MEDITATION
ON AN IMAGINARY
ANTHOLOGY
3. 07. 83.
București
La Delhi pe iarnă moartea mi se uita în gât
ieri în centrul Bucureștiului mi s-a uitat gâtul la moarte
am revăzut-o și eu de nemaivzut o tristețe în picioare
încă nu cădeam m-au dus Nana și Nansi de colo colo
ori în care loc aș fi căzut putea fi cruce
schimbarea climei zice înfocată Mariana
anghina pulcelată pe același fond nu
e nicio problemă și nu se moare așa
dar dacă eu le-am cerut iertare și le-am spus că
le-am iubit și am călătorit împreună și
prin subteran nu puteam altfel traversa
simțind că n-o să mai pot urca de acolo
ieșisem în oraș cu 40 de grade pentru Mahabharata
1. 11. 83. Delhi
(D5)
I play chess with Vasile
wolves dream a drink
you
play piano alone
2. 11. 83. Delhi
the wives'minds rejuvenated
beyond
tragic purification
when
forgetting the sins of game
in dream
you had arrived at down
with other
appearance mounted
on the
white ants tree
laughing
from lungs halving
the pay of
sitar illusion not
knowing the
ten adventures
and who
singing other music
had pushed
us in the sin
of
riverside coppices
I quote
negations from the gallows
over a
woman in the ghost
replacing
the nonsense
it rings
with an invitation
three days
after in Hanuman
Mandir at
his daughter shadi
since
yesterday no more distant pallor
since today
morning contributing
to my sin
with the birth
distinguishing
the mogul
from Turk I
retired
in the
nearness of Kublai
I was
distinguishing the love from death
Radha
loving only in the meaning
that she
will lose will lose Krishna
I'll not
transcribe the trembling
in the
abyss of awakening
to not lose Radha not lose
Radha
the alley
slips under monkeys
thoughts
shadow up to the tower
palm-tree
growing me green
guarded by
her child
this untouchable
woman
is looking
into the mirror
the child
sees me sees me
and I see
both covering with touches
the matter
of white mirror
a paisa
for Dusshera a paisa for
puja jae
mata immaculata
harijan
gone in the mirror
now that it
came the time
of quiet
word jiu-jitsu
how without
irmi and judo
in tempo of
kempo tae kwan-do
tang soo-do
aike-do
karate kung
fu
you were
painting annunciation
saying
lalat netra agun basan
from
Rabindranath ashes-eyes
and again
ma bole dakis nore mon
n-o chema-n
minte pe maica ta
run like
the calf after the cow
6. 11. 83. Delhi
non sono
sola
jae
jagadisha hari
accompanied
at piano-forte
say
something before
next concerto for credibility
of yaksha's
meghaduta
7. 11. 83. Delhi
Confused
I am by all snake's symbols – Achilles died in the Island of Snakes, Leuke by
name, and the island went some while ago unnoticed to Yama. A letter I red in
red ink from madness to madness, then once again I met you within confusion and
Monday morning in a kind cosmos.
It's
black ink over a page and a half. The empty white half doesn't help. The child
hadn't time after falling for the second time. No color. It is written „nu s-a împiedicat”. Free fall. Past. Three weeks plus two weeks and now,
similarly postponed.
Said,
you understand. Other colors. Walk. The unseen garden. Said, you saw. Left the
same. Seen nothing. Second time, at night, laughs over any face and a half.
Loved the white cow. Disturbing. Killing kidneys. Economy, phallus and
belonging. Jacket, urine, jacket. Commercial name Rivatril, nothing in India,
understand Kamla.
„Nine
years ago on a November afternoon, two weeks later, I was sitting on the same
verandah, on the same chair turning my back
half to the sun, with half of my senses turning towards the child on the
other verandah.
We
were trying to make out the sense of English sentences, hearing the crows,
feeling the coming noise of nature. Another subtle voice of birds, same feeling
like under painted plantains. The child walking in the dark, green shadows
(with lures of brown, yellow and red) of a late afternoon – it should last
forever. The child now ten years old is watching intensely Juliette and
Hermione who I am not. My brain is touched. We are going to explore it.”
God,
take my life, make two for my child, let him old in me and grown up in him, a
girl, a boy, unaware of us all. The night you did passed, and a beautiful
Indian November also today and all children and you and me.
The
dream you gave me not long nights ago wasn't true, wasn't untrue, like you an
me, and a few troubles, not more sins. Cursed be you for my enjoyment of being.
You push me to those prints of child's fall.
I
thank to first mother immolated, burned like a sati, in my very place and of
child's. It happens with no why, maharaj, good Bhagavan. There was a story of
stories you'll bitterly remember, giving a wind and a rain with no why.
„I
should understand. But with anger and longing, I don't. I regret the steps, the
same steps I walk down through the same roadside, pebbles and known and unknown
stones, faces watching, everything in alert dressing to meet the acquaintances.
I
need to hold your hand, feel you for long, long time, so long that I could
forget about everything, the noise outside, phalwala shouting, waiting whores
and raven crowing the hour of our death, drown around my mouth, eyes, palms of
my hands.
On
a nice worm Delhi winter evening, I was surrounded by nice, polished young men.
Then I could have told you and myself the truth about you, about myself – half
open windows, half drunk coffee, abandoned books, type-writer half-filled with
dust, my mother opening the empty letter-box, Luiza in a guise of patience at
the entrance, Vijay and Terry playing a big game of scrabble.
And
the children loving being incarnations of all who have once been and loved
India, great possibilities of life and disappointment. I always dreamt about
reaching here, walking in the dust in the footsteps of many, going with books
in my hand, in a (cold) November morning, smelling the fresh stark and crowning
on my saree forever and of course dying here, my ashes thrown into the Yamuna.
And
I find you here from the same and alien stock with all the middle-European
complexes, frailty, self-destroying depressions, fears from being in the patch,
Freudian complexes – we are doomed. It is all fatal, too heavy for me.”
Did
you find Rivatril? - I didn't understand description of it. - Bad E.E.G. How
are your children? - Loving incarnations like ever. - I eave the place to try
again, Margaret, snake is wise indeed, no time to be on one's way.
I
like it, after all. - Understanding another description. - Middle... - That's.
- For us. - Over -
And now? - Rivatril. - American?
- The doctor thinks also British, he was furious when I said German. Why cannot
God make myself Rivatril for my child?
I
take profit in it (dear she), while, „stately, plump came Buck Mulligan” „at work with syllables to submit
language as living” „and
delighting proof of” his „gregariousness”, and far from the middle your Dumrul, „not I”, „MOUTH: ... out... into this world...”, well, Billie, L R(omanian), left, right, „M:
Mother”, „It all”, „Nothing to be done”, „Yes, let's go”, „about fifty”, our children know November, our children take
awards. „You love me so!”, „Birth was the death of him”, I tried to
start as SPEAKER, ending „the sad
tale a last time told” through „The
globe alone, alone gone”, „Prematurely
old” „rock her off” as reader, „Little is left to tell”, a little more, „Ah!” (Krapp), „No, I
wouldn't want them back”, „On”
(Henry), „Not a sound”, „Finished”, „You remain”, „Desert”, „He looks at his hands”, „pick it up”, „what time you went back”, „and
gone in no time gone in no time”, „Good-evening”
(Female voice), „Repeat”, „When I thought of her it was always
night”, „among the deepening shades”, „A penny for a poor old man”, „Eh, Billie?”, „Well” (B), „Well I'll
be...!”, „Madam” (HE), „Tomorrow... noon...”, „Ready, miss?”, „Tomorrow, who knows, we may be free”.
At
superbazar I was advised to visit,
not to see, Chondni Chowk, that is Medical Bureau, opposite Chatne Wale Sweet
Shop. I dropped in Young Friends Chemist, knowing that no drugs are being
imported in India.
And
so in The New Book Depot, I got the following imports: The Book of Dede Korkut,
for our rivatril; for mine, by Beckett: „Ends and Odds”, Endgame, Occasional
Pieces, Happy Days, Waiting for Godot, Foot falls, Not I. But for my wife's
rivatril, Joyce's Ulysses, as you already saw through the beginnings and
endings, remaining all alien in the middle in search of the needed rivatril.
Please
do say your sincere thoughts and impressions in the last 24 hours since I am
searching for RIVATRIL (bad EEG, two falls on the street OF THE CHILD – the
theme already arisen. Do not agree again be Kafka's avatar, past are those
times.
Yes,
how much can he tell. The last 24 hours – one had a long walk with one, bumping
up and down on the pavement all the known buildings of the university all
different now with one, one's knees still trembling, shoulders, elbows, hands
touching just a bit – once on four steps.
Why
they don't walk to the end of world? No, let they go to Pondicherry, lie down
on the rock, put one's head on one's belly, listen to the sea and one's body
working. They appreciate all what they miss in life. Long paths leading to
unknown houses. Wild roses on the window frames.
Oh,
no that is the end of romantics. Shops, business to be done, this is the travel
one has to take up alone. Never should admit when one con-fused, wandering
looks here and there, and immediately comes some one.
One
is with the child, all the child's life, longer than their sum. Laughing at
roses. Little same dukha. Nothing of the middle park, with a French mother
carrying her Walachian Christ. Could be a movie at Batta shouses.
Tantric
answers from Asian Southern hemisphere. Paise. See a skin cut by dance of
hastened desertion of the last darkness before the first half. God listened
one's prayer, as for an end of one's life for nothing.
The
child came from the tutor. Went to tutoriality. If you'd written more, half of
a half more. Their listener from Cismigiu-Musoori plantains didn't bother, you
think, for the child's illness. Like many other trees did. And difference
between day and night at birth, etc.
The
half empty white repeated in your friend's letter as for Rivatril. Canceled
visit and journey near Interstate Bus Stand, I love the earth-goddess, feeling
her help to the remained incarnations.
Cold
night. Joking knee. Morning Hindu-Muslim prayers. And that bottle of perfect
form. You are that. I always drink you like for the first time, and you keep
not only my thirst. Looked to child nose to nose to parrot. Our children know
November, our children are in good health.
„E-n
zadar, copile”. Isn't in vain, nu e-n zadar, copile, „copii eram noi amandoi” - „When
I was little tiny boy”. Nobody learned about rivatril in India. There's colder
than in child's winters here. Could be also the pre-puberty.
No
scandal by Amita-Calamita moves me by now. Bibi speaks on Romanian rugby team,
to go there. I'll fall in your place. Fist my nose. You, falling woman. The
newly married couple was not in that bus – Andhra. Pendant que des parfums de
roses viendront embaumer nos vingt ans!
Sconosciuto.
Chiar? After all seas begin to boil on the main road. It returned the eggs to
be broken in its own memory. Only answer. Proof of dialogue. And orgy. Who is
the thief? One started dancing. God, says the whore. Bones as ivory, well,
respect the doctor, don't be like that with me.
I
need only rivatril. I cannot kill myself. Spring isn't for me any more. Only
sweet November. With sins full of graves. Sorry saying doctor is god. Has no
idea. The people look through window. Fools. Something more than thieves.
Confusion of lost senses.
After,
the whore said, for the third time, pray to god. Precising she is a bachelor.
Rhythmically: I pray for your child. Saint god is only one. God is love and
love is god. The sister of the flower-dealer saw privately the Pope on 20th
October, in the fifth Room in Rome's Vatican.
It
was a November morning in Delhi. A cold nip, mist around leaves and branches,
child's knees shivering in the air. „Hurry, we may be late for the school
bus. And don't fall into the wholes dug in the middle of the road”. On child's
legs – what's there, snow or smell of wet leave?
Each
morning is full of anticipation. I understand it only now. How miserable. I was
a wife. How much fuller of happiness one's life is setting out every day for a
new adventure. It's no moral, no feminist teaching. I can't sum up my situation
as: I am happier than any wife. Perhaps, only luckier: to be able to manage on
my own.
To
see the children from far away is a relief. To reach bus stop. To feel I
fulfilled for this morning my duty as a mother. Prepare to meet the students.
My inspiration must work. I have ready in my mind what I thought till now. And
still there is a little hope – they may not come today.
As
I think just now: what if you come? I turn my face and you are there. But, as
you never come, they always come. Some very faithfully. Some just a bit late. A
bit not there in thought with their thoughts.
Why
did you come to love women in blood? Jerusalem seen by Jeremiah like a whore.
And so seen Canterbury by Passolini. Rivatril was the theme. Letter to
brain-surgeon. Even you, Falstaff, don't drink, say, because of Mallory.
When
I wanted to jump from the top o Jantar Mantar, repeat, I saw the water down
there was dirty. I renounced also to don't regret in the air. Dear Falstaff,
you think one cannot try everything. I played it all. I do everything.
Anything. But...
We
have the freedom to do anything. Become painters and paint, spoil colors.
Children started crying at gate. Loving Falstaff was not compulsion, but
applications. Yet yesterday, an understatement: don't embarrass one's agony.
16. 11. 83. Delhi
Ajung
acasă la ora șase. Acum e șapte.
Mi-e foame. Am avut o zi grea. De dimineață, am fost la ora de română. Ultima
lecție: La teatru. Ce teatru, domnule? Că apoi am mers la serviciu. Am probleme
personale.
Vreau să mă însor, dacă
sunt masculin. Dacă sunt fată, mă mărit. Îmi trebuie ceva bani și câte și mai
câte. Teatru? O scrisoare pierdută? Eu cu cine votez? Curat examen. „Să-le spui
curat / Că m-am însurat”. E din Miorița, fără niciun măritat.
Ba da. Că „a lumii mireasă” asta face. Votez cu ea, domnule profesor.
Altfel știi că îți vorbesc cu dumneavoastră. Mai știm că nu se poate preciza asta pe englezește, și
facem o traducere pe cinste, liberă.
Nu am înțeles floarea albastră
chiar atunci, în grădină. Ați spus de două ori Eminescu și încă o dată floare
albastră. Nu știu la ce vă gândeați. A, da, ne-ați pus în temă cu
structuralismul de la Panini la Saussure. Și alte nume.
De ce nu ne-a mai vizitat
și anul ăsta Sergiu Al-George? Mă gândesc să mă gândesc, am de tradus ce mă
gândesc. Nu ne mai dați proverbe. Nici latini. Păi da, anul trecut studenții
tăi au învățat latina serios, de-au înțeles româna în istorie.
V-ați ocupat cu știința,
știm noi. Dar nici cu teatrul nu mi-e rușine. Am început jocul cu vorbe. Am
întâlnit substantivele pe drum, la sărbători naționale și în expoziții. Astea
sunt propoziții, din câte înțeleg. A mai trecut, totuși, timp. Uitați-vă la
ceas – certificat de română, 1984, trei ore. Traduc titlurile lecțiilor din
cursul Cazacu.
20. 11. 83. Delhi
The jamadarnis came in a
long line. They filled up the path where I wanted to come to you. In rags, the
brest of some hanging out from under blouses. Darkness fell and they
passed by me giggling and anticipating the pleasures after day work. And you
went by with jamadarnis. I saw you making love with them. It stroke me it
wasn't literature. It was you with same hands taking their measured but love
for 10 rupees.
20
steps more. I reach the steps. Nobody there. But the lock. The light is deceit
just your words to me, to put me to a good night's sleep. There is not
hesitation. Away from the closed door, from the lock whose key is not in my
hand. Away with all rhetoric of sailing ships from island of cannibals. Away to
listen to the palpitation of our hearts.
Delhi,
Delhi at night, I never loved you so much. Love to stand on street. I never
knew one can stand so at night, waiting and watching the cars which turn up and
disappears in their own rhythm. I never new Probyn Road so urban. Waiting for
the prince, after his battles, on stage and in life. Delhi on night, uncover me
not, hold my hand, I have a long way to go.
The
time was over, Nothing to do but smoking, running, hallucinating, laughing,
regretting, trying, remembering, writing, asking, keeping, opening, drinking,
listening, booking, breathing, chattering, provoking, embracing, kissing,
worrying, smelling, forgetting.
All
already in the great game. No able to reach his mother breast, to say the word
I. Closed up in the darkest square of the carpet. Lives based on half truths.
Daring not to say a sentence. Exaggerating murderous wishes. I am the child, I
played in all my orifices, let me listen to God.
I
wouldn't say you are conventional – not exactly conventional, but sometimes –
value of official marriage, child having to love his mother best, grimace when
speaking about Mircea fucking Stella, if daughter would fuck a black man.
Appreciating people who would just devour everybody just because they are a family.
Or am I unjust?
Uncle
Billie, now, on top of Jantar Mantar. Sorry, son, do not suffer. I do it for
you. I did it immediately. Jumped by mistake. Even saint fathers. I wanted
simply to play with you. Looking in no mirror. In no eye. Awfully burning sun.
I
moved into void under your conventional protection and love. Bad looking uncle
after fall. Say your mother why didn't she take care. There is water in front
of you, think of fishes. Can swim by my fatty being and no-being.
Kid,
I didn't it to can say I did it. Happy your mother when given birth to you. I
give you this my death. The birth of my I. As I am not a family and can jump
alone. No, in the air, I wish I fly. But I want you to see me among invented
fishes.
I
don't know swimming. Water almost doesn't exist. Some dirty liquid. I did it
for so little water. With fire in it. With you following me by camera, never
realizing where I was, where I am, where I will be. You click and turn playing:
I pay homage to the Translator.
You
know no one of my ten professions: Killing, stealing, adultery, cheating,
double-talk, coarse language, talking nonsense, covetousness, anger and
perverted views. Young people of misery adventure, connoisseur of real India
killed himself, said the story teller.
10. 12. 83. Delhi.
Within
modern Indianity and Indian modernity, condition of poetry surpass condition of
poet. As today revolt is universal, freedom of poetry is limited. An anthology
of underground poetry will be not published anywhere, it can appear as an
interference into internal affairs of poetry, an unpublishable manuscript. A
sclerotic idea of both poetry and its belonging are making the job at least
unpleasant if not impossible.
There
is a great country of India, with poetry in different languages, with poets
feeling individually as everywhere, greatly concerned with symbols and
liberties of general hope. The feast of old aesthetics passed through alankara
science. Genuine subjectivity within undivided inspiration of consciousness may
preferable destroy before building.
One
has indeed to feel loosing from one's hypocrisy. There is a softness in the
strong voices, a silent strength in the mystic melodies of delicate singers. An
ambition of modern poetry in India appears to be the expression of Kali Yuga survival on one hand, on
another, the rediscovery of ancient perfection, like in any renaissance.
Translating
Indian poems, one feels getting indianized, using quiet virtual Sanskrit,
Bengali, Malayalam, Hindi, actually renouncing to translate. Foreign poems
written in India are still Indian. Religious pressing on secular minds, the
disregard of sympathy, shock carried by crisis, entropy can be easier
accommodated in a translation than in the original. But for what use?
Theories
of poetry and poetics are all of a sudden forgotten, a new poem comes into
existence. With end or new beginning in translation, under primordial
attractive originality. To which extent the metaphor is free of language and
the language is a metaphor? Is poetry a morphology?
Is
the society co-author with an individual poet against its progress? India of
poets and poets of India are in logic connection. Human mankind is shaped in a
considerable measure by poetry. Normal decadence doesn't fit political
pretensions of advancement.
What
is truth on poetry-lie? To translate is to create again a creation, killing
original author or killing self. If poets don't read poetry to be not
influenced, do readers read it to be influenced? Posthumous reading of a poet
is nobody's job?
Nobody
likes anthologies. Anyone knows poetry through own itinerary from poet to poet.
The few occasion of revelation could have come from poetry, be it a prayer or a
curse. Somehow poetics kills poetry as poetry kills poet. The show excites less
young imaginations busy with reopening generation's eye, nourishing
philosophies and children.
11. 12. 83. Delhi, D5.
Remembering
of Romanian poetry while reading an Indian poet, a commercial optimism is as if
doubled in divergent mirrors. Gone are the times of bhakti poetry everywhere
but not entirely here. Sad and silent are revolutionary voices. Even
anti-poetry age speaks metaphorically. Crust of study doesn't cover crest of
poetry. One chats easier with Kalidasa.
Poetry
as personal experience and translation brings an utter impression mixing lost
impressions with received enthusiasms, sorrows and rejection. Linguistics of
translations have nothing to do with poetry. Frankly speaking, linguists can
work properly only on generative errors with Wittgenstein and Jacobson. Let
everybody learn renunciation.
Poets
love each other most in occasion of one's death. Those poems written as
acknowledgment are worth to be not rewritten in a translation, but slightly
reshaped through metaphors and diction according to a different colorfulness.
Poems
dedicated to critics will be most commented by fellow-critics. Poems dedicated
to poor and heroic require a messianic good-sense in front of Babel ideologies
and historical assassinating tragedy.
Same about contradictory god, hypocritical tolerance, Lucifer's atheism.
In
the beginning, translations were Greek-Latin. For Sanskrit alankarikas,
realizations were only samples. Unless religious ones, the bodies of poetry are
left. The Logos-Brahma resisted. Golden pages share poverty of translator if
not greatness of a Marpa, of a Luther. Somehow, smallest translate greatest and
vice-versa. There are more anonymous translators of Shakespeare than better
known translators and original authors.
Translation
is most censurable work, firs by translator – most refined censorship.
Convention is of special omniscient criticism, applicable to any other „introduction”. Destroyers of anthologies are
practically endless, translator included.
Readers
aren't programmable. They have not only last word, but also first stimulation.
Don't wait for writer of other culture – the code will be bot rejected and
completed by their share. A translator is a reader of or for readers, a
re-writer. After all, reader isn't angel, not easy acceptor of eternity.
Eminescu
refined Romanian poetry, also through his reader, to the extent of dangerous
universality. Coșbuc made a
still more Romanian Sanskrit Anthology. Blaga reopened mono logically the gate. Anti-poetical 20th
century contributed to cold literary war. Let next century to give a new
chance.
Teaching
in hell of paradise, the heavy truthfulness of poetry comes from outside, not
from inside of poet. Poet's dream-negation-dream language is to be translated,
retold, as an outside work. It is enough for a Romanian to know he exists in
Punjabi under Mrs. Pritam signature and in her magazine. While she confessed
she was forgotten in Romania.
That
can not happen after all. Be seen her poetry as gurdwara did. As happened to
Baudelaire from his contemporary judges, and later from Sartre. Who Sartre was
himself well fined in similar manner. Largest way of remembrance-forgetfulness
is still an anthology.
From
Tagore without Tagore, down Ghalib, preference to Walathol, free underground poet, measured
university one, traditionally musical Sanskrit modern kavi as saint in speech
as political father. Gurudev's Child Christ. Aurobindo Greek-Latin
involvements. Bharati's many religions also out of religion's idiom.
If
poetry belongs to a higher order, the crisis of it is a good thing. The poetic
rights will be not claimed like human rights. Poetry of eating, surviving,
thinking, poetry of generations or generations of poetry. Stories in process of
translating are different than previous
ones. A translator transforms intellectually the feelings. A translator seeing
Jamuna thinks of poems on Jamuna.
Poet
is most unhappy being. Poetic being isn't human or divine only. Kalidasa's
Cloud Messenger became symbol of jails.
Vergil's and Horace's propaganda poetry for emperor and empire knows, within
greatness of Greek like perfection, the opposite dimension, sometimes in the
myth of India.
Rationed translation-poetry doesn't damage poetry.
Vastness of another poetry comes to intensity of translation during hard times
in one's own country, or of his exile in country of which poetry he tries to
translate. Hardly can one speak of a free translator. Pity for unpopularity of
translations with writers and literature – readers like them more.
Inhibiting
craft of excellence in another language isn't easily connected – almost
imaginatively – with original's quality. Sound is and isn't too much. Meaning
is and isn't too obvious even for reader of the original. Inspired expression
will be out of canons of poetry itself.
When
one starts to feel poet, who and how does one remain a poet while translating,
and if so, what kind of a relation exists between himself and original authors?
I met a Jewish old gentleman preferring to read Solomon Song of Songs in Latin
– Cantica Canticorum.
No
matter of translator, but of translation, of language. If not a poet,
translator talks as an avatar or sacrilege through poetry, on behalf of another
creator. On the other hand, more than one complete version, direct from
Sanskrit, Rig Veda will not shadow Eminescu's Roamian replies to it. On the
contrary, will increase its singularity, as well as mystery of poetical
creation, poetical stand against senseless time of history.
If
something can be free of provincialism, language considered, poetry comes in
mind together with music. Orchestras of translators can color differently, age
after age, bibles in version. Religious beauty will separate again and again
accordingly sacred and profane, tot use preferred terms in Mircea Eliade's
Hermeneutics.
But
quiet translatable religion isn't as much tied with quiet untranslatable
poetry. Not only poets appeal, sometimes, to god, but also god turns to be a
gnostic poet. Time by time, and almost always in translation. Are they not
first translations Brahma's words in Sanskrit, Buddha's in Pali, Jehovah's in
Hebraic, Christ in Aramaic and Greek, Allah's in Arabian, Zarathustra in
Persian?
Unknown
writers in their own literature happen to be recognized by translation. „That
is not poet at all”, one can
learn of a dear representative already translated. „This is not publishable with us” is
suggested in other bank. „This cannot publish us in exchange” things almost
everybody.
Does
ghazal answer some European form? Was Michel Madhusudan sure enough about
chances of sonnet in Indian languages? Is fashion of kai-ku a western sign in
Indian poetry, or remains a seventeen syllable Sanskrit mandakranta meter?
Daring innovators of forms are showing solidarity in decadence too.
Page
on which a poet wrote his poem is it white again in translator's imagination?
Does it matter if the first wrote with left hand and the second transcribes it
with right hand? Are beliefs and morals of translated author stimulating energy
and choice of translators? What the reader will say? Is cultural sclerosis blocking
the way from poetry to poetry?
The
confession beyond translation is of a third author. The voice of silence from
which both sound and echo play truest lie, most promising illusion. Objectivity
seems to be with founders, currents, involvements in progress revolution, etc.
How much a poet translated, translator and reader belong to subjectivity,
reducing full mystery of imaginary India to a short black verse? Or, by
contrast, encountering revelation.
Poetical
myth in modern Indian poetry may be less myth, actual sensibility being
recognized in terms of general humanism
and specific tradition. Greater poet not lesser Indian, lesser Indian not
greater poet. Poetry isn't only creation of poet, but an appointment, a marriage.
Ubiquitous feelings are expressed and re-expressed as for first, as for last.
Poetry outside poet, poet inside poetry, poetry inside poet.
Poetry
is only beautiful death-misery-sin together with love-life-purity. Discussion
with a poet, translation of a poem, thinking of its making, according to
author's talent inspiration mean appointment, never disappointment.
How
translatable are politics, morals, superstitions? Is mystical readership of
poetry equal to non-riding it? Is poetry a recital of language in poet's
interpretation? Is it remembrance, prophecy, rehearsal of reality through
illusory illusion?
Absolute
blackness of Kali provides poetry daemon
in poet's speech, apparently one with that of reader, listener. Silent
secret of poetry is unknown to poet
himself in other language than that invented and simultaneously forgotten of
his poetry. Poetical inspiration doesn't belong to cosmos, nor cosmos to its
projections.
Sever
game of objectivity leaves to object only professional rejection if not
interested acceptance of its re-inspiration. Through mechanical categories of
comparative literature as body of methods, a translator can check themes, guess
influences, open ways to affirmative readings. A formulation like „India in Romanian”, i.e. Romanian poems of
Indian inspiration, try to accede sphere of poetical awareness.
The
proof an anthology could make isn't of
an experience of changing principles described in this attempt, but extensive super-cultural mythological India.
Poetic civilization doesn't rebuild surroundings, but contemplate and attack
the ever existing ones. Practical love reform by Tulsidas or Francisco
d'Assisi, series published by Sahitya Academi are seducing the anthologizer.
South American analogy crosses interest for African voices.
With
Tagore, in Bucharest and on Black Sea bank, we have infinitely more than
whitest beard in view. Reasserting poetry sacrifice is a lead to sculptural
abstraction re-imagined by Brancusi in Indore. With Eminescu, Blaga, Arghezi,
Eliade, other less famous but not less poets, we have some real and imaginary
Indian new mantras.
Brotherhood
poetry slows self alienation. Poetry of self increases need for brotherhood.
Color of tropic can get richer through
diminutive mountain-verse, less monumental for eye than Himalaya. Adaptation up
to renunciation. Renounced anthology suits still be tribute payed to poetry expectations of worshiper.
Artifice-creation
as worship seems revenged. Critical job is by far other job than for an
anthology. Critical instrumentation, tired for imposing and destroying, will
stop working, at best. Poet's choice will be also crushed by unemployed
critics. Better a reader, a teller of those, say, interesting poets of
twentieth century.
Who
is poet's India, who is India's Poet? Selfishness but freedom before getting
it. Freedom of country, freedom of poetry. God has a temple in poetry.
Modernity self is to be seen with third eye. Felt with sixth sense. Regretted
nostalgia of lost paradises and hells.
Older
clarity of systematic perfection makes place to clear disintegration of former
patterns. Universal entropy by natural balance its poetry fascination. Poets
repeat the former creator playing his last sound. The first and the last young
poet aren't unknown to each other. Old modern Indian poet, a father.
You
know poetry anthologies published here. If you don't find there a poem known
everywhere, please share some to present intended translator. Between poetry
sonority and hearing there is a space of imaginary reconstruction of human
consciences, a living poetical opportunity.
An
imaginary anthology would mix primordial language with modernity, be it in
terms of Bremond and Tagore. Let lose intention, take methodological ignorance
or irony making Peguy to write a thesis in verse, like Sanskrit treaties.
Physician poet Vasile Voiculescu, who applied a versified application to Health
Ministry, actually rewrote Kalidasa's Sakuntala in Carpathians.
Histories
of literature are spoiled anthologies as anthologies are renounced histories.
Unlike poet, the poetry faces victoriously the history. Poets' biographies
include personal epitaphs full of not so black humor like philosophies,
reconstructions, enthusiasms, dandy poses, revolutionary calls. Let out age,
audience, glory, suspicion as negative stimulation.
From
Latin neoteric to Indo-Anglian bard we see reversed dispositions for fashion in
different times, geographies and cultures. Neoteric liked finer Greek pattern
differently from Indo-Anglian face to poetical European English. Indian muse may have adapted to that
language which is not any more foreign.
In
a general anti-fiction age, non-poetry, essays or poems on poetry are rather
fashionable. For publisher, poetry is loss. Poetry of censorship and censorship
of poetry thrones on Nobel convenient winners, schizophrenic realism, poetry of
recovery in asymmetry to poetry of improvement.
The
few changes in poetry during centuries, poet's eternal necessary poverty are
encouraging and educating facts for readers and society. Transformations could
even be balanced by return to poetical mysterious depth, beauty and soundness
beyond exemplary sufferance.
So
many members of anthology, or absents mentioned afterward are moving. Is it
worth to translate children, thinking to children of next century? Long
centuries after, like now in their choices in return to old masters thinking to
us not like children.
Children
weren't so popular with Sanskrit poet. Not so in aesthetic codes for modern
children, grown-ups, old, dead. Poetry life, life poetry. Is middle class kind
of middle-poetry class? Solar system, poetic system.
Beautiful
conclusion to death, fear of ambiguous ends, Archimede's invading disorder of
circles, dear disorders – poetry of disorder, still order? Aestheticians may be
happy with broken patterns, reminding, rebuilding, saving. Likewise,
administrators could find consolation for small interest to writing from ivory
tower.
With
much more questions for a single unsure answer – what is to be poetry itself –
one can wonder, after a few years, what one's indianization may mean? It's
better to clarify it in India with no regard how he will play a fool. Than to
be confused in his own play with prohibited corrupter of the right. Worship disposition clears verse
directness of negation.
Avoided
influences are at work. Open dissidence puts together tradition and literary
denial. With a new poet, poetry re-finds its origin which cannot be younger
than god. Remaining young, patriarch poet may be rather god's father than his
son.
Perfect
happy poet, like Milarepa, would be also stoned or poisoned like Socrates,
Dante and so many moderns. Unaccepted poet makes his poetry silently accepted –
only poetry isn't conspirator, on the contrary is a reply to power brutalities.
Poetry power: unchallengeable by other powers. Poet-poetry challenge Sanskrit
Ardhaniswara, Plato's androgynous.
Anthology
retains poems in an adventurous way of choice. Some poems having to be present
are unknown to translator. He may translate masterpieces in the picture,
jumping from peak to peak under an illusion of essences. What other image than
a summary, beyond preimage if not prejudice?
Answerable
anthology connoting Asian spirit can attract a better judgment of own
tradition. Birth and rebirth of poetic meaning repeats samskara. Like eggs
double, birds songs mix with human love songs. Orpheus knows all other beings
than his. Birds aren't consoled by Ramayana inspired by their sorrow.
Poetry
as an integrated, sonorous soul of all beings chose the poet and gives him a
secret of novelty within permanence. Modern distortions confirm perennial
beauty of contraries. God and devil play episodic roles in poetry like in a
Mozart opera a king, singing very little if at all.
17. 12. 83. Delhi, D5
True
way to love and hate is poetry, through Radha, or, otherwise, through modern
verse pushed by politicians. Some answering ghost-compassion to previous meditations in surplus.
Poetry-contemplation, poetry-action. Different from earthly muddy conflicts.
Avoidance
of poetry – hate for poet. Pretensions of tensions. Rimbaud, isn't enough
excellency to be free to see a movie? Hunter of poets, poetry murder keeling a
poet-two, many-all. Logic of poetry and killing isn't unknown. Lyrical
explosions are opposed to killing explosions.
21. 12. 83, D5, Delhi
Hearing
about death of a poet, the language of thought returns to ritual of powerful
silence. On 13 December 1983, poet Nichita Staneascu passed away. We evoked his
poetry in our class of Romanian language. We translated his last poem signed by
him, Towards Peace. It is more shanti than pax.
Translator
translates poet as wood-cutter. Forest of symbols correspond with forest of
non-symbols. Wood-cutter thinks to Savitry without translation. How silent Yama
is taking-giving life there.
JEAN RACINE à SIBIU
bas de jupe de flamenco au goût de noyer Micesco
au tir en
palissade les cajuns
mourir au
filet de qui
du peuple
poisson qui te laisse
oui puisque je retrouve un ami si fidèle
oui je viens dans son temple adorer l’Eternel
quoi tandis que Néron s’abandonne
au soleil racinien sans en lire
Sibiu gardé par Tolstoï l’enfant tout demandant
détails sur Jean
Racine au roi Alexandre lorsque
le blanc des
abricotiers
le jaune des cornouillers
la pantomime de l’avatar
vendre de l’eau de vie au
gardien
ressemblant à Nicu Steinhard
il ne donnait pas l’impression
d’avoir bu
peut-être la famille peut-être
Sibiu
je ne vais pas demander d’autres
endommagements
nullement maman et le gardien
refaire le marché
nous demander aussi d’autres
choses
maman c’était Elisabeta
sœurs d’occasion sortie de la solitude
Tavi Ghibu ayant perdu sa voix
me prit
lui parler non de kaïros nous
nous en sommes allés
à Plamadeala le gardien des religieuses
à Horia Stamatu l’empire donné
voulez-vous encore le journal
Tolstoï pour rien
que de Russes à Sinaïa
Benedetto
la Société Tolstoï ne s’est
plus présentée
ni dans la maison Micescu
ni au sous-sol
portant vers le Pont des Menteurs
concevoir la ville telle une
guerre
c’est là que vous vouliez mais
vous y cuiiez
le gardien fouille des yeux
un kaïros depuis ma
disparition
ou bien je ne me permettais
plus être
nous tous nous occupons des
mêmes choses
les filles seraient-elles du
patrimoine
Roumaines au Japon se sont
querellées
avec les Russes ne faut-il
détruire tout ce qu’on a
là-haut des eaux limpides de
Gange
maman à l’hospice Tolstoï à
Rome
le gardien cul au cul avec
Tolstoï
qui avec qui Gheorghieni
un bonjour du gardien
contrôleur
un peu exhibitionniste si je
n’ai pas raté
maman ne pas lui parlant d’une
vie
racontée même sans Chine
moins 29 si chaud aux halles des
housses de guerre
les femmes plus sensibles mais
qui avaient soins
venaient avec des marmites au
thé et elles
y mettaient leurs mains se
réchauffer
de la solitude forcée dans la
non reconnaissance de
l’harmonique
d’où donc t’édifier toi laurier
à non vert qui ne te perd
le troisième tunnel et je
chercherais encore
les plumes de la mort dans une
écriture
toi tu avais monté maintenant tu
vas descendre dans la vallée
tu n’est pas le chemin vers Bergen
des lacs ne sont plus lacrimae
rerum
depuis longtemps je n’avais plus
envié les arbres
non bâtie queue de Transylvanie
le laid voyageur dans ma personne
je vais écrire au dos des
patrimoines
si loin tu étais de l’autre côté
d’où nous étions venus tous les
deux maintenant tout seul
le gardien au centre des paysans
les connaissant on les use avec la
ville
Fagaras sur l’Olt et Radu Negru
au cinéma avec Valach
c’était l’été ou bien l’écouteuse
éloge à la puissante corporalité
transylvane
download les rons colorature va-t-en
pour y rentrer brosse à badigeonner
les murs
Rica te chante te fait des
incantations
le sommeil du gardien Tolstoï
à Sibiu une nuit d’antan
sur la couche de la bande de flics
égratignure de buste
l’archiprêtre Cioran
système d’alarme
à la maison Goga
toujours en haut
il faut qu’il vienne
oh là toi foule-toi
j’ai attrapé une
sur la Vallée des Maisons des Seines
taillis de la mère du sommeil
malaria d’une autre vie
ne fais plus tant de poussière
Oiseau bleu de Brancusi l’avait
épouvanté
et mes Indes de sept années
j’aurais dit ce que j’aurais
dit
au gardien stratégique
écriture musée visibilité aveugle
le gardien Nitelostoi
muséologue
un million de gens un million d’arbres
je suis fier du gardien personnage
notre destin à nous celui
d’énerver notre préopinent lorsqu’on
n’aurait besoin l’un de l’autre
rien que de nous coaliser contre nous
ni au hasard
ni aux Indes
gardien à cheval
impulsion
des morts
opposants
gardien
ennui
du lecteur
externe
culturel
texte
de l’allemand
sans
Cioran
froid lumineux
nulle des toiles
bastions
au dessus du Cibin
l’histoire du gardien Tolstoï
mort et ressuscité mère
ïéhoviste au semblant
du train en ambigenre
Georges de Rennes reins
femme de Pitesti l’air étouffé
trophées ma masque a verdi là-haut
horloge blanchi en fleur
combien en saisir et qui
aujourd’hui échappons-en
englouti braconné
du dos ubiquités nous voulons
mourir chassés pour notre
louange celle de l’œil
et de la plume mélange de crime
et libération au choix
nous n’aurions pas chassé depuis la
naissance
nous nous chasserons nous usurperons
les bêtes les biches sous
masque polygone nous nous pesons
sous Fuji à travers Sibiu
après le départ des chasseurs
j’ai délégué certains de nous
pour en finir nous
nous sommes décimés nous-mêmes car
on ne dit pas nations celles
élues à jury gaulois
comme nous ne désirons que
d’être chassés hors la tour
échapper à l’injustice
seule la chasse
fusillés par les besonniers
laissés en vie hélas
juste pour les croquer
simple instinct de te laisser achevé
achevé petit à petit si on te
redistribue
dans un autre animal avatar
engloutis loquets qu’en diriez-vous
musique connue l’ennui je le vois
à ma droite je vais
à la cathédrale j’avance vers les
saints
je vais y entrer l’iconostase
va me fusiller en jeûne préparé
le sucré aux ventres
le ciel nous chasse en lui
nous éteignant un ballet
je pourchasse des animaux
tout en chassant des masques aux hommes
dompteurs non masqués
vous quelle âme
tourmentez
vers Tirésias
entre des colonnes
les gardiens
alignés
à la base
de la chasse
pelle
les cadavres
des masques
toi garoï
lorsque les
ibséniens
feignent
périr
seul le gardien
maintenant à Astra
que lui aussi monsieur
le président
au milieu
de la journée
demeurer
restauration
dharma
lenteur
de la contemplation
de gardien
reconnaissance
depuis la jeunesse
aux Indes
et rétro
descends
avatar
montagnes
plus vite encore
maman
et le gardien
nous pouvons encore
nous perdre
l’homme
s’élève
aux pointes
pour rien
le gardien
son ancien
client
de l’eau de vie
la mouche
contre le mur
garçons
et fillettes
passés
rentrés
brancusiens
à Gorj
gardien
Tolstoï
eau de vie
en buduroï
lémurien
alexandrin
Jean
Racine
sur
les tales à huduroï
devenir trois de deux
Anca1944
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Wikipedia George Anca (writer and Indologist)
George Anca Birth name: Gheorghe Anca Born: 12 April 1944 Ruda, Vâlcea,
Romania Married: to Rodica Anca (1966), one daughter, Alexandra-Maria (born
1973) Occupation: Writer Founder: International Academy Mihai Eminescu
George Anca (born 12 April 1944) is a Romanian writer and Indologist. After
publishing three books and getting his PhD in Bucharest, he went to Delhi
University as first teacher of Romanian studies (1977-1984), in exchange with
an Indian teacher to Bucharest University, under Romanin-Indian Cultural
Agreement. In India, issued over 30 titles of publications (books, brochures,
courses, magazines), and founded, with Amrita Pritam and Vinod Seth, the
International Academy “Mihai Eminescu” (1981). Member of Romanian Writers
Union, Authors Guild of India, International Union of Anthropological and
Ethnological Sciences. Honors (1): British Council and Government of India
Grants for congresses, honorary citizen of Râmnicu Vâlcea, Literary award Ronal
Gasparic for poetry.
Early years Anca was born in Ruda village, Valcea county, from parents
Elisaveta, housewife, and Ion, church singer and accountant, temporarily mayor
of Bercioiu-Ruda commune. He is the third child, after sisters Maria, who died
at 3 months, and Ioana. By his parents divorce, at nine years, he followed, by
sentence, the father, remarried in Gaesti town. Here he passed gymnasium and
lyceum, having among professors, Ion Minculescu, collaborator of Nicolae Iorga,
and among elder colleagues, Gheorghe Zamfir. Between 1961-1966 he was student
of Faculty of Letters in Bucharest University. He married Rodica Geoaba,
student in Fine Arts University, ceramics. After 6 months of military service,
he became, for two years, reporter at Romanian Broadcasting, transferred, for
other two years at Colocvii/Colloquiums magazine, then in Ministry of Education
for relations with the press, six years, during which he obtained a four months
scholarship at Rome University, and also got a PhD from Bucharest University,
conducted by Zoe Dumitrescu-Busulenga, with a dissertation on Baudelaire and
Romanian Poets. In 1973, daughter Alexandra-Maria was born. He met periodically
with Dumitru Stăniloae, Constantin Noica, and Grigore Popa, also in connection
with doctoral disertation. At Libraries direction, he has as direct chief,
Mihai Sora. At a restructuring of ministry, he started teaching in Faculty of
Journalism, and in 1977 flown to Delhi, India, as visiting lecturer in Delhi
University, Modern European Languages Dept., in present, German and Romance
Studies.
Career As student, Anca made journalistic practice at Gazeta
literară/Literary gazette, headed by Tiberiu Utan.. After graduation and
military service, waiting for “negation” of governmental repartition as teacher
to village Petrești, Anca collaborated to Apărarea patriei/Defence of
Motherland journal, and afterward was employed at Romanian Radio Broadcasting
(1967). In August 1968, during Soviet Russian intervention in Prague, when
journalists remained days and nights in the building, interviewed personalities
who commented the events. On his cultural broadcast The present time of ballad
Miorița – with Dimitrie Cuclin, Zoe Dumitrescu-Bușulenga, Grigore Moisil,
Ovidiu Papadima, Mihai Șora, Grigore Popa, Adrian Fochi as guests - , Florin
Mugur wrote in România literară: „This time, to the collaborators – as serious
as possible – of broadcast it was permited to have humor. I listened to Grigore
Moisil expressing his conviction that 'only valueless works lose their value
when they are better known', and adding, after a puse of a great actor in
uttering: 'As well as people' “. (1) Anca left radio-broadcasting for a post of
editor offered by Emil Giurgiuca, chief-editor of monthly journal Colocvii despre
școlă, familie și societate/ Colloquiums on school, family and society, for two
years, from where he passed at to Ministry of Education, at request of minister
Mircea Malița. He worked also under following ministers, Paul-Niculescu-Mizil
and Suzana Gâdea. He edited press bulletins covering Higher Education
Conference of UNESCO countries, headed by Rene Maheu, and World Conference on
Population. Organized, in Bucharest, press conference of Margaret Thatcher. He
continued discretely his literary activity. For George Anca, Romanian Communist
regime, replaced with largest democracy, India, had concurrency by Moscow and
Maoist branches of quiet many members in universities. Publishing in 1983
Doina/Song by Mihai Eminescu (poem prohibited then in Romania), at its
centenary, Anca was questioned in the department for disturbing Soviet Russian
Embassy in Delhi, and soon resigned and returned home. In the years 1977-1984
and 2002-2003, he taught Romanian to some hundreds of Indian students, followed
himself a course of Sanskrit, attended World Conference of Anthropology and
Ethnology (Delhi...), Conference Literature in Translation (Aurangabad...),
lectured in Bangalore Indian Institute of World Culture, Calcutta University.
Back to Romania, after some time, he found a job, as director of Library of
Polytechnic University, and then, for 20 years, as general manager of National
Library of Education. In Politechnic, Anca brought and spread films and books
on fractals, including Otto Peitgen's. Series Professors of today on professors
of yesterday gathered large audiences of professors and students. Long
functioning in front of National Library of Education (1988-2008) established a
balanced contribution to Romanian educational librarianship, also by
participation to IFLA Conferences in New Orleans, Boston, Glasgow, Moscow,
Oslo, Buenos Aires, Bangkok. Along with national net of school libraries, the
Romanian libraries in Chișinău, Cernowitz, Novi Sad or „Mircea Eliade” in
Chicago, had an umbilical tie with the mother unit. Educational workshops were
conducted by George Văideanu, Irina Petrescu, Tatiana Slama-Cazacu, Tudor
Opriș, Ion Gh. Stanciu, Mihai Ghivirigă. To literary cenacles participated
Ștefan Bănulescu, Costache Olăreanu, Mircea Sântimbreanu, Mihai Șora, Ion Iuga.
Here activated International Academy Mihai Eminescu, presided, one by one, by
Eugen Tudoran, Alexandru Surdu, Dimitrie Vatamaniuc, Ethnology Society in
Romania, conducted by Romulus Vulcănescu, Romanian-Indian Cultural Association
– president, George Anca. (2). Anca participated to IUAES congresses (Delhi,
Williamsburg, Tokyo, Beijing, Lisbon, Florence), and International Ramayana
Conference (Delhi, Durban, New York, Houston, Birmingham, Mauritius,
Trinidad-Tobago) As associated professor he taught courses in universities from
Bucharest, Consatnța, Oradea, Târgoviște, on comparative literature, history of
Romanian literature, Indian literature, Sociology of religion, Anthropology of
(non)violence, Literary journalism.
Literary imbroglio Author stated he never stoped writing, trying to
transform each experience into literature, within or beyond library or
anthropology professing, looking for a rasa-dhvani (tropes-suggestion),
fictional, experimental message. Before 1989, he was hardly published in
Romania, but in India. Prohibition turned also into fear of success, and after
changing of regime, even he published many books in own country, didn't push
them any how, as if with complacency face to destructive notes on his works,
under accusation o f being not understandable (note). Yet local analyzes, some
even calling him a creator of a new style, still considered the tiny
appreciation in main stream criticism. (note). Perhaps not too late, literary
critic and historian Marian Popa came, by surprise, with the monograph Anca .
It may be ignored under inertia of a life perception, yet his demonstration
concludes on obvious characteristics: „Anca doesn't present contexts of
representation of mimesis. He is most antirealist Romanian author. (page 48)...
Anca's books are dodii also through defying of some structuring conventions.
(67)... La Gioia is in this sense a political novel, one of most radical
written in Romanian space. (161)... It would be not bad bad if it will be
introduced among ideal types the texts dodiated by Anca, the most radical
producer of text in series open virtually by Eminescu, developed with Urmuz, at
fulfillment of which have contributed Constantin Fântâneru the philosopher,
Eugen Ionescu the absurd, Cugler-Apunake, George Dan (People of the Lands,
manuscript in 1946, published in 2011), Șerban Foarță, the hologramatic. (2006)
(206)... Postdemocracy creates a postliterature. One of its forms is produced
by Anca at the expense of others. (207). Writing as he writes, Anca uses the
largest amount of real and invented words in Romanian literature. Based on his
texts it is realizable with luxe of exemplifications also a poetics or at least
a dictionary of dodian proceedings, tricks refused by logic of conformized
poetry. (209)... With Anca it ends symmetrically antiapoteotic a mode of
Romanian literature. An opera which would correspond to would correspond to
Nietzsche's claim: "Ich will mehr lesen keinen Author, den man anmerkt,
wollte er ein Buch machen: Jene sondern nur ein Buch wurden unversehens Deren
Gedanken" (Menschliches, allzumenschliches, II, 121)”. (210) (3)
Indoeminescology “Mihai Eminescu, Romanin nationl poet, declared himself
Buddhist as an empowered Christian. During more than 15 years I had talks and
letters about Mihai Eminescu, mainly in and from India, but also other
continents: they make some personal and Indo-eminescological history in an
epistolary novel I had honor to dedicate to your excellency, Mr. President of
India, Dr. Sharma ji.” (Public address to the President of India (4). Beyond
interpretation works on Eminescu – Zalmoxis in poetry of Mihai Einescu and
Lucian Blaga (1966), Indoeminescology (1994), Literary Anthropology (2005),
Mantra Eminescu (2011) -, there is an ubiquitous presence of the archetypal
poet in Anca's works., especially in poetry and theater. “The Sanskrit
correspondence with the Romanian culture and poetry culminates with Mihai
Eminescu, a reader of Vedas and Upanishads in original. In Romania, it is
taught at school that „The First Epistle” or „The Dacian prayer” (Nirvana) are
connected with Rig-Veda. Of course the analogy is fundamental but the
correspondence lies both in the common or community cosmogonic mind and
particularly in the universal intuition of real life, of sat („village” in
Romanian, „truth” in Sanskrit)”. Along with Indian themes,”There are not from
out Eminescu’s poetic universe the concepts and anthropologies of some modern
Romanian creators and thinkers, like Vasile Pârvan’s anthropomorphous creative
rhythm, synrhythmy, aphrodisiac mind, Lucian Blaga’s mythosophy, stylistic
bottom, metaphysical transnaturalism, George Călinescu’s real elements, Eugen
Ionescu’s nu, Mircea Eliade’s genealogical myths, Hyerophanies, categories of
the sacred, Dimitrie Cuclin’s ethics of expressive essence, Ştefan Odobleja’s
consonantic psychology, Octav Onicescu’s cosmological mechanics, Constantin
Noica’s Romanian philosophical utterance, Mircea Maliţa’s clio-mathematics,
Mihai Şora’s metaphysical anthropology, Romeo Vulcănescu’s horal phenomenon.”
(5). Anca persuaded Indian major poets to translate into Indian languages great
poems of Indian inspiration by Eminescu: Hyperion, First Epistle, A Dacian
Prayer – Satyavrat Shastri, Rafic Vihari Joshi, Urmila Rani Trikha, Sisir Kumar
Das, O.M. Anujan, Margaret Chatterjee, Mahendra Dave, Usha Chaudhuri, Harbhajan
Singh. At his turn, he translated great Indian poems from Sanskrit Kalidasa's
Meghaduta, Jayadeva's Gitagovinda, Shankaracharya's Sundarya Lahari – and
modern Indian languges – Tagore, Sumitranandan Panth, Subramanian Bharati,
Valathol. Literary historian Mihai Cimpoi included Anca on the alphabetic list
of main exponents of eminescology: „(G. Anca, Ilie Bădescu, Amita Bhose, Gh.
Bulgăr. I. Buzași, D. Caracostea, G. Călinescu, I. Chendi, Ciopraga, Cioran,
Codreanu, Rosa del Conte, Victor Crăciun, Creția, C. Cubleșan, Zoe
Dumitrescu-Bușulenga, N. Georgescu, E. Ionescu, Iorga, D. Irimia, Maiorescu,
Dan Mănucă, I. Miloș, G. Munteanu, D. Murărașu, Tudor Nedelcea, C. Noica,
Paleologu-Matta, Edgar Papu, Perpessicius, A.Z.N. Pop, D. Popovici, E. Simion,
M. Steriade, Tiutiucă, Todoran, Ungheanu. Uscătescu, Vatamaniuc, Vianu, Vuia,
Vieru etc.etc.)” (6)
Dodii
Invocations, 1966, first poetry book published by Anca, includes already a
title, „Dodii”, dedicated to V. G. Paleolog, Brancusologist. Gorjul literar
magazine published in 1977 his dramatic poem Măiastra în dodii. Later on, in
Ibsenienii III, a chapter is called Dodism. Ioan Ladea creates from distance
(note...) an imaginary dialogue with George Anca evoking passionately the
dodii, as longings, sad and discrete smiles, which dissimulate into a soft
humor, into a timid uncertainty which wants to hide the intimacy of which is
embarrassed. Once, the dodia animates itself, as some unknown flying insect,
pretending it left native place to see the world, and that dodia would help
finding the lost way of return. (January '999). Beyond such tool, the vivid
actualization of home troubles makes room to a “patern of world”. (7) In
monograph Anca, Marian Popa reads his entire work as a system of dodii,
extended to literary and philosophical doctrines, especially to chaos at
Friederich Schlegel. In first instance, „As seen, dodia is a synonym or
proximate genre for dodge, dotage, whiplash, to talk wet, to talk widely,
without rhyme or reason, to be out of one's wits, to play the giddy goat,
quips, nonsenses, rubbish, to twaddle, and in possible relation to: “flip-flap,
Maritso” (Anca)”. (p.13). “The dodii are initially limited to language; It's
conceivable the extension to actions and situations involving the volitional,
the existence of a tangible goal, corporal, instrumental actions.” (p.15). “In
the broadest sense, it may be considered dodii any deviations from the
denotative expression and from the logic of the first syllogism. There is, for
example, the opinion that literature under totalitarian Communism was one of
the essay and poetry, saved by Aesopism and “the speaking in dodii” (Adrian
Alui Gheorghe)” (p.17) The growing dodii tacit “method” may have been noticed
more or less by chance, from first book, received encouragingly but also as
sibilant (note); the second one, Eres/Heresy upgraded perception to parasitism.
“Absolutely undecipherable is the volume of Gheorghe Anca – Eres” (8) “It can
be deciphered in the verses of George Anca a kind of exaltation in front of
esoteric uttering, of unusual imagistic delirium, fascination of a game 'in
dodii', out of which he tends to make, actually, a kind of personal aesthetics.
His attempt to restructuring of the real into a flux of fragmentary,
insinuating images results otherwise, not rarely, into a gibberish which
simulate reflexion” (9). Anca found India quiet happy with the dodii, and felt,
poetically, sheltered and quiet, embracing Indology. “In his sharp new voice,
Anca is pungent, discordant, airs disillusional passion and brevity of human
life. He is at his best in two epitaphs titled 'what can we do sergiu welcome
to irk ever' and ' the parents are still oppressing the young mares our sister
in the meadows by' “. (10)
“ The concepts represented in
these works by Sanskrit words indicate firstly, that they have a universal
appeal and secondly, that the use of Sanskrit terms, instead of equivalents
from other languages, is meant to convey this universal appeal. Personally, I
feel amazed at the remarkable similarity of rhythm and tune as noticed in Dr.
Trikha's rendering of a Romanian song and its Sanskrit translation” (11)
Books published
in Romania and India
Poetry Invocaţii / Invocations, 1968 Poemele părinţilor / Poems of the
Parents, 1976 10 Indian Poems, 1978 Ek shanti, 1981 De rerum Aryae, 1982
Upasonhind, 1982 Ardhanariswara, 1982 Mantre / Mantras, 1982 Sonhind, 1982
Norul vestitor/The Cloud Messenger (Kalidasa), 1983 Gitagovinda (Jayadeva),
1983 Sonet, 1984 50 doine lui Ilie Ilaşcu / 50 songs to Ilie Ilascu, 1994 Doina
cu variaţiuni / Doina song with variations , 1995 Doine în dodii / Doinas in
dodii, 1997 Waste, 1998 Decasilab, 1999 Balada Calcuttei, Ballad of Calcutta
2000 Sonete thailandeze, 2000 Orientopoetica, 2000 Malta versus Trinidad, 2000
Mamma Trinidad, 2001 Milarepa, 2001 Dodii, 2002 Măiastra în dodii, 2003
Transbudhvana, 2004 Maroc după tată / Morocco according to father, 2004 New
York Ramayana, 2004 Nefertiti & Borges, 2004 Finish Romania, 2006 A la Reine
de Maillane, 2006 Cenuşa lui Eliade / Eliade's Ashes, 2007 Târgovişte – India,
2008 Partea Nimănui / Nobody's part, 2010 Paparuda, 2011 Netrecut p'afiș / Not
written on poster, 2013 Dodii pe viață / Dodii on life term, 2013
Prose Eres, 1970 Parinior, 1982 India. Memorii la mijlocul vieţii / India.
Memoirs at the middle of life, 1982 The Buddha, 1994 Maica Medeea la Paris,
1997 Miongdang, 1997 Sub clopot / Under bell, 1998 Pelasgos, 1999 Frica de
Orient / Fear of the Orient, 2001 Buddha şi colonelul / Buddha and the coroner,
2001 Furnici albe / White ants, 2001 Poeston, 2001 Baudelaire, 2001
Sanskritikon, 2002 La Gioia, 2002 Măslinii din Uffizi / The olive trees in
Uffizi, 2003 În recunoaştere / In recognition, 2003 Tangoul tigrului / The
tiger's tango, 2005 Ibsenienii, 2005 Diplomă de sinucidere / Suicid diploma,
2005 Rechinuri / Sharks, 2006 Digital Kali, 2006 Zăpezi hawaiiene / Hawaiian
snows, 2006 Roboam, 2007 Sfinți în Nirvana / Saints in Nievana, 2008 Barba lui
Hegel / The Hegel's Beard, 2013
Theatre Good luck, Radha, 1979 Pancinci, 1982 XII by Horace Gange, 1984
Teatru sub clopot /Theater under bell, 1997 Mureşan Eminescu, 1997 Templu în
elicopter / Temple in helicopter, 1997 Paparuda, 2007 Astă-seară se joacă Noica
/ This evening is played Noica, 2008 Scenometrie Teatrux, 2011
Essays Baudelaire şi poeţii români / Baudelaire and Romanian Poets, 1974,
2001 Indoeminescology, 1994 Articles on education, 1995 Haos, temniţă şi exil /
Chaos, Prison and Exile, 1995 Lumea fără coloana lui Brâncuşi / World without
Brancusi's Column, 1997 Ion Iuga în India, 1997 Beauty and Prison, 1998 From
Thaivilasa to Cosmic Library, 1999 Ramayanic Ahimsa, 1999 Aesthetic
Anthropology, 2000 In search of Joy, 2003 Literary Anthropology, 2005 Glose
despre ahimsa / Glosses on ahimsa, 2006 Exerciţii de religiologie / Exercises
on religiology, 2009 Mantra Eminescu, 2011
Translations Gianni Rodari, Grammatica della fantasia / Gramatica
fanteziei, 1980 (EDP), 2005 (Humanitas) Kalidasa, Meghaduta / Norul vestitor,
1983 Jayadeva, Gitagovinda, 1983 Rajiv Dogra, Footprints in the foreign sands/
Urme pe nisip, 1999 Faust Brădescu, Le monde etrange de Ionesco / Lumea stranie
a lui Eugen Ionescu, 2000 Hindu Dharma / Dharma Hindusă, 2002 Târgoviște-India,
2008 Surender Bhutani, Poems / Poeme, 2008 Rudi Jansma, Sneh Rani Jain,
Introduction to Jainism / Introducere în Jainism, 2011
Periodicals edited: „The Milky Way / Akaash Ganga” (1978-1981)
"Latinitas" (1982–1984); "Liber" (1990-2008);
"Bibliotheca Indica" (1996-2008); “Trivium” (2004-2012).
Script writer (TV films): Constantin Brâncuşi, 1974; Gheorghe Anghel, 1974; Romul Ladea, 1974; Eminescu’s Statues, 1974; India in the European Literatures, 1979; Doine în dodii, 1997.
References 1. Florin Mugur, Miorița, in România literară, 13 ianuarie 1976.
2. Presently, the activity of the three societies is part of monthly program
Tuesday Colloquiums, moderated by George Anca, within Social-Cultural Center
“Jean Louis Calderon” in Bucharest 3. Marian Popa, Anca, Bibliotheca, Târgoviște, 2013; same monograph published also
by TipoMoldova, Iași, 2013 4. Address by George Anca in occasion of ceremony of
receiving Honorary Doctorate, Bucharest University, by H.E. Shanker Dayal
Sharma, President of India 5. George Anca, Mantra Eminescu, Bibliotheca, 2011,
p. 125-126, 128 6. Quoted in Eminescu, by Tudor Nedelcea, București, Fundația
națională pentru Știință și Artă, 2013, p. 490 7. Ioan Ladea, Jurnal din Quito
comandat de George Anca/ The Diary in Quito ordered by George Anca, A.P.P.
1999, Bucharest) 8. Literatura parazitară în România literară, 13 august 1971
9. Dana Dumitriu, Poemele părinților, in România literară, 10 iunie 1976 10.
V.K. Gaur, A collection of poignant poems (on Ardhanariswara), in Sunday
Herald, Delhi, 22 August, 1982, 12 September 1982 11. Harish Kumar, Mantre,
Ardhanariswara, Parinior, Three volumes by Dr. George Anca, in Indian
Literature, Delhi, Sahitya Akademi, May-June 1983.
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