duminică, 12 februarie 2012


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.

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
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

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
                                    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
infested with genes
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
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
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
cover battery
on broomstick

the armed detonator
flies on a broken road
when some Aryans
infested with genes
of  acaridians
with braid
mounted on pedestal
look instead by binocular
through the tube of gun


Sometimes I pine after banks of grit stone
it grows in me
a longing for regression
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
of cryptic aberrations
which condemn (with undermining)
any movement
or de-mining
the absolute option
clay amulet
the rhythm of tide
or wadded groan
even dumb
the ritual in sawdust language
or let it be
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
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
in pompous order
as frigid
 feeling less
by an emulator sarcastic
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
in its void
the hen hawk


Its cry
in throat

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*?

The crossed palms
the solar plexus
veils-corolla reversed tulip
the black shawl *
the swan white throat
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

The silhouette detached from Attic amphora
mounts gently the foam-crest of wave
falls in abyss
whisper of pipe
slips in dream
rotates the storms of sea
whirlpools of energies
making and unmaking of movement

Perpetual flowing
Uninterrupted metamorphosis
The Gesture composes
recomposes itself
the body-expression
silence ascension fall
unchaining effusion
Voltaic arc
shock wave

Biorhythms crush gravitation
Prayer? Levitation?
Perplexed biological tissue
Choreographic iron knots

Great Priestess
magic tremor
sacerdotal vibrations
torrid fluid
fusion into whole
halos of void

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
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
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


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

It drains toward moon

It drains toward moon
the yellowish honey
standing river

Blind flocks
remained behind
dark boars
to scratch
the nothingness

In the black holes
absorbed in vacuum
desert dislocated
and voids

Like nimbus chaos
closed in a verse
the mirror smokes
o spurious

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

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
like a milky way hospitable to all lost ones

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


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
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

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.

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
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


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

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

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
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

The end sea lighthouse

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
the eyes enlarged by fear
aspires the night
the love is indeed a path
in the forest of the unknown

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

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

when coldness takes in the stars
I still burn in your fever

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

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

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 24th June it is bad day for drowning
in forest the schoolchildren compete
“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?

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

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

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
he knew that  gained a historical  victory
over the sleep

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

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

The Zeta atmosphere

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

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.

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


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

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
Selena Mirabilis
and so far

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
nor Pythagorean pentatonic
and nor even the call to the small publicity of lost
                                                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?

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
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
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

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
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

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
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
                        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
                                                and so far
We have neither strange beauty
of asexual beings
of the evening star lying
in bison's grass 
and nor
of experimental
seen through canon-telescopes
by prophets sick of thyroid
we are what we are
that is the tetra-gram YHWH
the verb to be at person I
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


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

                                                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

                                                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
                                                            up to last fiber
                                                            up to last bone
                                                                        I believe in the light to come


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

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

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)

mist walls
time imprecisely harangued
inverse watch
wandered paradise

Like in fogs contours are done  
with ankles beaten in iron I run

I don't know...
All resounds
coffin hollow
crumbles in void

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?
Only that remained me: words.
Lead timpani
crushed throats
glass eyes filled orbits.
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)
                                    8th 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
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

man bird     stone horse     cold longing
eye god     sea egg     endless flow

the Song the one

Nichita the Pure State of Poetry
in despair
its Creature


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

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

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


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.
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.

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, 12th  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
                                    22nd Sept.1975

The passengers

green explosion
the town contour of heart
the tramways slip yellow
emerald tunnels
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
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 
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

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.

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
and fishes fly in twig baskets 
silver lightnings
indifferent to any Oracle

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.


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
on wall

time follows its way
even through dunes
through somnolent oases
in gulf noon
if sun however
in fire-locks
it rises
in orchard

Stone time

dogs bark
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
hanged in moon
will sing once
to these brave
over rocky mountains?

my eyes smart
of views
and wind
my palate
by thirst
the dreaming
too much
bitter taste
of  dog roses

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, 2nd  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
billows and stars
of primary life
passing from winter
in summer
from night in sun
with no overwhelming
everything is nuance-less
and sudden
equation of Etruscan vessel
closed in an iron
I look through sky eye
                                                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.

El Resero

The horizon moans solitary...
Man Horse and Pampa -
Great Trinity:
El Resero -
astronomer, physician, astrologist
and poet
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


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


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


I followed all your ways
I rummaged dust of waters and stars
but didn't find
the nearest
I navigate farther
with patched sails
but all stretched 
under sky falling in torrents
petrified like a stone
to yet unseen

I navigate with steering wheel pressed in palms
                                                om my Ocean
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
on which I the first
putting foot
didn't foreseen it
                                                Atlantic, 1963


  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

To pass beyond


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


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
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?

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

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
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
while I  how
mist grows
cross of mine


The chiaroscuro whip snap
over cysts
tumors and discoloration of spirit
surgeon knife
night cancer

The egg form and the flaccid watches
                                                     for S. Dali

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
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


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


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

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
modest corrupter of majors sodomites with cut
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:

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

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?

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, 8th 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.

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
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

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


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
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
                                                on verticals


The breath
on walls
The brain
ice fire
in pails
And knives
- cold borers -
the scull in flames
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
after bones
herpes snakes
with gnawed bodies
Mouth vault
a pond
And ceiling
over bones
over soul
yet heavier
and the ceiling
crushes again
my body.
                                                            August, 1956

Metaphysical picture
                                                                            to G. de Chirico


The absences live through their shadow
abandoned in them objects and beings
spacial magic in white mannequins
oracle enigmas and Autumn cold evenings


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


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


Architecture in rectilinear shock
and sails of ships beyond the wall
mysteries converse toward us with heaving
assault of black fogs crude separations


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


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


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


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
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
and thus the hurried dialogue of some diligent working
 bees with the eternity has been cut inexorably
and suddenly

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
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.


            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?


            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.


            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
I didn't invent

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
in ragged undershirts
of harvard
but also the unseen sleeve
the  ace
change their ring from bottle
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
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
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
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
in silk idea

11. john d. rockefeller
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
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
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

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
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
                                    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

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) 


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

23. solitary
and as my nature
a little talker
i pass through my native village


24. i'm sorry in a
place ideal
space vital
village global
state global?

25. please excuse my stammering
to such a select feast 
sardanapal's name
but my word
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

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

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”


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


after tower bells
announcing arrival of trafficking-commercials  
of fresh unaltered organs
the baragladina
stopping chewing
her stinking shag
renounces to quarantine zone
and changes his repertory


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

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”


“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 17th 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
and seasoned with perfume type patchouli
of sub-quilt sauna


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


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  
with yet another rhyme
honoring with respect
the  playful  dialect


- 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
based on no prediction
that invoking an order of interdiction
or restriction
refused to it any protection
and of course any bribe


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
 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

and so
on measure what
in the bunch of dog rose 
the grill flamed up  
the colossus started to evaporate
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
in tramping
of goats deers sheep and lambs 
 in hits climbing the harridan
in heaven
baragladina out of décor


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
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
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  
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
horoscopes strategic manoeuvrings artificial intelligence
political hop-scotches stock exchange games
psychedelic hallucinations foreign legions kidnappings
brigades of different colors
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
overturn in me
 the goblet full of fear not at all metaphysical
of the crucified

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 -

Los Angeles
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

I asked myself
what can be in the top of a slender triangle
of a yellow-greenish lizard
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
(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
and bonze
vociferating on arbor stump
under a dinosaur bronze

(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
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
then waterfalls
(so it owes)
of speeches
in spots and flashes the virtuous
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”

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
pendulum between clowning
and political message

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
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

solitary women pass
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
                                                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

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
                                                “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
and of course authoritarian
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”

and however
as if a wheezing-whistling detaches
lizard triangular mouth:
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!
                        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:

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
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
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
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
a final sound
a breath
a last sigh



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

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)

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
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.

Poetics '67 – infinite

black plaster on eyes
dead reflexes passive
mirrors vegetative
yesterday today buzz
exhaust pipe
Mechanic mirrors
mercury vapors
electric sky overturned
old like Homer
Dali Xenakis Izu Breton 
at museums with golden frame
disaggregation words in syllables and letters
between crowns of laurels -
Darkened Giocondas
smile decomposed in electronic poem
automate aleatory gesture
mechanic inventions = art
parallel mirrors...

Back friends
                                                to stars!

ART on cybernetic channels!
We modernize
We mechanize
We automatize
Art? Vein call...
Sentiment? No
Never human nature...
I got tired
to the noise adding the cry-thought
never found
I got tired friends
                                                to be tired


or silver mirrors
so shining clean
I throw you in lies coffer
Poet / doesn't reflect a reality
but builds a world of wonders


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.


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


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 


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
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 -


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


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
                                                it was born!


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)
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


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


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
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
uranium funeral march
and total eclipse of stars


toma george MAIORESCU


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

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

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  

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
and sadism of strategic commerce?

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

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  

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

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

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?

Rains in Manhattan

The rains in general the rains

There are blue rains like silver flute sound
                        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
                        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
                        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
                        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


Rains in Manhattan are pure and simple rains of

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
                        River on any of 215 streets Niagara

And how nice was raining in the beginning: it dripped with blue blobs
tiny and round as if passing through sieve equal and
*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
                        Mary Joana guitar-bass and no jogging no yoga?

Is it well so? - I ask


Everything must restart from starting point

Centuries if not millenniums the Dutchmen beaten in their
                        sabots the step on place; (more out of boredom
                        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
                        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
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

My opinion is to not contaminate with illusions we are not
                        part in Brain-trust (even we graduated  with
                        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
                        the cradle (even that behind stay menorahs
                        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
                        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
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
                        of excitement and frustration
                        And as navigators of once scrutinizing water
            areas and at apparition of a foggy strip
            cry from depth “Earth” generations of
            emigrants catching a glimpse of bronze silhouette uttered in
            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
            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
            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

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
            credit than to any other monument of equal
            (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
            equal force in each of the 50 stars of
            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
            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 53th 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

Or perhaps it seemed to me

The Bird didn't return even when rain lessened; it
                        frightened perhaps by organs of Misses from
            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
            “liberty” to throw anathema over opinion of those of other

Suddenly the needle of the instrument it seems (after position a little
inclined toward left of mall of Measure-surveyor)

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
            walking on their glazed metal platform
            waiting together and alone at the same time it isn't known for
            or for who

Assassins watch from each angle (hidden even
            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
            bookshops auctions saloons private collections  

Hemorrhage. Hemorrhage of Art.

Since how many years always come and go over waters sailboats
            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
            and medieval palaces from Loire or Rhine (impeccable
wrapped each stone being numerated with
            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
            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  
            bombards maces lances hangers halberds
            swords yathagans malls  muskets fire-locks
            o and how many yet inventions older and newer of
                        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
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
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
 also that American Columbus searching a new
            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
            dramatically at interrogations
How is the immaterial made sensible?
How are catching shape aromas sounds sentiments airy visions
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

The knowledge magic
Man with open arms in front of Naught -
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 -

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
            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
            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
            “incompetent” “conservator” “impermeable at
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



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)
(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.


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
in God's hand


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


Masks shy
translucent eye
vagabond strokes
lunar frissons
(whose killers?)
false seals and antique gems
planetary worries
transatlantic illusions
holiday smile
paranoiac-patriot grimaces
Bengali or phallic fires
jump thorn and guard
praetorian which burns


Global psychotherapies
with baby dogs and
computerized bio-energetic
flies directed dance
with green
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
rockets contract spiritual
execution platoons
and meninges mosquitoes viral


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 
breaks with pleasure
the leg of hungry flunkey


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

T.G.M. seen by


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 36th 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.

            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 14th 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 11th 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 8th 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 15th 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”

          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.

          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


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

(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

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)


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

            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

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