Sorescu

Entitled A Hand for the Poet/Aplauze pentru poet, the spectacular project developed by the cultural associations The Culture Club and Pro Contemporania, with the support of JTI, having as main partner the Romanian Cultural Institute in London brings to the international

Bilingual edition (Romanian-English) Foreword by Adrian-Silvan Ionescu Graphic and cover design: Dan Glăvan Texts by: Adrian-silvan Ionescu, Iolanda Malamen, Cătălin Davidescu, Dan Grigorescu, Titus Mocanu, Grigore Arbore, Petru Comarnescu, Vito Grasso, I. D. Sârbu,

Although he travelled extensively since very young, the towering bard of Romanian poetry, Mihai Eminescu (1850–1889), never crossed the Channel. Belgravia will however be filled by his presence through an event celebrating the enduring work of the immortal poet in an original

excerpt I blindfolded the birdsWith a veil of cloudsAnd I told them to catch meAnd the birds caught meWith a song.  . . .  Translated by Adrian Solomon by Marin Sorescu (1931-1996)

Having reached its sixth edition, The International Festival of Choreographic Creation tends to become emblematic of the small sweet town of Iaşi. Somewhat pompously named Eurodans '97, it took place this year in a scenery saturated with pilgrims, guards, strikers,

Grasp the tray of each dayWith both handsAnd join the line passingBefore this counter.  There's more than enough sunFor everybody,More than enough sky,More than enough moon.  From the earth arise the aromasOf luck, happiness, and glory,Tickling your nostrilsEnticingly.

Granny kept next to the socksSome old wrinkles in a boxAnd whenever her mood was foul,She'd put them on to help her scowl.  Her grandson, the unruly clot,Found the wrinkles, stole the lot,Stuck them neatly to his browAnd got old that instant – WOW! Now granny's

An ant was walking hard and fastAnd raising plumes of densest dustAs it trampled with its feetLike a sergeant on his beat.  Where d'you think you're rushing, brute,Who's chasing you in hot pursuit?You're wreaking havoc in your rage,Disgraceful ants,

If I remember well, we've never been underneath the Earth's shell. We'll take now a tour of sorts, in just a few words. The dashing prince lets himself slide all the way underground on a rope made from the bark of the tallest lime tree around. He goes down

The sea is for the little ones, not just for the little ones' parents and grandparents. After all, such parents at both ends do not know how to play, they say; in the sand, where they stand and you sit, on the beach, where you are so skilled with your colorful kit that's

The Delta, as far as I know, looks like an ashen lake, where all day long the old pelican sits awake, a solemn fixture, awaiting a photographer to take its picture. So that he'll get a good shot, it doesn't even budge from the spot. And in its beak, that's