verbs this poem

will not utter

but cosmic cavalry tramps through my blood

vitriol tear of the crucified

ices my spine

hyper-civilizations return in mud

candelabras extinguish

only empire fool jumps in four paws

praetorian guards applaud

among somersaults he happy spits some truths

(only Plato was torn by dogs

he had fingered the Tyrant

but philosopher wasn't lucky)

I bless you with all your balms

buffoons with cymbals  deaf sextons

healers in flax gowns and jugglers

blind visionaries carrying torches

pontiffs with shaved heads and pimps of ideas

swallower of fire and swords

I bless you high arcades and immaculate columns

public places and cartoon and tow sirens

lime holes and marble stares leading to nowhere

fountains and shapeless statues

reflectors

launching platforms in nowhere

programs for modification of magnetic field

also bio-magnetic psychological logic para-logic

and para-psychological

big-bellied and empty amphora  

prosperity

ecstasy

what superb wrapping for tax collectors

of nuclear circumscriptions

disaster holographic prospecting  

attains perfection

(to know the death in all possible dimensions

is however a priority)

I am full of wind bells

defense budgets mercenaries  trampolines and ounce

course

horoscopes strategic manoeuvrings artificial intelligence

political hop-scotches stock exchange games

psychedelic hallucinations foreign legions kidnappings

brigades of different colors

no

the brain isolated from body isn't a solution

better to convoke defunct Marshal Mc

Luhan universal glaciation

birth rate curve

 plurality of worlds

penetration into an unexplored universe

spirit of border

these are indeed intellectual themes 

 only that where explorers remained 

pioneers adventurers volunteers fools

searchers of treasures or extraterrestrial sensations

only break glass machines inventors remained

and gold fever

so much

where are green palm branch

pot of spider-wort and laity

scepter with red ivy leaves

wax plates with signs never deciphered

by thaumaturge or futurologists

I know it still is

genetic architecture or life in test tube

banks with different organs for transplant

clean or unclean bomb

artificial towns and tunnels prolonged under waves

lighting silver candlesticks

sub-earthly metropolis

only that ten thousands brides still wait

at Sousa or elsewhere

northern realms knights

may celebrate great wedding of southern wind

and white veil train

caught mourning color

your shoulder reversed shell valve 

your lips bloodying pomegranate

cosmic cavalry tramps through my blood

and I ask myself if I still exist

but you tell me: there are also certitudes

light speed in void

universal attraction constant

our solitude in two

I believe in you wisdom not at all metaphysical

and mechanical birds rotate

around throne

(I know: nobody burned their eyes

to turn their sight only toward their self

and their song be purer)

but people  listen even so multicolor chirping

of brimstone yellow birds

never sinking in their self

listen programmed metallic sound

and say nothing

o scholarly and ultra-refined value judgments

hydrostatic paradox

angels number on needle top

clone bird mechanical song

what subtlety

who loses one's time

with “anesthetic” moral criteria

to resurrect in naught

is not done with ritual wreaths

or metaphysical despairs

with default-feathers of current-stork

with conjuncture absences-presences

with goat blood or rice spirit

reproducing Rome splendors

geisha house euphoria

Byzantium pomp

or Elizabethan court dances

to resurrect in naught

when reversed on mole fur 

cosmic cavalry tramps triumphal through my blood

and I like to seek for  initiation keys in your name

(mutation sign geometry and not-yet-know)

your breasts burn like some phosphorescent cups

and I the imprisoned in silence

descend in the word like in sea

in which I sink my head seven times

to purify myself as old Pythagoras teaches me before

to

overturn in me

 the goblet full of fear not at all metaphysical

of the crucified

                                    1981

What can be in the head of a iguana

 one August day on the Pacific shore

                                    - the chronicle of  an event with preFACE

                                    18 MOVEMENTS and postFACE -

preFACE

Los Angeles

runs

between Ocean and canyons

all day long

in sandals and short

it knows

that not in amphitheaters

or stadiums

the cent is gathered in purse

and the business

becomes

                        sport

I asked myself

what can be in the top of a slender triangle

of a yellow-greenish lizard

laying

in a millennium twilight

on the nape of a youth with rings in nose

skull hyper-oxidized 

convict tattoo

 and grinning vampire canines

in a strange clemency/dementia

what can be

in the had of a tropical iguana

(immune to genetic engineering

but absolved also by a so-called ethic doctrine)

came out in the way 

on Santa Monica boulevard

perpendicular with an Ocean

balanced by sail ships and tide

what can swarm

in the cold head of a iguana

with screen-eyes phosphorescent

cropped up in a light veil

through saline eyelid

big as ten cents 

what can understand

the lawless lizard

from dramatic dance

penitent

(like in an Attic trance)

on virtual rope

on a wall

under hawk flight wheel

of minimum talk 

with cheeks of chalk

from synchronous  movement

of placards

(see what are they doing!)

of golden masks

of dragon and mouses

tigers

giraffes

shoguns

and bonze

vociferating on arbor stump

under a dinosaur bronze

homeless

(Romanian boschetari)

come with strong proofs:

draw after them tapering

undulated cartoons roofs

it isn't a constructivist utopia

a slogan

of hooligan

or a last review boost

but a couch they pretend

with a candor tragic sad

the black angels of order

immobile

equestrian statues of guard

as if dreams

gym whim rhyme

humor sometime:

                        “We are not dolls

                        to Bush no tools”

in the inner amphitheater

(Staples Center)

wast like a volcano crater

far away from desiring farther

to see the curious

indications directorial

vital

digital

choral

virtual

then waterfalls

(so it owes)

of speeches

in spots and flashes the virtuous

confetti

mi-dinettes

artifices

white and red balloons

what would be thinking

the lizard-blizzard

lying in its kefir cold blood

on nape of its master hyper-oxidized

rings in nose

tattooed biceps

sharp canines of vampire

when that announces dryly

to those who pass

desiring to stroke without disgust

blackened reptile tail:

                                                “It's iguana sort

                                                my best friend

                                                any else – dirt”

comrades-cockades

agitate pan-carts

get hoarse in bizarre sounds

on different chords

lesbian-gay  travesty sexual

militants for rights of animals

wear plush ears

and tails of colored velvet

coquette

pendulum between clowning

and political message

mega-marionettes  

in ad hoc crutches

electronic trucks

carriages with mate headlights

assisted euthanasia

 partizans pass

in green tron-conic long hats 

 those dreaming clean planets

and aromatic

without resides and voids

of ozone

without climatic somersaults

in any season 

some still pass

agitating cobs

archetypal phallic symbols

- evidently with no Chechnya allusions -

optic cameras hunt

in Saturnalia courses

those with option

for abortion

for drugs

nomad-ism

life under bridges

in short    in tent    or in port

for the hibernation

at -91 grades of living ones

against extension

of tobacco and vineyards

or red tubes

in modern architecture

of aerobic

under pillow

of sex in films

and of minors spoliation

in subterranean

firms

solitary women pass

silicons

and summery busts

weight lifters infantile

versatile pedophiles

left-handed figures

senile juvenile

and other minor minorities

with petitions taken out of drawers

for they are discriminated

                                                fossilized 

                                                incriminated

                                                incinerated

                                                tattooed 

                                                or not tattooed brotherhood

(and some could be of right-hood)

striped jerseys

firstly discreet

are asked on net

then roaring want to impose

(together of course...etc. Etc.)

impunity for prisoners

killers pickpockets aces

in extortion or thieves

bicyclists ask new areas

on two wheels

bus drivers

as if chewing jelly fish

growl also something

under their lips

and as it's owes

they start rising

barricades

equestrian statues of guard  

the black angels of order

don't dream any more

to receive

gulf balls – heads

golden crosses – the cudgels

are directional

toward too hot

poor

                                                “Salamander sing

                                                to have their fling”

I don't know what can pass

through triangular and cold head 

of a green-slender iguana

in one of Convention day

in the City of angels

when Bill passed

relay-torch to Al

and this in spite

of black whippings cats

mounted on a wave

of force

media-tic

charismatic

and of course authoritarian

chosen

duplicate

a communitarian

it would be just ridiculous

to ask to a iguana

to make pragmatic policy

but I don't doubt

that inside amphitheater

or out in the street

all those who passed

through that summer day

madly fanatic somehow Socratic 

liberal or conservator orators

(even social compassionate)  

ecologists anarchists or legalisms

protesters just demented

from homeless to cyclist

from cheerful drugged

to tragic mime

(finally on any kind)

declined in fact

the same word of words:

“American dream”

postFACE 

and however

as if a wheezing-whistling detaches

lizard triangular mouth:

“Hu...hu...bb...bb...ub...ub”

more humanly chaos

an absence of structure

and if it is so

if I read well

the gnashed sound of  track unending

in reptile wheezing-whistling

please (for isn't it so?

creation that is setting in order of nothingness

started with a thrilling)

I implore you:

a silence moment!

                                                Here...

America

                                                passes

                                                            new

                                                                        frontier

                        Los Angeles, Aug. 2000

Zone Zero – fragment -

After the blackest Tuesday

of America

Empire State Building became again

the champion-height

of peninsula

In reflectors spot it reverberates

three colors:

red-white-blue

Rummaging through debris after a breath

the tears baptize embraces of unknown

parents and friends succeed on streets

in arms with photographs of those disappeared

in the debris mountains 

of those asphyxiated in smoke

with lungs burnt by the hot air

ravaged by red lava of melted scaffolds

blooded by crystal chips of

windows

whited by the dust of sediments

of mixed walls  

passed through mill stones and tour-billions

of currents running in disorder

horrified by tetanus with eyes out of orbits

blackened by soot

sustaining themselves in unbalance exhausted

dragging

a foot after another down on steps

descending step by step

superhuman effort

thousand and thousand of steps

meeting on stares affable faces

voluntary-savers policemen

and firemen encouraging them

to tear out of flames claws

of fright  blinding

of sorrow excruciation

of fog despair with no any light

their neighbors

people climb meeting

people descending

for transforming themselves together

all

savers and those to be saved

into smoke and ashes

Cellulars send

from death planes

the last message:

I love you

I love you

The fear ices memory

people forget they aren't birds

and throw themselves in gulf

From the depth of graves of macerated stone and melted

 metal

a final sound

a breath

a last sigh

  

JOSHUA

Joshua was born when

descendants of Cain

brother killer

wanting to clean himself of sin

started to dream themselves

as people

Someones have seen in Him the Son of God

Just He answered to scholars:

“Aren't we all children of Celestial Father?”

Others deciphered him in Son of Man

“He is Messiah – The Anointed – affirmed strongly someones

“We are ever waiting for Messiah” - replied the others.

Some identified him with the last

and most charismatic prophet

from line of Judea wandering-prophets  

Others negated his real being:

no one of historians of period

mention him. Not a line about Him

in the 18 toms of Annals

of pedantic  chronicler

Publius Cornelius Tacitus

which registered without hate and bias

the events between years 14 and 96 AD*

Some sustain that he would be creator of a religion

Others that till last breath

remaining faithful to glorification unto One of parents

He would have enlarged God aura in Israel

from the forehead of some tribes

on the top head of entire mankind.

But I tell you:

even if Joshua

wouldn't retire in self-clarifying

among desert dunes

and wouldn't cross with empty soles

the Galilean Sea

and wouldn't put in walking paralyzed and legless

and wouldn't clean of wounds

the pus body of lepers

and wouldn't stroke unconsciously

the silky hair of Woman

that thrilled this to wash his legs in tears

Even if Joshua amazed by magic

wouldn't approach shy and tender

            to knots of olives bowed by oldness

to cypresses launching green arrows toward sky

to oases magic with palms quails

and watering places for flocks

camels lambs and birds

and to innocent mystery of beings from under

                                    rotating vault of stars

and wouldn't pass water into royal wine

and wouldn't feed with a handful of blue fishes

            an entire community

and wouldn't awaken that fallen

            in eternal sleep

and wouldn't have climb bent by unlawfulness of others

            the Calvary Way 

to untie the knots

with Sin and Death

and even if He would be but

the legend or myth or exemplary miracles

put end to end of illuminated predecessors

            in order to suggest solar shape

of that liberated by sin

for giving a contour and volume to the dream

            about man deified through love

            carrying in his self

                                    the virtues and values cried at crossroads

                        by prophets of Judea

                        and that He wouldn't be but projection

in facts gestures parables spirit

            of the trinity truth-goodness-beauty

deciphered not as much by Plato parchments

as from the dialog of wise-men with skull cap

gesticulating as if they would quarrel

in the shadow of Temple columns

or in the courts of white timber wall

Joshua

that who carried  the fringes with 613 knots

(toward un-forgetting Tora orders number)

wouldn't be only the peerless  embodiment of charm

of teaching about eternal springs of

                                                            self accomplishment

Judeo-Christian paradigm of love for the neighbor

lighted by innocence of sacrifice to be Him self

                        the  offering lamb

(liberating his neighbors

from insupportable burden of sin)

Joshua

has descended from the halo of imaginary

in hemp smoky skirt

melted in matinee aurora

with aura plaits led on shoulders

and hypnotic eyes

cutting of almond seed -

embracing like a secret  in emerald rays

the compassion world

Joshua entered

on Eastern gate of real history

well-announcer

like a palpable

 spirit-body presence

He wanted to teach man

how to shake himself

of scales with delusive reptile sparkles

(sometime creation of own imagination)

how to live together with neighbors 

with nature green and moving world

but also with sorrow agony and petrified death

how to redeem his genuine soul

(that untouched by snake seduction)

how to return in garden of the seven rivers

how to save self by fear of not loving

how to reinvent ever

(in harmony with self and entire universe)

the human identity

how to avoid sin traps

and wrong of wrong – the absolute excruciation -

parricide fratricide homicide

He didn't descend from the Cross

in shining armor

white mantle thrown on shoulders

ready to mount

the winged amble of revolt

He didn't descend from the Cross

keeping into a hand olive flower

and in the right the spade

Descended neither

to be wrap up in shroud of death 

and led in a rock crypt

He descended

wrapped  in primordial light

more precisely he trickled from Cross

like down dew

like tear transparent pearls

(gathering in them the pain of non-salvation)

over offering furrows

fallowing them

to spring love seeds

in neighbors

(synonymic to fusion with God)

to pass hidden thrill

through all earthly works

inspiring like love

purifying love

through man's arteries

deifying him

Joshua was born when

descendants of Cain

brother killer

wanting to clean himself of sin

started to dream themselves

as people

*It is interesting to mention that numerous pages of Annals in various years didn't preserve to us. The so-called “Chris-tic period” makes exception: the manuscripts are quasi complete, but no one reference to Jesus.

                                                2007

             

Poetics '67 – infinite

A.

MIRRORS

black plaster on eyes

dead reflexes passive

mirrors vegetative

yesterday today buzz

exhaust pipe

percussion

                        syncope

                                                jazz

Mechanic mirrors

mercury vapors

electric sky overturned

algorithms-neon

old like Homer

Dali Xenakis Izu Breton 

at museums with golden frame

(perhaps)

disaggregation words in syllables and letters

between crowns of laurels -

vipers

Darkened Giocondas

smile decomposed in electronic poem

automate aleatory gesture

mechanic inventions = art

parallel mirrors...

STOP!

Back friends

                                                to stars!

B.

ART on cybernetic channels!

We modernize

We mechanize

We automatize

Art? Vein call...

Sentiment? No

Never human nature...

I got tired

                                                unbalancing

to the noise adding the cry-thought

inarticulate

never found

I got tired friends

                                                to be tired

C.

MISTY MIRRORS

or silver mirrors

so shining clean

I throw you in lies coffer

Poet / doesn't reflect a reality

but builds a world of wonders

D.

MY BALANCE has

on a scale:

the razor shout on timpani

reflector in retina knife

colors palm snap

pistons sirens scaffolding

automate ocean of signals

and mechanic ebb tide:

on the other: silence

Great quiet dozing with arm on top-head

virile whisper

southern wind growing from roots

fairy choral

and stallions with white manes

running after astral hour.

E.

WE RETURN return

toward natal places

toward calm circles

and sphere rotating dark

with planets around

central spark

I recompose myself

from mechanic gesture

from shivers and lightnings  

from drums

and cry-omen

slowly sure and dense

I recompose myself

in harmony and sense

E.

I return in myself

like in abandoned subterranean mines

seeking for hidden vein

in the great silence rarely supposed before

vertical travel

toward my solar core 

G.

WE RETURN return

and place isn't raw and green any more

 orphans of ourselves we return

richer – for we have what to throw

(beliefs-rags flung at all crossroads

to dress cemeteries crosses)

we seek for a new identity

a new carats bulletin

we search tenacious prudent silent

distrustful senses sharpen   

we select compose and recompose

from clay and grace

from moon powder

or from all together

from simple elements primary run

(earth and sky water and sun

from color word and sound)

from our shape still undefined

but inscribed

inscribed in infinite

and in dream that is

a new paradise

(Precise

A new paradise)

And when we  uproot the song (o how hard!)

from black tern wall

amazed we find ourselves ever

- in what we have been and we are -

eternal

H.

LET'S OPEN things eyelids

coffee cup overturned

(on wooden circles not on plates from Chine)

and we read in their eyes

ideogram of great signs

G.

A WOOD a fir tree

Centuries fall on minute hand

a mason - look – builds it in stone

Shovel brick trowel

Ready cathedral tower

Centuries fall on minute hand

a fir tree (yes the known)

this time with silver little globes

announcing:

                                                it was born!

J.

TRAVEL IN CIRCLE?

But coming back is hardly

return on known route

any sensation I tackle

overturned crosses mute

but spiral go highly 

I throw then stones

in the black vegetative mirrors

reflexes in shivers (of course fictive)

form-inform

slogans storm

to prop on myself on neck

of Ocean with temples in Sky

I have straight stature

this universe ENTIRE

is mine

step by step

                                                I climb it and hire

K.

IT DOESN'T INTEREST ME hibernation

years prolonged at -91 degrees

my timpani are frayed by machine guns

my retina is carbonized by napalm

black flights chase me back in eras

and calm

with most lucid arguments

I am banished from self

by perfection which crashes kills

It doesn't interest me hibernation

dreams in crystals

my projection in other future life

but only this

earthly agitated tragically live

human poetry

rainbow emotion

                        at the last

                                                the IXth Symphony

L.

VERSE-UNIVERSE

with black plaster on eyes

you wandered enough through swamps-fairies

with white hoof pressed on soul

robot through parallel mirrors

husking signs

from where it's only void

building mirages on smoky wall

and adding to world noise

your-curtailed-echo-cry 

emptying poetry

of senses proportions and myth

On a scale is mechanic sonorous tide

On the other : the silences ebb thrill

Otherwise -

again parallel mirrors

schizophrenia

uranium funeral march

and total eclipse of stars

M.

toma george MAIORESCU

Ho

To

capture the four paradise rivers

when gardens were drowned

in weeds and in defeated gods twilight

to lay at the feet of stone stabilizers

and to baptize aquatic space / sea

to outstrip the original sin

preventing the wreckage in infinite

this is the gold measure of poem

What

metallic wings rustle

the doubt angel descends from cyclotron temple

play ground of childhood / first light slit

Sphinx questions / Oedipal crossroad

the angel roams like a shock wave

the purifying labyrinth / doesn't mind masquerade

bird with cut feathers (allusion to flight)

the social-genetic horse protest

Caligula shoeing edicts

bride silence at catafalque

of lover went nobody knows where

or the poked in the skull

of cosmic snake

matter awakening

Who

are you who put to fire

reservoirs of oil and primary life

dynamite stations and nostalgia of shore detachment

specialists in candor profitability

you those idolatrous of second game scotch gratifications

and graces (for others)

you who uprooted your names to proclaim

gold measure of poems  

O

venerable mercenaries and beardless youths

lives programed in phyto-tron

makers of pseudo-divinities 

where is it the  twelve forms mystery

the human of theologian the geometric of zodiac

the astronomic the archetypal

and where the secret is

will atomic street organs ever mark

border between morbid fantasy

dementia

and sadism of strategic commerce?

When

the last minute will beat with wooden hammer

on tribunal table

and brass vessels will kindle their oil

fabulous animals with iridium eyes

sign that they have origin in meteoric anguish

like air inform

liberated by frustration sentiment

will rise from colored glass of suburbs

or from shadowed corners of sanctuaries

reforming cylinder trapeze pyramid and sphere

into a new geometry

of confidence

Then

it will start the great migration

objects transmigration

metamorphosis of noun in verb

the last bulldozer will overturn

last funerary star and last syllable

microphones implanted in cells 

will register the last sigh of century

assimilating for another millennium

premonition with preexistence  

Only

buffoons of naked king

spirit adventurers and blind banker

dressed in gala costumes with  golden threads

preventing cryogenic phenomenon

well-known alternative of survival

push hurriedly between brocades and rolls of little cocks

bars on metaphysical fore-carriages

inviting with large gestures

remembering flight metallic rustle

elite presence

to Molotov cocktail

Nobody

would have supposed that just during banquet

when doubt lightning returned on temple

of its cyclotron

the missionaries ringed by  neurasthenic syndrome

oh waiting

indifferent to water quotas

(implacably announced every day

at 12 precisely)

to royal megalomania seeking for sweetening

the prognoses (meteorologic geologic

ecologic sociological economic logic

and so on and so far)

indifferent to action of bulimia combat

   cause of all maleficence

and even to ravens planted over cornice

(as a permanence of roots)

they invaded on tunnel gate

with dark-bay horses sorrel twin Macedonian trotter

and not hobby horse water horses power horses

mare's nest – as some say – or even worse

with homonym gym apparatuses

or chess figures winning at flying horses Easter

(little game, what hell!)

but pure-blood mounted by ringed missionaries

saddled with parade harnesses

or simple with Chines blankets

without ribbon knitted in tail 

and lacking ornament

announcing announcing announcing

through brass funnels   of gramophones

“His Master's Voice”

in collective neighing of herds

and in the wheezing of electronic bulls

exuberant and prolix:

eradication of horse race

How?

I'm sorry

I rectify:

condemning eradication of the horse race

what is to admit totally other thing

or somebody for something

perhaps Caligula horse

or his edicts

or perhaps edict shoeing 

(imminent action in primary economies

era) or perhaps primordial  reason

or even reason of primates

How? What?

for god seek: clearer 

nothing is understood any more from this general neighing

bride silence on catafalque

snake sinusoidal movement

with head poked in pile

How? What? Who?

Ptprrrrrrrr

Hooo 

                                                            1979

Rains in Manhattan

The rains in general the rains

There are blue rains like silver flute sound

turned

                        with swelled sails in oceanic fogs

                        crystal rains like tears of Murano  candelabras

                        dropping light  over towns wrinkles

There are  phosphorescent hallucinatory rains wandering

their body of

                        smoke on obscure despair lanes 

                        rains with lips livid by cold persistent like a virus 

                        influenza and torrential rains demented and rapid like

                         pattering 

                        on green rivers realm tam-tams

There are rains acid like a gastric ulcer

                        categorical rains like a dragons charge

                        rains long like Ramadan feast gray shepherd

                        and rains lascivious like an embrace on an ours fur

There are rains burst neither here nor there and

abundant

                        from clear sky or even from solar aura

                        and rains waited with lips split by thirst

                        lingering  shriveled and too transient

There are mineral rains and vegetable rains

                        desert rains and marsh rains

                        diamond rains and basalt rains

                        heavy rains dragging  their flagged bellies through blistered

                                                                                                                        markets

                        and playful rains jumping from one to another side of  rainbow 

There are covering rains like a plate

                                                                        and rains discovering worlds

O but how many kinds of rains exist

Only that rains in Manhattan aren't similar to those known:

                        averse and little rains torn clouds rattles tiny rains

                        and drippings drizzles sleets stones hot-ch-pot-ch

                        torrential rains tropical austral Boreas

No

Rains in Manhattan are pure and simple rains of

Manhattan

The island with liquid sky

It rains in Manhattan.*

It rains as if devil would have opened all

                        celestial ocean dams

Wherever I take up down from Harlem River

                        toward Battery on any of 12 avenues it rains

It rains like from bucket in pail as if clouds would been torn

                        between themselves like rabid dogs

Even I take it crosswise from Hudson toward

East

                        River on any of 215 streets Niagara

                        fall

And how nice was raining in the beginning: it dripped with blue blobs

tiny and round as if passing through sieve equal and

quiet

*Manhattan means twelve boulevards (Avenues) crossing the island from its northern extreme, Harlem River, up to the southern one, Battery Park. If 1 Avenue lengthens its stature along East River, 12 Avenue coquettes from its balconies with the navies on Hudson. Perpendicular on avenues , intersecting them, two hundreds fifteen streets cross the island from East to West. So on vertical 12 boulevards, on horizontal 215. This is Manhattan, the heart of New York, the citadel in which one can not get lost.

 

                        “the rain was falling”* as it's said and what rattle

                        we got

It rains it rains in Manhattan “city of ships” became

for that

once gone from island in form of fish “my city”

It rains with water whips break over windows in 5 av.

                        over chalk face mannequins over beauty

                        institutes over creations “Salvador” Dali

            (in gold naturally) exhibited by Tiffany

It rains in the north of island there where each child would

                        can to be born with a mouth piece saxophone in

                        the mouth 

                        in stead of titty it rains in Harlem jazz country

It rains with fury with whirlpools with yellow swelled drains

somersaulting head over heels over undulated

roofs of the South pagodas jade rings

                        bronzes with Buddha eggs style Hunan and ducks

                        with bronze glaze bathed in honey

–------

* Walt Whitman

The monologue of a pedestrian

(apparently intellectual and boozy)

Let Sir do flotations and threads for isn't harmful

                        even stay in hands; until we redden

                        like Easter eggs – I say.

At once step; at once intellectual activity

                        rebus flamenco but “I don't...”; is that so? New

                        dance

                        Mary Joana guitar-bass and no jogging no yoga?

Is it well so? - I ask

Quit...

Everything must restart from starting point

Centuries if not millenniums the Dutchmen beaten in their

wooden

                        sabots the step on place; (more out of boredom

                        than

                        of cold) but Fred Astaire came and shown them that

it is more profitable to beat step;

The therapy with shock waves or tomography with thorn don't

exclude

                        from biosphere the astral body, but neither slips

in your vest pocket a card with unlimited credit

Even if making bets at horse courses we will feel

                                                            what the senses can not detect

Even if participating to computerization of  money market

                                                            we will see the unseen

Even if wolfing “fried chicken” at Mac. Donald

                        or to his concurrent Roy Rogers chip and with taste

                        of sawdust we will understand  that this is Rome fate

Even if in a fist of microprocessors

                        we store as much information as it goes in

                        the libraries full of books in a sky-scraper.

                        The president still gets hoarse in calls to stop

                        remittance of academic diplomas for those who don't

know to write correctly

Even one has as many cars as family members

                        and as many television sets as beginnings and 36

                        programs

for each and computers for games for news or for

                        business when you get sick life doesn't seem to be

                        a surfing slip and it is as if your house is fired

Even if we can be witnesses to the seven wonders of

                        the Universe sitting in armchair and we can learn with

precision the weight which we have in any one of the

 other worlds nobody grants us the day of

                        tomorrow

My opinion is to not contaminate with illusions we are not

                        part in Brain-trust (even we graduated  with

                        brio

                        not NYU but Harvard and neither safe keys at Chase

                        Manhattan Banks we have or do you have it?; you haven't; if

                        you had

                        you wouldn't talk with me in a stinking gang.

You think that are sufficient for us the plaster magi colorfully arranged

around

                        the cradle (even that behind stay menorahs

                        lighted);

                        or silver globes or tinsels  from fir tree as high

                        as 50 stores in front of Rockefeller Center?

Even if I am the very image of Tizian's Man with red

                        toga exposed at Frick does someone look at me if

                        I have no recommendations?

Did you ask yourself any time Sir why in two hundred years

America didn't produce one philosopher? Cyberneticists

                        inventors anatomists generals pedagogues stars as many

                        as one wants

                        but not creators of systems; didn't put the question?

                        Let me tell you; the American is pragmatic; he is

interested by “where I come from?” ”toward do I go?”

                        or “in what relation am I with the Universe?” only

                        if

                        the answer ensures for him some profit ; just? so it is;

                        in vain you search to contradict me; philosophy isn't

a business doesn't bring money

Clever men we had; look at Ben; he tamed

                        the lightning but when parishioners lacked a bell

                        he invented also the lottery

Did he forbid drinking on street? he didn't; and Ben

                        was a brick of  head; a head in form of egg;

Hey you silly ones puritans hypocrites have you not shame

to oblige me to drink from bottle hidden in purse?

                        shame on you!

That for  I was saying: we must start all from

                        starting point

Even if we know “What forces Sammy to run”*

*Novel by Bud Schulberg, the main hero, Budd, being the personification of the unscrupulous careerist.

and even if

We gathered at Eve table

                        And kindled the candles

And iced the champagne

And even if tomorrow

We enter the Other Millennium

O.K.?

See the rain stopped...

The rain continues to patter on street as if thousands

                        of jazz drummers would percuss with silver

                        little sticks

                        the asphalt stretched and black skin...

Gloss at a statue

First trip in Manhattan you do at the Statue

of Liberty;

            so it's right; so it owes; with She America starts -

            advised me a friend recently returned from a

            transoceanic journey.

I would have agree with my friend specialist in touristic

             priorities evoking myself from memory motivations

            not lacking convincing force

            She the Young Lady of Seas staying solitary on an

            island in a perpetual waiting was seen and

            is seen first time from the ocean the eyes full of

            tears

                        of excitement and frustration

                        And as navigators of once scrutinizing water

            areas and at apparition of a foggy strip

to

            cry from depth “Earth” generations of

            emigrants catching a glimpse of bronze silhouette uttered in

            whisper

            throttled by emotion the magic word : “Statue”.

For those came from over the water “ the Statue” was promise

            itself; happiness heaven; the Earth of

            vow; the open arms with which the New

            Continent

            welcomed its future citizens

To considerations of affective order it could be added in

            abundance justifications on artistic plan historic

            constructive -

            architectonic and surely not in the last touristic

            (being known the mirific panorama of the

New York port and landscape with nothing comparable

            which opens toward Monument)

It is as simply as possible that taking the metro up to

Battery

            Park to embark on one of cruise

                        ferry-boats toward small island on which thrones

            in bronze

            since more than a century “The Young Lady with

            Torch”

I would have however some restraint

            the usual reticence I have face to statues

Not necessarily because I avoid to worship carved shape:

            of color stone bronze or even of illusions

Not necessarily because I guarded from bringing homages

            deposing flowers crowns to feet of somersaulting          

            monument symbolizing pathetic or sober an ideal

Not because I have the belief that no ideal can be

                                                            embodied by statues

Liberty exists or doesn't exist in people in measure in

            which people know to seat it in their drawings up

            and to guard it

That for ab initio my curiosity and desire of

            knowledge didn't accord the Statue of Liberty

more

            credit than to any other monument of equal

            value

            (aesthetic, historic, sentimental, etc.) if...

If in the rays fascicle irradiated by the torch which

            the Young Lady keeps in her risen right

            wouldn't exist something more

If beside of known proclaimed liberties

            I wouldn't have the revelation to contemplate also lights of a

star this time lacked of any declarative sense and

            emphasis but growing like a flash the respect    

            and confidence in man at altitudes never touched

Star of first size in constellation of citizens

             rights   and democratic liberties (shining

            with

            equal force in each of the 50 stars of

            States)

            simple and prosaic words and so natural of

            Amendment No 5 to USA Constitution*

            confers content and sense to a monument and to

            a gesture which rises high toward sky a flame irradiating

pride and hope

·        Nobody can be obliged to confess against self. With other words: anybody is not guilty until his guilt is proved.

That's why making abstraction of  logic arguments of

            recommendations in touristic guides or of personal

            apprehensions

            face to carved shapes I visited

“The Young

            Lady with Torch” with a sentiment of revelation

likewise throttled emotion of those who after

            a long journey were seeing through mists

            the unmistakeable silhouette of the Statue

I shelter on 53^th street

in the Museum of Modern Art

a) The Spacial Bird

It was natural that at entrance in Modern Art to find myself

                                                                        with the Carver

But the Bird was absent from its pedestal.

Who knows the skies under which it wandered (be it even in commended

            service) or was waiting perhaps tired with the wings

            heavy of rain

A bald and jovial character stretched a bizarre apparatus in

            different points of the rooms

            it measured the air humidity

It seemed content even in front of macabre tribulations

                                                            of Saint Anton

Only once I saw it shaking its head like a billiard

             ball which didn't touch its target

It was staying in front of Hasidim Calvary of Chagal

            of old people with little bundles flying over  the tapering

            Vitebsk

            roofs

Or perhaps it seemed to me

The Bird didn't return even when rain lessened; it

                        frightened perhaps by organs of Misses from

            Avignon

            disorderly thrown in all parts or by blonde

            Negress stretching her carnivorous lips toward the bronze

egg or it was pure and simple in visit to other birds

The plane colors in Mondrian's oval Malevich whites on

white vegetable dreams of the Publican

            or de Chirico's lithographs and Apollinaire's

            “Caligrams” remain impassible

            to humidity Measure-surveyor.

And I remain impassible

            at the bicycle wheel (nickel-led) and other technical

collages by Marcel Duchamp but not so

wholly to

“Surrealist Manifesto” of Breton

Nevertheless (speaking between us) I ran always

            from

            “liberty” to throw anathema over opinion of those of other

            opinion

Suddenly the needle of the instrument it seems (after position a little

inclined toward left of mall of Measure-surveyor)

            displaced

On a pedestal: the little bird (I intone quickly and voiceless

            like a charm the suitable area “still stay still stay

            don't you

            go”) to not it also run away like the spacial Bird

            and accomplishing my mission (that is anti evil eye)

            I approach to Fish slowly swimming in the water

            of gray marble with horizontal veins

A cock makes me secret signs from crest and a

            Maiden with a pagan name staring her thyroid

            eyes out fixes me with disapproval

A column concentrating patiently its energy in

            own modules makes me attentive that the absolute

            doesn't begin in infinite but much before

Only the spatial Bird doesn't answer to call

I pass with the cold in bones among shadows of  emaciated

bronze

            walking on their glazed metal platform

            waiting together and alone at the same time it isn't known for

            what

            or for who

Assassins watch from each angle (hidden even

beyond

            gramophone of Magritte)

I pass together with Measure-surveyor

            In this place pressed by an unexpected association of ideas

or by a spontaneous expansion of memory the anterior

text interrupts offering space to a parenthesis

b. A parenthesis about hemorrhage

(How much art here on each square meter! How many museums

galleries

            bookshops auctions saloons private collections  

Hemorrhage. Hemorrhage of Art.

Since how many years always come and go over waters sailboats

caravels

            schooners motor navies frigates packet boats brigs

            cargoes giant transatlantic and even modest

cutters boats launches to discharge their bellies

            too full of art

Full up to indigestion so full that they hardly wait

            to vomit their content on docks hoisting

            flags with blood-red stars and strips 

Bas-reliefs from Acropolis prehistoric skeletons and

Venetian gates Roman mosaics stuffed

animals

            and medieval palaces from Loire or Rhine (impeccable

wrapped each stone being numerated with

            maximum

            of possible rigor) drawers of Florentine renaissance

                        cameos watches aristocratic herbs bridges thesauruses

            (Ostrogoth Thracian Lombard Walloon  Gothic etc.)

                        Russian imperial jewels porcelain and  glassware

            (Saxa

            Limoges Meissen Sevres Galle Daum-Nancy)

            tapestry of Cordoba Flemish goblins codices

ivory miniatures representing crowned

heads and pastorals (before discovery

of the daguerreotype) Byzantine icons popular or

carnival masks  statuettes crossbows  harquebuses  

            catapults

            bombards maces lances hangers halberds

            swords yathagans malls  muskets fire-locks

            o and how many yet inventions older and newer of

            death

                        but also and specially

pictures pictures pictures

Masterpieces of Great Masters

            representing all eras covering the entire

            spiritual area of Europe

pictures pictures pictures

                        furnishing the immense spaces of America's Museums

            walls of private collections

            secret safes of banks

            and lines at all secret in gallery

of the commerce with art 

Otherwise the phenomenon of art exodus toward the New

            Continent has preoccupied numerous American

 writers With what evocation force it is described

this

running of values at the beginning of century in the novel

            “Ragtime” by Doctorow Which of American

            writers will approach with the same force and courage

            the other

            phenomenon not less grave which contributed and

contribute in an incomparable  measure to

 polarization

of planet richness? Who will describe in staggering

pages of truth the drain over Ocean of the gray

            matter? The running of brains...

Hemorrhage. Hemorrhage of Art.

            And not only

            Hemorrhage of talent. Of intelligence. Of spirit.

Oh Old Europe didn't yet all your arteries  emptied?

            I would ask pathetic and theatrical if I wouldn't know that however

the earth is round and if I wouldn't have the certitude that it will

            come

 also that American Columbus searching a new

            way

            of  Indies will discover also Europe

But not like a conquistador

But with necessary humbleness

Thinking and rethinking it

In this place the parenthesis closes)

c)      Here is the philosopher's stone of the form

Here I feel that not only Eve bit from apple

The snake is my road fellow

He – the sun spoke: the cosmos

He – the light undulation: the knowledge

He – the umbilical cordon

Of the Form

Here the Abstract is born

Not in time of the void but of thyroidal eyes

 yawned

            dramatically at interrogations

How is the immaterial made sensible?

How are catching shape aromas sounds sentiments airy visions

ideas?

How do appear virgin shout

                                                primary energy

                                                music of senses?

Here the Homunculus is born

            the Inexorable necessity: the Search

Among the alchemy retorts

Primordial elements

Birds Stones Lightnings Planets

            Stars Rivers Numbers

Among Cabals Archeologists Astronomy

Synapses

The knowledge magic

Man with open arms in front of Naught -

Cross

Flower with five petals – Geometrical -

Star – Symbol

Star with six corners in David's sling

David – dynamics of symmetry – Harmony

of Spheres

Line – aggressive propensity of Point

Mankind – aggressive multiplication of the idea of One 

 Universe – expansion of  Non-limits

Seven people propped in

earth and head in Universe

Seven human torches burning with the arms

opened in front of the Naught

Naught – Absence of form in formation -

Non-limits

The mauve passion of searching

Limestone shell – Spiral of Becoming

Microscope – Crystal – Latency

of Rainbow

Micro-structures – Viruses – Genes -

Neutrons of Anguish

Particles Accelerator – Vibration -

Light – Laser – Cybernetic of hope -

Energy – Bio-energy -

Biosphere – astral Corp – pure Forms

The fourth dimension

Expansion of landscape

Of space from beyond the matter

Reception of color from beyond the specter

Of senses from beyond sensations

Of visions from beyond representations

Of sounds from beyond thresholds

Of body from beyond patterns

Of forms from beyond the three dimensions

Of light from beyond light

Mondrian Malevich Giacometti Picasso Klee

Braque Kandinsky Matisse Dali Pollock

d) Spatial Bird didn't return any more

Musical-colorist constructions

              Movement of organic and inorganic forms

                        Osmosis

            Secret luminescence of the object

            Spherical composition of light

Suprematisme of intersected geometries

            Black on White White on Black White on White

            Totems Equations Cycles Pulsars Quasars

Hallucinations composition and decomposition

In-ciphering Deciphering Ciphering 

A dirty bottle abandoned on a rag of green grass

            (1 square m of natural turf)

            Veiled by a suave music two white mannequins

            copulate on skin armchair of an archaic Dodge

(It is perhaps rather art – fervor of ideas love with

            surety  there in street in front of stares of

             NY City

            Library where some young Oriental dressed

            a mannequin in a prisoner striped  pajama

            have

            tied him of a medieval torture chair and with eyes

            in fevers ask politely the passersby hurried by rain

            to give them a signature

            Against torturers

            I don't know if the street dynamic picture could

            constitute in a museum exhibit but I have

            the certitude

            that for the beauty of idea of man it is exemplary)

            Multicolor balls

            Plastic masses undulated mottled  oxidized

wrapping bottles “Hellogg's Corns Flakes”

             heaped in pyramid 

            Giant screen-panels with acrylic hieroglyphs

(On the same selection criteria let us bring from

            caves smelling of urine and metro wagons

            gratified in violent delirium of chromatic sprays 

            by drugged fool young punk or other genies

            circulating beyond comprehensibility fence)

Innovation by kitsch

            Genius neighbor to swindle

Where from the inhibition of refuse – I ask myself

            (Would it belong still from the scandal of impressionists?)

            Would the fear of  “not be ridiculous”, of being

            declared

            “incompetent” “conservator” “impermeable at

new”

lead irrefutably to relativity of values?   

A plaster old woman with eyes aimed hypnotically in infinite

            waits for something in the back of a closed window

Spatial Bird didn't return

Did it catch its wings somewhere between strings

            with high sound of the rain?

I don't know

Perhaps it also waits

But I feel the euphoria of the child adorned with a helmet

            from parrot feathers and his fear when mounted

            on the back of a wild horse awakens dragged

            in gallop over spaces intoxicated by rains

            New York, 1987

Picture

1

After what to Hegel

(hanged with head downward)

it has been offered a more commode position

and the smell of sulfur in town

burnt by policeman or clown

scattered a bit

(in legend or myth)

and corpses of spectators were carried by fans

(the puppeteer had ran with funds)

and the blind horses

stopped their rotation of  nuts

around air mouths

skeletal children 

to push little wagons

with sterile and stardom

and the shadows of memory and catacombs

(bridled by Triton in bombs)

melted

(in military fanfares and boar grunting)

with all cartoon constructions in manners 

(miner lamps and red sweaters

camouflage overalls or cagoule)

and the alibi as a mode of life

of lives null

as window it opened

                                                in cage bars

the world map

(or its vision)

                                                through telescope guns.

2

When in the  blood  tropical forests

drums start beating 

red lampoons kindle

phosphorescent skin weeps

 cabala deciphering

twilight clowns stage

the manege

(cellular phonies and cymbal strings)

princesses lesbians adulteries

disguised in shepherdesses

change thyme garlands

porters with  gallons

swindlers with coupons

five stars hotels

(in naturist reverse

lakes with birds and belles)

croupiers with jettisons

public boudoirs and latrines

lubricious dances

orchids carpet

cannabis and  mallow

black and white pearls

poppies eyes luminescent

(accounts opened both in lei

and in cents)

on all stores

of Thracian-Getae tableland 

of sleep

we throw

directly

in God's hand

3

The astral hunger lowing

of mad cows

announces carnage

regime change

and tension fields

even if vegetarians

become carnivorous (and inverse)

in rhythms of twist

the pope rotating ring

                                                capsule of amethyst

descends from a 727 Boeing

or inverse

trying to fix

the cholesterol in milk

genetic code

of wandering

magnetic pole

4

Masks shy

translucent eye

vagabond strokes

lunar frissons

(whose killers?)

false seals and antique gems

planetary worries

infusions

transatlantic illusions

holiday smile

paranoiac-patriot grimaces

Bengali or phallic fires

jump thorn and guard

praetorian which burns

petard  

petard

5

Global psychotherapies

cloning

with baby dogs and

computerized bio-energetic

scanned

atavistic

encephalitic

flies directed dance

with green

metallic

carcass

over-gifted bodyguards

  gnaw the nails of secretaries     

with armpits deodorized  

            managers – specialists in eolian harps

and singing fountains

keep under control av-ens 

elastic air

abattoirs buttons digital

pollution

rockets contract spiritual

execution platoons

and meninges mosquitoes viral

6

Only a drudged

jaundiced werwolf

like pages of chroniclers

(children were mortgaged to usurers)

inseparable from purse with pink dreams

desiring to manifest historians

supremacy complex

with absent eyes

and martyred shape 

gentle

breaks with pleasure

the leg of hungry flunkey

7

fornicated by ecstasy 

the strategic investors  of non-existence

measure the geometry of paradise

mutilated daemons of suffering

walk in the circles

                                    of paradise

now and again encouraging softly:

                                                *the hypnotism of  crown of thorns

*the concentrated effort of non-risen

*circles swarming of cherubs 

*and the ham and eggs horizon

1996

T.G.M. seen by

GEORGE ASTALOS * ANA BLANDIANA * ION BIBERI * acad. C. BALACEANU-STOLNICI * MIRCEA CIOBANU * acad. N.CAJAL * TRAIAN T. COSOVEI * CONST. CRISAN * CIK DAMADIAN * acad. ST. AUG. DOINAS * EUGEN DRAGUTESCU * AURELIAN TITU DUMITRESCU * DANA DUMITRIU * acad. DAN GRIGORESCU * IOAN GRIGORESCU * prof. univ. dr.  ADRIANA ILIESCU * STEFAN IURES * CORNELIU LEU * prof. univ.dr. PAUL MICLAU * prof univ. dr. DUMITRU MICU * JEANA MORARESCU * acad FANUS NEAGU * PLATON PARDAU * VERONICA PORUMBACU * PETRE SALCUDEANU * ROXANA SORESCU * DOINA URICARIU * LAURENTIU ULICI * TITUS VIJEU.

George Astalos:

                   “The poetry in T.G.M.'s “Post-definitive” is inscribed stylistically in the so straight line of paradoxical sinuosity of contemporary universal logic in which the metaphysics is the turn-traverse  of modern poetry essence and, implicitly, postmodern.

Ana Blandiana:

          Phantasmagorical  and realist, scientist and romantic, urban and agrestic, revolted and indulgent, dreamy and breakable, dramatic and ironic, lyric and stern, laconic and unbridled, playful and pensive, Toma George Maiorescu passes through the last decades of our literature as contradictory, charming and stubborn, full of humor and more and more of sadness, un-confusedly  and necessary, author of some books which ask and ask themselves waiting with emotion and straining  for the answer.

Ion Biberi:

          “... Toma George Maiorescu is an implacable adversary of equality with himself, of repetition and, consequently, of boredom. His writing will be, therefore, rapid, suggesting, rich in images and ingenious formulas (…) It is the vagabondage and spiritual adventure among moving forms of the  outside life kaleidoscope, from cosmogonies to thread of grass, but seen, in the same time, also through poet's “interior eye”. Indefatigable Odysseus through space vastness and on dimension of geological and historical times, poet Toma George Maiorescu infiltrates his real evasions through wind-breaths of legends, joining reality with dream, happening with possible fact, concrete contour of things with uncertain smoky, iridescence and  hallucination.

Acad. C. Balaceanu Stolnici:

          “ ' The beast taming in man or  Ecosophia' by Toma George Maiorescu is characterized by vivid spirit of debate of ideas and by its message: the human mental must be made conscious that the survival itself of homo humanus as species  depends on relation between man and his life environment, between man and Universe. Instead of anthropocentric humanism pro-pulsating the man in center of Universe, Toma George Maiorescu proposes an eco-sophic, bio-centric humanism, attributing supreme value to the life, to its sainthood, in all biodiversity forms and hypostases.

            I congratulate Toma George Maiorescu for major problems he proposes to our examination, for manner of approaching them and for suggestions he offers to us for personal self-accomplishment but also of human genre. It is a book which must be not only read, but pages soliciting  study and inviting attentive and thorough reflection.

Acad. Nicolae Cajal:

          Toma George Maiorescu whom I knew since more than half a century as poet, prose-writer and publicist, was and is in continuation an unquiet thinker. He substantiated, introduced and developed a meta-discipline became today object of university study: Ecosophy. By restlessness of grave questions put in the center of debate of ideas, Toma George Maiorescu implies directly each of us in his book. “The beast taming in man or  Ecosophia” proposes a philosophic system concluded, a synthesis of amazing profundity.

            I think that in  these moments the book of Toma George Maiorescu is of an interest and an importance ampler than one can imagine. His work is a prolific   starting point for many other fields and at the same time a great success of Romanian thinking and science.”

Traian T. Cosovei:

          That who opting for spirit freedom didn't deny, in those heavy years, not for a moment, the  so much blasphemed cosmopolitan free-white verse affirming stubbornly through his poetry the right to own artistic expression, the poetic form not knowing bounders, surprises us today with his 36^th book, “Post-definitive”, with a new poetical experience. The exegetists  of T.G.M. have underlined a constant of his literature: a permanent and febrile state of innovation, a great opening toward experiences and adventures of universal literature, an indefatigable capacity of change, to be always unusual without betraying own voice, artistic personality. T.G.M. was never “conform”, was never under times (neither yesterday, nor today) but always in vanguard of openings, of poetic experiment, not to be enclosed. He was and is ever before us through his spirituality and metaphysics through horizon of his ecumenical thinking. T.G.M. succeeded to separate from official tendencies, to remain himself, attached to perennial values of Romanian and universal culture.”

Constantin Crisan:

          “For any one who reads with attention the archer tale of Toma George Maiorescu (Good night, Archer!), it is clear that this evolves on the scene  of a cipher which seems enclosed only to that who refuses the protagonist drama and detaches from this through an unconscious will of exorcism. In other words, it appears to be an ontology written in secret from the beginnings of the world, and the opening of ego toward another ego can not take place in a first instance but through the adventure of  the closing  as identification, expertize, (self) eidetic.

            The Archer (or his homologue, the young woman met … in flight, isn't so?) does not arrive to this opening (Al Fatiha) but in the measure in which he finds his cypher hidden in their consciences. Archetypes of (Biblical) thinking subtly twined with Cabala or old Arabian wisdom sparkling  are not provoked – in author's vision – but with aim to hasten the hermeneutics of history and its (im)possible thirst for truth, through an objectivity which we accustomed to call, with a dangerous commodity, philosophy of history.

            In fact, the proses of T.G.M. - small novels and novellas in strict harmony and connection as determined as ineffable – constitute as a long poem with glosses, in an extremely modern vision, on The Song of Songs – subtle pendant of dialogue between prose and poetry, between tale of each prose and its sub-jacent poetical-philosophical emanations.

            Time and spaces articulate through iron will of narrative tide which contains its own  narratology, because, what counts in the eyes of poet-prose writer is the becoming, historical an pantheistic ontology of each being destined to meet (be it even only for once) its double, indifferent where on the meridian of ubiquitous ego, a true matador of space and a chronophague. The mystery is that these egos of the ego – as gifted hunger or thirst of search beyond the moment – meet; from where, both death and resurrection at once, like in Comedia dell'Arte, that change at sight of decor or  transformation of the character through admitted playing. So much I am tempted to speak about Good night, Archer like a romance staging  - about world theater disguised in tale – as much I am seduced by classification of transcendental novel or, rather mysteriological; once, just from metaphysical point of view, and twice at proper, being given that the author transcends, transgress all frontiers between genres restoring them through the humus of story and dressing them with a perturbing frailty in coherence (always petulant) of a unique poem (from here, perhaps, for the reader less accustomed with such iconoclasm of genres, here and there, a sensation of hybridism, or of draft-flashing writing). We live beside the author enticed of a lusus naturae, as one can speak, equally right, about a grave, pathetic descending  in memory for identification, I repeat, chrono-spatial  of the profound ego, hidden in multiple strata of original ego, unfounded in all trace, as it happens – through a hazard almost legitimated – in everyday life.

            These proses are, in other words, an entire complex, a dramatic process of knowledge and self-knowledge, in the measure in which any journey-tale becomes pendant of another pretext of tale up to... extinction itself of emitting instance.

            These are only a tiny part of numberless questions of a book which invite us to meditate just  from beginning over “(non) divine differentials” between Word and Number, between Numerology and Lexicography up to the limit of the un-thought, un-said, de-conspired as being a resultant of the  non-lived through conscientisation (interior eidos). 

Acad. St. Aug. Doinas:

          “The poet has, on one hand, intuition of  word antinomy as such, which is both grotesque, and terrible:   Blear-eyed words / and saliva trickled in corner of the lips /mounted on stilts to ideas / make their apology to the vigor / They evoke to me the frights in maize field /  which balanced by wind / could imagine themselves as / the pendulum tongues / of apocalypse... (Words on stilts). On the other hand, he has the alarming sensation of sense emptying word, what occasions to him once more a reasoning, but this time vibrant through the implied confession (Caritatu).

            Practically, before arriving to “cataritatu” pure vowel, without any sense, the poet has cultivated the halt – tardy up to voiding of any sense – on an average word. Examples: The absent word and Self-scalp, two poems in volume Interval between words (1984) or Butterfly and rain in the booklet  Alone with the angel (1982)

            Finally, the last circle would be that of a certain type of lyrical humor, difficult to define: a bitter humor, which, like in the poem Km 0, stays in divulging the absurd and arbitrary of a world, absurd and arbitrary which result from the simple abolition of a poor convention, but of a convention so-saying fundamental. This time, the text is frankly prosaic, the chosen procedure being that of thickening the discourse up to enormity; establishing the absence of stone which, in the place St. Gheorghe, should mark the kilometer zero, the poet exclaims in an irresistible crescendo: “ how did it disappear with no anybody to observe without someone making a sign without stopping from his way  someone and to howl without that the decapitated to jump from his grave without anybody to give alarm and awaken the planet the quarter the cosmos it was stolen only stolen it was stolen the kilometer 0 //  you realize if km 0 disappeared it doesn't exist in fact neither km 7 nor 77 nor 777 at the power 7 with period or without Nothing //  it means that any starting point disappeared that it doesn't exist any more neither right nor left neither up nor down neither forward nor backward it means that distance doesn't exist any more with other words if I stretch a finger  nothing impedes to touch the bronze muzzle of  the stallion of  michel  the brave to remove the forefinger from the big-ben at hour of good mercy to draw in ring finger the loop of saturn and refusing the  cry on sand of the greek “noli tangere circulos meos” to make and remake after imagination or caprice all the Universe circles...”

            In the year when a round number of circles marks the trunk of his life, it seemed to me that these poetical circles ensure to lyrical activity of Toma George Maiorescu a personal profile, remarkable, worth to be relieved from the masks which long time have obnubilated him.”

Aurelian Titu Dumitrescu:

          “Also a philosophy, a post-category thinking exist in the poetry of Toma George Maiorescu, pouring its energy yet into lyrical breath. And it exists also a rivalry between philosophical type of metaphysics an poetical type of metaphysics, like in mentalities of aristocrats who schooled themselves in Athens. And in any text of the book, there is also a pictorial metaphysics, a hard and soft metaphysics, congenial with the two, and datum, like to them, of the profound self. All are, of course, the faces of the same seed of vision, otherwise we would confound the metaphysics of texts with poetical language which is personal: 'When the last minute will beat with wooden hammer / on tribunal table / and brass vessels will kindle their oil / fabulous animals with iridium eyes / sign that they have origin in meteoric anguish /  like air inform /  liberated by frustration sentiment / will rise from colored glass of suburbs / or from shadowed corners of sanctuaries / reforming cylinder trapeze pyramid and sphere / into a neo-geometry / of confidence.'

            Everywhere the author is visionary and with ease visionary. The philosopher is visionary only in the final of his step, when the step is succeeded. If the step is failed, this confers a tragic frisson to words in texts, at uttering. If the step is not succeeded, the philosopher sees the chaos, like also those authentic poets for whom the images are not more authentic. The two types of uttering interfere  or melt. To have metaphysics means also to live in metaphysics. Some poets resist shorter in metaphysics, others for longer. These three poems are integrally metaphysical and it is not seen the effort to maintain the metaphysical intensity of texts. But, in general, the resistance of living in metaphysics can grow through practice, it is like the swimming under water. Statistically speaking, strictly statistic, the philosophers, poets and painters are most exposed by their metaphysical feelings. T.G.M. is predisposed to suffering, being most of all poet, but is sustained very strongly by his belief in God. Perhaps that's why he is not so vainglorious.”

Dana Dumitriu:

          “From verses, from images hasty painted, from portraits sketched with finesse, from impressions and soul states confessed with tender irony it is evolved an atmosphere, a restlessness of the world, of thinks apparently anchored in their bottom, but troubled in the depth by melancholic sensible vision of the poet.”

         

Acad. Dan Grigorescu:

          “Poet of moral meditation, attentive to conflicts hidden under peaceful presentations of life, author of some fables of great gravity of senses, Toma George Maiorescu marks, also with this book, a moment of a grown lyrical intensity of his evolution.

Ioan Grigorescu:

          The triple hypo-stasis in which affirms Toma George Maiorescu – that of poet, publicist and philosopher – defines not only the personality of man but the process itself of his becoming. During over 50 years since I know the man and his work, these hypo-stases interpenetrated intimately and organically.

            The ecosophy or philosophy of ecologic dimension of human existence, it is not any more only an etiquette aimed to attestation of a superior approach of ecological problems, but a state of fact in actual thinking, a systematic component of clarification of philosophical dimension of relation I-Other, Individual-social Group, Man-Universe, and, of course, the contract with Self.

            Still from hot days of December 1989 revolution, taking out the first ecological movement in Romania and situating it at equality rank with political formations which risen from yoke of totalitarian interdiction, Toma George Maiorescu offered to those who adhered to his ideas another mode, newly and very stimulatory, to approach the vast gamut of specific problematic became action program.

            Political trivialization of ideas sprang from paltry pragmatism of some who didn't understand and couldn't comprise the vastness and signification of the new eco-philosophical thinking, of a new discipline which announced its apparition in our space made Toma George Maiorescu, this unabated innovator, to move off from his own movement, preferring the sober and austere  world of university chair “of unseen threads” which ties the man with man, and human communities with ambient environment.

            Thus, the becoming of the poet crystallized into a passionate, febrile and total option face to analysis of fundamental relations out of which to be constituted his new frontier discipline or meta-discipline: the Ecosophy. This crowns the triple hypo-stasis in which it appears to us in threshold of senescence the figure of Toma George Maiorescu, perpetual investigative spirit, thirsted to rediscover the world to be not regarded only contemplatively, like a romantic – but to involve in its becoming.

            If we are born in order to become, then the date of our coming in the world is less important for what we signify than the moment when we started doing something for straightening  and perfection of this world.”

Prof. univ. dr. Adriana Iliescu

          “ In the 'anti-novel 'The killer and the flower, each word seems a creature in baroque metamorphosis, a small Prometheus, which can show un-supposed faces, while the author officiates like a magician, searching to provoke the wonder – 'meraviglia'. It will by a pity to start reading this novel without understanding that it situates in context of poet's work who can be considered a modernist 'a outrance'. But I doubt that in this novel declared 'aleatory' the episodes and words develop so 'casual'. I would say rather that the poet suites with tenacity , in a 'top' book of him, a belief he confessed frequently. It is clear, rereading his volumes, that Toma George Maiorescu has a real lucid!-obsession of Word, a preoccupation which is twined somehow with that of linguists. One of his volumes is entitled just Interval between words (1985) and it would be said that the writer things an 'interval' between any words and their neighborhoods in the text. He passes to experiments, searching to see what can be 'done' with a certain word, how can be used its root, cut of inflexions, of lexical or grammatical suffixes, how can be segmented a word so that to isolate a lexeme, to snatch the word  body, to remove it in another semantic zone, to do so that it be in more parts at the same time: somewhere he speaks of 'all-comprising words like a plani-sphere...'. It must be said that his experience is not similar neither with that of dadaists, nor with that of Nichita Stanescu, which he knows and sometimes makes allusion to them.

            The truth is that T.G. Maiorescu exhibits an entire arsenal of ' subversive' strategies: allusive language, game of phonemes, parody of common words (meeting formulas: 'Who is / Who is not / Who retains'), the symbol, the absurd, the aleatory. It exists the obsession of spies penetration into Municipality / all population is prepared for  the visit of an … extraterrestrial, and many other things from the same sphere  of problems, in parody or grotesque, fantasist, aleatory or paradoxical vision, having in view 'those who cultivate the Force'. All according to the principle that 'The time has come to liberate the thought'.

            In this 'anti-novel' predominant is the dramatic genre, narration is reduced to a nucleus, pretext to put in movement a kind of theater – imaginary – of marionettes : it would be a good idea that The killer and the flower be just the script of a show under footlights. The 'ludic' is here an essential element also in 'pursuing' the Idea', it would be said that the author 'has seen ideas', ' with aggrandized soul' as Camil Petrescu wrote, that he is obsessed by 'the game of (evil) fairies'. The nonsense, gratuity, purity of aesthetic game doubled by gravity of a clear message against terror and violence make the originality of this reading. The capacity of inventing unusual characters, the voluptuousness of dipping in a pure and gratuitous game, the innocence of protagonist MAN with Long Hut who realizes a periplus in an unforeseeable and amusing space, the rich and unusual connotations make me to approach this book to

Alice in Wonderland. Wonders? Inventions of the logic of the absurd”

Corneliu Leu:

The metaphor prince at courts of metaphysics – verses. The selective volume from poetical work of one of most original creators from between the two centuries, appeared with occasion of anniversary of 80 years of poet's life, becomes a reference work for history of Romanian poetry in convulsions of the second half of XX century and passing into XXI, demonstrating  the capacity of affirmation of true poetical beliefs over political conjunctures of time.  The blue rider, the Single with the angel who has set Slabs on vanished century, the poet of harangued Time and of Interval over words, become again in their whole Toma George Maiorescu, the poet and philosopher, the metaphor prince at courts of metaphysics.

Prof. univ. dr. Paul Miclau  

          “Toma George Maiorescu inaugurates a new series of poetry into a definitive author edition. He takes over direction of modernity, historic vanguard, as it is said.  I underline that his poetry is a discourse, what can not be affirmed of any poetical production. Much poetry scleroses in texts which mum.  At Toma George Maiorescu the poem is dominated by tension, it processes, becomes incandescent, explosive, makes itself, differently saying, discourse. This discourse is, hence, a modern one. Firstly through renunciation to analogy, to mimesis, and in discursive plan to metaphor, in favor of processional metonymy, many times hypothetical or optative.

            Toma George Maioresu is not a simple surrealist; we could place him  on the edge of surrealism as historians use to say currently. He doesn't cultivate Breton's supra-reality became classic, as explosive synthesis between reality and dream, motivated by unconscious inmost depths. The poet cultivates the paradox of the conscious unconscious (and subconscious). The volume, not casually, is divided into  five obsessions, cleared semantically in 'Argument' and subtitles, but treated in heavy, ambiguous and serial symbols which are founded on a scholarly staging of poetical living.

            In the coin reverse, Toma George Maiorescu practices a poetry of ideas, better said of idea makings. But, attention, classic logic doesn't satisfy him any more, for he lives in knowledge of cause the epistemic of our century, marked by Einstein relativism, by complementarity of physics hypotheses, by presser of some new logic assembling or founded on vague, on 'flou'.

            Traveler, author of reports and interviews, Toma George Maiorescu is also the media poet tempted, therefore, by poetry of the real, quotidian, announcing eighties generation. In difference from these, he knows, as a warned journalist, that it doesn't exist a discourse about the  real, but about another discourse. Poet engaged during his gurgling youth, Toma George Maiorescu detached, while the eighties people reengage themselves through brute saying of daily real.

            The poetical discourse of Toma George Maiorescu is modern also through its metalinguistic dimension. But it is not question, at him, about a cheap textualism, but about stirring up of  binder between world and language. With many years ago I wrote about 'the horse as language' to Toma George Maiorescu, with necessary semiotic reflexions. But not metalanguage as such is installed in his poems. I would say rather that it is question about something more profound, a kind of meta-pragmatic, or, better circumscribed, a meta-discourse.

            Many times, the poet leave to reader the task to remade syntactic ties, to intuit the armature of argumentation. The text is voluntarily lacuna, but, at a very profound level, metaphysical, in hyper-modern context. The completion, remaking of arguments, of logic machinery make that reading be profoundly participative, but not at banal, euphoric level, but in heart-rending discomfort; the text defies, provokes, calls us to shaking of the absurd and tragic real. It is realized thus a too vibrant catharsis which marks the passing from classic, Aristotelian vision to that psychoanalytic. Otherwise said, from the effect of purification of passions, including spectators to a dramatic representation, to the effect of liberation of affects driven into the unconscious. The reader is not any more brother, but partner in consummation of  today world drama.

            I can not abstain to make analogies between Toma George Maiorescu and the poet I cultivate since more than thirty years: Guillaume Apollinaire. And it is not question only about the calligrammes of French poet. Analogies with Apollinaire can be made on line of the deep modernity. Let not forget that the French poet has created himself the vocable of surrealism. Toma George Maiorescu resembles with modernism of Apollinare and his creation fills in postfactum a void in our poetry, which passed suddenly from tardy symbolism of Bacovia to vanguard surrealism. Being also a pre-surrealist, Toma George Maiorescu is, therefore, a postmodernist who cultivates formulas from before acute modernism.

            On reflexion line, Toma George Maiorescu is today promoter of ecosophy that he teaches at university level, founding theoretically the ecologist  discourse which he defended, initially, at political level. Re-comforting, isn't so?  He fills in a void in our idea debate and culture as he filled in significantly decisive spaces in the field of Romanian letters.

P.S.

            After an edition, almost integral, definitive of his poetical work, T.G.M. offers to us one more, surprising, volume. With a spiritual energy  which comes with an unexpected force and sap, T.G.M. confirms with brio the constant of his poetical creation, which wasn't yet put well in light: T.G.M. was and is a postmodern avant la letre! He wrote the poetry of quotidian when our eighties postmodernists were still kids playing in dust. The poetry of T.G.M. is deeply anchored in that tradition of European poetry which started off  in poetry of the quotidian, of real, much before English-American poets considered at actual hour as fathers of postmodernism.

            A feature of this important book of actual literature ('Post-definitive') is its joining to the last hour modernity through a new sap of textualism, the poet using new poetical valences, concepts of metalanguage as phoneme, semantic etc.  At the same time the book is anchored in an ironic verve which doesn't manifest only as referential thought but also as irony of language, joining in happy mode the hard lexis with a very re-comforting, at actual hour, expression of popular and familiar nature.

            In Post-definitive exists also a more profound semantic, an implicit metaphysics in poetical thought. (So present also in the syntheses of chapter 'Synapses'.) Characteristic for this book, face to others, is not only the ecosophic substrate of poetical thought (the ecosophy being the philosophical discipline created and masterly illustrated in Romania by T.G.M.), but, this time, the Post-definitive include in artistic creation, evidencing a new direction, the spiritual dimension, poetical ecumenism.”

Prof. univ. dr. Dumitru Micu:

          The Post-definitive are distributed in three cycles. The first does violence to perception to vanguard-isms of different kinds, predominating being one which reminds through some attributes of futurism, through others of dadaism. It appear vocables and expressions of restraint specialty, stridently neologistic, like 'hipopodul mantihora', 'armiliar sphere', 'jogging', 'expanded', 'info-street', 'mega-variety', 'smile' (instead of Romanian 'zambet'); these are counteracted by native, excessively juicy, by brutal expressions (I skin rats / fated as beggar / in fetid under-seas', 'manure pies') and are not lacking invented terms, like 'holahupeza' (?) or crapax. Over the last one, the poet prevent us not to search for it in dictionaries, because we will not find it. The t.g.m-ist imaginary integrates, also in the Post-definitive, the mythological in existential climates of a modern ultra-prosaic specificity:'(...)the dirty angels / beg showers with erotic deo-shampoos / in spite of magnetic resonance / and of a recurrent harvested probationary / the anatomic-pathological museums / prepare over-weighted jars / with double refined alcohol'. The reverse of such procedures is the ludic parody of folklore. In this regard, T.G.M. enters in competition with Nina Cassian, each of them operating, of course, with proper means. Both stylizes accentuate, but Maiorescu joins with more ostentation the  popular orality with neologistic vocabulary:”ecstasy hi purse-proud cute / slipperiness on the chute / fox / box / paradox / fuss / bus / trampolines /  bottle wines / come on pa / come papa / (with no adhesion to zen) // those not  subscribed to pen door / let us cry / “ole ole / babel tower is no more”  // (...) hope soap trope / we are in europe”, “bingo bingo / world of gringo”.

            Several extravagances and pranks are but (as Mircea Eliade would say) “the camouflage” of states truly lyrical in the Tegemist poems. Or, in any case, not these are communicating the profound ego. But also beyond them it can be identified, intermittently, what the poet calls “my double / unforeseeable / metaphysical / personal daemon”. Likewise Blaga's “dust” is “full of mysteries buzz”, the poems of T.G.M. “buzzes” by various allusions: political, like in Some Aryans (conducted by a  “jackal moral”, these “ look instead of binoculars / through gun tube), but most of all metaphysical. In spirit of expressionism, the poetic discourse signals frequently images of de-sacred world : “The saint of moult papiermache / in in-tabulated gown / / the bier with white orchids / Moldovan pies and boiled maize - / has dry eyes / of metal // It doesn't emit tears any more // only tickets of parrot”. “Closed in cage / the bird-soul / forgotten its song”. In the poem Crossroads it appears a known scene from the  Apocalypse of John : “24 old men fallen on knees / the lamb has torn the first stamp / out of the 7”. In few lines it is used just the word “apocalypse” and its adjectival derivative. The poet signals, for instance, the starting of that “tsunami of hate / aquatic stallion / wild / unchained / infinite / apocalyptic / risen standing / dragging the planet / on a wave mane / toward the final camp / of extermination”. Atrocious, the pessimism of the “definitive” is not integral, however. We find that, in spite of all its ugliness, “the life is however / extra-ordi-nary”, the poet announces “another sun-rise”. Evoking the holocaust, he asks himself if “people of God can be killed” and asks with the words of young woman destined to death at Auschwitz: “I carry in belly the child of Lehaim”. “Lehaim” means “for life”.

            The second cycle of “post-definitive”, The re-finding in One is totalizing poems of biblical inspiration and lyric meditative discourses. Reporter of first class, “loiterer on meridians”, as he calls himself in the title of a travels book, surprising images of modern life from all planet, the poet utilizes, this time, the tools of the (let's say) second profession in order to describe the dance of Salome, flight beyond matter and time, or to signal a cult ceremony “under cedar columns of the temple”, where “71 old blind men (…) wrapped in the white thalit / with black strips”, listen “the voice sang dallied” of a cantor, “sonority of ancient words / (…) underlining in code of Aramaic / magic metaphors not-inscribed bur evident / on calf skin / of sacred scrolls”, but also in order to settle contemporary horror shows, stirred up by bloody god of war: “The wind is the green breath of trees / but today only the yellow wing / of fire / orchards rustle / (from aimed promised paradise) is but bullets whistle / the breath of explosions / the crash of arson / from tents and barracks up to horizon / not a wing beating / of the bird singing”.

            The deepest soul zones from which lyricism emanates, in Post-definitive, as, otherwise, in all volumes of T.G.M., are actually those revealed by meditation over the One in three human hypostases: “Moses, Muhammad, and Jesus”. In the poem consecrated to Jesus (Joshua), the poet is of opinion that he was born when “descendants of Cain / brother killer / wanting to clean himself of sin /started to dream themselves / as people”. Came in order “to teach man / how to shake himself /

of scales with delusive reptile sparkles”, the Son of Man (or of God) “descended / wrapped  in primordial light / more precisely he trickled from Cross / like down dew / like tear transparent pearls / (gathering in them the pain of non-salvation) / over offering furrows / fallowing them / to spring love seeds / in neighbors / (synonymic to fusion with God)”. The accession to humanity, the poet thinks, in another piece, is conditioned by assumption of Christ condition. The cross passes compulsory “from One to Other; “nobody can be saved / by Golgotha Way”.

            The poems are followed, in the volume, as I said, by so-called “synapses”, some memorable: “The music is prayer of God / to tame the beast in man”.(...) God has so many “shapes and resemblances” as many individuals look for its approximation. From a notice, we learn that some of the “stones” baptized “synapses” entered in the component of the “temple”  entitled The ecosophy or taming of beast in man.

            This is the newest book by Toma George Maiorescu. Divergent estimation judgments can be emitted. The incontestable fact is that some of “post-definitive” contain the cipher of way toward the “double” of poet, toward his “metaphysical” “daemon”. 

Jeana Morarescu:

          Imposed to public conscience particularly as a poet, Toma George Maiorescu is however one of complementary writers. Gathered in “author volume” (Proses – Publishing House “Vinea” 1999, Bucharest), his prose discloses to us in a very personal mode a replica of “complicity”, sometimes of “subterranean” channel of communication – consciously defined – of own poetry. The spirit – author says in a short self-presentation – ad-equated to partial visions, more or less aleatory -, to the comfort of tearing from context”. It is not just an absolute “aleatory” / but rather a spectacle plurality of psycho-dramatic (auctorial) interest – slopes which can be decanted. What will permit to author actually to recourse, in vision of  volume curdling, to what he calls “compositional discipline” and “ordination elan” of some interior times “crumbled” and “ so subtle interconnected and inter-conditioned”. The operation to evidence distinct chrono-conceptual identities” becomes possible – and it seems even organic – so that the ontological round succeeds to impose “the dominants of interior movement”: I.“The time of love”, II, “The time of expiation”, III,  “The time of return” (of memory – our note). This orientation after development of some existential times of living, not necessarily personal – but also personal – permit finally that to “fiction” literature to be joined the memorial – in its largely opened fan between recollections of childhood-adolescence and memory of some facts of recent civic context (in which also ethic-political confessions of faith are included). (Sometimes, the author “softens” artistically from very beginning the re-plunging in idea tension of the real fact, non-imagined, using the “artifice” of an imaginary dialogue with a “counter-ego”). The last “division”, that “memorial”, prepares, in a certain kind, the passage of reader from the bridge of imaginary shareholder toward – and on – ground of non-fiction narration, through the long sub-chapter (made from 23 sequences) of some – let say - “childhood recollection” which belong to veritable literature through art of evoking a time and space populated by dramatic, sorrowful social frictions (which will determine, for then the child or pubescent, as many wounds and gnomic stages). A factual time and space -in which the auctorial subject is in narration the patient, whose emotional observation impregnates the consciences of facts with which intersects – and fixes it as an irrevocable “memory”. (A memory which will be defined as “Bitter smoke in mouth palate”.)

            The common mark of this Maiorescian prose, which doesn't take any more into account the taxonomy of literary “genres”, seems to be constituted by the lucidity thrill – either it leads, belletristic, to the winging and transfiguration of the imaginary – or it takes in visor the “objective” exactitude of referential detail – an essay-ism being born from this moral problematic.

            As writer, T.G.M. “balances” between history and metaphysics. It is a “Janus” shape which establishes a “bow” between the two perspectives of a “bifrons” horizon . This existential “bow”  grants the non-monk character of conscience as filter to any psychic engagement; a filter which could prove the Camil Petrescu syntagma regarding “the teeth pain” which lucidity doesn't destroy but stop it. Toma George Maiorescu invites us to decipher  the “Signature” as generic mechanism of auctorial ego. The T.G.M. “Signature” comports two perceptive filters: Sensible and intellectual. Filters which are controlling each other. A precision is needed: “Intellectual” means spiritual which doesn't reduce to cerebral – but which illuminates, on consciousness screen, re-check as energetic primordial – the sensible act. At T.G.M. the sensibility is that which provokes and convokes the conscience.

            This writer isn't – it is true -, the writer type to whom the affective impact with real world to start buried subconscious analogies, offering to the discourse significant and poly-semantic duplicities or unconscious  symbolic charge. He is the inverse creative type: that to whom the same degree of affective impact provokes (it seems, compensatory) – a surplus of  lucidity poignancy – founding, on the ground of this, a special ontology of the imaginary. The five lyrical obsessions which ordinates the volume of “Poems” (obsession of love as energetic and aesthetic force of continuous genesis; Sisyphean but also demiurge Word, the being-Word as Universe projection; the harangued Time; the ways and search of Self ; “to pass Beyond”)  will be found as  the same obsessions in the three floors of “Proses” volume, in an indeed holistic  manner. Even if, for instance, the first out of the three floors is called only “The time of love” (the unique novel – of an unedited, somehow unusual – Good night Archer – is traversed, beyond the theme-pivot of love, by obsession of “cabala” mystery of the name – by “the harangue of Time”  metaphor of  “bloody memory” -, by the epiphany of a journey through an almost hallucinatory exterior geography, of an ardent-unforeseeable journey. And all these accompanied by the anxious-metaphysical shadow of “watching” dimension of a “Beyond”).

            Good night, Archer is, perhaps, an unusual novel, just because it interferes in alternations of plans – like in a symphonic structure – these existential variable became, each, the corollary of another one.  All important commentators of Toma George Maiorescu see this novel – in which the border between exterior reality and “dream”, interior phantom, is permanently labile, like a text imbibed of “mystery” and captivating just through this perfume and exoticism of mystery. Good night, Archer, is, in fact, the “series” at first person, narrated by memory, of a chain of surprising meetings of “ideal woman”, multiplied in many variants, in different places and moments of narrator's life. Meetings which prove but ephemeral and remain simple promises which disappear, in their succession, in a time zone, leaving back evanescent memories and unhealed nostalgia. Different from former commentators, our opinion is that author doesn't officiate , through sextet inscribing of these “sublimities”, only a narrative “mystery” but officiates first of all “the incantation” of beauty – tragic in its kind – of the “sephirotic” making of World. In Hebraic cabala, sephira, the “sephirot” means “Number”. Each “Number” is a sacred Vibration, matrix of a fundamental Datum, of a sustaining “Virtue”, in a secret scaffolding of a “phenomenons” World. The entire Existence is sustained, like on a primary warp, on a “sephirotic Arbor” - in which “the Crown” (Meta-Throne), the “Wisdom” and “superior Intellect correspond to sephires 1, 2, 3 and are transcendent vibrations representing the attributes of God. “Pity” (the empathy, overflow into another), “Righteousness” and “Beauty” (sephires 4, 5, 6) are attributes of moral world, with psycho-astral support – and “Victory”, “Height” (glory) and “Foundation” (sephires 7, 8, 9) represent the attributes of physical world as Creation finishing and materialization of sacred transcendent and astral (cosmic-astral) projects.  The tenth sephira is the “Kingdom” and represents alveolar vibration which waits for the synthesis of the other nine. The synthesis is carried out namely on the last step, that of terrestrial existence. The thorny dialectics of existence starts only from here: It is, these clear and waited Synthesis, a permanent imperative – or only an orientation ideal, a stake realizable eventually only in a final of cosmic cycle, like a “finit coronat opera” of the Demiurge? If in the World “Kingdom” would be obtained the absolute synthesis of sephirotic Arbor, all “Numbers” (matrix vibrations) would dip in this tenth vibration and the Creation would collapse. (…) Of an exemplary tragic beauty like a text of antic tragedy: “The vigil”. Text in which the feelings of some characters – doomed by a double sentence: of people and of destiny – more they appear to themselves confuse, more they are abyssal-piercing , hallucinatory. The disoriented woman from the cement of prison – in whose being it rotates in vertiginous unstopping – like a sort of inner disaggregation – the wheel of the past – succeeds to stop the vertigo on a dark moment: death of the “old” woman (the mother). Rituals of preparation of burial; overwhelming cortege of obligations; ancestral heresies, superstitions and tabus – of which inconsideration would bring village opprobrium. (Moment with descents in other levels of memory – of childhood – with boon of evens called to surface by whole besiege of customs and magic beliefs. Civic obligation, irrepressible, of alms – unconditioned in front of village mentality  unforgivable by any excuse be it even real, factual poverty of the widow. Red iron in soul: scarification of cow, of loved animal which seemed to make part of family. Pauperizing. The memory of funeral moment is directly tied, involuntarily, by what immediately followed : the catch on field! (She asked, to cooperative, advance from own rights, “some grains”; her pigging was dying of hunger. She had been refused. It was suggested to her to do what all do: to take alone. She had been caught and judged.) And in the vertigo of present thoughts, her only light was Lisandru, the boy who once has been the pride of teacher, the student passionate for archeology who fulfilled his military stage – and of whom she was convinced that “was born with luck star”. Lisandru -, who has learned what happened to his mother and who, torn by revolt, deserts in the night – returns in the village and kills the warrant officer who has sent her in trial. Hunted by those put to catch him, he stubs himself in forest (it seems just in the moment his mother things of him as only and sure support of hope). The hunting is lived by hero in a strange, almost metaphysical duplicity between reality and heated imaginary which projects him in a kind of tunnel of Time, of History, among the “resurrected” whose bones he has discovered sometime in the open belly of hill. Death consciousness coagulates magnificently like a super-reality of meeting with the immortal braves and with members of once of family, in a frisson, intensive interior transfiguration. There are pages which surprise exemplary the “melting metal” temperature of feelings-limit of the adolescent: the despair converted in a super-liberation. As the pages which remake interior universe of Serafima, composed from quasi-chaotic mixture of fragments of memory, reconstitute with documentary minuteness the atmosphere and magic prolix costumes of archaic universe through which village tradition and mentality breath. The arch-colored palette of heresies which entertain the fear of ingenuous  and labile souls. (There are pages congenital-spiritually to those in At Bats by Marin Sorescu). Pages written with an empathic penetration of ancestral darkness, of an ethos magical and equally familiar and oppressive.

Acad. Fanus Neagu:

            (…) I don't know to how many fundamental sins a man has the right, but a poet has the right only to three: to sing the love and place where he was born, to believe in life, in myths and legends, and to push with a step, beyond of beyond, the bounder of death. Fulfilling them, it is forgiven to him, of course, on measure of time laws, what wants to mean that only very rarely, the fact of having lived more for others than for self, the custom to eat bread and not butterflies, penances, kneeling, as well as night of wake at head of sick thought.

            (…) But let's return to see how Toma George Maiorescu uttered his sins.

            1) Born on the bank of Barzava, where good pixies seduces you, he learned with eyelid the exorcism of rain:

             butterfly little tiny butterfly

falena bombix hedge butterfly

the owl of cellar cries

little ghost strelitz nettle's

death's head Adam's head

wren greyish-white racketeer

cuckoo's petty pearl night's peacock

red Buffalo cabbage grower

beehive moth apple moth

wine moth lime moth

            golden moth ashes moth...

            and that the love is the dance or rather the reportage we try always around a rose:

            we are called by love mystery game

            the night exults tropical smells

            only dream love and flame

            give birth to abyssal days...

            Mirror watch mute you see

            dream metaphor erotic travesty

            angels invite us all of a sudden

            to clay in Paradise garden    

            2) “... - This is my life – you say, looking at me with those enormous eyes, with bizarre cut of bitter almonds, velvety and profound .

            I look at her palm. I hold it in my right:

            head line

            luck line

            destiny line

            - Now give me your palm

            - This is my life – I repeat – stretching my hand to her. The two palms are now beside:

            head line

            luck line

            destiny line

            - It can not – I cry,

            lines are identical!

            - It can – I hear her velvety voice, I came after you in the same night of the Archer and I stretched my hand toward same star. This is my life, it's yours... We have the same opening”.

            I've torn a chip from the violet mirage of beautiful imagining “The girl in End Market”.

          3) This is the unbearable sin and last obstacle of poetry. Sin which is not diminished or passed through the ford with living water. Here are flowing in terracotta fountains black peaches and the hour of Valkyries. Here Toma George Maiorescu falls in discourses about prophets sick of thyroid, who, escaped of fear, wander walnut forests. I don't believe, but I forgive him. This is the sin of wonderful fright. Wonderful because all of us live it the whole life. Only because of that. I can not believe at the same time nor in the conceited wisdom called reconciliation with fatality. From this step on it remains to us only to believe in a long Autumn tale, guarded by four birds in which , near idea of flight, the wonder of sacrifice idea gurgles. That's all.

Platon Pardau:

          “The poetic forms are given to him as if for shake, watch, look at them with circumspection, but also with avidity, not to prove, but to “unscrew”, to reconstitute them on other plans, in an eternal exercise taken very seriously, not at all game or play. From here also one of  poet's most interesting victories, his capacity to hold traps, to suggest references, affiliations, relationships, all rapidly overturned, negated: poetry exercises in most expected and unexpected tonalities, in the same time, and the result, poet's consequence and individuality, constituting from a still of severe baroque, of transfer often in paradoxical senses. Nothing is possible and all is possible, connection being made by the same feverishness, same disquiet: the fate of world, of which poet is ceaselessly anxious, is, actually, the fate of poetry! And this severe baroque has the gift to protect him from mimetic, disclosing the wizard who has no other law but that of poetry endlessness.”

Petre Salcudeanu:

          “Toma George Maiorescu proved to be not only  the comprising writer, walking through the garden of literary genres like at his  home, not only prolific and diverse, but, in what he wrote better, of an incontestable profundity and originality.

Roxana Sorescu:

          “The concrete, exact, significant word, perfectly applied to the signified. But isolated on ground of lyrical intensity. But so cut up as that to signify not only the real, but also hidden senses of real. The allegory word. Toma George Maiorescu thinks rarely metaphorical. But he thinks frequently allegorical. So that he becomes  the author of one of most applied fables of Romanian contemporary literature”.

Zoltan Terner (Tel Aviv):

          „Toma George Maiorescu, TGM for the friends – is an extremly prolific author. Editorial debut, as poet, at 19 years. I was in the first  high school classes when I met his name and poems of large breathing in „Revista elevilor” (The Journal of pupils). He has published since then over 30 volumes: poetry, prose, reportages, essayes, interviews, travelogues. He was translated in numerous countries of the world. During decades, I read especially his verses. I liked them: they had nerve, pathos, poyichrome vivacity, generous metaphors.

            I discoverd his vocation of a philosopher much later, through his most surprising book. A book like an amazing hologram. A kind of postmodern replica to The Poem of Nature of Lucretius Caro. This, of the wise poet, could be named „The Poem of man and his relations with the Whole”. The author prefered a more metaphorical name, with reference to ethics and anthropology: The taming of the beast in man or Ecosophy.

            The ecosophy is a discipline invented by TGM himself. It is more than a philosiphy of ecology as it means, in Greek, its denomination. It is a new philosophy of man. It is a „ metadiscipline” about „the five fundamental relations” of man: Man-Man, Man-Society, Man-Nature, Man-Universe, Man and his Self.

            Here are the motto and explanation of  book's title: „The man has tamed the outside beast but didn't succeed to quiet the beast inside him. The beast is in us. The bloody roller of wars or mourning smoke of crematories are but reflex of  the darkness in our spirit”.

            The book is subentitled modestly „course notes” (TGM has set up and conducted at Ecological University in Bucharest the chair of „Ecosophy”). What came out is a genuine intellectual bet. The taming of the beast in man or Ecosophy is an ambitious „treaty”, full of courage, crammed with literacy, animated by a superb intellectual-spiritual impetus. Provocative, atypical, unclassifiable. Original and living. Work of an exceptional man of ideas and poet with ample, generous and illuminated vision over human and superhuman world.

            Through „disembounding”, a mirific picture is opened: „All at once, the man wakes in a disembounded universe, 'at home' both in his inner space, as well as in the universal one. One by one, the prisons built by himself out of world fragments, walls of limitations, folds of prejudices, of psychic contraction and logic formalism have fallen, the iron laws of habitudes have melted, the bondaries of sacrosanct dichotomies, traditional philosophical dualism, irreconcilable Manichaenism between good and evil, true and false, white and black have been pulverized.”

            In the system of „ecosophic thinking” conceived by TGM, a basic principle is „the organic interdependence between the five fundamental relations. When a relation is deteriorated, all the others lose their balance.

            Here is an example of interdependence, of plans conexion: „The pollution is but the materialization in noxious acts directed against life, and of spiritual collapse which shakes industrial and postindustrial society.” And yet another expression of the inderdependence of multiple relations of human being: „To the man born on concrete, the industrial and postindustrial society ravished one of essential conquerings of his human becoming: the sentiment of nature”

            What poet-philosopher TGM proposes is a project almost foolish through its ideative dimensions: „The ecosophy imposeses itself as a true Weltanschaung. Science of nature. Strategy of sustenable development, Morals, Philosophy, Policy of survival, Transdisciplinarity or Humanism of the IIIrd Millenium? All toghether.”

            What gives credibility and power of conviction to this daring program of „safeguarding” of man, or for edification of „homo humanus” is its solid cultural-philosophical foundation. It's enough to throw a sight over 'selective' bibliography at the end of book in order to make an idea over huge work of documentation, elaboration, systematization and construction of this project of philiosophical edifice.

            In this philosophical work, it is made right part to the top science, Christian theology, Judaism, Cabala, Judaic mystique. In over 500 pages of this passionate and thrilling book, live together Lao-Tse with Maimonide, Hegel with Einstein, Guenon with Freud, Jesus with Mozes. „Ecosophy” contains an ethics, a sociology, an anthropology, a metaphysics, a theology of universal harmony. Definition itself of ecosophy being, in essence, ' harmony and balance of man with the Whole.” Or, in formulation of the poet Toma George Maiorescu, „The ecosophy is an exciting love-story between Man and Nature. But also a promise.”.

            The book proposes a way of salvation. It promises. Warns. Announces. Foresees. Calls. All these give to the book a prophetic dimension. Or, perhaps, rather Utopian. Author himself recognizes it. He is however a lucid dreamer, conscious, perfectly edified over gravity of situation: „The 'personal cosmoses' of our contemporaries embrace, usually, a world of artificial objects and imitations ... This „objectification” leads surely toward a loss of „life sense”, a mechanical existence superposes over „intense livings”, new habitudes of psychic comfort, of impossibility of 'meaning reading' will throw the individual in arms of bulimy, alcohol, drugs, depression and, of course, of suicide, as a crowning of 'meaning deficit”.

            TGM is solidly anchored in his age, in his natural space, in his Romanianess and Jewishness. The cultural Romanianess of TGM is present through all top value landmarks, from Cantemir to Iorga, from Eminescu to Enescu, Brancusi, Ionesco, Noica, Ralea, Lupasco... Dear student of Blaga, he consacrates to his venerated professor a full chpter. 

            Faithful equally to his Jewinshess, TGM gives an ample space to Judaism, to Jewish mystique. He makes it programatic, in perfect concordance with his 'ecosophy': 'In the context of ideas of fundamental relation MAN-UNIVERSE, it is natural to stop ourseleves at the relation of man with divinity. We will insist upon some fundamental books of mankind such as rolls of Torah, pages of Bible, Talmud or Cabala (Zohar and Sefer Ietsira). Comments to Cabala of some specialists of noble spiritual source like Alexandru Safran or G.G. Sholem will accompany us in incursions in the paradigm of the first monotheism.'

            Look at him summarizing in style of philosophical poem, the vision of Cabala over knowledge of God: „God is not a subject one woud discover objectively, without being tied by him subjectively. / He is Beingness. Reality. / He is Essence. Interiority / God can not compare but with Himself .”

            The thought of essayst-philosopher seems to oscillate between sombre lucidity and optimistic utopianism. Here is an expression of the first  hypostasis: „We, the people, it seems, are conceveid in a zodiac of the absurd. A biological accident on the development scale permitted to us to become the only species endowed with conscience of self, capable to appreciate itself. And, paradoxicaly, cyclic, we crumble just this future... Only the man destroys himself, consciously, creating weapons of destruction more and more perfected, capable to reduce to nonbeing not only himself, but also the Nature... The periodical  self extermination of the species acting, apparently, like a fatality. It is a drama unknown to other living beings of Terra. This is probably – the paradox of paradoxes – the most tragic contradiction of man as species.”

            Look now also the other face of  the philosopher, prophetic utpianism, pathetic call addressed on behalf of „Homo humanus”, of the „tridimensional man', having his foundation in Logic-Ethics-Aesthetics, that is Truth-Good-Beautiful: “Our stake must fall on consciousness, on love, on kindness and dignity, on responsibility, tolerance, on rational balance, on moral structures, on dialogue having possible solution, on setting out social and ethnic tensions, on transparency and undisturbed circulation of information, on freedom of option, on permanent instruction and education, on real democracy, on total disarmament.”

            Eight years ago, when this generous book appeared, it could still dream thus. Now, it becomes harder and harder. It appeared, in between, an Ahmadinejad, enough demented to light the nuclear arson, dreaming, together with the entire extremist Islam, to cover the civilized world with the dark veil of ultra-dogmatic, bloody and primitive fundamentalism. In between, it came over mankind a grave economic crisis. It supervened in world life some events which quiet impede us to see the future in cheerful colors.

            It is a pity that the history doesn't seem disposed  to permit fulfillment of noble aspirations expressed in this exceptional book. Paraphrasing its title, we can not abstain to formulate the dramatic question: Would it be possible the taming of beast in man?

Doina Uricariu:

          (…) The book The girl from the End Market has a composite, cinematographic structure, with changes of rhythm and of unexpected attitude, but violating with premeditation the reader conscience in the second part, maintaining it in an sensual-exotic state in first part, diary of a journey, in which exterior landscape and tourist mentality give up gradually to interior storm. One same sight, always unitary, is set over worlds and thinks differently lived. It recomposes landscapes according to a technique of collage, agglutinating them without cease, superposing, without linguistic idiosyncrasies or prejudices, words, “chips of trembling pictures” on big rhetoric canvas, from which the figurative retires often in order to become, from exterior sign, abstraction and thing seen with the inner eye: “to be able to gather under a loop / chips of trembling pictures / bizarre events / and shivers of sensations /

to be able to recompose faithfully / without admitted error quotient / as much as the spirit can reproduce / what it is unique / as much as I can repeat in exterior signs / what have seen with my interior eye”...

            The girl from the End Market is an overturned love story, history of a mirage girl followed up to violent de-conspiring of the mystery.           

Laurentiu Ulici

          “Toma George Maiorescu has been one of those who, starting to write in the climate of the prolet-cultism, knew to separate at time from the language preached by messengers of this absurd recipe. He passed, with series successive to him, the series '60, in the period of recuperation of Romanian lyrical tradition, has been in step with innovator spirit from the end of years '80 and after, and all these because, according to my opinion, in all these experiences, so diverse and so contradictory, poetically speaking, Toma George Maiorescu remained a vanguard-ist, in the sense of just historical vanguard.

            Toma George Maiorescu is a great maker of experiment and has tried even in poems which can be taxed as neighbors with discourse of prolet-cultist type, which are, actually, quiet few, he tried that something which may be something else than fashion was.

            This propensity toward vanguard discourse is present, evidently, in the phraseology type which Toman George Maiorescu cultivated in his poetry, a phraseology which took into account almost all rhythmical possibilities, and, especially, as the true vanguard-ists do, he has opened new horizons to the poetic imaginary in Romanian language.

            Being, not once, in neighborhood of a surrealism less violent than of the first vanguard-ists, but closer to lyrical charge of the second wave (Naum, Luca, Paun, Roll, Teodorescu), Toma George Maiorescu being, in the same time, also a vainglorious, tried, mostly in the last years, to detach from his proper vanguard-ism, recuperating, in a way, a much older tradition of Romanian poetry, a tradition which approach the times of anonymous poetry (the anonymous of XVII and XVIII centuries). Their rhythms, taken from the use of popular speaking, are found in newest creations of Toma George Maiorescu, and I think that these add to most valuable creations of him.

            The definitive edition which himself made is similar and different from others of this genre. Also in making of volume there are, without doubt, a vanguard spirit. In general, the definitive editions of the inter-war poets follow faithfully the chronology of appeared volumes. Toma George Maiorescu has preferred another order, searching to join thematic criterion with that chronological. This is explained by fact that very many poems written in the year '50, '60, '70, 80 have not been included in volumes of those years and so, they (volumes) didn't represent faithfully the moment in which poet wrote them. He preferred, thus, an order which keep of “obsessions”, of “themes”, passed through a filter of sensibility, through author psychology.

            Toma George Maiorescu gives, in this definitive edition, the thrill of his spirit permanence, his in-confound-able writing, but also the proof of character changing suffered by poetry along the time.

            It would be, surely, much to be said about this book, its exegetists will say it, I am sure, I proposed only to introduce you in the atmosphere of a creation with a strong print of originality.

Titus Vijeu

            It is clear that Toma George Maiorescu was preoccupied with priority by philosophical significances of ecology, by moral senses developed by this. For him, the Ecosophy is “a system of thought, a mode of seeing, reading, living and understanding of world.” Appreciating this consequent orientation of author, acad. Dan Grigorescu writes in the Preface consecrated to the volume Ecosophy that this promotes a humanist discipline in the most exact sense of term as it was once thought by Erasmus: the defense of human nature, in its entirety.

            Toma George Maiorescu investigates in his books just this humanist horizon illustrated – from antiquity until today – by highest spirits of mankind. Moreover, in order to demonstrate that his battle is not one individual, the author takes important allies from among contemporaries. Scientists – some of them Nobel Prize awarded -, valuable writers, physicists and meta-physicians, theologians with authority, diplomats, historians and philosophers of culture. All of them plead for introduction into the collective mental of this dimension of meditation but also of action for, we are ensured by distinguished allies of the author, only so we can understand the Universe in its giant complementarity, only so we can define ourselves in relation to surrounding world.

            The name of that poet, incorrigible romantic, is Toma George Maiorescu. And his talks with important people of XXth century appeared in many books, starting with volumes Where the cosmonauts return and Dialogue with the century and its people up to recent Talks in twilight. Long decades of writing and meditation over a time set – as beautifully author thought - “like an insect stone-still in amber, under eternity species”. But which can not oppose to inexorable movement and, as such, to erosion.

            Eminent scholars like Werner Heisenberg, and passionate researchers like Jacques-Yves Cousteau, inspired artists like Galina Ulanova and Jean-Louis Barrault, famous writers like Jorge Amado and Jaroslaw Iwaszkiewicz have accepted to open their heart to Romania author. Likewise did also Ilya Eheremburg and Nazim Hikmet and archbishop Makarios and Iannis Ritsos  and Edward G. Robinson. Names among  those most representative of culture of XXth century, to whom join, as glorious, the names of great Romanian writers, from Mihai Sadoveanu and Tudor Arghezi to Lucian Blaga and Al. Philippide, of some artists like Corneliu Baba or Vida Gheza, to mention few from high spirits from our literature and art, which have received the challenge of Toma George Maiorescu, opening their heart.

            People die, but their ideas remain, untouched by time rust. Fact proved, see, also by these Talks in twilight printed by Cartea Romaneasca publishing house, sign of half century disquietude of this young poet of old, arrived today at a respectable age without re-negating his spiritual energies of sometime. And who can deposit testimony over time lived not only through proper depositions but also through declarations – sober or rightly pathetic – of some creatures of exception, which life brought in front of him, like a gift came from gods. And which, see, with generosity, the author restore to us in a splendid recital. A baroque recital of memory.

            About middle of last summer, the confrere Toma George Maiorescu announced  us by phone about  a transoceanic project. More precisely, he had to spend his summer holiday at his close relatives in America. I confess now that in the afternoon of 11 September 2001 – learning like any one from the planet about New York tragedy at World Trade Center – I thought firstly at my friends found beyond Ocean, among whom numbered, evidently, also this indefatigable writer, by his name Toma George Maiorescu.

            Happily, in that  ill-fated day, he was far away from New York, more precisely to Los Angeles, surrounded by his wonderful grandchildren. While America was still in a shock state, consequence of unprecedented terrorist attacks, the Romanian author wrote at 14^th September to president George W. Bush, with proposal of constitution of a memorial of attempt victims, formally just out of the structure , remained standing at that date, of one of famous tween towers. The vestige seemed to the incorrigible poet “similar to an immense organ” tragic, a monument of horror, “marking not only the first year of the IIIrd Millennium, waited with so much hope, but also the  time to come”.

            The answer received from White House confessed that his proposal will be “examined with attention”. Evidently, it was question of phrases which inscribed in the usual protocol rules. A similar letter was sent  to then mayor of American metropolis, legendary today, Rudolph W. Giuliani.

            As it is known, the place on which where damaged towers were risen was carefully cleaned and it wasn't yet taken the decision regarding the memorial which will fix dimensions of New York tragedy. But the steps of Toman George Maiorescu continued. Not in plan of official contacts with American authorities, but in plan of literary creation. Thus it was born the volume of verse Under 50 stars, appeared not so long ago at publishing house Vinea. In those dramatic days about which I reminded, found still on the bank of Pacific, at Los Angeles, the poet started crossing of another ocean: the ocean of the Romanian language. Appealing to the formula of ample poem, of Whitman essence, he pursued the manner in which “the man, the single spiritualized animal” became “biologic computer of last generation (...)/ programs / tenacious and methodically / his suicide”.

            Knowing too well that “ the work of art / is the happiness tear / of Creator”, the poet tries to prevent through his poems the possible disasters of humanity. The American tragedy of 11^th September 2001 seems to him as being paroxysmal expression of crisis crossed by mankind in the last century. That for, the poetical discourse of Toma George Maiorescu  dresses not once the cloth of biblical parable, communicating to fellows that the man can chase the Beast only believing in the power of light and Creation.

            Thus, the tragedy of 11 September represents only general repetition of an apocalyptic show. A show which must be prevented in any shape, by each thinking being from planet Earth. 

Toma George Maiorescu

Bio-bibliographic cards

          Toma George Maiorescu was born at Resitsa (county Caras-Severin) on 8^th December 1928 into an old family of intellectuals. His grandfather in father line, doctor in law, magistrate, grandfather in mother line, painter and professor of Latin and drawing. Father, Stefan, bank clerk with superior economic studies, will open at Resitsa, after crisis of 1933, out of reunited family libraries, the first public library of loan from town, first office of diffusion of press, organization of tours and shows in Caras Severin county.

            Remained without father in 1943 (in forced domicile), without mother in 1953, he was obliged from early age to base himself  on own tenacity  in order to climb the steps of learning. Elementary school at Resitsa, lyceum at Caransebes and Timisoara (1939-1947).

            Graduated in letters and philosophy. He has studied at University in Cluj (1947-1948) and at University of Bucharest (1948-1949), having as professors and mentors the poet Lucian Blaga and philosopher D.D. Rosca, respectively the critic George Calinescu and aesthetician Tudor Vianu. In 1947 beside  A.E. Baconsky, he sets up the literary Circle “New Poetry”, of which secretary becomes.

            Between 1949-1954 we find him as scholarship of Romanian state at Institute of Literature “Maxim Gorky” in Moscow.

            In 1992 he completes a course of post-university specialization at University of Cleveland (Ohio).

            Poet, writer, essayist, professor.

            He was reporter and sailor, agriculturist and professor of a new discipline: ecosophy, poet, prose writer and pedagogue at a school of accountants, militant for monotheist ecumenism, director of periodicals, globe-trotter, collector and restorer of old icons, maker of TV films, president of political party, unemployed (1982-1990).

            Since 1954 he participates beside George Ivascu to relaunching of the  magazine “Contemporanul” / The contemporary into a publication of European format.

1954-1971, chief editor of heading at “Contemporanul”.

1971-1982, deputy chief editor at magazine “Romania pitoreasca” / Picturesque Romania.

1982-1989, apiarist and agriculturist (eliminated from press)

1989, in the days of Revolution sets up Ecologist Movement in Romania (M.E.R.), of which president becomes

1990, president of M.E.R Party. Member in Executive Bureau of CPUN (provisional parliament of Romania). President of youth Commission of CPUN. Director of weekly journals “ECO”, “ECO-MAGAZIN” and “ECOSOFIA”. President of European Foundation of Ecological Education and Culture. Titular of the chair of “Ecosophy”, academic discipline created in Romania by T.G.M., at Bucharest Ecological University. Councilor in National Council of Audiovisual. Vice-president of Ecological Movement in Moldova Republic. Member in the Council of management of Writers Union of Romania.

            Founding the Ecologist Movement in Romania T.G.M. put on its frontispiece the slogan: “Clean man, clean country, clean world”.

            The writing work is seconded by a feverish journalist activity of the globe-trotter who, embarked officer II on commercial Romanian navies, wanders meridians and oceans of the world. From journeys TGM returns not only with board diaries, poems and notes of journey, but also with TV series about South America or Middle East, Sahara or lands beyond the Polar Circle. Between years 1963-1975 has published also a number of travel books (South America, Middle East, Northern Africa, Europe, etc.), realizing in quality of total author (scenarist, operator and director) TV films about visited places.

            Translated in numerous countries of the world.

            Laureate of several literary national and international prizes.

            Author of circa 40 volumes of poems, prose, philosophy and publicist, Toma George Maiorescu is well-known  to the readers from abroad through translations owed to writers like David Samoilov, Kiril Kovaldji, Evgheni Yevtushenko into Russian, Geri Campos into Portuguese, Per Olof Ekstrom into Swedish, Menelaos Ludemis and Dimos Rendis into Greek, Andree Fleury and Paul Miclau into French, O. Stamboliev into Bulgarian, Prabhajot Kaur into Punjabi, Pablo Neruda and Omar Lara into Spanish, Oskar Pastior into German, Franyo Zoltan and Balogh Iozsef into Hungarian, Melike Roman into Turkish, Slomo David into Ivrit, O. Gurigan into Esperanto, etc.

            At his turn he rendered for the first time into Romanian Polish poets like T. Roziewic, Cz. Milosz, Greek like Iannis Ritzos, M. Lundemis, T. Livaditis, Turks like Nazim Hikmet, etc.

International Biographical Center at Cambridge and American Biographic Institute have included biography of Toma George Maiorescu in important reference books. Among them: Five Thousand Personalities of the World; International Who's Who of Intellectuals, The International Directory of Distinguished Leadership, Man of Achievement and others.

          Distinctions (selective):

Comandor of Brazil. At 15^th July 2002 Brazilian Presidency awarded to him National Order Rio Branco in grade of Comandor

Local Council of Resitsa Municipality confers to him the title of Honorary Citizen (30.09.2003)

President of Romania decorates him with National Order “Faithful Service” in grade of Knight (26.02.2003)

The Senate of Bucharest Ecological University attributes him the title of Doctor honoris causa (2004)

17 October 2003, National Academy of Ecological Sciences of Republic Moldova chooses him as titular member

A.I.T. From Monaco Principality confers him the title of “titular member” International Academy of Tourism (1981)

Is chosen “active member” of  Academy of Sciences in New York (1987)

Laureate of Prize for prose of Bucharest Writers Association (1983)

The prize “Mihai Sebastian” is attributed to him by FCER (2003)

American Biographic Institute awards him the title “Man of the Year 1990”

The Jury of International Festival “Lucian Blaga” attributes him the Prize “Lucian Blaga”, special prize for poetry (1998)

Order of Journalists class I is accorded for “special merits in all publicist activity” (1999)

Literary Prize on year 1999 is awarded to him in Israel by “Cultural Foundation S. and H. Ianculovici”

Aniversary medal  Society Romanian Atheneum and Ecological University “for the activity deposed in service of superior education” (2000)

Honorary diploma “for contribution brought to the development of relations with Romanian from everywhere” (2003)

Attribution of the title of Protector of Nature and Arts by National Foundation for Protection of Nature and Arts in Romania (2001)

Diploma of nomination as “Socitaire Academique” of the Society of Poets and Artists of France (2004)

Prize of poetry “Christian values” for “the high ecumenical spirit through which he ennobles his creation” awarded by “Movement for the Progress of Romanian Village”

          Hobby:

          1. The ocean.

          2. Art collector with preponderance old Romanian icons, bibliophile (collection of crucial books of mankind – Bibles but also pseudo-bibles)

3.     3. Apiarist.

          Family

          Wife: Teresa (Kwiecinska) Maiorescu, woman of letters, translator from Polish language

          Daughter: Daniela-Wanda Maiorescu-Decca, designer, married to Anghel Decca, director of film image, they have two daughters, Daniela and Stefana, and a boy, Tomitsa. (Los Angeles).

          Address: Bucharest I, Intrarea Frumoasa nr. 4, ap. 4, phone: 021 3109848

                                      e-mail: mtomag@yahoo.com

                                      Los Angeles CA 960046 USA

                                      2745 Carmar Dr. phone. 3236504494

The Work

SLABS ON A FADED CENTURY, verses (Resitsa), 1947

RETURN TO MOTHERLAND, poem (Editura Tineretului), 1955

TRAVEL THROUGH THE TIME, prose (Editura Tineretului), 1956

CONTEMPORARY RHYTHMS, poems (E.S.P.L.A.), 1960

WHERE THE COSMONAUTS RETURN (Editura pentru literatura), 1962

DANIELA'S EYES, poems (Editura Tineretului), 1963

STEPS OVER WATERS, poems (Editura pentru literatura), 1965

THE BAREFOOT GODS, prose (Editura Tineretului), 1966

DIALOGUE WITH THE CENTURY AND ITS PEOPLE, Book I, interviews (Editura pentru literatura), 1967

HARANGUED TIME, poems (Editura pentru literatura), 1969

THE KILLER AND THE FLOWER, anti-novel (Editura Eminescu), 1970

DIALOGUE WITH THE CENTURY AND ITS PEOPLE, Book II, intreviews

(Editura Eminescu), 1972

OPERATION 0,17, Mediterranean stop-overs (Editura pentru turism), 1973

THE ISLAND WITH MAUVE ORCHIDS, poems (Editura Cartea Romaneasca), 1973

THE DIARY OF A PASSION, prose, (Editura Albatros), 1975

THE BLUE RIDER, poems (Editura Eminescu), 1975

LOITERER ON MERIDIANS, board diary (Ed. Sport-Turism), 1976

AT AUTUMN EQUINOX, poems (Editura Cartea Romaneasca), 1977

THE GIRL FROM THE ENDMARKET, poems-prose, (Editura Cartea Romaneasca), 1980

ALON WITH THE ANGEL, poems (Editura Cartea Romaneasca), 1982

A ROMANTIC INVITATION, essay-reportage (Editura Sport-Turism), 1983

INTERVAL BETWEEN WORDS, poems (Editura Cartea Romaneasca), 1984

POEMS (Editura Eminescu), 1985

GOOD NIGHT, ARCHER!, novel (Editura Cartea Romaneasca), 1989

STRATEGY AND SURVIVAL, political essays (Chisinau), 1992

POEMS / POEMES, definitive editions (Editura Vinea), 1998

PROSES, definitive editions (Editura Vinea), 1998

INTRODUCTION TO ECOSOPHY (European Foundation E.C.E.), 2000

THE ECOSOPHY (Ateneul Roman, U.E.B.), 2001

THE TAMING OF BEAST IN MAN OR THE ECOSOPHY,

edition II revised and added (European Foundation E.C.E.), 2001

edition III revised and added (Ed. Lumina Lex), 2002

UNDER 50 STARS, poems (Ed. Vinea), 2001

TALKS IN THE TWILIGHT, definitive editions (Ed. Cartea Romaneasca), 2002

FIVE BOARD DIARIES AND THE THORNS CROWN, definitive editions (Ed. Cartea Romaneasca) 2003

POST-DEFINITIVE, poems (Ed. Cartea Romaneasca, 2005)

BETWEEN KILOMETER ZERO AND GOLGOTHA (Ed. Hasefer), 2005

GOOD NIGHT, ARCHER! (Editura Gramar), 2005, edition IV, revised

TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE

            The translation was done after the volume Printul metaforei la curtile metafizicii / “The metaphor prince at metaphysics' courts”, Bucharest, Hasefer, 2008, 272 pp, format A4. The original has three sections: POEZII (dincolo de cele sapte rauri) / “POEMS (beyond the seven rivers) (pp. 11 – 144); SINAPSE (sensul vietii e viata insasi) / “SYNAPSES (the meaning of life is life itself”) (pp. 147 – 156); POEME (nostalgia despartirii de tarm) / “POEMS (long) (the nostalgia of detachment from shore)” (pp. 159 – 237). In the end: T.G.M. vazut de / “T.G.M. seen by” (pp. 238 – 265); Fise biobibliografice /”Bio-bibliographic cards” (pp. 265 – 271).

            Dealing with a life term poetical work, marked by enough vanguard or otherwise periods, the translation followed the more or less surrealistic dictation in original, retaining as much as possible the rather interior-exterior than exterior-interior atmosphere of desired poetical meaning transmitting. For instance, rhymes are still intended, subsidiary, to evoke also author's not officially accepted  option for white / free verse.

            Two author's guiding principles of poetical expression universality are to be at work while translating : a) there is no word to  have not its place into poetical vocabulary, which, naturally, is founded with toil and inspiration - the poet's duty being the permanent enlargement of poetical language; b) indifferent of currents, tendencies or personalities, the poetical expression is universal, through their inner value the poetical forms transcend the history and the space, one can say even that poetry is also trans-linguistic.

            Strong Whitman discursive allusion, stressed by some commentators, was of use, having in mind, for English gamut, also Rabindranath Tagore, Dylan Thomas, Philip Larkin, Robert Creeley.

            Short/long and long/short poems tend to complete a personal aesthetic saga beyond time and space, a fluid poetical spirit and principle.

George Anca