Tudor Crețu







My tiny doppelgänger





dice are rolled down the narrow streets

freed like bulls

their corners break our shutters


knowledge is

a distillery in a room of maps

the stiletto-woman’s whisky

(the glass is made of rye too)

this woman is brass itself

her scalding hair

her hair – hot wires

and she tells you

I know I shut up


because you ponder for too long because

the cult of the helicopter escapades

must be revived


the table is full

and I sit at it

equal lines the history of africa

and the black continents


I drum my fingers right around the outline

I sing I murmur

my tiny doppelgänger


like a zombie with a beautiful forehead

(your curving arch

your thinning eyebrow)

everything happens in lime valleys

and the words ra-ta-tat-ra-ta-ta-tat

divided into syllables

like on a cover

on a red background



I murmur

my tiny doppelgänger

cold vapour


I splash coffee on your bone

I wrap you up in tinfoil

let’s be one and the same

I invoke you like a captive woodpecker





you say soul and you touch that flat bone

and drift along the lake

you say soul

and you grind yourself down

like coffee grounds in cups you dry

the soul is a tablet

a thinned coin

a sucked peppermint drop

laid on the forehead




as I was keeping vigil

at my own bedside

as I was sitting next to myself

alone and bowed


like this


“my soul let me tell you let me sing to you”

let me take my lute

put my turban on

curl and wrap yourself

like a bandage

it’s me

and these words

will make the railway stations pass by your eyes

and the toecaps glitter

I shall cross the bridge as in trainspotting

at the end of the film

and the string will vibrate

coffee will ripple in cups

and water in anchormen’s glasses

(there is a small string in everything

in the brackish fluid

in the tiniest cup)

the wild dance will shake the afghan desert

salwar and kaftan will be ripped apart

the savages will dance stepkozachok

frolicsome rabbits will bounce as in shock


the race on the motorway and the ode to the horse herd

the inner self found again –

will be written on a purple cover some time

(even the soft crumbs of the cake

will bear the ink impression)


look at the choir of children opening their mouths

as if for the doctor

as if the song came

from the mere rounding of their lips

poetry is when you drink a beer home alone

when a kind man is sad when you break wind

let me check the bluish calendar

the minuscule mint-green letters

the page is a little garden

the page is a small plot

a camomile plantation

bow your head and take a sniff

ruminate like a peaceful ox





a different kind of hiccup and you flinch

you cross the stratosphere

like a bird

with its beak upwards

you get wrinkles like in black-and-white cartoons

you grow old


the molten bullets

the stones in the sour cherry pie

those on the floor still blood-red

“we and our wishes in this world”

have spread like remnants

elegy is the fan replacing the broom

it blows while it wears down



the letters should fall down

a after a

until the cascade

the animation effect are formed

I am the living spinning top

I spin round and round so fast

that my little apron rises up to my waist

I’m the neurosis-skater

the one whipped with a towel on the nape

as others are spanked

and then the sky and the dream

the word dream

the menthol cigarette

and the transient window

it is a soil like a sunday man’s

an indoor adult’s

chequered shirt

he has tea and biscuits

his ganglia swell in no time




come my tiny little self

I cry out in your ear I sing to you

with cubic stone I break your window

on the ancient street

but you youwon’tyouwon’tyouwon’t answer

it is the drunken stupor of the accountant and the folly the runt

why don’t you launch an attack with your armies

with impregnated torches

I sense the leap from one egg white to another

the graceful dance of the one who has gone


neither the warmest clothes

nor the dumpy woman’s fur coat

could have buttons like these

frosted glass

flat stone


I don’t search I grope

the blind man with a rabid dog

in the street and the grocery

in large refrigerating rooms

how fatback and chunks of meat hang dry

how sunday passes by

the fiery sword rips them apart

let yourself go flicker like the meek

photographer’s flash

(his name was pilly)




come my tiny little self

listen to the bluesy blues

come my tiny little self jump off the tram

I sing to you I withdraw

like water in draining ditches

like an old fox

under the leaf carpet

why won’t you

listen to the flute in the tree hollows

and the prolonged note


I touch you with my finger



Translation by Antuza Genescu













Tudor Crețu (b.1980), writer, manager of the „Sorin Titel” Timiș County Library. He writes prose, poetry, literary criticism. He organises cultural events: the International Festival LitVest (six editions so far), the Phototeque of the County Library, StudioText (video-criticism), etc. POETRY: Dantelăriile Adelei [Adela’s Lacery], Mirton, 2001; Obiectele oranj [The Orange Objects], Vinea, 2005.  Fragmente continue. Poeme live [Continuous Fragments. Live Poems], Printpress, 2014. The Poetry Book of the Year award of the Romanian Writers` Union, the Banat branch. studio live, an anthology, Printpress, 2015. FICTION: Omul negru [The Bogeyman], Cartea românească, 2008. Casete martor [Witness Tapes], Tracus Arte, 2013. The book earned the author a nomination as the Young Prose Writer of the Year, at the Romanian Young Authors` Gala and the Ioan Slavici Prize, awarded by the Romanian Writers` Union, the Banat branch. S…(Casete martor II) [S… Witness Tapes II], Tracus Arte, 2015. CRITICISM: Developări literare [Literary Developments], Editura Universității de Vest, 2010. DIARIES: Jurnal fantasmatic [Phantom Diary], Paralela 45, 2016.







Antuza Genescu (b. 1968) is a freelance translator, teacher and writer. She has a PhD degree in Letters with a thesis on Seneca and Shakespeare. She is a member of the Union of Romanian Writers – the Translators’ Department, chairman of the “H.G. Wells – Timisoara” (www.hgwells.ro) SF Society, editor of “Paradox” SF fanzine and a member of the Romanian Society of Science Fiction and Fantasy. Besides the Romanian poetry she has translated into English, her work also includes many translations into Romanian of great science fiction authors such as Gene Woolfe, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, Vernor Vinge, Orson Scott Card, Robin Hobb, Stephen King etc. Her stories have been published in a number of Romanian science fiction anthologies.


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