I have written this book in a time of deep torment, when the illness inside was continuously torturing me for years, and my desperate efforts at finding a job - according to my skills and education - were failing.

MOTTO: Any resemblance with Reality isn't a simple occurrence.


Because my person is of little importance, I shall keep silent about it and speak of him instead.

Ovidiu Florentin, for the first time, has seen the light of day and dark of night. (It was the second or third day of October, 1980, in Craiova. From my own mind was he born, but he was conceived for a long time before, after lengthy searches in the soul.)

He has no mother and is born out of wedlock...

Ovidiu Florentin's skill is that of a dreamer, and he practices his profession with open eyes. His loves freedom with such intensity that it leads to dissention with others. And every time his dream is dying, he resurrects himself through his poetry.

By nature, he is articulate, speaking all day with newspapers, magazines, books...

On his head he wears a crown weighed down heavily by thought, and always does he walk unshaven - not wishing to grow a beard!

He truly enjoys to write. This is why he writes so little, the poems having been shaped to reflect the image of him and resemble his passion.

In the beginning, he follows the kindergarten of Geo Dumitrescu; after receiving the baptismal of the word, he ends the education, carrying on his search through other magazines. And while these were stripping him page by page, he was apologizing. The poems, however, started bursting from the magazines: "Luceafarul," "Flacara," "Orizont," etc.

The reunion in the literary circle with his Uncle Martin (Sorescu) became turbulent for him (excuse me - decisive).

Ovidiu Florentin then took as wife the poetry - though she was deceiving him in all things!

Presently, he is a student of languages at W.W. (without faculty).

For him, the shortest distance between two points is the verse.

After the last War of Words, fervor for the fight grew on the barricades of the Grand Social Revolution of Poetry, and he became a Hero of the Spiritual Work.

With the volume "Formula for the Spirit," published in 1981, he has risen among the living as Jesus from the dead.

Ovidiu Florentin is considered a brother of all.

Living in the body, we are all very much alike; together we are a unity of opposites.

He is my sigh!

May 5, 1982 to May 5,1982


"Life in the service of the word - that is death."

Ovidiu Florentin

I will relate now a brief interview, of which the poet has granted, on one of the periodic visits he makes to me.

The Reporter: Ovidiu Florentin, since when were you first obsessed with poetry?

Ovidiu Florentin: From the most ancient of time...because poetry is the translating of my soul. When I write a poem, I can see the poet from somewhere inside myself or above, the rushing verse like the running of white horses.

The Reporter: What do you think of when you read a poem?

Ovidiu Florentin: A generalization of it.

The Reporter: The poet is such a delicate, weak being...

Ovidiu Florentin: ...But in the full power of the word! The poet is keeping his word.

The Reporter: What contribution can the young make for the development of the patriotic's lyrics.

Ovidiu Florentin: To toil with words daily, between the anvil and hammer...to be as appropriate as possible with the souls of the country. (Would have answered Arghezi) But it is hardest to write patriotic poetry, as the genre is already overdone.

The Reporter: Surely all writers are concerned with the standing of time in art. Have you taken any measures to ensure yours?

Ovidiu Florentin: I have taken measures of protection. Before being written, the words are passed through fire to avoid rusting with the passage of time. I create an upside-down poetry; while people are looking for figurative senses of the proper, Ovidiu goes upside-down: proper instead of figuratively! My poems have a mixed assurance of life.

The Reporter: Do you have a preference for a certain category of words?

Ovidiu Florentin: Poetry is a clinic for words. There are so many that are banal, worn out, that poetry has to be cleared of them. I prefer raw words, while the verb must be sharp, where it does not exist. Sipping the meanings of words leaves only a dry shell in the end, a nothing. One has to perceive the sound and harden it through blood's ember, and only after you are convinced that it's perfect should you check it again! The critic's duty is to measure the resistance of time to verse.

The Reporter: How does today's critic seem to you?

Ovidiu Florentin: Critics are men of order, men of the letter, but not all of them; some are the mice of words. It is true that the new critics have appeared solely for the reaping of words.

The Reporter: Which of them do you appreciate most?

Ovidiu Florentin: The most famous of critics is Time. Only it can select and classify the value of words. Some are a bit rushing with labels, but a personality truly lives only after death.

The Reporter: There are some who are the center of talk, having pictures taken...

Ovidiu Florentin: ...There are some around whose trumpets are played. They publish today what they will write tomorrow!

The Reporter: And there are others who have written, but no one pays them any mind...

Ovidiu Florentin: ...And for those who haven't written, apologetic chronicles are being made for what they are intending to write!

The Reporter: How will you fight those of the latter?

Ovidiu Florentin: I have provoked them to a duel. The battle shall be carried by words.

The Reporter: How, then, would you explain their success?

Ovidiu Florentin: Well, they are nice people, diplomats, functioning with central heating, but we want poetry to exist through itself, not through the author. I think it would be rather interesting to publish unsigned poems as well.

The Reporter: In Mathematics? The situation is...

Ovidiu Florentin: ...The same! Such as my sending ten problems to the Gazette in order to get one published, and the Editor in Chief makes one to publish two! I don't want to go through the problems from magazine and mathematics, just as people were going through Sorescu's verses.

The Reporter: Recently, I've 'learned' your Formula for the Spirit. Master, the book has stolen me away from myself!

Ovidiu Florentin: For your own good, no doubt! I drew these formulae from my mind, and I haven't allowed them to get out. They've flown by themselves through my pen. My masterpiece is in the pains of delivery.

The Reporter: Recite something for me.

Ovidiu Florentin: I shall recite a poem that will tear your ears apart.

The Reporter: Let's hear it!

Ovidiu Florentin: (Shouts as loud as possible) A soooo!

The Reporter: (Looks questioningly) Let's go to another question...

Ovidiu Florentin: A moment, please, to pull myself back together from among the verses.

The Reporter: To whom are you indebted for your lyric experience?

Ovidiu Florentin: I gives thanks to the ones from Craiova and Rimnicu Vilcea for the help given in not helping me. In that way, I pulled through the asperities on my own.

The Reporter: A few critics have accused you of terribleness. What do you say to that?

Ovidiu Florentin: There is a logic to the poetry and a poetry to the logic - even a logic to the absurd. A masterpiece without rubbish cannot be perfected. Reading a book opens a window to the world through which one looks and looks for himself. Writing a book opens your own window inside, towards the soul, and people looking in are seeking themselves. I picked up the habit of turning the radio loud from my father, when he was getting drunk. When I hear good music, I set it very loud, at maximum, until the sound wraps around me, rising up through me and penetrating deep. (Yelling) I do the same with my poetry! (Quieter) In the literary creation, I look for the strong effects: the poem with five stars!

The Reporter: Your verses are rather short in this first volume. Are you pleading for such a style?

Ovidiu Florentin: No, I don't look for the lapidary verse but for the verse without the word's logarithm. A poem must be as a perfect object: Nothing taken out, nothing added. Therefore, nothing free in the poem! Poetry is a sickness of the century, a sickness that is cured through itself. It is an essence of spirit. The poetry's device must function to the maximum of its parameters.

The Reporter: I have recited your poems before, but after each one, I need time to meditate on them.

Ovidiu Florentin: That's because the poem does not begin until after the last verse is read. The book should be read twice to understand it once. My poems are more like essays; I take great care with metaphors. A poem without metaphor is for a child, though even children's poetry has metaphors. The poem should be as a glittering diamond.

The Reporter: Are the verses the fruit of cerebral activity?

Ovidiu Florentin: My verses are nodding their heads...

The Reporter: (Looks confused)

Ovidiu Florentin: I've grown fed up with being obedient. From now on, I am setting free my imagination.

The Reporter: There is a certain logic to these poems...

Ovidiu Florentin: Certainly. The next volume I publish will be with the Scientific Publishing House!

The Reporter: I've noticed you like to travel, on round trips. Do you prefer a long round trip?

Ovidiu Florentin: I prefer a short round trip.

The Reporter: Will the public drift away from poetry?

Ovidiu Florentin: No. The public, no. The public won't drift away from poetry, but neither should we take the pubic away from it.

The Reporter: But people complain about not understanding...

Ovidiu Florentin: They don't understand because they want to understand. The poem must be felt, not understood.

The Reporter: What influences have you noticed among the creations of the young?

Ovidiu Florentin: Oh, God, one man can't cry anymore. That, immediately, is imitating Bacovia, and the same man cannot laugh, because Sorescu laughed ahead of him. It is widely known, however, that crying and laughing are inborn.

The Reporter: Do you consider your recent volume as unitary?

Ovidiu Florentin: It is as unitary as a choir but with more voices - The main character of the book being the audience.

The Reporter: Which of the poems do you love most?

Ovidiu Florentin: The one I have not yet written.

The Reporter: How do you see modern literature?

Ovidiu Florentin: With poetic eyes...such as a mathematician sees his geometric figures. I see poetry in space, with n dimensions, or I try to project it there. I love the beautiful poetry, pure, sensitive, feminine and crystalline. The symbols, metaphors and syntagmatics all have a willingly subjective nature from which the exegesis becomes even more difficult and undetermined. With the increasingly ciphered 'modernism,' at times having a rebus, the character grows mathematic. The hints and philosophical senses may one day lead every writer to make a glossary, a dictionary at the end of each book, comprising the meaning of symbols and metaphors for that book. In the end, the symbols and metaphors will be no more than a lecture, the book no more than the reading of a map. The literature, however, tries to keep the pace with modernization, the abstract in science and not to drift away from these phenomena or isolate itself. And it is doing this quite interestingly. It is visibly getting nearer to science, even correlating to it. It isn't known, but it could very well be that images, phenomena imagined by an artist - illogic at first sight and absurd at the latter - contribute in a way to a new...theory logic in its way! Let's be optimistic in the modern destiny of the Arts.

The Reporter: Aside from artistic creation, you have also elaborated on scientific papers. You have achieved such a correlation even in our modern eyes.

Ovidiu Florentin: Before our modern era...

The Reporter: Still, how do they fuse the two opposite passions?

Ovidiu Florentin: They fuse because we have to do art to the great science...and science to the great art.

The Reporter: (Waits for Ovidiu to continue)

Ovidiu Florentin: For me, poetry is a mathematic recreation, and mathematics is hermetic poetry. At times, after reading a poem, I get the urge to solve a problem. At time, after reading a problem, I get the urge to solve a poem. I also get bored with the limited logic of the sciences; I want to make a logic of my own in literature. Working simultaneously with literature and mathematics, I feel like a man who knows two languages, the Romanian language and mathematic language.

The Reporter: Tell me about the connection between the two.

Ovidiu Florentin: All metaphors have a time and a space in which it is being constituted as assertion; likewise in mathematics - especially in mathematic analysis, geometry and algebra - there are so many abstract spaces imagined by the scientist that soon became useful, applicable in practice: Boole's algebra, which appeared to be far from reality, reached the well-deserved place in the software of electronic computers hundreds of years later. It might not be out of the question to attain a rigorously demonstrated rationale from the irrational knowledge of poetry.

The Reporter: In other words, the development of science is conditioning the development of the arts?

Ovidiu Florentin: Certainly. And this science is developing so much that, in the end, we shall write poems without words! I have even...written...a few.

The Reporter: There are many scientists who have also written literature.

Ovidiu Florentin: The emerging in the literary life of some non-philologists brings along with it a new air of literature. When Americans, in their research work, cannot come to a solution, they attempt to solve the problem with non-specialists!

The Reporter: How is that?!

Ovidiu Florentin: Because the specialists are reasoning in some canyons from which they cannot get out. A non-specialist, unchained by laws - because he does not know them - is more likely to fantasize. Though skilled in other areas, an inter-dependency is insured, the basis of some interdisciplinary doctrines being laid.

The Reporter: Why didn't you continue with mathematics only?

Ovidiu Florentin: It cannot be so, such as the existence of matter implied the existence of anti-matter. Poetry, for me, is an anti-mathematics, just as the mathematics is an anti-poetry. It is this difference which unifies them even more. When I grow bored with one, I start the other. Composing poems means finding new relationships between objects and phenomena. In other words, it's like making a scientific research. To create math means to have inspiration and fantasy - poetry! Any quality cultivated to an extreme grows yet another extreme. Dealing with too much mathematics led me to...poetry.

The Reporter: Coming back to literature, what inspires you to compose poems?

Ovidiu Florentin: After the last issue of Fashion magazine...Living at the end of the twentieth century...Let's make then poems for the twenty-first century: poems which heal the cancerous heart. Poetry is a big adventure of the spirit, because the poet is destroying all around him that is not poetry. Many times have I written just for the wish of feeling well.

The Reporter: In your last volume, particularly, you were using phrases or texts with weird senses...

Ovidiu Florentin: ...Anti-phrases. Paraphrases. Poetry of the absurd. Asserting against poetry, I am only reaffirming it.

The Reporter: And yet your verses are not ciphered...

Ovidiu Florentin: My poems are not as eremitic as those from other mathematicians or engineers, because I don't want to show the world that I am a mathematician writing poems.

The Reporter: But you aren't known as a literate.

Ovidiu Florentin: Those who know I am creating literature will only be the ones who have to know.

The Reporter: Do you consider the activity in cenacles useful?

Ovidiu Florentin: Yes. For example, I lead the cenacle 'Florentin' from Balcesti-Vilcea, this formed from my own and the books from my bookcase.

The Reporter: Therefore, you returned to the bank.

Ovidiu Florentin: My parents waited a long time for the return of their prodigal son of words.

The Reporter: What is the motto under which you write?

Ovidiu Florentin: "For me is poetry, for poetry is me." I am pleading for a Total Poetry: art for art, but...with tendency. A poetry of the poetry. I must also learn how to write like a fanatic!

The Reporter: Ovidiu Florentin, what projects do you have in mind?

Ovidiu Florentin: To become as Vasile Voiculescu: a doctor in poetry!

The Reporter: If tomorrow would be the end of the world, what would you do?

Ovidiu Florentin: I would die.

The Reporter: And in the end, a key question: How do you think the posterity will write about Ovidiu Florentin?

Ovidiu Florentin: Once upon a time, as never before and, maybe, will be again.

Florentin Smarandache

Please read further from the poet's creation a group of poems on long weaves, medium weaves, short weaves and...ultrashort!

Good luck!


(Progress springs from contradiction.)


"Will you come again or not? Maybe not!"

"Yes, no!"

"And shall I beat you? No or yes?"

"No, yes!"

(Remote dialogue)


Everyone climbs from his own close

in the close,

thoughts rising from the mind

like hot steam.

In every young, there is

a bird and a crowing creature.

I am a shout

uncalled by none.

I am no more, I am you,

and the word is my blood brother,

all my wealth:

25 years,

I am not.

That one is.

That one IS because

others are he.

(Read at Cenacle "Opozitia," Munchen, W.G.R., by drama actor Stefan Pisoschi on May 26, 1989. Chairman of Cenacle: George Cioranescu.)


The room in which I sleep has the shape of dreams.

Even Northrop Frye cannot bring order

from my goods.

I know only the inside of life.

What immense philosophy is this psychology?

When I read Sigmund Freud, I feel

a throwing out. The man turns your soul

upside down,

Gets into you and never gets out again.

O, man, do not stay alone on irelands!

O, men, do not stay alone on their own.

From the hotel, opening to the sea,

I see little:

caves of myself, corpses of me

caves of myself, corpses of me

I am working in a mine of myself.


Finally, his time is here:

slush and snow!

Sinful weather, like a whore.

Aye, where has the life been?

Until ten years of age, life was a childish thing.

Then the clock ran at random -

running where it could.

Today's day is repeating itself in absurdity.

Today was yesterday,

today was the day before,

today will be tomorrow and after as well.

The planet turns round in emptiness.

The planet turns round in vain.

The planet will not turn anymore

for the man

who suffocated, torn open its neck,

its life's blood.

(Read at Cenacle "Opozitia," Munchen, W.G.R., by drama actor Stefan Pisoschi on May 26, 1989. Chairman of Cenacle: George Cioranescu.)


We are composed from mind only.

The brain grows without stopping,

on the surface of the whole -

We eat with our thoughts,

with the mind we drink...we drink...we drink

but never have time to love!

And I don my mourning clothes, after the plough,

after the ox's cart.

I perceive the world with verse,

the verse my subjectivity,

the sole objective.

I run, no more, to run.

I live backwards, as my ancestors.

[Romanian Convergencies', 1984 (?) London]


What wasn't born today is dying.

A modern necropolis is built,

nuclear vaults,

with protons, with neutrons.

It is the dying time.

Life is not compulsory.

Yesterday, I cried 'til my

soul ached -

I BECAME an old man of the heart -

(the illness is that I haven't REACHED


The ravens on the fence surround my life.

I have the impression that I don't live.

But maybe this world

is the other.


Man is representing the perfect, even

the superprefect

and gets bored as a poem.

O, life is mortal!

We want PEACE, words uttered

too much.

We write peace, paix, pax

frieden, beka, mir.

We write in calligraphy, with bent characters

slanting towards real -

b u t w e a r e r e a d i n g

d i f f e r e n t l y.

O, life is mortal!


What is new? The Old -

the retro-fashions being practiced.

A Finnish girl doing Swedish gymnastics.

Two Swiss girls in Mexican hats.

Three French boys wearing Italian jeans.

In Romania, I wanted to discover America.

Due to fatigue, hot blood was bursting

from my nose,

but I treated a cold blood.

Listening to the leaves hanging

on the branch

and their strife for independence.

Literature is a needed drug.

Literature makes one more sensitive. But

how much is needed?


Near BLAZING embers, extinguished men:

the Spanish girl has Indian skin

and the blood of a tam-tam. She comes

from Madrid but has an Athenian coiffure.

The Portuguese woman is an alive woman

but pulled by a dead line

on the prairie.

The Spanish girl speaks English.

The Portuguese girl speaks English.

The men do not speak it; They


From white skies, black rains prepare.

On green stems can still be seen yellow flowers.

It's warm and cold - a cold heat.

A few monkeys climb down from their trees,

entering the people's world.

Near the extinguished embers, men LIT by fever.


The man finds himself trapped

between the Black Sea and Mediterranean -

he is selling, on the black market, a white coat.

"You ox, don't be a donkey!" I told him.

He lives as thin as the dead,

having a healthy illness.

He has even lost an eye - leaving only

rightist views -

But goes ahead with his back.

His legs give him headaches.

"Where are you going, guy?" I've asked him.

"I am going, I am going," he told me.

"I have more timber to split, corn porridge

to stir and a wife to beat."

Marcel had a haircut. Marcel looks smart.

Though an adult, as a poet, he's a minor -

He composes small poems, not in 'meter'

but in ancient centimeter,

or in square kilometer.

His spirit is extinguishing like a cigarette...

Today he asked for light from Prometeu.

He succeeded in LANGUAGE final exam, falling,

failing the subject.

Generally, he studies in private.




All came with their wives, him being the only

single man.

Some were tall, like skyscrapers. Others

like cheese-scrapers.

Uncles Vasile Gheorghe was a straight forward man

and the brother from another half.

He always had a couple of words to say:

"I don't know!"

though he is clever when acting stupid.

But what does Gheorghe think?

That he is Gheorghe Deivel?



They stay for a while, then they take

another break.

They stay for another while, then take

a break again.

"You two Lady Highnesses,

on the tip of your heels,"

intervenes the director.

"Throw your eyes to the paper basket

and notice the disorder."

(Due to the emotion, some fall to the floor;

others fell thinking.)

"Furniture should be dusted!"

whistled the director,

(He knew he wouldn't finish easily with one or two,

but with three or four ladies...)

but stayed for a while -

and again went on a break.


Last name: Ileana, first name: Cosinzeana,

the teenager nodding from the tail of her eyes.

Going ahead to shoot, looking,

I notice, in the front, her back.

The young girl is practicing magic among


She is wearing a miniskirt - I think under

the tenure aspect, it leaves much to be desired!

B u t n o is s t i l l t o b e l o v e d

She takes my eyes and lays

them between her knees.

You should not love me, little girl;

you have made a mistake!


An aimless kick, and the ball goes out!

At the matches, goals are aimed

at us.

The players thinking

with their boots

Come Oooooooon!

Crisan was injured:

He stepped left with the right.

Dinu faulted Balaci

to the head

(from the tribune, whistles are thrown -

and other sounds!)

Come Oooooooon!

He is discovered,

a penalty...

Camataru shooots...and...

the balloon rolls over timidly.

The spectators push the ball

to the net with their eyes -

(a clear goal has been marked.)

Come Oooooooon!

The applause

break into fine chips:

The gallery incites the hearts of supporters -

Peluze, the screaming dragon.

Come on, come on!


The Romanian teacher speaks German,

but the students listen to him in Turkish!

(He has a diction contradiction

with others)

His blue eyes are black

from sorrow.

He is very clever, having studied much,

so stupidly!

He has put period

to prepositions, without period.

The timid student (she) took his mind away

and laid them down to paper.

The professor is chairman at O.I.H.

(Organization for Inventing Himera!)


Widely displayed, a narrow channel,

The sand is sunbathing.

Down, the waves grow in height.

I feel a seasickness,

a small one

and pull out my inside.

He eats. He Eats.

After the small fish,


other fish course.


(Gathered from people,

processed and related.)

She wore her hair spun

But not on her head -

On her leg.

And her eye, which was eye -

Too bad the other was missing.

And her breasts, which two were they,

And her mouth, which was one,

And her nose, which nose it was -

My CRAZY love!


She: Alone, alone,

little dame bird, the bird

He: Alone, alone, little one,

little sir bird, and bird

She often sang, he was enchanted.

She was adolescent, he was convalescent.

She: Alone, alone,

little dame bird, the bird

He: Alone, alone, little one,

little sir bird, and bird.


"Virgin, be good."

"Otherwise, Kunte Kinte will."

In the beginning, it was a violin,

And it went to him.

In the beginning, it was a violin,

And it remained viola.

To make its love public,

She published a hymn

In a public garden.

"Little virgin, be good."

"Mister Kunte Kinte is leaving."


He bathes in the blurry waters of memory.

He might have been what has been,

but now he is not what he is.

O Good, our God, heal them,

of sun and sea,

of nose, throat and ears.

How precious are the ones

which aren't!

This one is so absent

because he's not all absent.

God heal them of their health.


He turned out to be a tried man

through many courts,

and on a good day, I visited him

in nasty weather.

I knew by heart that

old-fashioned building (inside I hadn't seen).

The rain in the yard left everything

as a marsh.

Great confusion: one was designed to bring

the dusty hand

and a she-servant was pushed to the rubbish

to sweep.

Over the fence, he yelled to the dog,


"Marsh! Marsh ahead! Marsh ahead!"

(but the dog did nothing)


The candle's forehead is flickering, pale -

keep your mouth shut, flame! Keep silent

for once!

The fire lifts by a snake its crested tongue

to throw out its venom -

warm viper stop! Cease yourself!

I am the center of my unreal world.

I am running after myself yet cannot reach


I am behind my own,

sentiments grow numb,

my thoughts blank.

And the illusion creates what cannot be.

The illusion implies a future of pain:

it shows the impotency of man's power.


There are a few good men

working hard!

But there are many good men

working little!

Very busy men, they don't see their heads,

because they don't have one.

They have a general culture,

even too general -

deliberately taken over

non-scientific ideas.

So they reached very far,

they reached in this way, even further

and further on.

They write, they lay on clean, their misery!



The bulbs are switched off to save life.

I leave my mind

in the library.

My forehead is boiling,

my temples are baking.

Older thoughts

strangle my throat - 'til I resurrect.

I walk through my brain

on bare feet.

Outside, the moon is passing like a black cat.

The Lucerne's wings move towards the sky.

I throw myself over the window from

the orbits of my eyes.

The night is flowing through my eyelashes.

("Mele," XXV, 79, May 1989, p.7, Honolulu, Hawaii, SLA)


Do not be bad, good men!

By my law - that isn't law.

It's true, that was falsely alleged,

this law, it's lawlessness.

I don't know how it is done, but in the end

it isn't done -

save only by the people.

Out of need, by need, program of permission

will be given.

We will carry fights on the waters, on land,

in life and death.

But I believe that will trick us

all. Clenciu

on paper.


Let's show them from the beginning that


Let's tell them openly:

The road is bent!

Even if we aren't today, we are tomorrow.

We don't believe they are the devil,

for God's sake!

It's no longer time to stay - you've got to go.

All is in the imagination, even what is not.

Therefore, eyes of ours, go ahead, please!


Dar, cup of theater:

The bell strikes.

A playwright arises discussions

on the stage

between the characters:

In the foreground appears THE CHEVALIER OF SPADES

by a white-black horse

and Cosinzeana Ileana with a bulldog

(the dog at the master's house a good bad).

- How good is it that it isn't well,

she is saying.

- Ham, ham!

the dog is saying.

- How bad it is that it isn't bad,

the chevalier is saying.

- How good it is that it isn't well,

the dog is saying.

- Ham!

she is saying.

- Ham, ham.

he is saying.


...I enter.

- Get out, says.

(Our God knew my faithful


I ask him a hand,

He gives me a foot.

(This pig is only making donkeries.

He is a complicated and impure individual,

purely and simple.

He is using style "without style")

I enter.

- Get out, says.

- But give me two...

- I don't have.

- Still, I would like...

- I don't have!

- Not even...

- Neither!

(This donkey will become a horse

for beating - for sarcasms)


- They have rejected good manners, rules

from gossipers

- And don't you criticize them?

- Oh, yes. They are under my criticism!

- And what are they saying?

- They say, "Aah..."

- They saw you soft and took you


- ...!

- I wonder if they're conscientious, too.

- They are underconscientious...

- Good Lord, what sinners!


Radu : Honest wonderer...

The Girl : He isn't a wonderer; he is a thief.

Radu : Honest thief...

The Girl : He is Mircea Glabrous; he has

let his beard grow.

Do not speak to him.

Radu : Glabrous, I do not speak to you.

Glabrous : Do not intrude, you ugly girl!

Radu : Ugly is beautiful...

Glabrous : ...And so what!

Radu : She wants to

stay, stay.

(While Radu, the Girl and Glabrous are

playing theater, I leave the scene.)


Ladies, I have shouted passionately, ladies!

but the ladies haven't answered.

(A lady in her middle age

and the young one

between to men)

- You have multiplied yourself, woman (I said

to the one between), and you went. Will you

come back or not? Maybe not!

- Yes, no!

- And shall I beat you? ...No or yes?

- No, Da!

- Why did you leave me, why did you leave me

without a shirt and leave with other men? What

gender of man do you like?

- Masculine.

Oh Lord, I shouted passionately, God,

send my angel to the devil!


(Decor: nonsense, Lights: nonsense, Characters:

real; He and his sister Maria, Ion - the slave

to His Excellency.)

He - I gave you the 100 lei.

Ion - This hundred lei isn't worth two pennies!

He - Give your word of honor.

Ion - "Honor," look.

Maria - You are bad, you are soft...

He - ...even very bad...

Maria - ...and very soft.

He - You would need a woman helper in the house.

Ion - I have to lose my head

to get married, you must understand.

Women like the riders

without heads.

He - How can she cope with so much waiting?

Ion - It's getting dark.

(Break. The curtain forgets to drop.)


A - How much is Demeter's mind leading him?

B - A few centimeters.

C - Let him come later, to the last


B - But he fell from the skies to become dust.

A - Has anything remained of him?

B - His soul!

A - (Singing through his nose) Lord have mercy,

Lord have mercy.

C - How is his son doing?

B - It's snowing...

A - (Singing through his nose) Lord have mercy,

Lord have mercy!


Today is Sunday, but tomorrow

is not known what will be.

Death grows in everything -

at the amphitheater, the statues are

devoid of soul

I am leaving the house with

the windows towards winter.

The blizzard is growling in the snow

like wolves.

It's difficult for me to be an ordinary man.

I exist against myself.

My heart became a part of my mind,

the forehead a diameter as big

as the sky.

It's difficult for me to be an ordinary man.

Let's not be common.

Let's love.


I watch NIAGARA as if at the beginning of the world.

The time deposits people.

Towards us, night comes daily.

Death gives a sense of existence.

Incessantly, we fill out eyes with one


The sun is passing, leaving behind

traces of darkness.

The sun is consuming itself.

The sky is full of holes,

like an assassinated swamp.

I am my own dog,

and I walk among words.

Allow me to be myself,

Allow me to be myself,

or even allow the dog in me

to be myself!


To light this light means creation

and a sense of always dying.

The words grow wild, like the

ferns of loneliness.

But who is taking our steps

(journey from a petal

to a smile!

journey like an army of butterflies)

All roads go through bread.

The ideas leaves traces, if they are highlighted.

We take the soul of hyacinths from nostril

to nostril.

The words pass,

and the lips try to catch them.

I will end by flying away, my thoughts

left to the paper.


It is raining, and the Saints

grow rotten in church

at windows - the thought

clapping its wings.

Let's deal, therefore, with philosophical

meditations -

close your eyes and let's start:

- Anyone smaller than himself.

- To be, is it projection or infinity?

- We are negligible sizes, but each one

of us wants to be a bigger small.

- The vacuum is the most empty.

- I have an "I don't have," a mine.

The rain falls rhythmically as blood.

The waters flow to future.


The world is subjected to the force of

attraction to the sky.

The skull is like an egg

in which a bird is growing.

It sees his own eyes, it hears

his own ears.

Man holds weight but in the temples.

Each one has more than one life.

They harry themselves with thoughts,

even the heart beats in the brain!

- Up to where do you run, braves?

- To death.

- And until when do you rest?

- 'Til Gods.


The clock strikes the hour - in nails.

The tranquility between us can be heard,

silence at base two.

I burn with impenitence

'til I get over myself.

You maintain my burning,

from one eye to the other.

Birds fly by with dreams in their mouths,

our looks - paved streets.

I am dirtied by you,

from head to heals -

Two women are singing on the

strings of my nerves.

Balcik, 1978


Oh, happiness, fruit of anguish!

I live in this name as on a narrow trail!

It's me, the one without TOMORROW.

The deserting of oneself left me

without myself.

The time went after Mozart, a Wagner

and two Ceaikovski.

The look has leaned on season.

Oh, happiness, fruit of anguish!

Only the mind has grown -

running from one another,

the words,

You were very,


In your place was 12 o'clock - here was 21 hrs.

Our hours had not been equal.

Oh, happiness, fruit of anguish!


Scissors of cranes cut the azure

such that Autumn may be seen.

Long lines of grass have their nerves

to the ground.

From the gutter, the first drops of darkness

are flowing.

The universe has the shape

of a heart.

I long more and more for mown hay.

In that stranger house, I live far away from Terra.

I review the memories

with the eye from the nape of the cerebral.

They come as the trains run

in opposite sense;

they come and for my head of a child.

("Ramuri," nr.11, 1987, Craiova)


The scholar drives from behind the century.

He has no time for no one,

not even for himself.


He tore out his tongue,

together with brain,

on sheets of writing paper.

The algebra gives fists to thought.

Before the personality

of figures were supplicants.

In thinking, being,

higher than theme,

People consider him out of mind.

(There are some who don't believe

in the forces of Light.)

And the man from the Sun floor

carries on speaking

to the people.

From the heights of voracity,

he speaks without being heard.


At edges, the night soldiers

are guarding the light.

The past is living

(exists in everything)

Look today at the green branch of History.

Each history has its own.

This is the now:

Mountain people with a mountain on the chick,

carpenters with names carved

on the wood of a star,

and writers -

the gold-searchers

of the soul.

The children are dreaming

in loud voices.

This is the now.

- Ahead, poetry -



On the east side,

there is our country,

with its ancient civilization

of flowers,

with tall mountains, as the fairies

hitting each other's head,

and birds sitting in nests,

shaking off songs.

In front of us, towards the south,

is the country

where we shall live,

as much as our eyes can see!

In a feast like

people rising in flowers

of hearts

and voices' warmth up to the sun.


How to put life in a flower?

How to live as if a tree?

This land is growing into us,

poems of clay and blood!

Oh, country, I long festively for you

and hang verse on the branch.

Oh, country, I long festively for you!

We all live in the same love.


They went to ring my

extinguishing. Life still hangs

on the body, as immune rugs.

I live under a vetust cap.

They went to ring my

extinguishing. Three years they kept me by force

to go through my probation period.

This past is present

in their minds.

Three years they kept me by force

to go through my probation period.

From now on, they should leave me

left in peace!


In front of the mirror, she is braiding her innocence,

her dreams. And is waiting,

waiting to put kisses to her lips.

- You are more winter than snow,

and your hair is more night,

the man told her,

and with a hand, took her from out the mirror.

She came out in love with only herself;

she came to put kisses to her lips.

Breasts like a saw cut through the air,

cut his looks

and everything in their way.

- You are snow like winter,

and you are night as hair,

he shouted to her,

and the other hand

pushed her back

through the mirror.


The poet lights a candle

in his mind,

and it burns, burning there

with a flame.

Through his eyes, two sparrows

free their beaks.

He writes, and from his mouth,

letters flow on the body.

His mind grows pale,

of blue,

such that inside can be seen the hills,

the valleys and fields;

inside can be seen the thoughts,

swarming like ants.

Still, the poet writes, but before writing,

passes the words through fire.


I have healed my things of eyes

of heart

of hands

and of legs,

and I wanted to go out somewhere,

outside of time -

to recreate myself.

- The most free of all is the falling,

they told me. No one stops you;

you can fall as much as you want -

and where you want to.

- And the most known of al is the pain,

I told them. No one smiles at you;

they all hurt you - I further told them -

and got out somewhere,

outside of time -

to dream.

(Romanian 'Convergencies,' 1984-5 (?), London)


The apple tree in the yard

is hanging on the ground

like a dead bird

and stuffed.

The apple tree in the yard

is hanging on the ground

like a dead bird

and stuffed.

In the morning, the watering can

is passed,

watering us with dreams.

People wake and wash their


to their waist.

It can be heard, time coming in a rush,

like a steam engine.

People wash their souls.

Therefore, let is start ahead

with the head,

before being late.

Let's walk, our foreheads

fixed to the clock -

according to the stars.


Now the clouds are sky tears,

dry sky tears.

The torn branches hang

like kids with their throats taken out.

The bats are coming.

The bats are coming.

And the time (Oh, the time this time!)

is flowing unto us,


- Come in the house, my chickens,

I shout to the eyes, to the ears,

to the road cable and bricks.

I shout to the lost thoughts

among mud.

- Come in the house, my chickens.


I was born in a single name,

to write W R I T I N G.

And before the word

- with my forehead in hand -

I make a round through the soul.

I have so many,

I am ion, marin, alexandru, george,

todor, valentin,

dan, laurentiu, ovidiu, florentin.

I am a thousand of one,

and I wonder on Country roads.

My biography will be completed by the grass,

which grows over my tomb.


The roses shake off the thoughts -

Autumn is a lung from which we sigh.

We sit at the table with dreams.

The things begin and end within us,

with a question mark.

The snails put locks at the door -

the clock purring like a cat -

the adverts keep words hung

on the strangling rope...

This is the state of things: each one

as can make it.

My songs bump into critics

and get covered with blood.

I put my head to the night

to hear the wet music of the drizzle.


October. The trees take off their shoes

in the grass.

In the grapes, it starts getting dark:

October. The trees take off their shows

in the grass.

The sky is flowing through birds towards...

People stand and hit the stars

with their fists.

Their ages are measured in ideas.

November. The trees have uttered their

last words.

The actor grows numb backstage.

November. The trees have uttered their

last words.

The town is sleeping, sleeping under

the dreams.

The poets are playing at the control panel

of the stars.

They are playing, divinely, like children.


I, Son of God,

Gheorghe Smarandache,

I kindly ask you, allow me to enter, too,

in the history of literature


in the history of mathematics.



I have lived the chair, the table,

the room in which I have lived.

I have anguished the cabinet and

the bed-side lamp

when they knew me.

And I have written up to my eyes,

up to my forehead

and beyond me.



It is warm, and the rivers are melting

like honey.

The waters take our looks to the valley,

to the valley -

close to far away.

The trees are growing full of milk.

On the sun's head grow leaves,

as to a Roman emperor.

And from the snowplows, we tear only the snow,

and we wash our hands,

yes, we wash our heads, with light.




Give me a point of leaning in poetry,

and I will highlight the darkness.

(only at night do I feel myself -

the one of everyday.)

Sometimes, I feel the content of my

discontent -

I act according to the non-conformism.

I am an I, then I am not.

Come on.

In all, what will we do, to make poetry?



Be on your measure:

a big wolf of the sea.

The Danube's water level continues to grow,

with us drowned.

You remain on your measure:

a big wolf of the sea.

Prepare yourself physically for the psychiatric test.

The grass is raw, the dew is raw.

You be raw (cruel) as well!

The good begins with bad.

The way to Eden through Hades.

(This poem, by the end, remains just begun)

October, 1981


I leave you with the poems. Feel through me!

I have achieves this volume in three years,

but read it in T E N!

It is a hut from the outside,

and maybe a castle inside.

(this volume holds connections

with the earth!)

The book has me between its covers -

but now it is in its agony: