ein kräftiges,

artikuliertes

gesungenes Gebet.

Ein Gewitter ist dein Körper,

schwer

und schwerelos.

Copyright 2011 Cezara Ciubotariu

Im Haus am Hügel.

Am Gegenwartsbahnhof.

Die Fremde riecht nach Farbe.

Ein Türrahmen steht im Raum

Wie ein prismatischer Bund

Krippe einer blauer Geburt.

Kinderstimmen taufen Pollock unschuldig.

Der Mond ist der pater familias.

Vom Jenseits des Korallenwalds

Flüstert er syntagmatisches Silber.

Die Blaue Frau ist ein Fisch.

Schwerelos sanft und kalt

In einer Schale

Schwarzer Keramik.

Copyright 2010 Cezara Ciubotariu

And smoky shadows like white nuns

Living in boxes, eating drugs

Reality connecting plugs

Their ship a light speed worn tiara

In the celestial Sahara.

They take a morning walk dynamic

Lack of space is epidemic.

Their sons fall sleeping counting sheep

While they approach a quantum self leap.

In atomic architecture

Slide some faces hard to capture

The geometry of thought

Got Titan wings and engine slot.

While floating blind to Mars onwards

An one-way elegy unfolds.

Copyright 2010 Cezara Ciubotariu

Klingt die geschwungene Treppe

Eine Zeitschlange

Schlägt gespenstige 

Trommeln

Während das schlaflose Haus

Wie eine flüssige Maße

Durch einen zerbrochenen Krug

Auf einer Traummembran bebt.

Unterirdisch schweigen

Dreidimensionale Klänge

Medusa hat sich

In öligen Leinen verfangen

Aus der Erde steigen

Entmythologisierte Reben.

Er horcht.

Sein Gehör

Ein zerbrochener Krug

Verbannt in einem  akustischen Exil

In trägen symphonischen Kolonien

Auf der schwarz-weißen Erlösinsel.

Hypnotisch greift durch neblige Echos

Nach Blechkörpern.

Ein Trichter – sein Wesen

Innerhalb eines fantastischen Gerüsts

Seine Finger tasten die Architektur

Eines Gebets.

Seine Gedächtnis ist eine Säule

Unter einem humanen, grauen Dach.

Er kennt die Leiden des alten Tizian

Und porträtiert sfumato – diachronisch

Die Unvollendete. 

© Copyright 2010 Cezara Ciubotariu

Besuchen Sie: http://www.beethoven-haus-bonn.de/sixcms/detail.php?id=11688&_mid=Virtueller%20Rundgang

und kann nicht mehr raus.

Auf der Reise nach Afrika

Lernt er Tigrinya

Und wird episch.

Blaga verweilt

Zwischen Gott und

Dem Maurer.

Blaga ist eine Mauer

Aus Erde.

Eilt ungenau

In dem selbst erfundenem Gras

Tigrinya scheint ihm enorm -

Ein symbolisches Monster.

Blaga reist nach Afrika

Stotternd und leise.

Die Sprache strömt fremd

Und löst sich von ihrem Körper

Blaga teilt die Sprache

Durch sein fließendes Mauersein.

Er ruft: Ecce tempus!

Copyright 2010 Cezara Ciubotariu

And now my meditation upon a (post)modern myth: the restorer:

So small frail hands

Stained canvas coat

And in the dust they float

The eyes behind the lense.

They analyse respectfully

The petrified trace

And their historic maze

So carefully.

Some child she seems

Her grace utopic

Her touch: tender-myopic,

And when she works she dreams.

A myth, a saint,

An altar or a jewel

The time she lives in – dual.

Her genius full of paint.

Quite lots of falls

Have passed since she

Truthful to her destiny

A garment’s colour still recalls.

It’d been the pride

Of a vain prince

Deeply forgotten ever since

She saved it from the tide.

She’s like a bride’s lost spark

In a future life

Who with a knife

Cuts out the coat from the thick dark.

And before she is too old

The master of chemistry

Her passion for tapestry

She makes perfect every fold.

The garment’s fate

To be admired

The bride’s – never to be tired

When it’s too late.

In a museum: school boy’s view

Into transparent case:

Inside of which with selfish haze

The garment is now true.

© Copyright 2010 Cezara Ciubotariu

Some calligraphic life style

Void of chaos and insane

Sophisticated trial.

Manner sceptics disagree

With subjective ethics

And their wish is to be free

Of a rigid matrix.

So is the nonconformist

Restless social satellite

Revolutionising lists

Of all that’s been right.

He’s a small enfant terrible

Of his generation

His principles adaptable

To opportune situation.

© Copyright 2010 Cezara Ciubotariu

In the garden with the signs

Haunts a boy to sell some roses.

And he stabs you with vain lines

Pushing you to think of Moses.

His strategic empty logic

Whirls into some childish tragic

Makes to think of mythologic

Paired senses and some magic.

If you stretch your hand to grasp

The rosy illusion

You’re expected not to rasp

In a vague confusion.

But you don’t take nowadays

Anything for granted.

The rose seller humbly prays

Yet strictly oriented.

So the challenge with the rose

And some airy muse

Is an unexpected pose

Of unwritten rules.

© Copyright 2010 Cezara Ciubotariu

Well when in Rome, we were strangely introduced to an already sold out art exhibit in the Galleria Borghese. The exhibition presented some important works of two painters belonging to two very different contexts: Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571-1610) and Francis Bacon (1909-1992). The first was born in Milan, the second in Dublin. One was to work within the canons of an emotional realism, the other was a figurative painter, whose mutilated portraits depict a new form of abstract.

To unify his monstrous figures Bacon uses some geometric tricks which emphasize and isolate his studies of grotesque psychoanalytic intro- and retrospection. The lines creating a multidimensional space in the plane surface often look like cages which artificially hold still the male characters that seem to disintegrate and be absorbed into some neurotic stratosphere, or they just fall apart, like a late quote of a cubistic exercise. Most of Bacons’ works are either self-portraits, or studies of portraits by some other artists, like the well known Portrait of Pope Innocent X which was an interpretation of Velázquez’ work. Bacon’s portrait of the Pope settles in a fine delimitated cube. The top of the head is vanishing, the mouth opened like in a cry and the shoulders baring a clergy violet whereas the face is white with morbid violet hues.

Caravaggio mainly depicts scenes from both the New and the Old Testament, but also portraits and still life. Technically you can see almost no parallel between him and Bacon. Thinking about the self-portraits however, one could compare the two introspective artists whose self-depiction fulfils a sort of cathartic function. Caravaggio, for instance, paints himself in the monumental scene of “Judith beheading Holofernes”: one can recognize him in the character of decapitated Holofernes, which makes us think that this might be the result of a self-critical attitude. Apart from that and from tis fascination with the ‘Masters of the Past’, Bacon seems to be an intruder in the classy Galleria Borghese or maybe a somehow exaggerated provocation to try a new aesthetic experience: cross cultural and diachron.

© Copyright 2010 Cezara Ciubotariu

Also visit: http://www.galleriaborghese.it/ .

has a mind of its own

it whirls and spins and deprives itself

of mere belongings

like a crazy nun

in its floating robe

of circle devotion

© Copyright 2009 Cezara Ciubotariu