Fata Morgana, gangs and literary politics. The songs of Father Ilarie

Politically speaking, yes, indeed, politically speaking any speculation is possible, and it can be consumed, either cold or hot, or wrapped in smoke, in the smoke of delusions, just as in the desert there are all kinds of optical illusions- like Morgana. In literature, mixtures, combinations, the desire to do everything and be in everything has always been the outspoken desire of some and the idiotic achievement of others. They „write” a lot, after all, some write according to rules, all kinds of rules, and the tribes I was talking about last Tuesday seem more and more determined to impose their literary will at the expense of the other’s.
If readers were not on the verge of extinction, that is, if there were readers, people with aesthetic, refined tastes (as Walt Whitman said, you cannot have a great poet without a great audience), and if public money would be taken out of the game, and by that, implicitly, the choruses and political commemorations (and not only), thanks to which some become „living classics”, while valuable writers are ignored, starting the next day, not only „the charts ” of literature would change radically, no longer mentioning the current “geniuses” (decided by the gang, whose members, of course, are all “geniuses” – according to the “value gap” I mean you or me) until the end of the world , but immediately the gangs, the opportunists, the sinecures, the non-values, the impostors, the swindlers, the number of literary magazines, the publishing houses, the literary staff, the uplifting strings, the hierarchical fraternities – all, and still others, ceased to exist as „value criteria”.
As long as Romanian literature revolves around the public spending, it exists by means of it, any „change” will only be a change of gangs (as it was until now), because most of the writers (actually the vast majority) are not bothered by the evil in the literary world, but by the fact that they are not co-opted into that scheme able to bring them advantages, glory, money, positions, credentials of „genius”, etc.
„At the limit, when we all become writers, no one will be a writer anymore. Logical and sad. Logical.”, I conclude with the words of Don Zorin. Good, true and fair saying.
I told you that I also publish my literary productions here –

Poems or a kind taken from the volume Night Psalms. The Songs of Father Iliarie: Poems About Men and Rabbits.


We, Ilarie, took this suitcase, like a disease we took it
It came with him, it came with her, and near God it turned warm
With that train, with that bent rear train, I left with Him, I lifted the suitcase, like a buoy I lifted it, higher, still higher I lifted it, but it fell on our face, like an unexpected death, O wing-of-mercy why didn’t you come?
Around the mulled wine, around the mulled wine, we, Ilarie, saw how the railroad workers carry suitcases, one by one, they carry suitcases
of derailed travelers
At the ticket office there is silence, silence is heard, one by one
The old baggage is dead, and our shriveled and mean mistresses hold them, hold them
Then, then I said to God: We would have lifted up, Lord, those stones to throw them
We would have lifted, but with these hands of clay, with these hands of clay we have to be only what we are
With the first train, with the first train, we Ilarie, we didn’t leave
At the ticket office the voices fell on the broken mosaic of the waiting room
Like some trumpets of Jericho, they announced the departure of our old mistresses
Then it became cold near God
We, Ilarie, leave this second suitcase to the maid, our hot-headed gypsy,
We leave the second suitcase with everything in it, because we liked all of Her
We, Ilarie, think we can sit by the grave behind the station
This is because the railroadworkers and maids talk to God more often, this fact is known, more often and better, we think, Ilarie
But only when God is not angry
We just left, we bought this ticket Ilarie, we just left because the maid told us Nine, the maid told us Nine: The station is closing, the station is closing with a lock
And the suitcases, not claimed like solitudes
They will hang, so they will hang, and We, Ilarie, will gather them one by one
And we will take them to a green place where they will hang
We, Ilarie, know this: how is hanging done? Only after the coachman has left to take away the old mistresses
To look for water in the plain behind the Station, because there was a storm near God
There was a storm, water, water everywhere, we Ilarie saw and met the mermaid, we met the mermaid
I also lifted the second suitcase, a little higher than the first one, but it fell
It fell on our other cheek
And it became all night

Alin Cordoș

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