The book of poetry, which I have entitled: "Twilight of Thoughts" is a selection of Stefan Munteanu's poetry of the exile. It contains, so far, 122 poems which I have translated into English. I also have 99 illustrations, part of the graphic art of Stefan Munteanu. I want to represent the artist from the point of view of two arts he practiced and expressed himself through. His poetry expresses his deep feelings for his wife, family, native culture, life with all its challenges (behind the iron curtain), the uprooting, a self-exile from the Communist regime he wanted to escape, the travel across the world to find the dreams of his youth (the American West), and the slow descent into his kind of inner withdrawal due to the difficulties he encountered in trying to grow new roots in Los Angeles, California. His artistic expression is unique, but his observations and feelings, though personal, speak to all. This collection of poems as well as his illustrations offer a special intellectual experience for both natives and immigrants in any part of the world. The book contributes to a better understanding of life on our planet where movement of people, coming together of cultures, values, ways of communication and essential contributions should never be ignored as they make the matter of our lives in a global world. Sensitivity to the beauty of life, the reflection of a meaningful passing through it, the making of dignified though painful decisions assist varied people in self-examination, in understanding and valuing each moment they have among fellow humans on earth, even if on such a journey some may pay the utmost price. The courage to say what you believe to be true, to allow your thoughts and actions to materialize in art that definitely enriches others' lives is a gift that has to be shared. That is why I spent three years in conscientious efforts to render in English the uniqueness of Stefan Munteanu's poetry.

Twilight of Thoughts

By Stefan Munteanu

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Monica Maria Grecu
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4670-4160-7

Contents

Creativity....................................1To Mioara Poems...............................41Memories......................................75Health........................................101Political and Exile Poems.....................133Mother Country................................225

Chapter One

Creativity

    Biography


    I have written
    the way ...
    ... a peasant digs
    ... a woman gives birth
    ... an old man prays

    I have written,
    exactly as
    others breathe,

    till
    I have lost
    the oxygen
    from my pen.

    Then,
    I had to leave,
    in search of oxygen,

    in another world ...


    The Weird Sisters

    My weird sisters were snows
    White, blue, violet, some grayish—all ghostly transparent.
    In a rush they left their ice cold kiss on my forehead
    and thus marked, I treaded through life,
    hiding from the sun, from the sand, and hot waters,
    destined to love the blue lights of cold,
    the white drunkenness of the snowstorms
    and the immense crystal desert,
    where helpless houses fight with their electric stilettos.
    I met frozen glances set there by the snow weird sisters.
    I met castaways on the colorless oceans
    and I met dying armies under freezing daggers
    and very far, ghosts with stagnant blood.
    I could not give them but the warmth of my smile,
    that never freezes, not even when I force it
    to wave at starboard.
    I was on my way to find the princess, who
    was predestined to be mine far in the kingdom
    of the Emperor White, the one who dies once a
    year in a chlorophylian drunkenness;
    I knew that my smile's flame was just a
    migrating votive light through the
    white thickets of the Princess White's soul.


    50

    With a gladius I tailored a slice of sky.
    I ploughed it over night,
    I sowed thoughts in it
    tiny,
    tiny ...
    With drops of ambrosia I watered it
    and through the fingers' sieve
    I passed the cosmic dust.

    In the morning, exhausted, I descended
    on asphalt paths,
    bought a tram ticket,
    like everyone else,
    and signed in somewhere:
    John Doe.

    Who would have believed
    that I owned the earth?!


    The Poetry

    Splintered lightning
    In the circulation of dwarfed planets,
    Through the continent of dreamy trees,
    Through the gardens of electric lianas,
    Through the halls with blinding mirrors,
    Through corridors pulverized with thoughts,
    Through the secret chambers of memory
    Where could take place
    The general rehearsal of the fire
    That will carbonize the landscape.


    The Violet Snows

    The air doors barely moved
    Letting her pass in her walk
    on the harpsichord,
    scattering prints on an undulate,
    page of tranquility ...
    She leaves you with the ice of a kiss
    That started to burn during the colorful travels
    and unseen, she departs to join her sisters,
    who live in the cells of a fairy tale.
    And as they were quadruples, you mixed them up
    and loosing your way through a veil,
    within which you were supposed to find the path
    to the orange cube, you miss
    the little concert of the woods.
    It so happened that the cotton carriage already passed by
    and you went in search of it, though its servants could built
    you in alive;
    you ran far away, there where
    the sky rivers pour themselves into an envelope,
    and you barely escaped the shipwreck
    among the ivory icebergs ...
    Restless, you often left in search for her
    with your sharpened ear to the movement
    of the air doors ...


    Words

    ... they get lost on the page;
    under them runs a field,
    with dimmed whispers,
    with sunken, fearful faces,
    nourished in silence
    with rains of pain.
    A wiped off tear,
    remains twisted
    into a smile. And seldom
    comes as a gift ...


    Verba

    The linden tree in a strait jacket
    among asphalt snakes,
    the sky tilted on one side,
    to let the light run into the streets,
    and us, cut by glass, in incorrect copies;
    a merry man, drinking from foreign glasses
    hangs on to chairs,
    the grave men shook their heads;
    the linden tree shuddered,
    the sky closed up,
    The light froze,
    Silence kneeled,
    alone, the merry poet smiled
    winking to Eminescu Mihail.


    Spleen

    The...