Ion PACHIA TATOMIRESCU

With Mr Cantemir on Eminescu's Portrait

Mr Cantemir, it's snowing horizontally,
as if Samosh – our Father-Sky – were combing
his hair over the sacred caves in the Carpathians,
after a night when his immense swan's down pillow
unstitched – from such ponderous slumbers – :
upon vast plains and beyond the Danube, horse
and horseman are swallowed by snow drifts !
Encyclopaedicus, the whole country's under milk foam,
embedded in the snow on Eminescu's face – oh, indeed,
in profile, the Poet's portrait resembles our Motherland's
incandescent map, perpendicularly set on eternity's wall
which rises from his shoulders, as broad as Dacia.
The snowy Bucovina and Maramuresh shine
like the light on the Poet's forehead;
on his left temple, there's the Prut river, tinkling
downwards, below his earlobe, to knot the Danube;
from under his eyebrow, arching echoes, the Siret river
slithers more gently towards the Great River, sketching
his bushy beard, (naturally,
its delta is concealed by his foggy nape)...
Indeed, in profile, the Poet's head draws the map
of astonishing Romania, taking root in his shoulders'
eternity: our partially-independent rivers – the Tisa,
the Somesh, the Crish, the Muresh, the Olt –
spring from his left eye (it is true, Encyclopaedicus,
his chimeric eyes sparkle inwardly, propping up
the Western world with its tiering crowns);
his lips purl the Word's-Iron-Gates
(the gates of platinum, chromium, or light –
whatever name you might call them...);
The Danube ties a knot under Adam's Apple (or
Deceneu's Apple, if you wish !), feeling the invisible
magnet, in the Black Sea's osier bed;
his hair – unravelling over our millennia-long
Moldova and Dobrogea –, leaning against sunrises,
flows from the Putna and Voronetz monasteries –
and their bells (there we have immured our Annas)
paternise even loftier (oh no, Mr Cantemir,
his hair – raven-black – is genuine –
he never wore a periwig, like in mediaeval times;
it's hard to tell who trimmed his hair –
this is the only portrait I know – Hyperion – besides,
who can ever clip eternity, Encyclopaedicus ?)... !
Naturally, in profile, Eminescu's divine head,
sketches the map of astonishing Romania,
taking root in his shoulders' eternity – therefore,
our land must have gemmed the highest number
of geniuses per inhabitant (dead, alive or future)...
Indeed, in profile, the Poet's face shapes our Motherland's incandescent map, perpendicularly set on eternity's wall
which rises from his shoulders, as broad as Dacia...