Abstract
Romanian poet
“Every day at noon, we come in front of the headquarters of the Social Democratic Party (PSD) and we silently stare at their windows in order to show them that we see them, that we know they cannot hide from us, that we know that they are trying to annihilate the rule of law in Romania,” he said.
“We use silence because they cannot manipulate it. With marching and chanting they say we are violent, that we are hooligans, that we are trying to violently overthrow a democratic regime.”
A daily occurrence since 11 December 2017, his protests regularly attract crowds of 50 to 100 people, bringing together all walks of life – from engineers to students to artists. More than 45,000 people took part in a rally on 5 February 2017 – an astonishing figure that is nearly one third of Sibiu’s population.
When we spoke, Vancu had just returned from protesting against a law that, if passed, would grant amnesty to officials sentenced for corruption.
The poet has become a leading figure in protests against the government of a country he believes is blighted by deep political conflict – something that he highlights in his poems which are part of his Superpowers series, translated into English for the first time below.
Romanian Prime Minister Viorica Dăncilă has spoken twice in the European Parliament about the proposed law that would decriminalise corruption, but Belgian former prime minister and Liberal MEP Guy Verhofstadt, opposes it and has threatened to trigger Article 7 of the Treaty on European Union over the issue.
Radu Vancu with a demonstrator holding up lines of poetry in Sibiu, Romania
CREDIT: Silvana Armat
Tensions between Bucharest’s government and Brussels comes at a crucial time for Romania, which holds the EU presidency until 30 June. Vancu says there are proposals going to the European Parliament about suspending funds to countries which do not uphold the rule of law, and that could be difficult for Romania.
“The civil society here understands that the European institutions can only help us by the use of these sanctions against the Romanian government and, of course, we will all pay for it. But it’s the only effective way of stopping what they are doing.”
But Vancu remains hopeful for the future of Romania.
“I have seen fellow poets who are very biographical and confessional and intimate and so on,” he said. “They are now writing in a more social, direct manner, full of anger, full of ethical revolt. I think it’s a good thing as it gives the artists a social function.
“Poets are like antibodies: whenever there is something wrong or infected in the social organism, poems are generated in huge numbers in order to neutralise the infection.”
Superpowers
8.
Craftsman of children’s fingers & the indestructible hair of the girls & the see-through shields of the riot police – you’ve made a bit of a mess of it.
Today I saw the video clips of the children with cracked heads & broken fingers, I saw the riot police dragging girls by their shining & indestructible hair and their shields were as see-through as Your indestructible light, I saw indestructible teeth smashed in, indestructible bodies lacerated, I saw the blood You created spurting into the world You created & there was still so much beauty in it & that’s what turns me to a pulp.
Any quantity of beauty at all turns me to a pulp. An indestructible beauty in a world smashed to pieces – verily is Your cynicism divine. I saw a dog licking the bleeding face of his owner as she lay slumped under the boots of the riot police, and he was heedless of the kicks that fractured his ribs too. He wagged his tail with such joy when she lifted her lacerated hand & stroked him, there was so much indestructible light around him, for him evil had passed through the world completely by accident. A riot policeman with raised visor, a child blond & pure, rushed up to her & and hit her again.
Craftsman, sometimes I tell myself that You passed by accident through the history of the world You created, the way we pass by accident through the poems we write. And that the hardest see-through riot shields are the ones made from the indestructible & luminous beauty You left behind. And that the happiest among us wag our tails, licking the bleeding faces of our loved ones. Stomped to a pulp beneath the boots of the seraphim rapid-reaction squads. Terrorised by the angels’ anti-terrorism squads. Who could bear so much beauty – and for how long – and why.
Unsparingly gentle craftsman, if it weren’t that sometimes I feel Your rough tongue licking my bleeding brain, if it weren’t that I sometimes see Your shaggy tail swishing happily – everything would be easier & more unbearable. Don’t be afraid, we’re just talking like the indestructible among themselves.
11.
Craftsman of snowflake and Transylvanian sleet, when You invented Transylvanian sleet & mountain chill I’m not sure You were at the height of Your omnipotence. Try to stand motionless for 20 minutes in them & You’ll see: Your omnipotence can’t hold out in a sleet against which only Your omnipotence can hold out.
Can God create a boulder so heavy that God Himself can’t lift it? Can God create a sleet so frozen that God Himself can’t hold out against it? Naturally You can’t. Naturally we couldn’t. Because You only had to hold out for Your own sake. Whereas we had to hold out in Your omnipotent sleet for our children’s sake. To create a country that our children could fall in love with.
(That’s something as hard to create as Your boulder or Your sleet. But we’ll do it.)
The sleet on our Quechua jackets sounded like kernels of sweetcorn pattering into a pan. After I left the demo in front of the PSD offices, Sebastian called. When I took out my phone & saw his name on the display, it started to snow. It was if all those frozen kernels suddenly burst into flower on seeing his name.
CREDIT: Rebecca Hendin
#WecanseeyoufromSibiu, says our banner
(it too now alone in the flowering snowfall) #WecanseeYouaswell, don’t You doubt it. We’ll shout until the world starts vibrating like a phone & then we’ll make the air between us burst into flower. Be patient with us: we’ll be the world You’ll be able to fall in love with again.
12.
“Bon matin” (okay, that’s barbaric French, but Your world’s barbaric too, so “forget it”), “Maître” of syrupy waffles & Piri Piri sauce, I’m writing to you from Brussels, it’s six am, I’m in a hotel room after a night of rock music & talking about justice & finetuning Your worlds. “Don’t worry,” we’ll repair what you didn’t get right, we’re good at that: You didn’t really get our heart right, we’ve been repairing it since history began; You didn’t really get our brain right, we’ve been repairing it since history began. Anyway, You had to die before our repair shop could get going more or less, that’s how it is, sorry, we can only work on what the customer brings us. And in this case You were a bit sloppy with the delivery.
I reckon you must find it amusing to see brains crafting away inside themselves, hearts with bloody-sleeved surgical gowns boring deep into themselves. All this blood has syruped us more deeply & more wrongly than all the sweet syrup poured over waffles, and when I saw You biting into Brussels like a blood-syruped waffle, I don’t think it was just the bad poet in me who was talking. Because I could swear before any European Parliament & before any Throne of Judgement that I saw Your teeth marks in the tarmac. We were singing Creep, I whispered to You softly that if You want to hum along, then feel free, but You chose to take a deep bite out of the night & the syruped asphalt. You know very well why.
Six people talking about justice in the frozen rain. Hours and hours. Months & years on end. If I were You, I’d tattoo it on the hand with which You created us. Or, if You have enough room on Your forearm (and I know You have), You could tattoo the 600,000 phones raised in Your direction, demanding justice. You’d have a forearm cooler than all the eye-studded wings of the cherubim put together. And You really deserve it. Six people or 600,000. And the same heart syruping everybody in its shining & too sweet blood. Or You could tattoo us on Your forearm in Your shining & too sweet blood. If I were You, I’d say it was worth all the toil. (And I really will be You, isn’t that what You once said, and if we won’t be You, we’ll stand & and we’ll look at You in silence, for years & centuries on end, in the frozen rain.)
I look at the picture of Sebastian on my phone & go to bed. And I know that the blood that flows through my heart when I look at the picture is his blood & Your blood. It would be better if You left it that way. Otherwise, as I said, I’ll look at You in silence until You repair it. And if You don’t repair it, then we will repair it. On earth as it is in hearts.
Footnotes
Translated by