The writer or reader, each one of them may find himself or not in tune with traditional moral values. Both of them might be a partisan of a literary current so called homologated, one through his work, the other through his reading preferences. The diseases of the society: hypocrisy, self-importance, the cult for celebrity, self-seeking, betrayal, self-righteousness, vanity and the vulgarity replacing the popular style, the moral crisis in a word, is always reflected in art. For over a decade now, we’ve been faced with an industrial literature. The need to have as many readers as possible, forces the writer to get down to the street, borrowing its language… Avoiding the infiltration of commonly used daily language into poetry is a goal few of the contemporary writers follow (I have the intention, I just don’t act on it). Epicising the nowadays lyricism risks (be it through the need…
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One day, maybe today,
I won’t mix up the levels anymore, up is not up,
only the one who climbs knows….
I will braid the hands of the clock without making knots
and I will want to want, learning to understand the hesitations of the scales…
the balance means death, the tossing is breathing
with both nostrils.
I demand too much from my feelings when
I ask that they drag me, increasing my aura, that they bring me abundance, yet,
their parade shows me naked – only I see myself dressed in pompous garments..
there are no hopes without deceiving, nor sensations without illusions
the heart is a nursery for fears and desires often times a waste
I demand a surrealistic body, to fit fineries and joys
and they don’t exist as simple or complex, the joy is one – I exist
I won’t find amongst…
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(thanks for the english version of Michaela)
Sometimes an absolutely genuine verse, the poetry that represents the now, the present, sneaks in between the epic turned into metaphor either sideways or delicately, and the imitative – repetitive romanticism, a strangled sort of classicism.. The large scale liquidation of illiteracy and more, mass- media, created the right climate for the emancipation of the half wits, these becoming not only willing to express themselves but also… equipped to do so. One of my Selves stretches over these ignorant areas, so I know.. from experience. Even though another one claims Upper trajectories! Starting with the premise that “taste is not a lavatory” and that “his highness, the reader” is the one who chooses, we are now moving into the critics area, critics who are either retro or too cheap – for a vodka, they’ll praise you to high heaven; or too expensive…
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Love gave me a sort of wings too large and too many
Love gave me a sort of wheelchair
A strange identity, like a place of birth somewhere else
Love raised me higher than love
and it’s crossing me the street in places where I don’t want to cross, or I want…
It knows what I want or don’t – thus
the Earth is screaming with the undecided… as if the Earth was the shy one and not me
I blush like the flesh of a ripe watermelon and …the day
throws me seed for tomorrow.. can you still see me?… hey woman, down there,
on an ironically sad planet, this cloud is a handkerchief or myself.
Give me a sign with your eyelid, give me the exhaled imaginary second – ahh, how much work!
L’amore mi ha dato una sorta d’ali troppo grandi e troppi…
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photos by valeriu dg barbu – trilingual texts
the bag that has forgotten … the lady? – la borsa che ha dimenticato … la signora? – poşeta care şi-a pierdut doamna?
almost an embrace of stone – quasi un abbraccio di pietra – aproape o îmbrăţişare de piatră
whereabout? – dove? – încotro?
We crisis of … staff? – abbiamo crisi di… personale? – avem criză de …personal?