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Toamna se numără poeţii (basarabeni, în UK)

Noua Mecca a basarabenilor şcoliţi din generaţiile mai tinere pare să fie Marea Britanie; deloc întâmplător aşadar că şi Albionul se arată uneori interesat de realităţile Republicii Moldova – stă mărturie, în acest sens, publicaţia britanică The Seventh Quarry Poetry, din vara-toamna 2022, număr dedicat THE ROMANIAN CONTEMPORARY POETRY OF MOLDOVA, Peter Thabit Jones, Editor. Traducerile sunt semnate, la patru mâini, de Olimpia Iacob & Jim Kacian, iar autorii selectaţi sunt (în ordinea intrării în revistă): Leo Butnaru, Mircea V. Ciobanu, Nicolae Popa, Nicolae Spătaru, Vasile Gârneţ, Ilie T. Zegrea, Ludmila Sobietsky, Teo Chiriac, Liliana Armaşu, Irina Nechit, Emilian Galaicu-Păun, Andrei Ţurcanu, Iulian Filip, Marcela Benea, Ion Hadârcă, Vasile Romanciuc şi Arcadie Suceveanu. (Mărturisesc, n-am înţeles ce criteriu a stat la baza Cuprinsului, căci nici ordinea alfabetică – şi atunci ar fi trebuit să se înceapă cu Armaşu –, nici după anul naşterii – şi atunci Vasile Romanciuc ar fi trebuit să treacă în faţă –, ca să nu mai vorbim de scara valorică, nu funcţionează în cazul de faţă; cert este că selecţia e cât se poate de credibilă, cel puţin pe un segment de istorie literară, privilegiind generaţia ’70, urmată de poeţii optzecişti, iar pe post de benjamin apărând nouăzecista Liliana Armaşu.)

Un CV redus la minimul necesar, câteva poeme – între două (în majoritatea cazurilor) şi cinci (în cazul câtorva privilegiaţi) –, totul în doar treizeci de pagini dense (de la p. 5 la p. 35); îngăduie-mi-se să nu lungesc vorba, ci să-i înfăţişez rând pe rând. Un poet – un poem:

* * * * * * * * * *


Beauty and Revival

The world is still beautiful. . .

Either because it has been saved by the beauty foreseen by Dostoievski

or because finally the world has succeeded in saving beauty. . .

The truth is, therefore, that the world is more beautiful

than Phoenix, the bird,

every time it rises renewed from the ashes

begins to reincarnate starting with the eyes—

beginning with its pupils, it looks

to see, the oracular bird, if

coming back to this world is worth it

which, look, is still beautiful,

and which the Phoenix still considers bearable (but, it seems, from one


to another – ever less,

ever less. . . )



and then all words withdrew

swallowed one another (hard)


they empied themselves – grew hollow when meanings

and significations

left them (o, it’s a whole story here!).


no one remembers any more

who the poet was

that is, who”the liberator” was,

they only remember how meanings

shook off their words,

rising (their dignity kept rising!), unbending.

and then they, all, well, aimlessly started to walk through taverns,

like Alecsandri’s gypsies that had been set free

in the first tavern, they raised their glasses to “freedom”;

in the second one, to the “liberating” poet

(though this one had absolved them from disgust),

then to the idea “liberating in itself”

in the next tavern meaningskept evolving –

there was already complete freedom

kind-heartedly, they wanted to drink also for

the words from which they had escaped

but they did not remember what their names had been,

they did not even know them,

they had drunk them all.

the following day meanings, fuddled,

began to light little by little :

a little bulb at first,then another,

they lit very painnnnnnnfully!

something started within them, began to make sense

“this is called resetting,” they said, with an air of

expert and veeeeery patient understanding

finally they met again after resetting and doctoring

with prophyilactic brandy

they met again in very accidental words and veeeery approximate,

they had become curses overnight.

Nicolae POPA

One thousand years before the sun

A thunder bolt changes the line of the wind.

Scents, dust and locks

are taken and carried,

where we shall no longer be.

A huge stone sinks into the river,

It rolls through the water for a while,

then it comes out to dry on the other bank.

It lies there for a thousand years before the sun

and, bored,

it rolls into the water again.

From the open sky there fall smoking embers.

Then a drop of rain falls


it does not purify us.


the apocalypse is once again delayed

from one coffee to another

they do refreshing

and metaphysical exercises

the cigarette smoke drifts from one corner of the bar

to another

like an amazing piece of news

they serve us the town in lumps of sugar

and we humbly drop them into the cups of coffee

enjoying their resemblance

to dreamy infernal boilers

this night has been torn from calendars

in an undertone the streets massage

the crossings afflicted with arthritis

it is late

and they eat the remains

somewhere they hear the first tram like a prayer

in the language of a dying man

and the apocalypse is once again delayed


double reading

evening my right to sadness

which is but a form of tiredness

I feel like a stuck vehicle

I stand in the weak light of the room

I look without doing anything and

silence descends as if on the blade of the knife

there is also Joan and her passion for


romantic and contrasting up to the limit

when she plays something about the bad luck of

our existence

or about how sometimes it rains here in December

Jung’s notebooks open on the table

make the provincial feeling even more oppressive


The Last Supper

. . . But this winter, too, in fine edition,

will end with repulsive puddles,

even before the second coming of the Savior. . .


at the crossings of winds and dreams

where politics prostitutes

through the capitals of countries in transition,

cutting after our body the straightjacket of reality,

someone(you or I, maybe)

still throws an armful of memories

into the mouth of the engine. . .

Look, someone has put heaven up for auction,

and someone else’s being

is Judas’ very sticky kiss . . .


the fog you have vanished into

The fog has swallowed the roar of the town sound by sound

and like an exigent drinker it slowly sips

from someone’s love whisper,

from a woman’s laughter caressed by the sweet words

so long unhoped and cried for.

The fog skillfully relishes

silence’s vague-bitter agreement,

even the last thought of that one who goes away

devoid of illusionsbut displeased.

The fog drinks lustily like a beast cornered by thirst

the dew of your voice

in my memory that now gets dry

and gives birthto the image of instant

and of the fog you have vanished into


Little song for lulling Death to sleep

It was beautiful it was true it was good

reading and rereading books spent my youth

from T.S. Eliot’s work I preferred The Hollow Men

in Petru Creţia’s translation, a brilliant Romanian specialist in Eminescu

It was beautiful it was real it was very good

Reading the stars will eat my old age

It will be good it will be beautiful it will be real

the rain’s diamonds will scatter on the asphalt

the moon will put on the golden mask of the sun with teeth

above the grottoes of light devouring saints

it will be good it will be beautiful it will be true

from my eyes there will spring crystalized blue

at the sight of the grottoes adorned with light

with stalactite-rays with stalagmite-rays

It is real it is good it is beautiful

angels sing souls frisk gods enjoy

I put down the book and the book drifts–it does not fall down

it is true it is good it is terribly beautiful

like Tarkovski’s guide I wander through memory’s zone

crying out – shaken – with every step: “I remember!

I remember! I remember!!!”

Liliana ARMAŞU

The imperceptible charm of life

Why would we fret so much

and seek big, incomprehensible things

when through an imperceptible touch of our hands,

bearers of warmth and memories,

we could catch God’s smile?

Our small imperfections make us so vivid,

so beautiful,

that sometimes even the moon seems to stop from its nocturnal walk,

melting with pleasure in our crystal glasses

that resound with full and long life.

Come on, tell me that all will remain as we know it is

smiles, sorrows and summers barefoot,

And these words, which will do all in our place

while we are absent for quite a short time

to make tea or bitter coffee –

a happy opportunity for us to touch our hands

by chance. . .


Elegy to my face

I had gentle lines

but someone brushed them away so quickly

that I hardly came to utter a word

beat with the fist in the table

or cry as if from a snake’s hole.

I do not accept to have another face

or skin other cheek bones and other eyelids

my eyes ask me horrified

where my mole on the cheek

and those two glances with golden depths are

Maybe one night I fell asleep so deeply

that water came like a flood

and washed my features away,

then a leech came

and sucked my former face.

I no longer recognize myself.


she dances on the sphere he sits down on a cube

and when she does splits she seems to be the horizon line

the rope of which she, too, skips

and when she approaches her palms as if

she received it at her birth and raised it on her hands: “she’s a little girl!” as if

she played it like a tread on her ten fingers as in her childhood, carefully

not to spoil the figure – the same

so as to be taken by someone else, just as

they took off her fingers her line of life in her palm


My brother. . .

Ah, these snows

that turn into worms right before my flocks!

And you, my fellow creature, my rigid and ambiguous neighbor,

Stuttering near the offering fire with your mouth losing itself into the bread:

“Holding the shepherds in reverence is of no use to the planet.”

Pale leaves

like some wild beasts with their throats cut turn round

in the rolls of smoke rising in glory.

O, these snows! and this light quivering

over the fur caps of my mountains!

You call me out to come to the plain, my brother.

And I, thrilled like a harp,

how to know that the inferno is the others?

I kiss your hand that tightly holds the stone

I take the blood that flows into the dust for the flood of milk

and in the endless night I beseech you,

my fellow creature, my neighbour, my brother

my fellow creature, my neighbour, my brother Cain.

Iulian FILIP

You Too? Even You?

It is hard until you come to understand,

to realize

that it is not one,

that it is not only one

holding a stone,

a stone destined for you

After the 7th one

has stoned


after you have realized

that there is not only one

holding a stone,

you begin to pick up the stones

destined only for you,

more and more stones,

and the wall of stones ,

the wall ever higher,

becomes your defender,

it defends you,

it protects you from seeing them,

the throwers of the stones. . .

Quite a subtle art to guess

The next thrower in the file

after the size and the force by which

every stone is thrown:

Even you, V?

Even you, C?

Even you, T?

Even you, S?

Even you, O?

Even you, A?

Even you, I?

Even you, D?

So many people know you!

What happiness for you

to be surrounded

by such people,

who do not forget you,

who pay you such attention you

with such different stones –

though not rare. .

You, too?

Marcela BENEA

A Straight Line

An azure arch, a silent bell

under which God arranges the seasons –

to joys he adds other brightness,

to sadness seas of tears,

disappointments you share with nobody.

But when man remains alone,

quite alone among mountains of pain –

the horizon above him

is but a narrow strip,

a straight line, a cable

upon which the swallow does not alight to sing.


Professor Poem

when he came into the Hall

full of smoke

populated with smokes

Professor Poem

cancelled all the classes

of rhetoric, logic and philosophy

and he proclaimed the new course

anonymous unuttered

and altogether unwritten—

the course on butterflies’ traces

on the way of silk

where Poetry

still could wander

then he himself

vanished without a trace

in search of

the most whimsical

and real



Leave a mark

Leave, leave a mark

by all means

on the face of the day that passes

a sign

known only by you

so time

will not deceive you

you will realize, of course

if the day that comes

is a new day

or the yester day

that, in unsuspected ways,

shows up before you again

differently clad


The apple fallen in love with its worm

The white worm sleeps in the red apple

The red worm sleeps in the white apple

Since its birth

the white worm has been in love with the red apple –

which seems to be quite normal to me

And also the red worm: since its first day

it has been in love with the white apple –

which also seems to be

quite natural to me

The novel charm of this sweet story

at the end of the century

is that one day the red apple, too,

finds itself in love with the white worm

as the white apple, too, finds itself in love

with the red worm–

a happening that makes us think

of the harmony of opposites in nature;

concordia discors

This is the whole story of the apple

fallen in love with its own worm–

an apple that can be seen


on your table

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