By Nichita Stanescu, Sean Cotter

Winner of the Herder Prize, Nichita Stanescu was once one in all Romania's such a lot celebrated modern poets. This wonderful number of poems -- the main huge selection of his paintings so far -- unearths a global within which heavenly and mysterious forces communicate with the standard and earthbound, the place love and a quest for fact are imperative, and pressing questions stream. His startling pictures stretch the bounds ofthought. His poems, right away surreal and corporeal, lead us into new metaphysical and linguistic terrain.

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I held on to it with either arms, and each night, I dropped right down to the stones, my head sparking on effect. The thick, black oil of night desires no longer blood spurted from my brow and unfold round me like a pool, like a lake emerging opposed to a unmarried shore – the bone of my forehead. every thing moved faraway from me, just like the center, earlier than dying. every little thing used to be towards me than a retina wounded by way of gentle. i used to be at the fringe of a black lake with a unmarried shore (the bone of my forehead) and that i may perhaps see via it, like via a magnifying glass. III. I seemed in the course of the black glass of night goals, deep into the earth, the place the sunlight falls in flicks, and lindens over their shadows, my arms fell beside tender stones, part in darkness, part in gentle. My eyelids fell battered via historical skies by no means obvious earlier than. (Outside, a gaze broke and fell, floating by myself. ) the sunshine fell in around areas unraveled into shakes and waves, it hit the perimeters and unheard blacker and blacker hummed the sound. IV. yet corpses fill the depths of the earth and there's no room, no room, no room for questions. Like roots, lifeless skeletons twist the fast of the earth, and wring the lava out, until eventually it loses its brain. right here there's by no means room, no room, no room, even time needs to input time like dealing with mirrors. Even thoughts needs to input thoughts, and my formative years face has ten eyes squeezed jointly, able to pile all their photos jointly in a dangerous mound. i used to be dizzy, I seemed into the short of the earth – from all ages hung a physique much less and not more crammed out, much less fabric, like a trojan horse reduce into bait to hook the years. the following there's by no means room, no room, no room. The black lens of evening goals won't demonstrate even one fissure the place i'll lay down and placed a question to relaxation. the fast of the earth is complete of houses of corpses, and there's no room, no room, no room, for questions. There are ten skulls in a cranium. There are ten shanks in a shank. There are ten sockets in an eye fixed socket. every thing ramifies downward, an uninterrupted root of bone that wrings out of itself black demise, black lava, pits and cores, misplaced time. V. i used to be attempting to string the sunshine whilst the bow abruptly straightened and hurled me upward. and that i discovered myself slowly first and foremost, then quicker after which flashing like proposal on my own can congeal into constellations of phrases – definite, i discovered myself sliding its lengthy, transferring spears, their butts caught within the sunlight, their issues ceaselessly working towards I-don’t-know-what, towards I-don’t-know-when. And as I flashed, as earth-free because the within a cloud, it appeared i used to be and used to be no longer towards the prior, from the long run, towards what used to be from what's going to be, a host happening, 5, 4, 3, from 10000, might be hundreds of thousands of hundreds of thousands. VI. That’s how I stuck as much as them, and handed the spikes of sunshine, historic photographs torn from the earth. Like an iron plow that turns over and throws apart fats clods of earth, mild cuts via chaos and fills it with faces, photographs, seeds drawn from the blue husk of the globe it plowed in time and left someplace at the back of.

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