To the end of the beginning
Motto: From crime to crime, the killers of dolls are so touching at first contact and reoffend through too much pity!
(…) to her alone.
in order to increase the stability of a pending projectIle.
imposing herself on herself, as a target.
A rotation of names and persons and musics.
From nowhere to the mother orbit!
(…) to her alone. Adjoining a black period.
Killer or contusion. Murder of a child’s imagination.
His name is Elle! Here I am as if. In his white shirt with traces of blood, a name tattooed on his palm, two paces from his metal box.
Until now everything has gone well.
With moderation, the lyricism is used as remedy and reference:
As who would say
What is more, find to whom to say silences and nightmares,
Who of us is guilty of having killed another, unintentionally, the accused
will be Elle, the one who has or the one who is (in Romanian, « elle » is pronounced el and means he in English, pro-noun for the health of the human species)
Woman or man, unjustified toy, particle.
Vying with each other,
They love better those who love us even better.
Trying to outdo each other,
Who it may concern has never been the beloved of a family will be the strange one
carrier of an underlying hatred
Man or woman or the one who will play in the dark room
He who cries last.
Whose turn is it?
Against all these theories: the poplar doll, crownless.
Elle, the appetite cutter, eyelids knotted around herself,
in deficit, she had a propeller instead of her legs,
the doll bizarrely skull-less,
hideous, infinitively disowned,
elle almost (…) herself, doesn’t matter,
nothingness is only a rain of meteors where it had to be!
And in one of these gaping nothings, from the same root as the secrets,
kids that fled the hostile calm of their solitude was born the damn papusa,
Elle, in free fall among those that have lost it and those who will have it,
elle to which I have never been able to draw a smile, a word,
the insignificant, the instantaneous, elle, as if
nothing had exploded in her body
except for the negative excellence.
Gust of wind before the big snowstorm,
without fear or courage,
However, nothing is more dangerous than receiving such a toy…
at 5 years of age.
Under Communist flags, the creators of such incomplete playthings were cruel enough to warp the language of children!
They are the ones who invented the decapitated, amnesic nods. On their bellies, they crossed the cities and the villages, like white snakes, pre-sensed, clinging to the bumps on the ground, creeping along, they said nothing, they left with the wind, breaks in the macabre finesse of magic, flying over the mouths and the faces of the innocents, they went right and left, alternately, in rapid oscillations.
They, in Romanian, is EI, and they talked with their fingers.
In a strong incitement voice, they erased my prayers with razor cuts.
In my name, they scratched me.
With my fingernails, they watched for accomplice signs,
Like true plangonophiles
In some place I went to, I was doubly their pain:
I did it again, I played crazily…,
I led the sacred object to its canonization…
Translation: Howard Scott (Montreal)
Academic, Writer and Translator. She writes both in French and in Romanian.
R.D. was born in Buzias, Romania. She was part of a movement of nonconformist Romanian writers born out of the fall of the Ceausescu regime in 1989, artists and writers that critics called the « 90’s generation. » In the Romanian press, Rodica Draghincescu was for a long time considered » the Amazon of Romanian Letters. »
After teaching French literature in university and doing research in linguistics and stylistics at the Romanian Academy, after publishing10 books in her native country (some of which won prizes from the Romanian writers union, the Bucharest writers Association, etc.), after five years of studies and writing residencies in Germany, after 4 books published in Stuttgart and Berlin, Rodica Draghincescu settled in France, Metz, where she became a literary advisor to several cultural institutions.
In France, Rodica has published, in addition to poetry, novels, books of interviews and literary essays. Her latest book is a poetry collection, RA(ts), illustrated by engraver Marc Granier (Éditions du Petit Pois, 2012), which won the VIRGIL prize for European French-language poetry and literature from the SOCIETE DES POETES FRANCAIS (Paris 2013).
In USA, Rodica has published poetry, translated from French (Words, under my Skin, Finishing Line Press, Translation: Howard Scott, Montreal) and from Romanian (A Sharp Double-Edged Luxury Object, Cervena Barva Press, Translation: Adam J. Sorkin, New York).
Publications in literary magazines and anthologies worldwide – poetry, prose, essays, translations, interviews, and critics.
Participation at festivals in U.S.A., Germany, Austria, Switzerland, France, Luxemburg, Italy, Sweden, Serbia, Slovenia, Romania, Moldavia, Canada.
At many festivals and literary events, Rodica has collaborated in readings of her work with Romanian, German, American and French actors and musicians known throughout Europe, such as Hélène Cardona, Hélène Martin, Jean-Luc Kockler, Michel Biehler, Philippe Joncquel, Andrej Lazarev, Ion Caramitru, Dorothea Fleiss, Marc Granier.
In addition, she directs the multidisciplinary, multilingual webmagazine: LEVURE LITTERAIRE (http://www.levurelitteraire.com) and is a member of the editorial board of the German Publishing House Klak from Berlin: http://www.klakverlag.de
Key publications in French:
– Fauve en liberté, poems, Les écrits des Forges, 2003
– Ra(ts), poems with engravings by Marc Granier, Éditions du Petit Pois, 2012.
– Distance entre un homme habillé et une femme telle qu‘elle est, novel, Éd. Autres Temps, 2001 (translation from Romanian by Florica Ciodaru-Courriol).
– À vau-l‘eau, novel, arHsens édiTions, 2006 (translation from Romanian by Florica Ciodaru-Courriol and Rodica Draghincescu)
awards and fellowships:
2013: EUROPEAN PRIZE FOR LITERATURE AND POETRY « VIRGIL », CENACLE EUROPEEN & SOCIETE DES POETES FRANÇAIS, PARIS, France.
2006: European prize for poetry, INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL & Society DANTE ALIGHIERI, METZ-NANCY, France.
1992: Special Prize for Poetry, Académie de Lettres et de Beaux-Arts, Bordeaux, France.
1995: Special Prize of the Poetry Festival ‘Goccia di Luna’, Pomezia, Italy.
1996: Prize of the Writer’s Union, Constanta, for debut novel (‘Distanta…’).
1998: Romanian national Prize for Poetry ‘Geo Bogza’.
2001: Prize of the Writer’s Union, Bucharest, for the best poetry book of the year (‘EU-Genia’).
2000-2002: Fellow of the Academy Schloss Solitude and Schriftstellerhouse, Stuttgart, Germany
Michel Bénard on the poetry of Rodica Draghincescu
« I don’t write to aim at the target
but rather to pierce
the mechanism with its pinhole… »
Undeniably Rodica Draghincescu constantly faces the objective of the undefined, the unfulfilled, the in-between, or more precisely the Non-place.
But we should not deduce from this that we are dealing with nihilist poetry. No, not in the least! Rather simply a state of existential lucidity.
Her poetry, sometimes philosophical, contains all her matrix vibrations, all her amniotic waves mixed with the contractions of her feminine belly, a kind of indescribable state of grace that only women can know and understand.
With the epigraph, the note resonates already, she immediately gives the color of the composition, through the voice of a great German reformer and mystic thinker of the fourteenth century, Meister Eckart, a true prince of purification, whom our poet appreciates a lot.
The thoughts of Rodica are intended to be mysterious, hermetic, and we have to find the right key to read them.
Does she see poetry as a ritual dance, a sacrifice, a path leading to a possible return to childhood? I think she does.
Do you have to encounter a corpse in your path in order to become aware of current realities and rediscover your country of memory or metaphysics? Rodica says yes.
So many other questions follow and remain in suspense…!
Rodica Draghincescu, plays on and with the duplication of words, with alternation, she takes a chance at flipping a coin. The poetry is her space for the nomad soul, a two-headed country, or even three-headed or chimerical.
Her words are implacable observation, they sometimes carry the stench of defeats, revelations of failures, often Rodica Draghincescu unearths the eternal questions of the origin of the individual, of the meaning of existence.
Sometimes there are reverberations of the end of times, kinds of apocalyptic warning signs where a wind of hot sand and mirages blows.
Her writing is very personal, original, strong, constant, moving at her own pace, setting her own meter. In it, we encounter falls, ruptures, blackouts…! The words hammer our consciousness, make us face up to what is obvious in life, the outcome of which eludes us, and perhaps it is better that way.
Postmodern, lucid, poetry, without concessions, where, however, we glean from line to line beautiful ornamentation full of imagery.
With Rodica, poetry certainly returns to its therapeutic gifts,
« Where the poetry heals. »
We are at the heart of turbulences, interferences, effects contrary to life and its destiny.
Rodica Draghincescu’s expressiveness leads us also to the definition of nothing, of oblivion, « nada » to borrow a word dear to Saint Jean de la Croix, in a word, to derision, to illusion, to « zilch » art!
« Here, is nowhere, the ultimate destination. »
We are immersed in the word plays, mind plays, in the « No-ing EYE. »
Through this form of recurrent mockery, it is very possible for Rodica Draghincescu to fill the empty box of poetry, and she openly poses the question with respect to this absence:
« What poetry to write for lack of poetry. »
« I proclaim the ‘be quiet’ of the poem. »
Very musical this poetry. It seems to me that if the singer Léo Ferré had been able to read the poems of our friend Rodica, he would have discovered her rhythms, her cadences, her incisive touches of correspondence and interface.
Rodica Draghincescu invites us to wander in her train of poetry for a special journey where the terminus is nothing but self-derision, the observation of an absence, a pending oblivion.
Perhaps than Rodica Draghincescu is still waiting for the miracle of poetry like a child waiting for her mother whom he suddenly sees appear at the end of the road.
Poet, painter, literary & art critic, winner of the Prix de l’Académie française, Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres.