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Cleopatra Lorintiu « Critics »
Critical references
On the poetry of Cleopatra Lorintiu (Extracted)
"To escape from the dream "...
The texts written and published during the dictatorship surprise not only by
their artistic value, but also by an open dissidence against the dogmas of the
socialist realism which condemned the writers to an oniric happiness :
“To escape from the dream appears increasingly painful to me. /An engine
howls all during the night. /An anonymous victim in the attic window. /And the
sticky fear of loneliness,/the written word turns in kitten, kitten of poplar It
wanders confusing through the district.”
 The
messages on the condition of the poet are hardly allusive, but direct, grained
and provocative testimonyies:
“Nearer. A shiver an icy phantom of the defeat. And thousands of the steps on
the corridors obsessingon /Interior song I did not expect that you finishes
precisely now!”.
The dash of the heart is that of overflowing vitality, of the proteomic
desire of living intensely. The critical, omnipresent judgment is essential
discouraged and cancels the intermittencies of the heart:
“But C `is different, all is different. Trapped now, it only remains me to
discuss me. Spring throws my ration of light it gilds this palm of beggar. This
almost imaginary life.”
Being
the aware of its twilight and marginalized state, “while smiling inevitably in
the margins of the winter”, Cleopatra Lorintiu distils its worms in concentrated
statements, a kind of exorcism applied to a demoniaque, bloody reality: “Which
vain endurance. /the direction which I had lost the false stray direction the
exhausted heart. /reality, so strange. /compact cold. /and memory, of the
scraps, the scraps. /of the feathers fly away of an old pillow. /you drafts a
step and you run up the invisible wall. /you tighten the hand and withdraw it
ensanglantée.”
The expressivity, the science of balance between introspection and the
counterpart of reality, the availability of imaginary always in guard and ready
to crystallize in refined, dense compositions by the gravity and the diction of
problematization are the ingredients of the talent of Cleopatra Lorintiu.
There is a fever, an alarm, an almost irreversible existential hitch in the Tea of the lovers. The psychoanalysis of this phenomenon carries out the
poet to call upon remedies as “That the light of the moon takes, this tired
facet of our heart includes/understands”.
With enthusiasm (the poetic dream) and clearly (inexorable reason) one leads
to the radiography of the state, moral physics and, motivation of the defection:
“I withdraw myself you. /The sounds drive out me. The voices burn my ears, at
the bottom of the heart of lead in my feet, I withdraw themselves, I withdraw
themselves. /If that you seized not how I give up,/gifted of a surface grace
perhaps even of femininity […]”
Disenchantment, abrupt clearness, the alarm clock of an externality cold,
abusive, given up by the mystery. The worms even becomes clear notation,
incredible cutting. Captive in the network of the cores of the semantic
disenchantment, the poetry of Cleopatra Lorintiu approaches that of Montale.
Geo Vasile,2002
Dictionary
of the authors, Dacia Editions, 2002
(Pages 264-266 )
To live in the world of the imaginary one
To escape from the dream, to abstract themselves with the landscape, to
separate from the books seem very difficult for the character of the poetry of
Cléopatra Lorintiu, but the bath of reality, the dive in the burning daily
newspaper leads it to the marvelous discovery that the life - almost imaginary
- has significant fictional contents. The development is meticulous and the
frantic handling of the concepts - in the poems one speaks even about oniric
imagination, transfiguration, contemplation - led to the conceptualization
arises from it from reality.
The decoration of nature extracts only from the gasoline's of the
contingencies of the landscape and the cutting of the decoration seems
sterilized and perpetuated under cupolas out of glass as if one preserved a
corner of nature in millennia to come.
The poet does not speak any more of the monuments about nature - called upon
even in the titles of poetries - but the direction is born from the idea from
nature as a monument or a dazzling scarcity -… abstractions I had plunged in the
vacuum… kept in a carrousel of “postcards”.
Images syncopated, jerked, necessarily hermetic, but not connected in the
structure of the text to a code which personalizes only the functional intimacy.
It is because of the ludic instinct accompanied by a
memo technical reading
that the poet rehabilitates - even invests of an ironic function - the
diminutive (small seed candle connects cup). Cleopatra Lorintiu reflects with an
esthetics of the desirable one, but poetry remains obscure, difficult, to some
extent arid, completely deprived of predictability semantic, irregular, as if it
were cut by a saw.
Here is the poem
"Insignificance":
"Make small things. Crushing by same their insignificance./And nevertheless it
is richer, denser as if you had slackened the muscles perfectly,/as if the
paradisiacal river passes close to your ear./You advance in the life of the small
things. /You seek the free operation of the mechanisms of it. /(The right words
are in prey with the sleep, see you, the life of the small things seems to
breathe their sap.) And suddenly/something of sad. /You want to shout but your
voice is made small splinters.
The fabulous perception of the world, the ludic spirit, the mechanism of the
diminutives, the Socratic initiations come from the childish universe. If in
the books for children Cléopatra Lorintiu plays, in later volumes it becomes
aware of childhood and lays down the rules of the game.
The love is also a play and a childhood; slalom of the existence him also
(“life - a hind reached in the traffic of the motorway”) just like final
breathing.
The Utopia of the childish universe accompanies even the erotic feeling: If I
could keep you little angel near ego Miniature with the eyes Levantines… if I
could only keep you one child. And that the thought left flip-flop on the hot
stones the summer floater in the dense air some share, very close to an
imaginary border to the deadened guards.
In this miniature full with grace one clearly sees dissociating the fact that
before being poetic, the lyric ideation wants to be a anti-rhetoric of the love,
childhood, play.
I t is the ideal of the poetry of Cleopatra Lorintiu to confess itself without
making confessions, to tell without narrativity, to make poetry without
lyricism. It is the alternative of its “opening” in the set of failures where it
employs white parts.
Constantin Sorescu, 1985
The landscape of which I goes away
Most beautiful and the most authentic poems which I read lately find in the
book “The landscape of which I goes away” from Cleopatra Lorintiu.
The unit tone and a deep suggestive smoothness differs from a certain
tendency of the young literature: its characteristic would be the desire for a
violence of images and words and the hardening of lyricism.
The book of Cleopatra Lorintiu is not as much a “volume”
including/understanding several cycles that an organic lyric newspaper: even
superfluous abundances, moreover inherent, correspond to a general tonality.
They are the features due to a musical education. It is not because of the
references that I make this inference: for example, there is a poem having the
title of a famous part of Stravinsky; it is because of a prompt fluidity and a
sequence to harmonize any interference, to absorb it. From here, a philological
decency, the discretion and the tender of the object.
One
must notice the force of suggestion more especially as there is among our
poetesses a perfect control of the significant message where the drama of the
feeling is very clean.
There are in the book of Cleopatra Lorintiu a decency of the taste and always
operative sensitivity: it is about one of rare volumes deprived of noise,
exclamations and the cries.
A spot of mental ability ennobled the affect, and the talent to isolate the
detail, to choose the significant element speaks about oneself: “holy midday,
that I would be similar with you, cordial and free”, “with the fisheries, the
concern of the gills”; “in this cell the evening between as if it were a being”;
“June snows the house”; “that I have the pale and innocent head of the flower”.
In a poem the author perceives a musical detention and in general the images
correspond to the interior states. These images are refined, although simple,
obtained following the reductions:
“My ignored and pure song relieves of the
future sufferings”; “As a lit candle I cried of the hot tears”; “If my heart had
had color, it could have been given…”
There are in the many poems of Cleopatra Lorintiu- those of volume “the
landscape of my absence”, the feeling of a simple and tragic song, sound
time.
Here is a part whose peacock is the reason. I prefer to reproduce poetry and
I would make in the same way with many others, because the poems of Cleopatra Lorintiu have the cohesion of the song: fragmentation, the quotation mutilates
them. “It would have been impossible to me it to lose,/It was there, behind, it
followed me like a soft and nostalgic Eastern reason, taking along in its
multicolored feathers the mysterious cry of the mornings of southerly wind. /It
emerged where I expected it The least once I felt it in one of the hundreds of
cars which ran towards the passage. /Then, a night, it emerged from the books…
/Il held the balance right of the summer. /The fine border of the madness.
/Without him, castle of sand, sand castle… /Why I remember it? /Maintaining
the lake, to prisoner of silence and fear founded too easily. /One of the
night-birds carries it in its strange cry in the vacuum. ”
The poems of Cleopatra
Lorintiu make an authentic song and I could say that
they include/understand in under - text a tacit contempt of the artifices and
premeditations, exhausting exhausted artistic operations. Virtuosity moves away
lyricism. To support my assertions I reproduce the most beautiful poem of
volume, “Drawing of autumn”.
“How much of the blue of autumn ran out/how much this capital impossible to
remake I saw it day after day being profiled provocative the work of an
anonymous mason and now, collapsed, collected with dust in the wheelbarrows of
the street sweepers impossible to me the memory. /I passed by him each day,/for
a long time. Its timid and lengthened shade was the decoration of so many
stories. /I looked it in the dirty light of the rain in the pitiless glare of
midday. /I leaned my eyes on him with indifference, suspended by the impression
of the importance of this day. /He became my calm confidant,/almost
religious,/there under the vault of the entry,/when I awaited your appearance.
/It accompanied the gradual movement my slow fall under north. /and nothing of
its completed form three centuries ago by an anonymous mason did not remain in
the memory It is there, in the hole with the rubble,/of odd bricks and
dust,/impossible to remake. ”
Such a nostalgia and dissolution, such a
evanescence joined together in a
poem of love as all the book: a harmony of the pain. As somebody said: “The
research of wasted time does not mean the research of the similar occasions”,
but a true penitence.
Dan Ciachir (1984)
About Cleopatra Lorintiu
“A ventilated poetry of a rather light tone that ludic mark the beginning of
Cleopatra Lorintiu “The queen with the stolen steps” (1978)
Volume is a soft newspaper of adolescence, a report of states and
predispositions calligraphies with innocence in an ingenuous writing animated by
a ludic spirit: “Would be you it boy of grasses is easy Pas so much a word does
not touch the bones do not give more pain. ”
The organization of the confession in a kind of newspaper which holds only of
allusive contact with the biography is also the mark of the volume of the 1985-
“terrace with the pink bay-trees”.
The writing is not nimble any more, quite to the contrary, it is split up and
worked/exhausting with premeditated caesuras, surprising and with the frequent
use of the crossing-over. The poems take care of book figures; but their
connotations aim the effectiveness of the confession rather.
Invaded by reality, the poem “The Guest” of the imaginary impotence, the
guest unable to still offer compensatory worlds or to slacken the twisted spring
of frustrations. Syntax knows slackens it in “the landscape of my absence”
(1981) opened to the naturist daydreams and those of the memory.
In spite of elegiac perseverance, the poetic sensitivity recovers something
of the mirage of the world and it is completed by the meeting with the state of
grace: “behind the hedges, mint. /Through mint the insects/thrown into a panic
by the sun they excavate leave in the garden to touch the other world, the
invisible world. /True odor”.
Arranged between the crispate and the
exuberance, the poems are held in the
perimeter of the erotic determination, while following the relief domesticates
this one. But the magic of the presence just like that of the absence are
reflected in an atmosphere melancholic person, interior, peaceful, if not quiet
fire of passion. “In the room one does not feel any more the odor of the Dutch
tobacco On the table it has there no more your pipes, of the beings the cold
enters by invisible niches binding my body to the sick bed. ” The balance of the
states nostalgic is doubled of the pathetic.
Group of the absence proceed the poems of “Almost imaginary” volume
rather (1987) developing the same line of the evanescence than of the crispate.
The wounded sensitivity is repurchased in hieratic landscapes which do not
miss sensual modulation: “Virgin Morning the drawing of the clouds very near.
/Ripe pears invaded by the wasps in the garden of brittleness. /The tritons are
with the day before.
“The memory even is entitled to recover the happy sequences, and the poet
works in counterpoint, not without an exquisite delicacy of the unmatched
agreement: “with a thunder as a white band in your black hair it passed to me by
the memory your hand, your hand… (…) A melodious flask is cracked. Reality is
reversed like a pair of gloves. The key of the convenient tomb with a white cry
on the flagstones”.
The newspaper of the states continues here also, more varied and freer, and
the vision remains given by “the small things crushing by same their
insignificance”.
Alexandru Cistelcan ,1998
(Fragment of the Dictionary of the Romanian Writers, the Rumanian Cultural
Foundation, Bucharest, 1998)
Evanescence
The logogram of the feelings between hesitation, dissatisfaction and
exuberance would be the label for the poetry of Cleopatra Lorintiu whose volume
recently published, “The landscape of which I miss” is worth the blow.
The biography is limited and cryptic, one can guess the trajectory of a love
seen of reversed glasses which move away instead of bringing closer. The poet
sensitive being, records all with the radar of a butterfly what helps it to
avoid with grace the contact with the too concrete one to which Cleopatra
Lorintiu prefers the mode of the evanescence.
Thus, even the feeling of perplexity which seems to be the most radical state
of the psychic incompleteness arrives at the filtered reader from sound point of
view by successive curtains - snows or emanations adores- or by a fabric of
languor which seizes all gently.
This evanescence meets similar forms with anemia's Symbolists at the time
when the poet - supreme levitation of the real feeling of the “Landscape of
which it misses”, his most eloquent nostalgia is not as among poets slaves of
vital, an aspiration of purification, but the process reverses to it fixing in a
landscape all the more particular and material, even arid and inhospitable if
not specialized in persistent organic emanations where as known as the poet “the
words have odor and clothing of the direction”.
Therefore the envied character is The fisherman, impossible to place it
outside his medium: “upright, it has large Wellingtons on the left the hat full
of holes on the head the fishing rods. /Its shade had the odor of fish and the
bold tobacco. /If I were similar with this solitary and free fisherman, being
integrated in a true landscape. ” (Karma)
But the aspirations of fixing are further thorough still and the finally
envied condition is that of the tree: “if I had been a tree so that I never
leave this landscape throughout my lives. ”
Cornel Regman ,1981
(Fragment of the review Viata Romaneasca “Poet with the second volume”,
Romanian Life, September 1981)
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