Sleeping voyage

„Resting”, oil on wood, 40x 35,5 cm (each)

The country is changing,
its modernity is broken in leaps and bounds.
Immensity overflows his solitude.
Romanians grow longing for heights.

The completely dry wooden church
shouting for their believers, who squeeze ideas.
through virtual bottles with chip in clairvoyance
children are adopted, values have no keys.

There is barbed wire in the eyes of the old,
curses sliding from the mind on the knife…
An unsown field Hell shows us:
how the saw kills the singing wood.

In the sleep of travelers the valley is deep,
the flash of splendor climbed a ladder.
From the fertile chaos still blooms – a rock,
good luck with a violin song…

Victoria Fătu Nalațiu

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

Once a reporter…

… will remain a reporter for the rest of his life. It’s a chronic disease. You are invited to an event and you automatically start looking for the details behind what „everyone sees”. What could call for attention at a book presentation?

First the environment: usually an institution or association, coordinated by the town hall or county council and 1-2 companies (sponsors). What was different in Dej on February 24? The organizer was the author himself, Istvan Horvat, who simply invited us to a restaurant, accompanied by the publisher of the book, H. Szabo Gyula. Why did I notice this detail? As it seems essential to me, I was grateful that I was not forced to listen to 3-4 boring and pointless speeches by the officials present, based on protocol, on the contrary, the attention went straight to the book and its author, the main characters of the evening, but which in other circumstances he would have been lost among so many v.i.p.s.


Foto: Peti Luidort

Secondly, the meeting scheduled for 6 o’clock started at 6 and not „sometime, when the boss determines that it would be proper”, and this detail tells me that no „protector” was expected, who would have been upset if the event began before his arrival, an old weakness from the gallery of complex social relations. The editor contented himself with asking a few questions strictly about the book, did not present us, as usual, the entire editorial plan and did not come with 2-3 other books, maybe these will sell as well.

Detail 3: the book sold really well, proof that the guests came to buy the book and not for treats and other attentions, even if the meeting took place in a restaurant. On the tables, a few bottles of soft drinks that each of them bought from the bar. Did it work? Yes, here it did.

Detail 4: the supposed readers had an applied dialogue with the author who did not feel the need to bring „stars” from the capital, stars who usually do not read the book and only speak in generalities, but who, as some believe, give the event a shine. The political party that you would have expected to  campaign was also missing, as well as the church (Catholic and Reformed), and I want to tell you that this did not in any way hinder the success of the evening.

Foto: Peti Luidort

I can’t write anything about the book yet, it takes me at least a week to read a book, I admire those who have the exegesis at hand right at the start, I admire them but I don’t follow their example. I wrote these lines with the intention of arguing against the prejudice concerning the lack of interest in reading and reminding anyone that readers usually react to how authors behave in relation to them.


Decaffeinating hypoalcoholemia

To Toni Chira, with hope

the news just breaking in say

horrible weather stays ahead

don’t leave your children outdoors to dream

they could be filled to the brim with melancholy

they could become infected with rancid sentimentality

they could drown from in a rough wind

or get carried away while they’re sick

delirious seahorse studs

wallpaper on their green skull

like moss growing on hospital walls.

the news just breaking in say

what a possessed time awaits us

do not let your children be born

they could be contaminated with illusions to the point of wasting away

they could get used to censored poetry

they could sniff each other out

or get the idea to revolt

hating edited family photos

upholstering their school years

like broken stained glass windows in abandoned churches.

better cover yourselves with the glory of ashes

lock yourselves in houses as paradigmatic snails

pull the blinds like sirens of memories

and abort yourselves into the future internet.

Marius Buculei


If you ask me how I’m doing,
I am standing on a railing, somewhere on any floor of a very tall building,
people seem small in perspective,
I’m rocking back and forth
in an unnatural, undecided balance;
when I lean forward I go backwards
and when I lean back, I’m pushed forward,
a chaotic balance,
with an unforeseen end by the thoughts that fly at every swing in the opposite direction,
only the hands, the robotic ones,
my grip on the railing, desperately strong,
is drawing their blood,
a stranger to my blood
undecided whether, at the last balance,
they’ll pull me off the railing
floating in the void
in a smooth flight, like that of paper airplanes,
down to the little people
smaller than the drops of blood from hands that labor in vain,
or, with a last effort, they will disperse me,
like a shower of dandelion flakes,
back to what I know

Dora Budăcean

Mocasinii Araniei

Vechii indieni,
Cei care ni l-au dăruit
Pe mult iubitul
Aveau o vorbă:
”O călătorie,
Oricât de lungă ar fi,
Începe cu primul pas.”
… și tot ei spuneau:
”nu judeca pe nimeni
Pînă ce nu ai parcurs
O mie de mile
În mocasinii lui.”
Așadar, Arania
A făcut primul pas.
Iar mocasinii noștrii
Sunt disponibili
Pentru a fi încălțați.

La cumpăna dintre lumi

„Cantitatea, indiferent de valoare, dovedeşte totuşi bogăţia râvnei creatoare. Înainte de a alege, trebuie să ai din ce anume să alegi. Cantitatea devine astfel premisa calităţii. Bogăţia cantitativă permite o mai îngrijită selecţie calitativă.”

(Andrei Moldovan, Scriitori din Bistrița-Năsăud, dicționar critic, Ed. Școala Ardeleană, Cluj, 2018)

Dar cum alegem? Criteriul pe care îl propunea Andrei Moldovan în Dicționarul apărut în 2018 era „prezența în revistele consacrate”, acestea fiind cele care se bucurau de girul USR.  Mai este girul Uniunii o garanție, în contextul în care Uniunea însăși este contestată iar nu toți contestatarii sunt veleitari? Procedura de validare nu contituie fondul problemei, la fel cum USR nu este un reper de neînlocuit. Problema este distanțarea până la înstrăinare a validărilor „consacrate”, sprijinite de girul unor instituții solide sau reviste agreate de aceste instituții, deci a trendului oficial din literele românești de judecata publicului. Nici asta nu ar fi problema din urmă dacă nu i-ai citi tocmai pe „consacrați” care se plâng că „lumea nu mai citește”. Dacă nu scrii pentru lume, nu doar pentru lume, dar și pentru lume, această lume va sesiza că nu este băgtă în seamă și îsi va vedea de viața ei în altă parte.  Oferte sunt din belșug în lumea noastră dominată de audiovizual.

Să ne reamintim de munca temeinică și constantă a regretatului Andrei Moldovan, care astăzi ar fi împlinit 75 de ani și să-i cinstim memoria printr-un efort: acela de a coborâ literele din turnul de fildeș al cenaclurilor, societătilor și revistelor în stradă, acolo unde traiesc semenii noștri.

La cumpăna dintre lumi stă întotdeauna o opțiune.