Letter to a Friend and Back to the Country

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Letter to a Friend and Back to the Country



Whisper to me on chat how you’re doing

while the country falls apart!

Do you remember how God asked Christ

in one of the impossible gospels

if he summoned those who are sleeping?

Now the country is like flayed skin,

and behind the skin there is no flesh, but a punctured flag

smelling old and aged.

You’re trapped in cranial bones

and homeland like an abandoned dog stands beside us.

Personal depression and country depression are asylum seekers

on a bench in front of the house, under a tired cherry tree

as trucks pass by on the road and dirty buses,

on their windows a travelling child

wrote with his index finger,

I love you, Mom, I miss you, Dad.

Country depression can become personal depression at any time.

So, have you summoned those who are sleeping,

as is written in a forbidden gospel?

Or is our country the substance

in which sticky sleep makes musical notes?

Now this is the Romanian Rhapsody, servants of the Lord!

And look how personal depression becomes a portal for country depression.

We ready the mechanical and amino-acidic fixtures for the leper farm.

My electronic song won’t be able to heal very much,

but will nonetheless plead for the supernatural particles to become corporeal.

The country’s diameter is measured in waiting rooms,

then the length and width of illnesses the country has left,

and a psychedelic axis for the soul without ascension for the time being

but an easy opening in the skull and in the anthropomorphic inertia.


Caricatures of mortals stuck to booths and barracks,

the television announcing the galvanization of penitentiaries

and the repression of birth-givers.

We dream of patriarchs plunged in vegetation,

a solar farm for visitors of other worlds,

then we wake in a levitation-free cave.

The country is photocopied in its digital stasis

like a double certificate of birth and death.

When in lummox land do you still know what a just book is?

Can you still remember an allodium or illuminations?

Go in peace, our dead.

I hold a scalpel and sing.

I hold the scalpel of a stylite.

Some questions from snuffed history books:

the young people’s minds were chased to which foreign lands,

who sits them around the table, washes them, makes their bed to sleep,

and who holds them, loves them and molds them fresh bones

in the bitcoin kingdom?


This is what it looks like in the chemoworld stasis where we were pinned.

But where can the seraphim be with three pairs of wax wings,

where are the gatekeepers, the intermediaries between us and the others,

where are the beloved, beautiful and unattainable,

where are the prayer givers and the putrefaction resistance,

where are the consolers and the coddlers?

Among the shards and dust, I can see them on a melanomal island

riding rubber ponies or in prairies with vintage cabinets

where memories are placed on busted pillows.

Among barrack beds and biopsy corridors

I can see them with conjoined wings and first-place coronets,

they don’t have Facebook or Twitter,

the supra-digital seraphim; no cytostasis, no ideological supervision.

I’m afraid of being stateless, of becoming an outsider

with a fisherman’s hut for exile.

Mostbeloved, I need a beginner’s guide

to believe in you and in my ganglion country.

For now, I don’t believe in heaven,

for now, I’m a voyeur involved in the practice of collapse.

But I know homeland deserves unstitching between visible and invisible.

This is the new Romanian Rhapsody.

And now at the end, I ask for the third and last time,

like a parable in the days of communism,

uttered in self-effacing chambers, smelling of gasoline:

did you summon those who are sleeping?


(Translated by Radu Braga & Andrew Davidson-Novosivschei)


Acesta a fost fragmentul pe care l-am citit la Festivalul internațional de poezie Gellu Naum.

Nichita Danilov a comentat pe pagina lui de facebook ceva despre poemul meu, ce are legătură cu acest fragment. Iată :

„Șoptește-mi pe chat cum mai ești/ în timp ce țara se duce de râpă!/îți amintești cum Dumnezeu/ îl întreba pe Hristos,/ într-una din evangheliile imposibile/ dacă i-a vestit pe cei adormiți?” – așa începe recentul volum al Ruxandrei Cesereanu, apărut la Editura Paralela 45 – „Scrisoare către un prieten și înapoi către țară”, subintitulat – un manifest. De ce l-a întrebat Dumnezeu pe Hristos dacă i-a vestit pe cei adormiți întru Domnul? Ruxandra Cesereanu nu precizează despre ce anume l-a întrebat Dumnezeu pe Isus. Despre venirea sau despre misiunea sa? Întrebarea lui Dumnezeu rămâne, totuși, actuală și în România de azi. Numai cei adormiți puteau înțelege mesajul lui Hristos. Ceilalți erau prea aproape de el ca să-l înțeleagă. Așa se întâmplă și cu realitatea românească din zilele noastră, Ce se întâmplă cu noi nu poate fi perceput decât de către cei adormiți întru Domnul. Inclusiv demonstrațiile pro și contra. Abia când se vor răsuci morții în morminte, vom înțelege și noi că mergem pe un drum greșit. Unii spun că morții deja se răsucesc, noi însă chiar dacă auzim frământarea lor, nu ne trezim din adormirea noastră. Mulțumesc, dragă Ruxandra pentru minunatul tău volum. El se adresează, deopotrivă, viilor și morților de pe chat.

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