Eminescu’s coffer – Translated by George Anca

All are old and all are new.
Ladies and gentlemen, we continue with a collection of pieces: Eminescu’s coffer.
We have starting price of 5000 EUR, who offers 5000 EUR, at number 18
5200. 5200 EUR once, 5200 twice at 120
We have 5500 EUR. 5500 once, 5500 twice at 170
6000 EUR. 6000 to 210. We continue
6300 EUR. 6300 to number 84.
We go on with 6500. At number 100 there at the end.
6800 at a time, 6800 twice. At number 18. Thank you. We continue.
7000 EUR. 7000 at a time. 7,000 twice. 7000 EUR adjudecate.

His wonderful shape is, still today, in my mind. I did saw him. A striking beauty. It was impossible to appear in a hol without attracting by his person even those who did not know him. He was extremely cheerful. And hommed when coming from his walks in Vienna park.
After an iniatory and bohemian periplus, along with various theater bands, where Eminescu was accompanied by a travel bag taken from his father, a coffer in which   he kept some books he often read, the young man was sent to Vienna as a student. Here, the coffer begins to host a series of notebooks, which are increasing from year to year.
You, old Vienna, you, ancient cradle emperors. Do you hear, at the gate, the hero’s hard step?
Long live the nation!

Eminescu was enrolled as a student at the old university of Bäckerstraße and lived in several homes between 1869-1872 when he left Vienna. He went to the Trolley café at Vollzeite, where other Romanian students were gathering. There he came daily and ordered beer, oranges or Viennese coffee. And at the requirement of the Romanian students, Eminescu held conferences with his voice full of verve. In the beginning, Eminescu always took part in debates, and he was always able to forget both the time and the self, when the object about was passionate. He also accepted the opponent’s opinion with some restrictive amendments in political, ecclesiastical and social matters. But it was implacable up to fanaticism in terms of history, philosophy and aesthetics.
Mr. Michaelis Eminescu, an eternal doctoral student in many non-useable sciences, a former librarian when he preyed the library, former reviser at the girls’ school, a former editor in chief of the Stewardship Sheet and other unreaded and of other journals collabortor.

On the pages of the 2257 manuscript there is the concept of a telegram to his father, obviously Mihai Eminescu asking for the money to be sent monthly, and on the 103rd street is the address of the National Hotel in Leopoldstadt, where the Romanian Juni Society Ball took place. Eminescu reports details about this ball.
It is known that the Society of Romanian Students in Vienna gives each year a splendid ball that enjoys a certain reputation with its elegance and beauty. Last Monday (February 14), the Society Committee composed of drd. Stihi (president), drd. Ciucu and Popazu were received in audience by His Emperor. On this occasion, His Majesty welcomed to ask for detailed information about the progress of the Romanian student society and more about the reading cabinet; he promised that, forgiving his circumstances, he would come to Bal. The ball itself was set on yesterday, Saturday. On this occasion, Mr. Strauss, Director of the Imperial Court Balls Music, dedicated the Society to a polka-francaise entitled „Snow Flake”.

Here seems to be the ball where Mihai Eminescu and Veronica Micle met.

Great room is bright, / table is white, lot of guests, / sweet talk to listen ever / and its endeared light / by gloss eyes, by many eyes
here some stay în laziness / and they dream and think / others there are yelling / and women with long eyelashes / laugh in secret and watch.
One feigns that doesn’t see / and her head is bent / wile her enamored eyes / their rays are fast / to the sad stranger
To the stranger with pale brow / and with hair like of the raven / her red lips sips / now in arms then on the lap / blind love sleeping.

Trying to re-edit Eminescu’s translation from Kant, I came across a miracle: the 44 poet’s notebooks. This miracle wos met by others in passing. But it’s good to say every story from the beginning. Open the 2258 manuscript containing the 24-year translation of the heaviest book of Kant. Go to the manuscripts 2255, 2264, 2306, all with philosophical notes, and suddenly the magic formlessness, the larval, the primary envelops you and takes you to the rest. Forget that you are pursuing a simple matter of specialty. That you are neither good at the other. That trained hands and pious minds have gone over these manuscripts, pulling out or standing to get the best of them, and you say to yourself: beyond what can get out of Eminescu is Eminescu himself. There are these notebooks, of which he did not split – and you would not want to break up, you reader, even for a while.
This is not about Eminescu’s works. About his culture. About his projects. Of his variants. The retained platonic treasures or the possible philosophical systems – it’s all about it. This extraordinary spectacle that gives you a culture of openness to everything.
Death is the extinction of the consciousness of numerical identites.

It is not perhaps to see in other culture a document as impressive and complete but Leonardo’s notebooks. It is not easy to mention any culture consciousness that – at a very often naive level – it is right – to attempt to encompass so much (in fifteen years compared to Geothe’s 60 years of assimilation and creation) to risk so much and to miss so much.

God is an atom, a mathematical point, the common point where all the powers of the earth melt to form the body of laws, the cosmic system.
How to be thanked only for the 90 poems published during the lifetime or those of the Maiorescu edition? For those of today, the culture is not any more just a finished work. No genre can name these books of Leonardo or Eminescu. All I can say is that more than in the opera, it’s about Leonardo himself, or Eminescu himself.
So what will we meet in the notebooks? Everything together. For example, at the beginning of the 2255 manuscript, we will see German notes and then notes about principium rationis sufficientis, then literary prose, then math exercises and philosophical thoughts again, with a judgment on Kantian antinomies.
And then … who knows if it is better / To be or not to be … but everyone knows. / That what is not, does not feel pain, / And many pains are but few pleasures./
To be? Madness and both sad and empty; / The ear lies to you and the eye deceives;/ What a century tells us the others denies. / Than a flat dream, better nothing.

But the party under delight of language is not all in the 2257 manuscript. The economist can also take part in the banquet. And not only the economist is served, but also the beekeeper, because on a few tabs is spoken on the bee’s birth is. The biologist and the chemist, with about 20 tabs on the living organism and some chapters of chemistry ; the historian with more than 20 tabs on „ideas to Machiavelli ; even the philologist with about 11 Greek words. For the last pages to talk about the immaterial substance in the universe.

After whot everithing was taken out from these notebooks, all that seemed like a work, as a sketch of work, as a variation, thoughts and sketches of thoughts, you found that all the notebooks remained intact. Not only has it not been deciphered yet, that it was possible to escape interesting thoughts and projects, that the eye of a great critic – like Calinescu – could read other things on the pages over which he had passed;

Our earth is poorer in geniuses than the universe in fixed stars. It is easier to create a new solar system in the vast valleys of chaos than a genius on earth.
But you find that everything that has been given to the printing has taken on an ordinary face, while the chaos in which the works and notations of all sorts are here, the writing of Eminescu, the joining of the unexpected situations and thoughts, everything makes the image the unusual way the pages of the manuscript give you, to exert a magic that, unlike Paul Valery’s notebooks, can not be lost.

Without Me, there is no time, there is no space, no God, no Eye is no light, no Hearing is no song – The eye is light, Hear is the song, I am God … My nation is the world; How without me is not God, so without my nation is not the world. What were the Romanians while I was not? What will they be, while I will not be? What a fading head without a zenith.
Faced with the leonard’s fantastic nature, Eminescu’s poetic or prose descriptions of other worlds, shattered, thrown in time, or with the time taken out of the woods, projected from the past to the present, when no end-of- beginning with the world, all have a fantastic character of spirit and culture rather than a naturalist.
On Tomorrow’s Sunday: 4 shirts, 2 collars, 4 pairs of jewels, 1 nightcloth, 1 pillow …
About the destiny of these manuscripts there has been a lot of ink flowing over the years. There are still inaccurate things about the route after 1883 of these manuscripts, when Eminescu was interned. Eminescu’s few things, including manuscripts and books, were taken by Simțion, an intimate friend of the poet. Then they went over to Chibici-Ravniceanu.

From Ober-Dobling (Vienna), Eminescu, worried, wrote to Chibici on January 12, 1884:
Beloved Chibici, what I want to know from you is if my books and my coffer are safe and if I can hope to see them again. … I do not have where I put my stuff, it would be good if you kept my so-called crate for some time, though I suppose this is not quite pleasant. Please, however, take the box from Simțion if it is no longer possible to stay there until my condition is correct, if it is possible to ever go.
The coffer with manuscripts and books will reach Maiorescu.
On November 20, 1887, his sister, Harieta, wrote to Cornelia Emilian: Eminescu lacks reading books, he wrote to Mr. Maiorescu to send his library, but so far he has received no answer. On February 27, 1888, again, Harieta writes to Cornelia Emilian: Eminescu is very upset about Mr. Maiorescu, that he wrote it recommended, praying him very warmly for his library and some manuscripts he would haunt. And no answer has been received so far. If I could, I would bring her books from Bucharest, but who knows what they are and is not wasted much.
Maiorescu gave no answer and kept them in his custody for almost 20 years. He donated them to the Academy on January 25, 1902, the inventory being: many manuscripts, part of the published poems, part trials, fragments and variants of published poems, part studies, translations and prose articles „, which he had from Mihai Eminescu. And it goes on: „All these manuscripts, as they are: cartons, sewn notebooks, and flyers, I send them together and give them to the Romanian Academy to serve those who will be in the future with more in-depth research on the life and activity of our great poet. „

I love this good, gentle, human people, on whose backs the diplomats are carving out the charters and the wars, they are painting kingdoms about whom does not even pass through.
The Eminescian treasury kept at the Academy Library is now up to 15,000 pages, out of letters and archival documents. They were retained as they were submitted by Maiorescu, except for the notebooks, which were not related and which received the respective cartons.
How many flowers are on the ground, all go to vow …
Some of the notebooks, especially Rhime Dictionaries, less researched and less used, still retain original links today. The idea of preserving these manuscripts appeared since the 1930s, because Nicolae Iorga wrote that „No Eminescu line must remain unpublished”.
– But time? But the time ..
– Oh, that damned time, that’s when it’s long, short, but it’s the same, at least the remontorium says it … When someone’s waiting at the gate of some sweetie his sweetheart … and she’s not coming. and waiting … and she still does not come … what’s the time? An eternity. And when someone reads a beautiful book … thousands of paintings unfold before the eyes … what’s the time? One minute. Who has never had a whole novel in mind, whose normal reality would be a whole life or a whole youth? … in his dream he can have one man’s whole life in one night. And why of a man? Why not all those who turn around him? And how long? Seven eight times. But what’s a tragedy or something else? And, indeed, if such an interest is concerned, you do not even squeeze as long as it has passed. To take the criterion of normality, to wipe out all the esclusiveness of a conventional and flattering possibility and to place another equally right in the home. Then let’s just say: this is only possible and only possible, but we say: As soon as our head reaches, it is … but the hell knows if it could not be a thousand times different …

But it seems to me that where there is a problem is at same time its solution. Kant. Most people, however, ask questions, sometimes comical, sometimes unruly, sometimes full of meaning, sometimes deserted.
Then Constantine Noica pleaded for the publication of these manuscripts, elaborating in 1968 a manifesto: Make the Eminescu manuscripts faint! The dream of philosopher Constantine Noica was not possible in the 1970s. Presented on October 2, 1984 in Botoșani and Ipoteşti, Noica raises the issue of facsimilation of Eminescu’s manuscripts, leaving to Ipoteşti 11 Eminescu worksheets for facsimile. Noica speaks of „a miracle” (the existence of notebooks) and the new miracle that should occur: meeting the 14,000 pages with the spirit of younger generations. He thinks it is a national obligation to provoke this meeting and awaits a lot of it. He has an example: publishing the 29 notebooks of Valéry. He consulted a few volumes and, if he had any skepticism about it, he heals: facsimilation can be done. Hard work is being done to copy the manuscripts from microfilms at the Academy Library.
Until December 7, 1986, all the films from the Academy Library had been copied, being photographed, according to the original films, all the manuscripts on the film, leaving the missing pages filled up and the whole material multiplied. On April 1, 1987, the first notebooks were given, and on October 1, 1987 Noica returned to Botosani and saw the 31 photographed Eminescu worksheets, of which 16 were already copied in 3 copies. Every man is a question put back to the spirit of the universe.
The martyr, the hero and the wise are forms of one and the same substance: the truth.
At the 155th anniversary of Eminescu’s death, the Romanian Academy launched the first volume of the famous facsimile manuscripts by Mihai Eminescu. On January 15, 2006 volumes II – VI were launched, and on January 15, 2008, a further 12 volumes were released from the facsimile edition of the Eminescu manuscripts. They numbered almost 2,600 pages. In 2009, the editing of all eminescian facsimile manuscripts will be finalized.

The word comes from Conventus, a gathering of people, says Eminescu. How many still know it? How many are looking for their ultimate truth, their community beings, how many love their word and search for it?
Most scholars who have used them have taken research only those interested: prose or poetry manuscripts, those with historical, economic, philosophical or scientific notes. The whole was not interested because it did not seem to be a whole. Undoubtedly, it is not the whole of a work, not even of a destiny; but it’s the whole of a culture consciousness.
Eminescu’s notebooks can not be crossed entirely, with the feeling that you are in front of the full man of Romanian culture.
These notebooks are a kind of diary of Mihai Eminescu’s life. But a very special diary, which no one has ever done, and which we no longer meet in the universal literature, because here we find Eminescu’s creation, we find his thoughts, we find his everyday life, with its good and bad parts, with its responsibilities. We find the most beautiful thoughts that a Romanian has ever had. Like the most beautiful lyrics. The fact that Mihai Eminescu studied in Vienna at that time a kind of healthy positivism, which reigned in philosophy, studied history as well as mathematics, astronomy, economics. Medicine is also studied. And we find Eminescu in notebooks scribbles from all these domains. And what is interesting, besides the fact that he transcribed many works, bigger or smaller, because at that time there were no other means of multiplication, but on each occasion he had his own notes. So his own thoughts about what he was reading. And interesting is the fact, especially in connection with the writings of history and psychology – at that time the peoples’ psychology was fashionable – and each time Eminescu read a paper, he said: „That is also the Romanians. And this in Romanian has the same meaning, that is. Such events also took place in the history of the Romanians. „So he constantly referred to the Romanians, to the Romanians’ history and to our culture.

No more delight as moving once / Stories and lyrics, riddles, heresies, / Brightening my childhood forehead was, / Hardly understood, but full of meanings – / Vainly your shadows now surround me, / O, hour of the mystery, o, sunset even.
To pluck a sound from past of life, / To do it, soul, to tremble again / With my hand în vain I glide on lyre ;
Lost it all in the horizon of youth / And moves its sweet mouth of other times, / And time grows behind me … / I get dark!

Translated by George Anca






by Mihai Eminescu


the wood is white its leaf is black

its thousand little twigs

by snow are heavy

only the wind passes through them

the cold wind and some magpie

sheding let them off

white is the night the one with moon

from the distance wood resounds

the wolves in troops mass together

blows the wind blows incessantly

grove and heaven make to me pair

mad grief comes over one

as long and stretched grief

as the county all under snow

the wood shiver like an aspen leaf

as large as one’s horizon

the wolvws over peakes race

wandering through snows

troops the crows fly


in the ground of dense woods

there is no path to get out

there’s no way there’s no boundary

neither hunter’s trace

making blizzard on snow drifts

they filled up the glades

let down on dry boughs

over shed leaves

over water over all things

in the impenetrable forest

a little house is hidden

there’s no village nor nearby road

quite alone one doesn’t know how

only from its chimney the smoke juts out

who would stay in the house

that doesnţt care for the snow

which falls and will fall

ever heap on heap

surpassing the fence in the yard

up to eaves it will reach

if left is long winter

zoung little widow

stays there quite alone

how many days are left

she doesn’t go to village any more

how long the time of a winter

how the snow is all falling

she ever winds and weaves

white threads exquisite linens

while the fire burns in the hearth

the wolves howl the gogs bark

and she spins from tow

swinging on a leg

the trough with a little child

asleep and graceful

and as she sings as she sighs

the voice of wood imitates her


in the ground of the wood

there’s no path thewre’s no way

that if ever a path existed

it turned into a valley

that if a way ever existed

it is with leaves burried

it is filled with thorns and thistle

that one doesn’t find its trace

if there is path somewhere

nobody knows it anymore

that they lost its traces

shepherd boys with the flocks

and they lost their signs

woodmen with the logs

and they forgotten the folds

hunters with the bows

nobody in the world knows any more

that around only desert

whici its borders are

where are its springs

the grass grows behold again

beaten by the summer wind

where the forest is rare

but in the beautiful grass

never a scythe entered

where the forest is dense

by its thick of wood

no axe did touch

in the ground of wood

path isn’t way isn’t

but a glade of fir trees

and a cheerful eye of pond

and a garden with stile

and a little house with trouble

and at the door of house grows

the old tile tree which shadows it

like a living covering

its flower falls without wind

shaken over the land

and on the porch who is seen

who nwaer craddle is staying

young little widow woman

who knew about herself only she

and as the wood bestirs itself

she sings for her she charms her away

swinging with a leg

she says gently

lullaby lullaby little child

I’d tell you atale

lullaby lullaby between us

I’l tell you a tale

and in models I’ll dress it

and beautifully I’ll untie it

zou to understand it only I pause

towards others I say nothing

the tears a valley fall from me

my father was a shephard

as many seconds are in year

as many shepherds he was having

with thousands flocks beside

flocks in thousands of little she lambs

little shepherds after them

haughty flocks also of sheeps

the little shepherds backwards

with flutes and bagpipes

he had also if you understand me

herds of untamed horses

which like hurricanes

were filling his plains

were grazing his estates

and in the length of rivers

they settled themselves on deserts

and in the waves of grass

were grazing the hinds and the stags

and through mountains lost in clouds

he had big herds of bisons

cold rivers cold springs

in the shadow were flowing eternally

and he had mountains and he had forests

and fortresses with fortifications

and had villages thousands and thousands

strewn on the plains

and had villages big and small ones

and full with brave men

what an uproar what a struggling

when cheerfully sounding from horn

was calling the country to boundaries

that were running with little and grown up

that they were flowing like rivers

and blackened the deserts

bitter me into a sigh

the tears are valley coming to me

with the kerchief if I whipe them

they still stronger go on

and how beautiful I was

how no one was kin by kin

of gold were my plaits

and by girls they were plaited

rosy like a peony

I was dear to everybody

they came behold they came

emperors from the east

to ask me in marriage

but they went as they arrived

kings came and messengers came

learned in many schools

with reasonable words

they asked me with justice

good time old shepherd

our emperor master

did send us to ask

if you marry your daughter or not

he answers then honestly

dear brave men welcome to you

dear’s to me to feast you

with you to get delighted

but any much you did ask me

daughter I haven’t to marry

but he emperor from the west

did come and didn’t go

two words only he told me

my heart he did subdue

he was stately and armed

an enarmoured soldier

he was stately and hale

having care of nothing

he was tall and I was tall

nice looking we were together

fitted in excess

I beautiful he beautiful

bitter me in a sigh

the tears valley come to me

with the kerchief if I whipe them

they still stronger go on

they heard and if they heard

match makers from the east

that I was going to marry

and when I just gor married

many people aroused

our house only to spoil

and to separate us

thousand of tongues were flowing as rivers

risen from the deserts

and they came mobs

risen from the forests

some on horseback some on walk

ever came in thick cloud

they came swarms came flock

and left the desert after them

they came flocks came valley

and crumbled forts in their way

vainly my man faced them

they pushed him only back

they defeated his armies

they ravished his glories

they desered the countries

they brought his fortunes

they balckened his sun

they enslaved his people

I in the deserted wood

wandering lately

I heard from foreign tongues

that my man isn’t coming any more

I learned from the west

that my man went away

by all humans followed

I learned from the east

that my man has died

that has died and was mourned

world entire was wailing him

did wail all hermitages

all orients

and wests all

and peoples tongues and crowds

midnight midday

they couldn’t awake him any more

weild behold those kings

the emperors of whole world

and a storm started

which earth drowned

midnight and westward

thousand kins put to way

big flocks and predatory

of alien peoples

which were fowing behold flowing

end they didn’t have any more

just for putting inheritence

over poor mankind

when I think to such sorrows

it seems to me they were yeasterday

when I think to my shepherds

it seems to me they were thousands years

bur when I learned

that my man has died

this linden tree I planted

grows the tile and flourishes

and shadows my life

and as in its shadow I live

I don’t get old any more

dear mother’s little child

many in world I’d tell you

but I am afraid you’d leave me

bur I am afraid you’ll understand me

and you’ll grow and will start

how the wood don’t comprise you

and you’ll go into the wide world

but you sleep more behold a bit

that you’re tender of years and little

sleep at shadow sleep on peace

that your mother will make you

under that tile tree beaten by wind

the bedding at land

when the sun will set

then the wind will drow off

and you’ll get asleep

the teeny branches will beat

and if stars will penetrate

and the moon will penetrate

our solitude

and when the wind will blow

the tile tree will rock

its flowers it will shed

and again will awake you

in the ground of the great night

and at rustling of oak trees

under the circling of clouds

in the falling of flowers

under the shining of stars

and at dance of wicked fairies

under the leaf of oak trees

at the voice of springs

where is it the cross from ways

you don’t cry more me

they grow like brothers two spruce firs

do laugh chick-abiddy laugh

where there are birds in the trees

be quiet chick be quiet

they gather girls and lads

do sleep chick heigh

stags gather the soft ones

awake chick do awake

and as she sings and sighs

the voice of wood imitates her


poor country of the high

all zour fame has gone

now five hundreds years ago

only wood you were to me

around were growing deserts

empires were crumbling

the peoples were getting old

kingdoms were fading

and forts were scatterng

only your woods were growing

green is the unpenetrated shadow

where a world is hidden

and in the shadow for ever

cold rivers were flowing

tenderly clear turning

having voices of springs

Bistritsa in rocks struggles

hrough dark forests

and ever goes deeper

where the water slightly twinkle

and at once it sees that

its watwrs hitches

and by roxks it is dammed up

it gathers and ever grows

it dam up in wondrous lake

of which waters are quiet

and trees make shadow to it

dense leaf over

in depth the water watches

and the oak trees from bank to bank

over it fall down

peaks prop up together

and make to me a tall vault

by the peaks they are knitted

and in shadow they rule

and in eternal freshness

the waves are sparkling

from one bank to another

it fell a tall trunk

it fell crosswise

that its foliage is hanging

long bridge of a tree

over a silence of lake

long bridge big bridge

that one can pass it on horse back

and Mushatin youngish

passes the bridge quiet alone

with the vest of steel

with black busby of lamb

with white thick cloth on him

how he was coming to hunt

he was carrying the bow on back

quiver of arrows he has

wih long plaits up to on back

but a forehead cutted off

little child in tight cloths

lightly is feeling himself

if he aims at a deer

the falcon flys over by him

if he holds his hand upward

the falcon put in his palm

and he ever comes shouting

and from leaf always bursting

and when starts to sing

the woods resound

hear you dear do you mother

how Mushatin is calling you

nobody was around him

only the blackbird was whistling

and he was getting down

where the water was trembling

and the blackbird says

what are you searching for boy by here

grow you wood and do you cluster

only for a path leave me room

to pass you across

only I will reach a clearing

and a spring of water

to see the falcon how it drinks

the wood says quietly

I went of leafing me out

for you did want me

and the waves sound

moving they gather

among the linens of leaf

the sun trys to penetrate

burn in the shadow at cooling

the sparkling spots

and on waves beat

the light pours flame

on clear long torrents

the rays fly like strips

under an oak long-haired oak tree

which was letting its branches down

Mushatin was lenghtenning out

putting the bow beside

you wood wood my dear

it seems I’ve told you that

you sound from leaf ever

for since I didn’t see you

much time has passed

and since I didn’t search you

much worlds I wandered

wood your majesty

let me under your foot

that I’ll spoil nothing

but only a little branch

to hang my arms in it

to hang them at my head

where I’ll make my bed

under that tile beaten by wind

with the flower upto ground

to lay with the face upward

and to sleep should deadly sleep

but to hear even in my dream

dear wood your voice

from that glade of beech

doina song sounding dearly

how wailing vibrates

that rocks my leaf

and the slowed wind

will see that I’ve got asleep

and through the tile it will rake up

and with flowers would cover me

thw wood was bowing down to him

and from branches was shaking

you Mushatin you Mushatin

cheerfully I shake my branches

and gayly I’d speak to you

long live your majesty

come Mushat to understand each other

and so choose you as our emperor

emperor of the springs

and of the deers

seated to some brook

to tear your flute from the waist

you to sing and I to sing

all my leaf to stear

to start booming in wind

on springs

from steepnesses

where the birds are flying

where the branches are bowing

and the deers are playing

the water says to him o child

hold your hand to me

come on my bright bottom

for you are beautiful child

and Mushatin answers to it

vainly you allure me in waves

vainly wood my dear

you sounds from leaves ever

that I’ll go away from you

that leaf will weep after me

that from soul it snatches me

longing-dor path longing-dor of going

and even I feel so much grief

for the weep of my litle mother

I’d go I’d ever go

longing-dor never to snatch me

and I’d go on long way

longing-dor  to not reach me any more

vainly on wind are calling me

longing-dor for home longing-dor for mother

vainly it sounds in wind

that so destined I am

to make my way on earth

to hold my paths

to wander the countries

the countries and the seas

be it my voice strong

as to pass always

from everywhere I’ll be

over waters over bridges

over woods from mountains

to reach upto home

where my mother stays to weave

and to tell her in many lines

do not die mother of thoughts

don’t go you child

but if you have in world days

present them all to me

know you beloved brother

that I am not wood but fort

but since long I am enchanted

and by sleep darkened

only when the night arrives

the moon in heaven journeys

it runs through all my shadow

with its cold light

on then from horn sound to me

all trees together

griefly sounds the leaf in moon

and my world gathers

that tree after tree

all at once come untied

from oak tree with dense leaf

comes out a wondrous empress

with long hairs upto the heels

and with golden cloths

wonderful is her dress-rochia

and her name is Dochia

Continue reading „George ANCA: EMINESCU JAIL”

George ANCA: Utopii în cămașă de forță



numărul de aur al destinului – utopii în cămașa de forță – de ce a fost executat Ceaușescu -trădătorii Domnitorului Cuza




            Prin 1984-85, fractalii lui Otto Peitgen sau Ciprian Foiaş erau împărtăşiţi, în sala de periodice din cupola Politehnicii bucureştene, şi de custodele acesteia, psihologul Ioan Ciofu, promovat din fabrică, unde fusese trimis muncitoreşte pentru infracţiunea cu numele de meditaţie trascendentală. Parcă asemeni fotografului care, având gata de tipar un album cu Alpii şi primind o comandă să fotografieze Himalaia, nu a mai semnat niciodată acel prim album, psihologul, pedepsit de Ceauşeşti şi gonit din laborator, a pornit şi nu s-a mai oprit până în ziua de azi în/din ascensiunea numărului de aur.

            De 25 de ani, viaţa i s-a metamorfozat în aurul numărătorii de sine şi de alţii, publicând Numărul de aur – matrice a devenirii? (1994, ediţie revizuită şi adăugită în 1997), iar de curând, Ordine şi destin, vol I, (2007, pus în circulaţie în 2008, cu mici şanse de a se face vizibil, chiar dacă autorul a fost nominalizat pentru Kyoto prize ca recunoaştere a teoriei sale asupra numărului se aur, inclusiv în influenţarea destinul uman). Savantul abia dacă şi-a permis, în răstimp, haiku-uri şi câtva povestiri, ca pentru a avea de unde să-şi aleagă motto-uri la diversele capitole survenite în căutarea sa ascensională. A nu ne îndoi că altcineva decât numărul de aur l-a sfătuit la aşa ceva, între Alpii realităţii mundane şi Himalaia destinelor omeneşti, nou Euclid între medie şi extremă raţie

            Ca şi cum n-ar fi fost de ajuns a pierde …cibernetica-diabetica/Odobleja-Paulescu, nu ne lasă vicleanul să nu luăm seama şi la Sisif-Ciofu în cheie românească, vreo sinucidere indusă de acum globalist, frate. Măcar colegul de pedeapsă, cu opt ani mai tânăr, Ion Mânzat, în a sa monumentală Istoria universală a psihologiei, l-a listat pe Ioan Ciofu printre maeştrii săi. Dă, doamne, Freud, Young.

            Tragismul, în fine carpato-danubian, se ascunde în matematică. Supercontrolul constantei (încă Phi de la Phidias şi mai ales T/tau de la Tomi, tăietură, secţiune, ba chiar Tomisul unde Medeea şi-a tăiat-număr-aurit fratele, tot pe la noi, fraţilor) duce la o teorie cosmologică nu nesprijinită şi pe cele 6 numere cosmice ale lui Martin Rees.

            Continue reading „George ANCA: Utopii în cămașă de forță”

George ANCA: Vasile, semeni cu Fellini

            Ochii la lumină, tifonul mască supt de inspiraţie. Jucam şah. Era luni, 9 noiembrie 1972. Intuiţia lua chipul credinţei. Vasile îmi spusese la telefon: Melville e romancier. În franceză l-au tradus trei, nu doi, al treilea fiind Jean Giono. Medicul îi dăduse vestea că se externează. Scăpa din sihăstrie. Voia să mă roage să mă interesez de nişte formulare pentru pensie. Ajuns la Uniunea Scriitorilor, venise cineva înainte în acelaşi scop şi nu le-am mai luat.

            Am completat o cerere de deplasare la Alba-Iulia. Fulga mi-a spus să scriu revista pentru care m-aş deplasa. Doctorul Neagu n-a văzut vinovată folosirea ocaziei. Vasile mi-era util să ajung să-mi văd nevasta. Puneam acel util în atenţia profundă a altruistului, a bărbatului cu spirit puternic şi întăritor.

            Operă de adâncimi fulgerate. Numărătoarea canceroşilor.  “Anonimul veneţian”. Prin faţa unei oglinzi sparte, chipul unui muribund ca Vasile, o “Love story” catalogată melodramă, se compara cu un erou de melodramă, surâzând, în traveling. Urechea aţintită la limba italiană – paralelul între Italia şi leucemia prietenului meu. Călin mi-a dat să citesc din ultimul număr al revistei Cinema o schiţă de Ilarion Ciobanu, “Pâinea”, despre moartea unui prieten operator.

            L-am invocat pe Vasile printre pustnici, filosofi şi poeţi. Sărisem la magie. Utilul nu-l căutasem. Înăuntru, acolo în larg, s-o afle pe Moby Dyck, suflarea călătoreşte cu Vasile. Învăţ italiana ca el, într-o săptămână. Duminică e un film italian la televizor. L-am mai văzut. L-am uitat, fiindcă e comedie. Am meditat la comicul ştiinţei, poate că progresul e o formă a comicului, a uitării. Filmul nu era italian, franco-italian. În Africa. Vorbeau totuşi şi câţiva italieni. Mirajul morţii în război – surâsul. Culorile deşertului. Cu o staţie înainte de Lizeanu, convoi mortuar pe urma unui ostaş. În film, ostaşul scăpa.


            De dimineaţă, după press-book şi lectura unui referat la o carte de epigrame, am pornit la Uniune pentru “documentare” şi la ziar cu poezia. Formele mele nu se puteau fructifica, deşi erau aprobate de Fulga – nu decontasem o altă documentare. Hossu, cu semanlul unei cărţi despre Lotru, pe cine vedea îl punea să scrie două-trei rânduri pe primele pagini ale cărţii. Eu am zis: “Lotrul îmi aduce aminte de sufletul frumos şi de Vasile Văduva”, nu mai aveam loc de semnătură. Unul m-a făcut “fericitule” pentru că aş pleca în Italia.

            Am starea lui Vasile, i-am spus criticului, la ziar. Vreau să publicaţi acest poem. E mai vechi. Dedicaţia e nouă. Am văzut efectul poeziilor Domniţei. De ce să aveţi stare Vasile Văduva? Cred că ar fi mai bine să spuneţi şi altor prieteni să fie atenţi ca nu cumva vreunul când l-o întâlni, că acum iese, să-l întrebe: “N-ai murit, domnule?” Dialogul a fost următorul:

            – Publicaţi poezia aceasta.

            – Eu nu pot. Am publicat de curând versuri. Şi nu se dă decât poezie patriotică.

            – Am la mine, anume, şi o pozie despre patrie, două. Poate împreună să meargă. Fără poezia asta, însă, nu mă interesează.

            – Eu n-o public pe asta, dacă e vorba să vorbim negustoreşte amândoi.

            – N-am venit fără să întreb. Şora a citit poezia. Credea, la spusele mele, că ar fi ca mine, că nu l-ar impresiona în rău.

            – Eu nu sunt de aceeaşi părere cu Şora.

            – Nu e de publicat…

           – Nu spun că nu, spun că eu n-o public. Îl cunosc pe Vasile Văduva bine. Am vorbit cu medicii şi cu el, ieri. Criticul îşi ştergea, din când în când, ochii pe sub ochelari. L-am părăsit de îndată ce au pătruns mai mulţi solicitanţi. Poezia “Florile” i-a rămas pe masă. A răspuns că nu-l incomodează, la întrebarea mea. Utilul, am îngăimat, că dacă de foile de pensionare se ocupă domnii cu maşină, m-am apucat de interesele mele. Aşa şi acum, ştii, o să-i povestec, Stănescu mi-a promis că îmi publică o poezie.

            Strălucirea ceţii şi discreţia până la dispariţie a frunzişurilor ude îmi exaltau fiinţa. Poezia o simţeam a purta în ea şansa dovezii de nemurire, pe care o transmitea spiritului lui Vasile. Anume în cele trei roţi ale veveriţei, aşezate aparent suprarealist, în fapt – ermetic şi şi mai în fapt – mistic. O citesc ca pe o apă ce i-ar pica bine şi lui. “Fiu în sân ploii al elisabetanei” sau cam aşa ceva – mame Elisabeta ni se cheamă. Poate suntem una.

            Sângele, ca ultim cuvânt al poeziei, mi-era prietenul. Trei roţi ale veveriţei, a treia neînvârtită: sângele. Vasile îşi simţea buricele degetelor umflându-se de noul sânge. Iniţial, în poezie, capul se rostogolea mort printre crengi, în varianta dedicată, se rostogolea viu.

            Am refuzat să miros parfumul la care  m-au îmbiat doamnele de la Relaţii. Eram în ziua culorilor. Parfumul se întinde în aer, culoarea în privire şi în ureche până la declanşarea adevăratei muzici. Mă mişcam într-un util înspăimântat de umorul păcatului şi al morţii.

            Credincios acum, îndumnezeit, credeam în prietenul meu, lăsându-l numai pe el să creadă în Dumnezeu, mă puneam şi eu bine cu el.

            Toţi îşi găseau un contrazicător, medicul pe suferind, criticul deplângându-l pe romancier. Femeile ascund moartea bărbaţilor. Domniţa era optimistă. Ba plângea în hohote spunând că, dacă Vasile moare, o să moară şi ea, iar noi să avem grijă de Alda. Pe mine nu mă contrazisese nimeni şi înotam în util.

            Vasile îi dictează Domniţei spovedanii. Domniţa, Nansi şi cu mine între Brăiliţa şi Dunăre, baladând în aşteptarea lui Vasile.


            Continue reading „George ANCA: Vasile, semeni cu Fellini”

George ANCA: Jaipur Echo

Jaipur Echo

English – Romanian

versions by George Anca



George Alexe

Lama Doboon Tulku

Gulab Kothari

Bharti Jain

S. A. Chaturvedi

Jeremy Seligson

George Anca






Testifying to Simple Truths


My god has no eyes

But He is the Sight of the world.


My God has no ears

But He is the Hearer of the Cosmos


My God has no heart

But He is the Lover of mankind.


My God Has no soul

But He is the Life of earth and heaven.


Continue reading „George ANCA: Jaipur Echo”