Famine Emigrant Family, Sculpture detail, Custom House Quay, Dublin, Ireland, (copyright photo by Phil Pix 9with permission)

Famine in  19th century Ireland and in 1980s Romania: The emigrant sculptures are in memory of the native Irish who were forced into emigration during the Great Famine years due to ‘the potato blight’ which caused the rural population either to face starvation, or emigrate. Between 1845 and 1852  many people died and over a million left Ireland to escape starvation. The departure point with their few possessions was the nearby Dublin Docks, from where departed the steam boats to Liverpool . From there, many traveled on to New York to seek a new beginning in the United States. During the Irish potato famine the Romanian foreign minister Vasile Alecsandri (1821-1890), who met PM Gladstone offered to donate  a cargo of corn maize to  alleviate the  Irish famine: although corn flower was a main staple diet in rural Romania, this was completely unknown in Ireland (…): It is not recorded  if the offer was accepted and if it was what the Irish  made of it.

It is ironic that only four generations on from the Irish famine, during the 1980’s Romania which only a century earlier,  under the Ottomans, was considered the ‘granary of Europe’ fell under a ruthless dictatorship of the cobbler President Nicolae Ceausescu and as a direct consequence of it Romania’s population  was brought to near starvation by the communist  leader’s drive to pay off immediately the country’s foreign debts, This was incurred due  to an unsustainable forced  industrialization which was carried out by importing foreign technology and know-how resulting in a huge national debt. To repay it the bulk of Romanian home-produced foodstuff went to export, whilst the native population went hungry, reduced to eating chicken claws and knuckles, after queuing for long hours at state-owned shops, hoping to get something to eat: milk, eggs, meat were unobtainable and oil, butter, bread were rationed. To make things worse Ceausescu embarked on a nation-wide scale redevelopment which involved demolishing historic city centres to have them replaced by high-rise blocks of flats (of sardine-can size) to cram in the dislodged population.

The Poem “Exile” and the “Metaphysical Cat” respectively, by Marin Sorescu, are inspired by the grim reality lived by starving Romanians in general and the the inhabitants of Bucharest in particular, who were given only 72 hours notice before the bulldozers moved in to flatten their homes, to make room for Ceausescu’s megalomaniac Palace (the second largest in the world, built in 1980s -see photo blow). Out of a population of 22 millions several hundred thousand of ethnic  Germans emigrated to West Germany, during the 1970s and 1980s leaving empty once thriving historic towns and villages. Likewise the nearly one-million strong Romanian Jewish population  migrated to Israel during Ceausescu’s passport-for-dollars policy which brought much-needed hard currency but deprived the country of skilled professionals. Yet this was nothing compared to the bulk emigration of ethnic Romanians which was yet to follow:  millions of Romanians  fled the country before and especially after the dictator’s death, in 1989, to seek their fortune abroad. The fall of communism enhanced rather than put a stop to emigration, particularly of the young and the able-bodied skilled labourer and professionals, as the old mentality and bureaucratic control  perpetuated in the shape of a privatised Communism.

Romania has a declining demography with an increasing aged population.

EXIL

Au inflorit cartofii in Marmatia

si voi tocmai acum plecati spre sud

cind ceru-i aiurit si descusut

cind se confunda bocetul cu natia ?

Veti inventa durerea ca o tara

poate veti da peste-un mormant mai cald…

Scobim scobim cartofii de smarald,

saracii mei cartofi de piatra rara.

Ce zeu pastrat in saramuri celeste

ar fi dispus din nou sa ne adune ?

La noi la voi e plans de-ngropaciune

la voi la noi e-un capat de poveste

EXILE

As the potato flowers are in bloom
You take the road which ever us do part?
Now that the sky is gray and overcast
And tears confound the country and the doom?

The grief will be for you the new abode
Perhaps a warmer grave and newer ethos
We shall unearth those emerald potatoes
Those precious stones dug out from where we hoed.

What kind of God preserved in secret heavens
May still be glad to gather our bones
With you, with us we cry on our tombs
With you with us a story ends in ruins.

Translated from Romanian by Constantin ROMAN (London SW1, 25 June 2006)

Ceausescu's Folly built in the 1980s for which 40% of downtown historical Bucharest had been demolished

These are the ruins of the historical and residential centre of Bucharest, capital of Romania, during the 1980s. On the horizon, looming large is the largest building site in Europe making room for the second largest building in the world (after the Pentagon).
This was to become a monument to the glory of Nicolae Ceausescu, crowning thirty years of absolute power over a nation of over 20 millions.
People were given 72 hours to move out of their houses only to be crammed into concrete brutalist buildings on the outskirts of the city. In the process they abandoned in the street furniture and excess chattels as well as their pets: this accounts for the huge canine population of Bucharest which plagues the city well into the 21st century.
———————-
In a society which went through this trauma and now is subjected to a pre-programmed amnesia it may not be surprising that such memories are relegated to oblivion. There is even evidence of self-denial – making it all look that the ‘epoch’ (sic) of Nicolae Ceausescu was a “happy one” and that the brutalist building we see here being erected at a tremendous human sacrifice (like the pyramids) should become a ’symbol’ of Romania (like Dracula!) and be considered to be a “monument of architecture”…

What we see before our eyes it is an act of deliberate and wanton cultural genocide – the razing of memory and of Romania’s past.
Historic churches (including the Vacaresti Monastery) were demolished and others were partially destroyed (Antim Monastery the Mihai Voda monastery) or “moved” to a new location (the Mihai Voda monastery church and scores of other churches moved and hidden from view behind brutalist concrete buildings).

Here was the historic downtown made of leafy neighbourhoods with ‘fin de siecle’ architecture of a charm which deserved the name of “Petit Paris” – alas no more – what was once “Little Paris” can be surmised only in the pages of impressions by Patrick Leigh Fermor, Satcheverell Sitwell, Olivia Manning, Marthe Bibesco, Matyla Ghyka or Paul Morand…
A Swiss 21st c visitor calls Bucharest a “Cannibal city” disfigured by billboards and crowded with ugly uninspired glass and steel architecture completely out of character with the city.

——————————————–
Mircea Dinescu: “THE METAPHYSICAL CAT” (“PISICA METAFIZICA”)

Poet’s NOTE:

Once upon a time, when we kept our sharp claws hidden in a velvet paw, an anonymous cat taught the Romanians a splendid lesson of Dignity: during a working visit on the Cathedral Hill in Bucharest, the “Most Beloved Son of the People”, accompanied by Raven, his favoured Labrador dog (Corbul – a present from the British Liberal party leader the Right Honourable the Lord David Steel of Aikwood, n.t.), descended from his official limo in order to admire the bulldozers inflicting a Hiroshima-like destruction to a historical residential neighborhood in downtown Bucharest. In the meantime a lone cat, which just lost its masters, was sitting on a pile of rubble, surveying like an omen the ruined housing estate, apparently defiant of the official visitor who just arrived.
At this point, Colonel Raven – because in those days all dogs belonging to the Comrade had grades, made a run for the ancient goddess, being encouraged to the task by its master. As it happened, just when action was meant to reach its climax, a lightning of claws emerged from the fur ball resulting in a fountain of blood and squeals. Uncle Nick flabbergasted by the shame inflicted on his gun dog, ordered his praetorian guard: “You catch that cat!”
In disdain, the culprit which was guilty of the punishable offense of undermining the national security, made itself scarce under a fallen fence and the lads sweated it out until late at night chasing up the illusory ghost of the cat, through the ossuary of a neighborhood, which only fourtyeight hours earlier was full of life and smelling the scent of lilac trees in bloom.
A few years later as a homage to this feline dissident master I wrote the following poem:

“THE METAPHYSICAL CAT”

(Pisica metafizica)

You catch that cat, shouted the Regent,
For it the Law can’t be so linient,
The foreign cat which does not give a dime
The Balkan cat, illegal and supine
Politically incorrect feline -
The hungry Balkan cat!
The metaphysics cat in search of trysts
Congenitally anti-communist
Consumerist who never tried alone
To strip a salmon fillet off the bone
Who never listened to the BBC
Who never went to Harrods for a spree.
How come that we inherited such cat?
Maybe from sermons of Adam Bhayat?
Or was it from some petty bourgeois gal
As surely not from the Neanderthal?
For Goodness’ sake do something with that cat!
Do kill it with a stroke of cricket bat
The Government will surely not complain
So long as it will not affect its gain
The bad-luck, idle cat and poor achiever
Which purrs and purrs whilst you all slog like beaver
Its languid manner shows its true disdain…
You Celtic ancestors, in overalls,
Do come and rescue us, heed our calls!

(Translated from Romanian by Constantin ROMAN, London SW1, June 2006)

PISICA METAFIZICA
de Mircea DINESCU
(Gandul, II, nr.329, Bucharest, 30 Mai 2006)

Pe vremea cand noi înca aveam ghearele îmbracate în catifea, o pisica anonima a oferit o frumoasa lectie de demnitate poporului român.

Aflat într-o vizita de lucru pe Dealul Mitropoliei, cel mai iubit fiu al poporului, însotit de cîinele favorit pe nume Corbu, s-a dat jos din limuzina sa admire joaca buldozeristilor „de-a bomba de la Hiroshima” din cartierul Uranus.

Pe o gramada de moloz, o pisica ramasa fara stapan veghea ca un duh al caselor demolate, ignorand parca voit alaiul oficial. Colonelul Corbu – caci ai cainii din preajma tovarasului aveau grade – s-a repezit spre zeitatea antica, încurajat de stapan, numai ca, în clipa fatala, un fulger de gheare izbucnit din ghemul îmblanit a transformat botul fiarei într-o fantana arteziana de sange si schelalaituri.

Atunci nea Nicu, îngrozit ca odorul sau a patit o asemenea rusine, a strigat catre garda pretoriana: „Prindeti pisica!”

Infractoarea ce adusese atingere sigurantei nationale s-a furisat însa dispretuitoare pe sub un gard prabusit, iar baietii au transpirat zadarnic, pîna pe înserat, fugarind stafia pisicii prin osuarul unui cartier care cu cateva zile înainte era înca viu si mirosea a liliac înflorit.

Profesoarei de disidenta felina i-am dedicat eu, cativa ani mai tarziu, acest poem omagial:

PISICA METAFIZICA
de Mircea DINESCU

Prindeti pisica!, a strigat regentul,
Pisica ce sfideaza Parlamentul
Pisica hamesita din Balcani,
Ca-i apolitica si ilegala
si fara buletin de Capitala,
Pisica hamesita din Balcani.
Pisica metafizica si trista
Prin nastere cam anticomunista?,
Cu gena dintr-o lume de consum,
N-a dezbracat în viata ei vreun peste
N-a cumparat jurnal în frantuzeste
Si nici gumari din magazinul Gum.
De unde dracu’ am mostenit pisica?
Din neorealismul lui De Sica?
Din mediul mic-burghez?
Din Neanderthal?
Faceti ceva! Dati-i în cap cu steagul
Caci nu va protesta areopagul
Din gaurile lui de cascaval.
Ea cîntareste lumea doar cu ochii
Ea poarta ghinionul precum popii
Ea toarce-n vreme ce voi toti munciti,
Lingoarea ei s-a cam mutat în lucruri,
Extrageti sabia din strung si pluguri
Voi, traci în salopete, si voi, sciti!

Vintila HORIA (1915, Romania-1992, Spain)

Vintila HORIA (1915, Romania – 1992, Spain)

(Poet, Novelist  Diplomat, WWII concentration camp Detainee, Exile, Academic, Winner of the  1960 Goncourt Literary Prize)

Écrivain français d’origine roumaine (Segarcea, Roumanie, 1915 — Madrid, 1992).  Son œuvre en langue roumaine ainsi que ses écrits en français, Journal d’un paysan du Danube (1966) ou Persécutez Boèce (1987), entre autres, sont marqués par le thème de l’exil auquel il a été lui-même confronté durant presque toute sa vie pour son opposition au régime communiste et son anti-soviétisme. Une campagne politique acèrbe menée par les milieux communistes en France, inspirés par les services secrets Roumains le contraignit à refuser en 1960 le prix Goncourt pour son roman Dieu est né en exil.

DEDICATION (Horia Vintila)

Through streets of Babylon I look confused

For Thee my Lord to come in your pursuit

My voice is hoarse and broken like a lute

Which lost its soul for being over used.

For Thee, my Lord, I search in vain the mornings

At crossroads laden with the traffic warnings

My restless body tired without reason

Through hints of winter and of barren season.

You see, my Lord? To cope I do not seem

As you elude me through this tangled maize

Give me a sign to dedicate in praise

My heavy pen, my poem and my dream.

Do steel my voice and make the strings resound

My  forehead with Thy gentle hands surround

To place me on the whiteness of the page

And live again Thy spirit as a sage.

Rendered in English by Constantin ROMAN

(all rights reserved, 2009)

Inchinare   (Horia VINTILA)

Prin targuri, Doamne, sufletul mi-alunec
Si printre oameni in zadar Te caut.
Mi-e glasul rupt si ragusit: un flaut
Cu sufletul rapus de prea mult cantec.

Te-astept in dimineti intunecate,
Prin zgomotul rascrucilor umblate
Si-am obosit de cand Te caut Doamne,
Prin zvon de ierni si prin uscate toamne.

Nu vezi? Sunt singur si prea greu mi-e scrisul
De-a nu Te fi-ntalnit pe nici o cale.
Da-mi semn sa-nchin Minunatiile Tale,
Condeiul greu, poemele si visul.

Fa-mi glasul drept si coardele sonore,
Cuprinde-mi fruntea-n maini de aurore
Si lasa-ma pe albul unei pagini
Sa ma culeg sfios dintre paragini.

NOTE: The English version of this poem is to be found in the forthcoming  Anthology of Romanian Poetry in Translation:

Traducerea in Engleza face parte din Antologia intitulata “Poeme Razlete – Random Poems”, de Constantin ROMAN, editata de “Centre for Romanian Studies (London)”

“Poeme Razlete” – “Random Poems” by Constantin ROMAN, edited by the Centre for Romanian Studies (London)

—————————————————————————————————————

Small SELECTION from the 160 Women featured in this Anthology:
ARISTOCRATS: Pss Catherine Caradja, Pss Marina Stirbey,

BALLERINAS: Alina Cojocaru, Magdalena Popa, Ruxandra Racovitza

COSTUME & STAGE DESIGNERS: Marie Jeanne Lecca, Maria Prodan Bjornson,

COURTESANS: Pss Georges Ghika (Liane de Pougy), Elena Lupescu
DESIGNERS: Mica Ertegün
EXPLORERS: Lady Florence Baker
GYMNASTS: Nadia Comaneci
MOVIE STARS: Lauren Bacall, Aurora Fulgida, Maria Forescu, Nadia Grey, Elvire Popesco, Silvia Sidney
OPERA: Maria Cebotari, Viorica Cortez, Ileana Cotrubas, Angela Gheorghiu, Nelly Miricioiu, Leontina Vaduva, Virginia Zeani
PAINTERS: Ioana Celibidache, Nathalie Dumitresco, Micaela Eleutheriade
PIANISTS: Cella Delavrancea, Clara Haskil, Madeleine Lipatti
POETS: Ana Blandiana, Nina Cassian, Anna de Noailles, Helene Vacaresco
POLITICAL PRISONERS: Ioana Arnautoiu, Madeleine Cancicov, Ana Novac, Elisabeta Rizea, Annie Samuelli, Sabina Wurmbrand
POLITICIANS; Elena Ceausescu, Hortense Cornu, Ana Pauker
REVOLUTIONARIES: Maria Grant Rosetti,
ROYALTY: Carmen Sylva, Pss Ileana, Archduchess of Austria, Queen Marie, Pss of Great Britain, Queen Anna, Pss of Denmark and of Bourbon-Parme, Helen Queen Mother of Romania, Pss of Greece,
SCIENTISTS: Ana Aslan, Ioana Meitani, Elisabeth Roudinesco
STAGE & COSTUME DESIGNERS: Maria Bjornson, Marie-Jeanne Lecca
VIOLINISTS: Lola Bobescu, Silvia Marcovici
WRITERS: Elizabeth Asquith Bibesco, Marthe Bibesco, Alina Diaconu, Dora d’Istria, Marie-France Ionesco, Rodica Iulian, Doina Jela, Oana Orlea,

WHAT THE READERS SAY:

* “It is a Herculean Work…” (Editor, Buenos Aires)

* “It is beautifully written, meticulously researched and presented. It is accessible to the lay reader and will be a treasure-trove for further research by academics drawn from a wide range of disciplines ” (Political Analyst, Edinburgh)

* “For those who think that Romania is nothing more than Dracula and Ceausescu, the book has a lot to teach you… ‘ (IT geek, London)

* “Constantin Roman invites us for a walk, during which he enjoins past and present alike, in a brisk coming and going of the narrative. It is a narrative that cannot suddenly end, but rather one which compels us to start all over again and revisit. It is a truly wonderful gift, a very happy surprise indeed of an inherently original book, which haunts us like the persistent music of those Romanian women’s voices.” (French Government Adviser, Paris)

* There is no doubt, what-so-ever, that if Romania is the creation of a male society as well as of political conjectures, its place in the Western European psyche is entirely due to its women, who knew how to impose their reputation in the aristocratic salons of Paris, in the world of literature, or in the English clubs so intimately linked to politics. For “Blouse Roumaine” is an incursion charged with passion, which conjures varied names, such as Queen Marie of Romania, Countess Anna de Noailles, the Princess Bibesco, or the actress Elvire Popesco, not forgetting the diabolic Ana Pauker and Elena Ceausescu.” (Art Historian, Paris)

* “… an audaceeous choice…” (Reader, France)

* “So long as the masculine and the feminine are not absolutely complementary notions in terms of fair percentages, it is a good idea to write a book about Romanian Women of World repute.” (Novelist, Argentina)

* “… it represents the idea of metamodernism as cultural paradigm to an alternative synthesis of modern and postmodern paradigms” (Researcher, New Zealand)

* …an easy book, which offered me, at least, the joy of reading an interesting, well-documented Anthology, without being bored.” (Scientist, U.S.A)

* “… your book is an overwhelming, gift…. a signal act of culture, an acknowledgment of the Romanian culture and spirit. It makes us a proud as a people, as it places us at a higherlevel, a step, closer to the skies which we are trying to reach because we think we deserve it, yet somehow, something is always in the way to pull us back. …

But you have attempted a huge step forward and we cannot but wonder how and by what means of inspiration…. what may be the source of your indomitable strength and perseverance? You must be blessed with the enlightenment of those Romanians and other people beyond who feel close to us and embody the Romanian spirit.” (Romanian Reader, U.S.A.)

ORDER:

http://www.blouseroumaine.com/buy-the-book/index.html

William B Yeats (1865-1939)

Amurgul intra-n Lissadell

Prin geamuri de la miaza zi

Doua papusi cu ochii vii

Recita versuri de rondel.

Dar coasa Toamnei necrutate

Rapune floarea de pe camp;

Cea mare-n temnita zacand

Ani grei – o viata fara parte,

Urzind tot felul si de toate.

Mezinei nu-i cunosc ce gand

Utopic se destrama-n vant,

Caricatura tineretii incercate,

De serbede, desarte idealuri.

Adeseori evoc acel tumult

In mintea lor, de timpuri de demult,

De casa parinteasca dintre dealuri

Imagini frante din acel

Taram sfiintit al tineretii

Doua papusi cu ochii vii

Recita versuri de rondel.

Voi sfinte umbre de efemeride,

Ce lupte serbede v-au incercat

Cu binele sau raul ati luptat

Nevinovate si splendide.

Sa n-aveti alt dusman decat uitarea;

Sa inviati s-aprind o lumanare

Si inca una, poate si mai mare

Incendiul sa incinga aprig zarea,

In vecii vecilor, amin, traind

Noi inaltat-am, Doamne, un palat,

Invinuiti fiind de un pacat;

Dar eu aprind o candela si-o sting.

[Versiune in limba Romana de Constantin ROMAN

( Constantin Roman © 2009. All Rights Reserved)]

————————————————–

William B Yeats (1865-1939)

William Butler Yeats (by John Singer Sargent)

In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos,both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving Autumn shears
Blossom from the Summer’s wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams-
Some vague Utopia-and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
Pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.

Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.

——————————————————————————

“Con Markiewicz” is Constance Georgina Gore-Booth, Countess Markiewicz, (1868-1927), daughter of Arctic explorer  Henry Gore-Booth, ( 1843-1900) 5th Baronet of Lissadell House, Co Sligo. After many years of neglect the house is now a memorial museum. Although coming from a privileged Anglo-Irish landed family of the “ascendancy” Countess Markiewicz was a fierce militant for the Republican cause and a supporter of Sin Fein, activities for which she was tried and condemned to death, a sentence which was commuted to life imprisonment. After the declaration of Independence of the Republic of Ireland Constance Markiewicz served as a Minister for Labour. Her national funeral was attended by over 300,000 mourners.

William B Yeats (1865-1939) was a friend of the Gore-Booth family and a frequent visitor to Lissadell House. He was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival, and along with Lady Gregory and Edward Martyn founded the Abbey Theatre, and served as its chief during its early years. In 1923, he was awarded a Nobel Prize in Literature for what the Nobel Committee described as “inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation;” and he was the first Irishman so honored. His reply to the many of the letters of congratulations sent to him contained the words: “I consider that this honor has come to me less as an individual than as a representative of Irish literature, it is part of Europe’s welcome to the Free State.

He is buried in Co Sligo.

My Son

Here is his little cambric frock
That I laid by in lavender so sweet,
And here his tiny shoe and sock
I made with loving care for his dear feet.

I fold the frock across my breast,
And in imagination, ah, my sweet,
Once more I hush my babe to rest,
And once again I warm those little feet.

Where do those strong young feet now stand?
In flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain,
Or marching through the desert sand
To some dread place that they may never gain.

God guide him and his men to-day!
Though death may lurk in any tree or hill,
His brave young spirit is their stay,
Trusting in that they’ll follow where he will.

They love him for his tender heart
When poverty or sorrow asks his aid,
But he must see each do his part –
Of cowardice alone is he afraid.

I ask no honours on the field,
That other men have won as brave as he –
I only pray that God may shield
My son, and bring him safely back to me!

by Ada Tyrrell (1854-1955)
—————————

Fiul Meu (My Son)

Aici ii tin camasa de copil
Si pantofiorii ce i-am crosetat
In levantica cu parfum  subtil
Cu dorul meu adanc, si neuitat

Ii strang aceste-odoare l-al meu piept
Si imi inchipui micul copilas
Fiind leganat  in somn, incet, incet,
Si incalzindu-i corpul dragalas.
.
Dar azi, unde ti-e trupul de barbat?
Prin ce coclauri fugi neistovit
Sau poate in desertul necrutat
Te-ndrepti spre teluri de necucerit?

Indruma-i, Doamne, pasul in razboi
Caci moartea l-ar tanji necontenit
Curajul lui va fi indemn la toti
Sa il urmeze pana la sfarsit.

Tovarasii de arme, cutezand
In focul luptei sunt uniti cu zmei
Caci datoria e un lucru sfant
Si frica-n san nu-si are locul ei.

Nu ceru-Ti, Doamne, miluiri ceresti
Ce alti viteji ca el le-au meritat.
Doar rogu-Te baiatul sa-mi pazesti
La vatra sa-l intorci nevatamat.

[in Romaneste de Constantin Roman, August 2009-August 2010,
din originalul in limba engleza a poetei Ada TYRRELL (1854-1955)]

(Romanian  translation Copyright 2010: Constantin ROMAN)

——————————————

Dublin-born Ada Tyrrell was a life-long friend of George Bernard Shaw. She was the wife of the distinguished Trinity College Dublin classic scholar and Regius Professor of Greek, Robert Yelverton Tyrell (1844-1914).

She was a great society hostess in Dublin, reputed for her intellect, beauty and goodness which made her Dublin Salon sought  by the great and the good of the time:  politicians, artists,  literati.

DE LA ANTIPOZI

Ma darui Frumosului
Ca norul – vantului
Ca somnul desteptarii
Ca noaptea – zorilor

Nu pot lega vantul
Nu pot scapa desteptarii
Zorilor nu ma pot ascunde

Sa te intrezaresc, numai, de as putea
Prin globul de sticla
Prin oceane
In loc sa scriem scrisori
Sa indreptam privirile, numai, de am putea

De la antipozi
Si prin cele doua mari

Sa privim in ochii nostri
Tu de la Est

Si eu de la Vest
Universul este transparent.

(In Romanian by Constantin ROMAN, published in: Luceafarul,, IX, 5 (164), pp.12. Bucharest, 25th February 1965)

Josef Ozga MICHALSKI, Poland (1919-2002)

TE-AS GASI

Sa te ascunda marea
Intr-o cochile,
Te-as gasi
Langa grauntele de nisip.
Sa te ascunda visul
Intr-o furtuna,
Te-as gasi
Langa picatura de ploaie.
Sa te ascunda moartea
In tarana,
Te-as gasi
Langa steaua ce cade.

(In roamaneste de Constantin ROMAN,
Tribuna, 30, 29th July 1965, Cluj)

Josef Ozga MICHALSKI, Poland (1919-2002)

LINISTE

Linistea invaluie capul
Ca o uzina construita
Fara gand indaratul peretilor sai.
Ca si cum un ghioc
Ar fi cantat o arie
Ca si cum in miezul Pamantului
S-ar fi copt seminte de mar
Ca si cum Dumnezeu s-ar fi invoit
Sa taca la sfarsitul lumii.

(In roamaneste de Constantin ROMAN,
Bucuresti 1965)

Josef Ozga MICHALSKI, Poland (1919-2002)

CALARIND IN SAUA CONSTELATIILOR

Plopii temerilor
Sustin boltile maniei
Vantul navaleste in sicriul mut al tacerii
Spaima intra
In gura abisului
Pamantul-armasar
In ieslea Soarelui
Devoreaza pleava vremii
Stropita de ploaie
Cosmonauti stau in saua constelatiilor
Si inconjoara
Palatul lui Dumnezeu.

(In roamaneste de Constantin ROMAN,
Bucuresti 1965)

Josef Ozga MICHALSKI, Poland (1919-2002)

FII A MEA

Fii vantul meu
Eu nu am busola.
Fii panza mea:
Eu nu am camase.
Fii painea mea:
Eu nu am lanuri.
Fii ziua mea senina:
Eu voi fi norul tau.

(In roamaneste de Constantin ROMAN,
Bucuresti 1965)

Josef Ozga MICHALSKI, Poland (1919-2002)

MAI ADANC CA ADANCURILE

Cate milioane de ani
Am privit in ochii marii
Doar ca sa tea flu pe mal?

Te iubesc mai adanc
Ca adancurile dorite de pesti
Ca inaltul cerurilor de vulturi
Ca noaptea dprita de zori
Si care totusi nu se intalnesc niciodata.

(In roamaneste de Constantin ROMAN,
Bucuresti 1965)

STRAINUL ACESTA (L’ETRANGER D’ICI)

Era dintr-o tara de corsari bigoti
Unde inconstienta era luata drept dogma,
Imbecilul drept stapan
Iar nebunul drept ntelept

Era o tara de lupte inutile
Si de ruini magnifice
O tara mancata de viermi

Cand a vrut sa-si strige mania
Nu i s-a ingaduit sa o faca

De abea l-au lasat sa moara.

(Published under the title “Din poezia Canadiana’, Luceafarul, 19 February 1966, nr 8/199, An IX, Bucharest, 1966)

L’Etranger d’ici

Il etait d’un pays de corsaires devots
Ou l’inconscience etait prise pour le dogme
L’imbecile pour le maitre
Et le malade pour le voyant.

C’etait un pays de lutes inutiles
Et de ruines magnifiques,
Un pays ronge de vermine.

Quand il a voulu crier sa rage
On ne lui a pas permis

C’est a paine qu’on l’a laisse mourir.

INCENDIU (INCENDIE)

Jean-Guy PILON (n. 1930) (Canada)

Am scos din apele repezi
Lemne pretioase
Venite din continente
Pe care timpurile noastre nu le mai cunosc.

Am cules intr-o gradina pustie
O singura floare de praf, fragile,
Protejata de maracini patai de sange.

Am scobit in mijlocul oglinzii
O alveola secreta
Ca sa amestec o picatura de parfum si de lapte de femeie.

Eram prea bogat
Am dat foc casei
Fara sa privesc frumosul incendiu.

Pe cenusa, in curand rece,
Vom recladi
Cu o fata noua.

(In romaneste de Constantin ROMAN, Bucuresti, 1965)

MI-AI SPUS (THOU DIDST TELL ME)
Miriam Waddington (Canada)

Nu mai departe decat vara trecuta
Mi-ai spus, dragostea mea,
Te-am ales pe tine, numai pe tine
O, delicatul de-
li-ca-tul zambet tradator al buzelor tale
fermecatoarea minciuna m-a orbit
cu darul si flacara
bucuriei si am fost o neghioaba.

Am fost o neghioaba, cuprinsa de visare
Uluita de timpul acela, inca
Fascinata si ratacind
In murmurul linistit al
Sufletului meu fara experienta
Eram ata de indragostita
Ata de imbatata de\dragoste si dragoste
Si tot mai multa dragoste.

Nu mai departe decat toamna trecuta
mi-ai spus, draga mea.
Iubita mea, te-am ales pe tine
Intotdeauna pe tine, m-ai zalogit
Iubire si-n spatamanile
Cu rosii aripi, fara teama
Am dansat dupa cantecul tau
Si-am pus cununa acestor
Dulci primejdii.

Un an s-a scurs de-atunci
Si mi-ai spus, sotie
Am aflat o alta iubire, si o,
Delicatul, de-
li-ca-tul zambet tradator al gurii tale3
m-a inselat adanc si dureroase
pumnale cioplesc chipul
mortii, am fost ata de neghioaba.

(Published under the title “Din poezia Canadiana’, Luceafarul, 19 February 1966, nr 8/199, An IX, Bucharest, 1966)

Hector de SAINT-DENIS GARNEAU (1912-1943, Quebec, Canada)

PRIMIRE

Eu nu sunt decat ca sa te iubesc
Sa te vad
Si sa imi placa sa te vad.

Eu nu sunt ca sa-ti vorbesc
Nu sunt pentru un schimb de fraze
Gen – ti-am dat ceva, am retinut altceva
Pentru compromiterea insusirilor noastre.

Eu sunt doar ca sa stu ca tu existi
Si sa imi placa sa existi.

Eu nu sunt decat ca sa te iubesc
Sa te primesc
In valea larga a reculegerii mele
Unde vei pasi singura, fara mine
Complet libera.

DOMNUL stie ca vei fi fara teama
Ivaluita de soare
In toata splendoarea florii tale
Si fara vre-un gand ipocrit
In jocul tau.

Vei fi limpede si singura
Ca o floare sub cer
Fara vre-o taina
Fara vre-o ezitare in nobila ta pudoare

Eu voi fi singur la randu-mi
In jurul vaii
Sunt colina desteapta
In jurul vaii
Unde gazela gratiei tale va evolua
In siguranta si puritatea aerului.

Singur la randu-mi voi avea
In fata mea bucuria
Gesturilor tale perfecte
Atitudinii perfect
A singuratatii tale.

Si DOMNUL stie ca tu vei pleca
Asa cum ai venit
Si ca nut e voi mai recunoaste altadata.

Poate ca nici eu nuvoi mai fi atunci singur
Dar valea imi va parea pustie
Si cine imi va vorbi de tine?

(In Romaneste de Constantin ROMAN, 1967)

Hector de SAINT-DENIS GARNEAU (1912-1943, Quebec, Canada)

COMPANIE (ACCOMPAGNEMENT)

Pasesc alaturi de o bucurie
De o bucurie ce nu-mi apartine
De o bucurie a mea ce nu o pot cuprinde.

Pasesc alaturi de mine cu bucurie
Cu bucurie imi ascult pasul ce merge alaturi de mine
Dar nu-mi pot schimba locul pe trotoar
Nu-mi pot pune piciorele in pasii aceia si sa spun: iata-ma, eu sunt acela.

Pe moment sunt multumit de aceasta companie
Dar complotez in taina schimbari
Prin tot felul de operatii, de alchimii,
De transfuzii de sange,
Prin permutari de atomi, prin joc de echilibru.

Astfel ca intr-o zi, odata transpus
Sa fiu purtat de dansul acestor pasi de bucurie
In zgomotul descrescator al pasilor mei alaturi de mine
Cu pierderea pasilor mei pierduti, ce se sting la dreapta mea
Sub pantofii unui strain care trece pe o strada transversala.

(In romaneste de Constantin ROMAN, Bucuresti, 1965)

TO BE UNFAITHFUL TO HER
(Gregory M. COOK, b. 1942, Canada)

To be unfaithful to her
As the sun to the winter
Is to bring an unwept torrent of tears
That wash away our love
As the rain does the snow.

And she becomes a conversation-piece
As the weather to the public
And I become the hero of an epic
Written in the middle of the gossip of a small town.

SA-I FIU INFIDEL
(Gregory M. Cook, b. 1942, Canada)

Sa-I fiu infidel
Asa cum ii este soarele iernii
Inseamna sa provoc un nesecat izvor de lacrimi
Care sa topeasca dragostea noastra
Asa cum ploia topeste zapada.

Si ea va deveni un subiect de conversatie
Asa cum este vremea pentru lume

Iar eu (as deveni) eroul unei epopei
Compusa pentru palavrageala inutila
Al unui mic orasel de provincie.

(In Romaneste de Constantin ROMAN, 1967)

Elias Wolf MANDEL (n. 1922 Saskatchewan – m. 1992) Canada

CANTEC (SONG)

Cand se stinge ecoul ultimilor pasi
Si intorci privirile goale pe strada pustie,
Ce crezi ca vei vedea?
Un calau si o spanzuratoare.

Cand se stinge ori si ce glas
Si totusi auzi glasuri cantand in strada fierbinte,
Care crezi ca va fi cantecul lor?
Slava calaului care nu greseste nicodata.

Cand pe nisipul fierbinte al gandurilor tale arzatoare
Nu se mai aud pasii de fier
Privirile confuze nu mai vad
Iar glasurile fierbinti amutesc,
Ce scuza crezi ca vei avea?
Spanzuratoarea nu este destul de bune pentru mine!

(In Romaneste de Constantin ROMAN, Bucuresti, 1965)

QUAND LE COEUR TOUT D’UN COUP ME MANQUE

Quand le coeur tout d’un coup me manque, qui dois-je
me faire, eau ou pierre, pour m’habiter inhabitable?
Ne suis-je qu’une vieille, ne suis-je qu’un pitre?
Poème, statue sur l’eau, – mais moi?

Comme j’avançais encore, maladroit entre chiens et
roses, entre femmes et dieux, la mort me mit son bâton
dans le corps.

On peut me voir.
Il me tient debout.

Guy CHAMBELLAND,
(Poet Burgund: 1927 – 1996)

CAND BATAIA INIMII SE STINGE

Cand bataia inimii se stinge, ce voi
ajunge, stanca, sau val, ca sa traiesc in ne-traire?
N-as fi oare decat o baba? Sau poate o paiata?
Vers ridicat pe valuri, – dar eu-insumi?

Pasind nesigur printre caini si
roze, printre femei si zei, Moartea-mi infipse coasa
in trup.

Priviti
Cum ma tine-n picioare.

(in Romaneste de Constantin ROMAN,
Londra SW1, Iulie 2006)
——————————-

Guy CHAMBELLAND
(1927 – 1996)
Burgundy Poet

WHEN THE HEART SUDDENLY FAILS

When the heart suddenly fails, what should I
become, rock or sea wave, to inhabit the uninhabitable?
Am I not, in the end, an old woman, or perhaps a clown?
A poem, a sculpture on the crest of the wave – and I?

As I was awkwardly making my way between dogs and
roses, between women and gods, death staked its distaff
in my body.

You could see me
Still standing.

(rendered in English by Constantin ROMAN
London SW1, July 2006)

“A DRINKING BINGE WITH MARX”
“O BETIE CU KARL MARX”, (Poems, 1989).
(Translated FROM ROMANIAN by Constantin ROMAN, London, February 2003)

“Venerable Marx, if you lived in these lands
You would be quickly clean shaven and sent to a school for re-education.
The fact that even the cows from the East
Which grazed near the railway line
Now think that they are locomotives and stopped giving milk
Is a mistake put to your name.
It would be so good if the cities were ruled by merchants
So that the marketplace should not stink of so much rhetoric
Let free the brewers, the pastrami makers, the milkmen
Full of the dialectics of fermented hops
And of the hardened cheese.

For the time being the farmer would gladly come to scythe
The green sepia of the punks heads
For the time being, thinking that you are dead
The new philosophers get drunk on the idea that they polemicise with you.
They have not got the daring to smell the yeast which ferments
To blow up the society
And start the alembic
Through which
The revolutionary Cohn Bendit
Precipitated into an amiable mayor.

In fact even myself who am an ordinary character
I am coming out like a slug from the syntax and the logic
To dream up that stomach virus
Which makes one drunk on a piece of bread.
Come on, taste it
We are on the right course
In Berlin the clocks started to go haywire.”

————————————————-

Mircea Dinescu: “THE METAPHYSICAL CAT” (“PISICA METAFIZICA”)

Poet’s NOTE:

Once upon a time, when we kept our sharp claws hidden in a velvet paw, an anonymous cat taught the Romanians a splendid lesson of Dignity: during a working visit on the Cathedral Hill in Bucharest, the “Most Beloved Son of the People”, accompanied by Raven, his favoured Labrador dog (Corbul – a present from the British Liberal party leader the Right Honourable the Lord David Steel of Aikwood, n.t.), descended from his official limo in order to admire the bulldozers inflicting a Hiroshima-like destruction to a historical residential neighborhood in downtown Bucharest. In the meantime a lone cat, which just lost its masters, was sitting on a pile of rubble, surveying like an omen the ruined housing estate, apparently defiant of the official visitor who just arrived.
At this point, Colonel Raven – because in those days all dogs belonging to the Comrade had grades, made a run for the ancient goddess, being encouraged to the task by its master. As it happened, just when action was meant to reach its climax, a lightning of claws emerged from the fur ball resulting in a fountain of blood and squeals. Uncle Nick flabbergasted by the shame inflicted on his gun dog, ordered his praetorian guard: “You catch that cat!”
In disdain, the culprit which was guilty of the punishable offence of undermining the national security, made itself scarce under a fallen fence and the lads sweated it out until late at night chasing up the illusory ghost of the cat, through the ossuary of a neighborhood, which only fourtyeight hours earlier was full of life and smelling the scent of lilac trees in bloom.
A few years later as a homage to this feline dissident teacher I wrote the following poem:

Mircea DINESCU:
“THE METAPHYSICAL CAT”
(“PISICA METAFIZICA”) Translated from Romanian by Constantin ROMAN, London. June 2006

You catch that cat, shouted the Regent,
For it the Law can’t be so linient,
The foreign cat which does not give a dime
The Balkan cat, illegal and supine
Politically incorrect feline -
The hungry Balkan cat!
The metaphysics cat in search of trysts
Congenitally anti-communist
Consumerist who never tried alone
To strip a salmon fillet off the bone
Who never listened to the BBC
Who never went to Harrods for a spree.
How come that we inherited such cat?
Maybe from sermons of Adam Bhayat?
Or was it from some petty bourgeois gal
As surely not from the Neanderthal?
For Goodness’ sake do something with that cat!
Do kill it with a stroke of cricket bat
The Government will surely not complain
So long as it will not affect its gain
The bad-luck, idle cat and poor achiever
Which purrs and purrs whilst you all slog like beaver
Its languid manner shows its true disdain…
You Celtic ancestors, in overalls,
Do come and rescue us, heed our calls!

—————————————————

PISICA METAFIZICA

Mircea DINESCU
(Gandul, II, nr.329, Bucharest, 30 Mai 2006)

Excise of Brutality; teh Destruction of the Historical centre of Bucharest by ceausescu, to make room for his Paraoh's project of the Biggest building in the World. Inhabitants were given 72 hours to move out before the bulldozeres moved in.

Pe vremea cand noi înca aveam ghearele îmbracate în catifea, o pisica anonima a oferit o frumoasa lectie de demnitate poporului român.

Aflat într-o vizita de lucru pe Dealul Mitropoliei, cel mai iubit fiu al poporului, însotit de cîinele favorit pe nume Corbu, s-a dat jos din limuzina sa admire joaca buldozeristilor „de-a bomba de la Hiroshima” din cartierul Uranus.

Pe o gramada de moloz, o pisica ramasa fara stapan veghea ca un duh al caselor demolate, ignorand parca voit alaiul oficial. Colonelul Corbu – caci ai cainii din preajma tovarasului aveau grade – s-a repezit spre zeitatea antica, încurajat de stapan, numai ca, în clipa fatala, un fulger de gheare izbucnit din ghemul îmblanit a transformat botul fiarei într-o fantana arteziana de sange si schelalaituri.

Atunci nea Nicu, îngrozit ca odorul sau a patit o asemenea rusine, a strigat catre garda pretoriana: „Prindeti pisica!”

Infractoarea ce adusese atingere sigurantei nationale s-a furisat însa dispretuitoare pe sub un gard prabusit, iar baietii au transpirat zadarnic, pîna pe înserat, fugarind stafia pisicii prin osuarul unui cartier care cu cateva zile înainte era înca viu si mirosea a liliac înflorit.

Profesoarei de disidenta felina i-am dedicat eu, cativa ani mai tarziu, acest poem omagial:

PISICA METAFIZICA

Prindeti pisica!, a strigat regentul,
Pisica ce sfideaza Parlamentul
Pisica hamesita din Balcani,
Ca-i apolitica si ilegala
si fara buletin de Capitala,
Pisica hamesita din Balcani.
Pisica metafizica si trista
Prin nastere cam anticomunisa?,
Cu gena dintr-o lume de consum,
N-a dezbracat în viata ei vreun peste
N-a cumparat jurnal în frantuzeste
Si nici gumari din magazinul Gum.
De unde dracu’ am mostenit pisica?
Din neorealismul lui De Sica?
Din mediul mic-burghez?
Din Neanderthal?
Faceti ceva! Dati-i în cap cu steagul
Caci nu va protesta areopagul
Din gaurile lui de cascaval.
Ea cîntareste lumea doar cu ochii
Ea poarta ghinionul precum popii
Ea toarce-n vreme ce voi toti munciti,
Lingoarea ei s-a cam mutat în lucruri,
Extrageti sabia din strung si pluguri
Voi, traci în salopete, si voi, sciti!

——————————————————

Mircea Dinescu (b. 1953): “EXILE” (Romanian English and French)

EXIL

Au inflorit cartofii in Marmatia
si voi tocmai acum plecati spre sud
cind ceru-i aiurit si descusut
cind se confunda bocetul cu natia ?

Veti inventa durerea ca o tara
poate veti da peste-un mormint mai cald…
Scobim scobim cartofii de smarald,
saracii mei cartofi de piatra rara.

Ce zeu pastrat in saramuri celeste
ar fi dispus din nou sa ne adune ?
La noi la voi e plins de-ngropaciune
la voi la noi e-un capat de poveste

——————————————

EXILE
(Mircea Dinescu)
Translated from Romanian by Constantin ROMAN
(London SW1, 25 June 2006)

As the potato flowers are in bloom
You take the road which ever us do part?
Now that the sky is grey and overcast
And tears confound the country and the doom?

The grief will be for you the new abode
Perhaps a warmer grave and newer ethos
We shall unearth those emerald potatoes
Those precious stones dug out from where we hoed.

What kind of God preserved in secret heavens
May still be glad to gather our bones
With you, with us we cry on our tombs
With you with us a story ends in ruins.

————————————————-

EXIL
par Mircea Dinescu. Traduit du roumain par Sanda Stolojan.

Les pommes de terre ont fleuri en Marmatie?
et c’est maintenant que vous prenez le chemin du sud?
quand le ciel bat la campagne éperdu?
quand se confondent les pleurs et le pays???

Vous inventerez la douleur comme une terre?
vous trouverez peut-être une tombe plus chaude?
nous déterrons, nous déterrons les pommes d’émeraude,?
ces pierres précieuses mes pauvres pommes de terre.??

Quel dieu conservé dans les saumures divines?
viendra encore nous ramasser tous à nouveau ??
Chez nous chez vous on pleure près des tombeaux?
chez vous chez nous une histoire se termine.

———————————————————

Read more about Romanian Exiles and Poets in:

Blouse Roumaine – The Unsung Voices of Romanian Women

(Centre for Romanian Studies, London, 2009)

(1,100 pages, 160 Biographies, 600 quotations)

http://www.blouseroumaine.com/buy-the-book/index.html

Adrian Paunescu, Ceausescu's Court Poet, now an MP

We have not heard from Mr. Paunescu for some time, at least not since his memorable appearance in the United Kingdom, as guest of the International Poetry Festival “Stanza’s”, at the University of St. Andrew’s, Scotland, A.D. 2000.
As our readers will recall, this Festival was organised by the talented Scottish bard, Dr. Gavin Bowd – who introduced Adrian Paunescu as “Romania’s greatest poet and dissident too”. We are very sad to hear since of Dr. Bowd’s severing his links with the very fastival he helped create and would like to reassure him that by his unexpected departure Romania’s poetry lost a staunch supporter.

Still, we feel particularly privileged to be able to compensate for this loss and offer our Anglo-Saxon readership two of the latest ditties written by Mr. Paunescu.
We would also like to take this opportunity in expressing our grateful thanks to Senator Adrian Paunescu for sending us his latest, if somewhat nostalgic, contribution in memory of our Dearly Departed Leader – President Nicoale Ceausescu (1918-1989).
At the same time we would also wish to reassure Mr. Paunescu of our humblest and best efforts in conveying into English, as accurately as we could, the Poet’s inimitable style.
Thank you Your Excellency!

“Nicolae Ceausescu – In Memoriam”
by Adrian Paunescu
(translated from Romanian by Constantin Roman)

Like all the moral dwarfs, I praised in vain
The ever greatest Clown – The Leader, born-again.
And bending half-way down, I kissed his ass…
May long you live, Beloved Nicholas!

Compare this with the original Romanian verse below:

Romanian version I:

Ca toti Boierii Mintii intr-un cor
Te-am laudat, Iubit Conducator
Si-ncovaindu-ma adanc din sale
Te-am lins profund, Marite Nicolae.

Further Editor’s Note:
We are also grateful to our reader, Mr. Dawson, for providing us with another example of Paunesciana, this time in the original vernacular of the Poet’s own:

“Iubit Conducator” de Adrian Paunescu
(citat de Dawson, 29 Nov. 2003
in: http://www.totalsport.ro/forum/showthread.php?t=5309)

Godac fiind, prin jir cutreieram,
Si grohaiam ades despre popor,
Si dosul tau cu stima il pupam,
Sa ne traiesti, Iubit Conducator.

ADDENDUM: – 23 Years ago commemorative poetry by Adrian Paunescu:

“ROMANIA’S FUTURE (VIITORUL ROMANIEI)”
………………………………………….. …………………………………………..

Translated from Romanian by:
Constantin Roman 2000.
Note:
Adrian Paunescu, (b. 1943) – Ceausescu’s Official Poet, Nationalist Party Leader, Senator – “Viitorul Romaniei” publ. 1983
………………………………………….. ………………………………………….. ………………………

Propaganda Poster of the Happy Leader and his Scientist Spouse

“We now live a new life, which was dreamt of and fought for
By our forbears, our national revolutionaries Tudor, Balcescu
Horia and Iancu, who were once upon a time
The martyrs of our sufferings and of Romania?s fate

Today their heir is this wise old man, brought to us in Spring time
To be a hero amongst heroes. As Communist Party Leader,
It stands to reason that he is also the country?s President.
And that is why, through the very person of Ceausescu we found our own newborn ethos.

We too are bearing the burden of past wars through our dead
As we paid the price of life to enjoy our earthly goods
Therefor it follows that the source of sunshine does not come from Abroad, but that we have our very own Sun emerging from our capital city Bucharest.

It is Ceausescu himself that introduced honour within the Communist Party and the Country
He rediscovered our history unadulterated
To make us reach for the future in our dreams, as well as
In our daily deeds, full of new meanings.

That is why we always said and are still saying and will always say
Every minute of our lives, be it good or bad
That the Communist Party is strong, as it is nurtured by the whole Nation
As the Party represents the People at atomic level.

And for this very reason as Leader who embodies the whole People
He will, of course feel their desires and all their wishes
And that is why the Communist Party opens new vistas,
A future made of enthusiasm and difficulties which are overcome.

We can?t accept that our life should be broken
As we make history day in, day out, the way it was prescribed
By the 9th Congress of the Communist Party
Whose philosophy is to believe in the People as the ultimate solution

We were disinherited of our history to forget our forbears
But he inspired us with a new sense of History
As he explained to us that our Homeland cannot be reduced
Just to red flags, but above all flies our national three-coloured flag

That allowed our heroes to come home from their legendary Existence, to enjoin the
History this very day of the Party Congress
From old deeds to contemporary deeds
Inspired by the strength of Prince Michael the Brave.

But the future is ours, let it be known by all
Our future will get better and better, by the day.
O, eternal Romania, you will shine under the sun,
Always open as a hand, united as a fist.

New cities will be built and villages will be born
Tomorrow the Carpathians will be our foundations
Of ever new epochs and new civilizations
And the folk who live here will be proud as these mountains

But the most important and most beautiful aims
For which we struggled so much
Is the very man who is at home in his own country
And who is never lonely where ever he may be,

Because this intimacy he experiences with the greater Romania
Is no other than the expression of Communism which we are building
A system which does not gage us according to our possessions
But for what we are and we had achieved

This difficult tasks exacts great sacrifices
As we build our country from the foundation to the roof
Because no solution is ever found with a simple ?veni, vidi vici?
And as imported solutions don?t exist

And just as no dogma will keep us warm in winter
We shall bring to reality the great ideals
As we build the future together, during our best years
Which are equally difficult years.

Notwithstanding all that the centre of our struggle remains
The Communist Party who knows the problem and has the solution
The Party is the architect of all our future
The perfect judge of our past and present

That is the stuff of which Romania?s hero is made
A true heroes through every fibre
The first recipient of the Truth
Who knows how to confront all Evil

Above all our heroes can separate the grain from the chaff
And is sensitive to the pains of the lowly
Conscious of the responsibility that is bestowed upon him
He knows how to act in the best interests of the country

How many fashionable ideas remain now moth eaten
Having lived a short glory, soon to be extinguished
As the People paid the price of the absurd egos
Exacted in blood and tears for an absurd whim

As we follow our Hero, we overcome disasters
As we follow our Hero we shall be able to
Make everything to the measure of our enthusiasm
You People with a noble spirit, People with a pure soul. ”

————————————————————————-

Read more about  Elena Ceausescu, about her Sycophantic Poets, about Dictators and their Victims in:

Blouse Roumaine – The Unsung Voices of Romanian Women

(Centre for Romanian Studies, London, 2009)

(1,100 pages, 160 Biographies, 600 quotations)

http://www.blouseroumaine.com/buy-the-book/index.html