Category Archives: Cultură

Spirituality, modernity and Brownian motion

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Just a thought…

So many of us feel depleted, drained, stressed out. Our beings flogged from within, our lives – our biggest gift – turned into empty chases. Pursuing a zillion things that we can grab and touch and display, but which aren’t real. We live in societies that prioritize task efficiency, competition, action, and the accumulation of stuff over family, over time with friends, music, celebration, inner peace, or the contemplation of beauty.

The spiritual, once a central component of daily life – that umbilical cord to the divine – has been all but banished, relegated to the periphery, exiled to the realm of the exotic, the archaic, and the ‘oppressive’. The daily recalibration of prayer has fallen from grace and with it we have fallen – literally – from grace. From the grace of communing with the universe and with each other, the grace of transcending and accessing our higher purpose. From peace and vitality.

We bet everything on the card of desire, sleepwalking through life in a state of sterile and destructive arousal, as if remote-controlled via our most basic reflexes and deprived of the light of transfiguration. Do not be fooled that we no longer worship. We do. We worship the idol of self – the crumbling ‘natural man’ – while cutting ourselves off from our spiritual potential – the human person inhabited by holiness, true love, generosity, and joy. 

The unhappiness that brings. 

And how freely available the healing can be.

Old woman praying in the fields at midday, as church bells toll in Rebrisoara, Romania
(Source: infobistrita.ro. Photo taken by Marian Ros in Rebrisoara)

P.S. For more (and better!) on our aimless restlessness, our addiction to illusion and distraction, and our loathing of Eden – take a listen here: https://entitledopinions.stanford.edu/fatidic-power-literature. An episode I stumbled upon today – no kidding – after writing this blog. There are very few coincidences in life.

Discoveries

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Venus – that ancient

goddess of carnal desire – 

has a poisonous atmosphere that might,

just might,

hold the life of a microbe.


Immediately,

the microbes here on Earth

began to show signs

of restlessness.

fighting each other for supremacy

and claiming poison

as their territory.

Copyright A. Sepi 2020. All rights reserved

To Belong

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when she first discovered water

she did not go in.

she stood hypnotized. it was too wonderful.

she was, like the lot of us,

gripped by a fear of drowning,

arrested by the vastness and the gleaming.

to discover beauty is to discover

the heaviness of self and the terror

of irreversible sinking.

but look at her now, floating expertly on her back,

swaying with the waves

in her hair,

glistening like a fish,

all serene smiles and joy

and relaxed muscles.

weightless.

she has not mastered water.

she has mastered herself

(the high art of belonging)

and now water buoys her,

offers her up to the sun

cupful by cupful by cupful.

Copyright 2019-2020. A. Sepi. All rights reserved

The Racket

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Once in a blue moon,

beauty settles into my soul

like a swallow in its nest:

gracious and quiet and fertile.

Mere seconds later,

hordes and hordes of selfish people

with steel-toothed hounds and motorized wheels

come rushing by,

hurling themselves at the air, at the landscape, at other people’s souls,

a merciless stampede

raising the dust;

an unleashed army of carnal restlessness, a cacophony of hubris and outrage,

charging headlong, chasing the next empty minute, the next self-righteous cause,

cutting open words they don’t understand

and letting them bleed to death.

In their tow, the bee is sucked out of its flower,

the sweetness of honey is said to become unpalatable

and cross-pollination impossible.

I let them pass,

envy not their rapid advancement,

their heedless lack of regrets.

In God’s love, I am nourished.

Copyright 2020. A. Sepi. All rights reserved.

River Revival

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Trying to stay in shape during social distancing.

A river, a grove, a few less trodden paths on a sun-flooded morning. Glimpses of real beauty. And a little piece of heaven.

Copyright A. Sepi 2020. All rights reserved

 

Hold them in your hands

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Dear friends,

My poems have now become a thing. A something you can buy and hold in your hands.

You can turn them into paper airplanes and give my words wings, you can write comfort food recipes on their back, or you can put them on your bookshelf for the benefit of generations to come (and to the dismay of whoever it is that must dust them)…

Here they are, eager to keep you company in your self-isolation.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B086PMZJKM?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

If you’re the digital type and prefer the magic of electrons, there is also a Kindle version.

Enjoy!

Behold the searing wind…

Behold the searing wind*

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It is upon us.

Its blistering tongues lurk behind the levee,

They pounce like savage beasts

Mercilessly they wheeze

Blowing the tumbleweeds against my doorstep.

 

A goodbye kiss, crackling dry.

Deserted yards, howling.

 

The yellow earth swelling and swirling,

It is in my eyes, my nostrils, my teeth.

Every time I spit,

I spit grains of sallow sin.

 

There used to be ponds along the river

And fishing nets heavy with fish

The cabins on the lake full of

guffawing and cheer,

There used to be trees and snakes.

The forest playing organ to the gales.

 

It is gone now.

Its birds scattered

like dust from old carpets.

 

The vineyards are dead.

Their grapes, dried up and shriveled,

Won’t be quenching no thirst

Won’t be crowning no wedding

dances

There ain’t gonna be no toasts around here

no more.

Only the sheer shriek of the southerly wind,

Only the curses of the departed still drifting

across the inward-moving sands.

 

*poem inspired by this article: https://www.vice.com/ro/article/9ke3nz/seceta-si-nisipul-au-cucerit-sudul-romaniei

Copyright A. Sepi 2019. All rights reserved

 

Ninge în Rosenheim

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Cartierul e împăturit într-o tăcere mare, albă, stranie;

se afundă în înserare până la genunchi.

Lumea a devenit improbabilă, fără margini:

prospețimea imaculată a zăpezii – și restul.

Copacii sunt gheme încâlcite de bumbac alb,

din cer se deșiră în tihnă pânzeturi orbitoare și reci.

Cărări tăiate mai adineaori în pântecul feciorelnic al iernii,

ninsoarea le-a pansat cu tifon de fulgi moi.

Cicatricile orașului se vindecă.

Din scutul fonic al zăpezii se desprind cu greu: o clipă trecătoare, frânturi de voci.

Acum sunt lângă tine (te întorci și ești singur),

acum se resorb, înghițite de gaura de vierme a spațiu-timpului,

ca să răsară fantomatic într-un cotlon obscur,

departe de trupurile lor.

(Iată, cei doi îndrăgostiți râzând, aproape te-ai ciocnit de ei).

Pete negre, mișcătoare, se decupează din timp în timp de pe fundalul

monoton, de film mut.

Se nasc, apoi se topesc din nou.

Par dincolo de sticlă, par din altă lume.

Lumea aceasta s-a oprit,

urmele noastre se șterg,

(ca vocile),

contururile dure, paralelipipedice ale realității se estompează,

(înăuntrul lor locuim noi),

dispar încet

sub nămeți.

Doar chiotele copiilor se mai aud de pe dig.

Sănii și tăvăleală.

 

 

The Darkest Hour

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“În vremurile aspre și triste, oamenii liberi pot să se consoleze întotdeauna cu lecția de bază a istoriei, și anume că tiraniile nu pot dăinui decât printre neamurile slugarnice.”

Winston Churchill,

în Humes, J.C. – Vorbele de duh ale lui Winston Churchill, ed. Humanitas, București, 2008.

 

 

Amiaza pe strada Rotbuchen

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Privesc peretele bătrân invadat de iederă roșie

ca de fierbințeala jenată a unei iubiri

posesive, geloase, târzii.

 

(Săgeata unei nostalgii, pogorâtă din senin în coșul pieptului,

tulbură apa

în care pluteau, inerte, cuvintele.)

 

Nemișcată, clădirea mă fixează cu ochii ei dreptunghiulari,

muți,

din sticlă.

 

Vântul mușcă din blana aprinsă de pe obrazul casei.

Pomeții bărboși, frământați de valuri, freamătă;

prin ei se propagă unda unui murmur

 

de sfârșit

de octombrie.

 

Palmele iederii mai întâi se desprind și-apoi se alipesc

din nou pe tencuială

ca pipăitul orb al unui chip,

ca încordarea unei bolborosiri.

 

Pe asfalt, printre picioarele oamenilor, stoluri de frunze uscate

foșnesc ca fustele unor mahalagioaice,

galben, cărămiziu.

Se-mbrățișează, se despart.

 

Vin plutind din unghere. Se dau peste cap. Ning de sus.

Aleargă împiedicându-se.

Gonesc către ultima bârfă,

împinse de graba unei catastrofe.

 

Libertate. Finally.

 

În octombrie, frunzele trăiesc inconștient,

iresponsabil,

doar pentru ele.

 

Se aștern noian lângă bordură,

pun urechea obosită

la burta neagră a străzii

și tac.

 

Se umplu de soare,

se scutură ca de fiorul unui gând

Și ascultă.

Ascultă.

 

Se strâng norii.

O bătrână coboară dealul

cu bicicleta.