Un Brâncusi al cuvintelor – Sorescu, un eliberator
Posted by Arca lui Goe pe Februarie 19, 2011
O intalnire neintamplatoare intre arte. Plus talentul actoricesc (vai, atat de putin valorificat) al marelui lautar Tudor Gheorghe.
(b)Arca lui goE
b-Log anonim, amator si ventrilog al celor fara de blog. Despre NIMIC
Sf-era lui Goe
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Radu Humor said
Daca asta-i surpriza promisa pentru data de 19 februarie, va multumesc pentru ea !
Tudor Gheorghe este un mare, chiar foarte mare artist roman cazut in dizgratia unora ca Otto Waldman, Tismaneanu , Patapievici si alti Berceni si Falexandri, motiv pentru care nu mai apare pe nici un post TV (romanesc ! ).
Polichinelle said
Marin Sorescu?
Da, un mahatma al rostirii nescămoşate, un Hefaistos al butadei aspre, un samurai al macrameului existenţial… În Sorescu, găsim voluptatea budincilor de ungher, suspensia macră a echivocurilor răscoapte, jubilaţia fumigenă a simplităţii cu noimă.
Dl.Goe said
In rarele ocazii in care am avut posibilitatea sa-l aud vorbind liber pe acest „mahatma al rostirii nescămoşate” am ramas cu impresia ca ma aflu in fata unui depozit dezorganizat de gânduri (mocninde) ce nu-si gasesc calea catre iesirea spre mare, in lume, din cauza unei aglomeratii indescriptibile, de neevaluat, depozit peste care domneste, ca proprietar, un ins lipsit de spontaneitate, de orice talent actoricesc, incapabil sa discearna sau sa accepte prioritatile cu care lumile din afara, ajunse prin magnetism si inghesuite in mintea sa, ar merita sa se mai nasca o data, iesind pe poarta vorbirii sale. Cu atat mai neasteptata si mai colosala este abilitatea geniala cu care Marin Sorescu isi regizeaza pe hartie, aparent improvizand, spontaneitatea, uluitoarea spontaneitate arondata lumii intregi, de la felul in care duhul lui Dumnezeu poagoara in comuna Bulzesti pana la felul in care Iona trebuie sa razbata spre lumina, dincolo de frontierele ultime ale universului, evadand, simplu, inauntru. Il celebrez azi fara fast (…) arcuindu-l, pentru serviciile aduse limbii (intamplator române), limbajului si comunicarii, prin adaugarea catorva incredibile si surprinzatoare grade de libertate a vorbirii. Despre celelate merite, cel putin la fel de importante, nu-mi ingadui sa vorbesc, aici, acum, eu, dl. Goe.
shiva said
How the Pope is Chosen
by James Tate
Any poodle under ten inches high is a toy.
Almost always a toy is an imitation
of something grown-ups use.
Popes with unclipped hair are called corded popes.
If a Pope’s hair is allowed to grow unchecked,
it becomes extremely long and twists
into long strands that look like ropes.
When it is shorter it is tightly curled.
Popes are very intelligent.
There are three different sizes.
The largest are called standard Popes.
The medium-sized ones are called miniature Popes.
I could go on like this, I could say:
„He is a squarely built Pope, neat,
well-proportioned, with an alert stance
and an expression of bright curiosity,”
but I won’t. After a poodle dies
all the cardinals flock to the nearest 7-Eleven.
They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up
and then he’s the new Pope.
He is then fully armed and rides through the wilderness alone,
day and night in all kinds of weather.
The new Pope chooses the name he will use as Pope,
like „Wild Bill” or „Buffalo Bill.”
He wears red shoes with a cross embroidered on the front.
Most Popes are called „Babe” because
growing up to become a Pope is a lot of fun.
All the time their bodies are becoming bigger and stranger,
but sometimes things happen to make them unhappy.
They have to go to the bathroom by themselves,
and they spend almost all of their time sleeping.
Parents seem to be incapable of helping their little popes grow up.
Fathers tell them over and over again not to lean out of windows,
but the sky is full of them.
It looks as if they are just taking it easy,
but they are learning something else.
What, we don’t know, because we are not like them.
We can’t even dress like them.
We are like red bugs or mites compared to them.
We think we are having a good time cutting cartoons out of the paper,
but really we are eating crumbs out of their hands.
We are tiny germs that cannot be seen under microscopes.
When a Pope is ready to come into the world,
we try to sing a song, but the words do not fit the music too well.
Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.
They open their mouths at regular intervals.
They are continually grinding up pieces of the cross
and spitting them out. Black flies cling to their lips.
Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream
and a puppy clip. Eyebrows are a protection
when the Pope must plunge through dense underbrush
in search of a sheep.
shiva said
I Am a Finn
by James Tate
I am standing in the post office, about
to mail a package back to Minnesota, to my family.
I am a Finn. My name is Kasteheimi (Dewdrop).
Mikael Agricola (1510-1557) created the Finnish language.
He knew Luther and translated the New Testament.
When I stop by the Classé Café for a cheeseburger
no one suspects that I am a Finn.
I gaze at the dimestore reproductions of Lautrec
on the greasy walls, at the punk lovers afraid
to show their quivery emotions, secure
in the knowledge that my grandparents really did
emigrate from Finland in 1910 – why
is everybody leaving Finland, hundreds of
thousands to Michigan and Minnesota, and now Australia?
Eighty-six percent of Finnish men have blue
or grey eyes. Today is Charlie Chaplin’s
one hundredth birthday, though he is not
Finnish or alive: ‘Thy blossom, in the bud
laid low.’ The commonest fur-bearing animals
are the red squirrel, musk-rat, pine-marten
and fox. There are about 35,000 elk.
But I should be studying for my exam.
I wonder if Dean will celebrate with me tonight,
assuming I pass. Finnish literature
really came alive in the 1860s.
Here, in Cambridge, Massachusetts,
no one cares that I am a Finn.
They’ve never even heard of Frans Eemil Sillanpää,
winner of the 1939 Nobel Prize in Literature.
As a Finn, this infuriates me.
shiva said
Fuck the Astronauts
by James Tate
I
Eventually we must combine nightmares
an angel smoking a cigarette on the steps
of the last national bank, said to me.
I put her out with my thumb. I don’t need that
cheap talk I’ve got my own problems.
It was sad, exciting, and horrible.
It was exciting, horrible, and sad.
It was horrible, sad, and exciting.
It was inviting, mad, and deplorable.
It was adorable, glad, and enticing.
Eventually we must smoke a thumb
cheap talk I’ve got my own angel
on the steps of the problems the bank
said to me I don’t need that.
I will take this one window
with its sooty maps and scratches
so that my dreams will remember
one another and so that my eyes will not
become blinded by the new world.
II
The flames don’t dance or slither.
They have painted the room green.
Beautiful and naked, the wives
are sleeping before the fire.
Now it is out. The men have
returned to the shacks,
slaved creatures from the forest
floor across their white
stationwagons. That just about
does it, says the other,
dumping her bucket
over her head. Well, I guess
we got everything, says one,
feeling around in the mud,
as if for a child.
Now they remember they want
that mud, who can’t remember
what they got up for.
They parcel it out: when
they are drunk enough
they go into town with
a bucket of mud, saying
we can slice it up into
windmills like a bloated cow.
Later, they paint the insides
of the shack black,
and sit sucking eggs all night,
they want something real, useful,
but there isn’t anything.
III
I will engineer the sunrise
they have disassembled our shadows
our echoes are erased from the walls
your nipples are the skeletons of olives
your nipples are an oriental delight
your nipples blow away like cigarette papers
your nipples are the mouths of mutes
so I am not here any longer
skein of lightning
memory’s dark ink in your last smile
where the stars have swallowed their train schedule
where the stars have drowned in their dark petticoats
like a sock of hamburger
receiving the lightning
into his clitoris
red on red the prisoner
confesses his waltz
through the corkscrew lightning
nevermind the lightning
in your teeth let’s waltz
I am the hashish pinball machine
that rapes a piano.
Dl.Goe said
Pe 19 Februarie Marin Sorescu ar fi trebuit sa implineasca 75 de ani sau 175 sau… Cam liniste universala, asa… in general. Pe Arca l-au pomenit doar trei fiinte: dl. Polichinelle, dl.Ghelme (mai inainte) si, intr-un mod subtil, Shiva. In rest… ramasitele zilei. De fapt este normal pentru ca, in realitate, Sorescu n-a existat, Brâncusi n-a existat. Ceea ce a existat a fost o pasare maiastra, o pajura de piatra si cuvinte, care ar fi trebuit sa implineasca pe 19 Februarie 2075 de ani. Destui ani ca sa justifice orice uitare.
Niste semne grafice ale fâlfâitului s-ar gasi AICI si AICI. Restul e tacere, vorba varului Shakespeare. Care rest?
ghelme said
lasa, domnule goe, ca nu are el nevoie de noi sau de altii. el a inteles inaintea noastra..
noi avem nevoie de el si, daca-l cautam, e acolo, in satul nostru care a murit alaltaieri.