Poetry, our tired mother

(story to be published in tomorrow’s issue, March 27)

Poets, like all lonely people, are at their best when they are joined by their “kind”, “hors concurs,” and especially in the absence of their ultimate masters, individuals called critics, or even worse, jury. The 21st of March we celebrated the International Poetry Day. We were given a great gift for it was held in Romania and the event that UNESCO prepared was named the Eminescu Year. “Well… Eminescu!” sad the poet Gheorghe Iova and then kept quiet about the poem he had written about the great man while the rest of us recited and read emotionally, just like children at the end of the school year. A school year that does not come with prizes and bonuses and where all pupils, no matter their age, are in the same class, in the same “imaginary museum.” “We are playing!” said poet Iolanda Malamen, “We should do what we feel!” said Angela Marinescu, “We are here for you!” said actress Ioana Craciunescu on the telephone to all our “brothers” in the country. Denisa Comanescu puts out her cigarette because even if we are allowed to do what we feel the air is getting heavy in the Mirror Hall in the HQ of the Writers Union where the event is held. Florin Iaru reads fast and then goes about his business. Nora Iuga postponed her departure abroad where she is supposed to take her station as a diplomat. After all it is better to be at home on your celebration. Gellu Naum, the greatest Romanian poet alive is among us. He made a considerable effort to be here even if his 85 years usually prevent him from attending such events. He is more tired than we are, perhaps even more tired than “The tired father” in the volume he wrote a few decades ago. “I was bored when I wrote it but at the time I did not know what bored really means. You, young man, said he to poet Ion Draganoiu, should stop speaking about things you are not familiar with… like old age.” At the small party after the recital, the master wished to offer to the colleagues a bottle of wine: “lest they say I am not one of them if I drink mineral water” but at our table you have to pay… Just like Ana Blandiana would have said were she here: “…I paid for everything, I leave no debts.” Ileana Malancioiu is missing too. Not that she has something against poetry; it’s just that she has something against the Union. I understand the great poet as I understand the other absentees. They were not on the list, nobody invited them. I also understand the organisers – only those that do nothing make no mistakes. I only have happy thoughts. I am probably inspired by the tolerance of Master Gellu Naum. The fact that I share a table with him is the happiest thing I stumbled upon in my whole life. The master and his wife order roast beef. I do not know whether I am hungry but I order the same even if the master whose dish already arrived seems displeased with the lack of meat and the overabundance of breadcrumbs. Eugen Suciu, an extraordinary poet disguised as a chef (he is the owner of the writer pub) fights for his peer the poets until 16.00. After that, the restaurant must gain its keep. The poet Ioan Flora looks at his watch and places a last order “’till they rise the prices” but the waitresses do not care for the International Poetry Day or the amounts a poet gains these days, nor for the fact that the restaurant used to be the paradise of Romanian writers. How should they know that Gellu Naum who did not set foot here for years is perhaps at his last visit ever? The owner could have at least told them that but he left just in time. Poet Bogdan Ghiu is also having the roast beef out of respect for the illustrious Gellu Naum. We should at lest stick together for our petulancies. The day ends happily for Tudor Jebeleanu has a brilliant idea. Under the aegis “It’s been a long time since I saw so many female poets in one place” he puts us against the wall and takes pictures of us. We assumed he thought that poetry was feminine. The year is masculine. Especially this year – the Eminescu year. But is not Eminescu himself a son of our tired mother – the Poetry?