I was born accidentally here, Mr. Gorbachev,
rather than a hundred miles further to the West.
Flesh, bones and blood need no knowledge of geography, Mr. Gorbachev.
My flesh, bones and blood were born without political allegiances.
My flesh, bones and blood are not an enrolment number for an ideology, Mr. Gorbachev.
My flesh, bones and blood are not a register number for a hostage,
prisoner, guinea pig, breeding animal, or punching sack.
Who has attached a fortuitous number to my name, Mr. Gorbachev?
And what will happen to him who pawns my bones, flesh and blood?
What will happen to him who sells my brothers' bones, flesh and blood, Mr. Gorbachev ?
What will happen to him who smashes the bird's nest?
What will happen to him who smashes my brother's nest?
A bird's nest cannot be regimented, Mr. Gorbachev.
And what should we do with him who plots a barrack-cage
in place of a nest?
Window bars are improper markers for a geographic area, Mr. Gorbachev; the word "camp" announces the slaughter.
What should we do with him who slays the song bird?
Why these blinkers over the eye which yearns to view the sky, Mr. Gorbachev?
Why frenzied acclamations in place of quiet prayers?
Why grunts of pain and fear in place of happy whispers?
Why should night's dubious light decide for the day's deeds?
Why should somebody else decide for me, Mr. Gorbachev?
My mother and father have not joined the political party,
they who have worried their remaining years over my sick bed, have not sold me to a circus band.
I'm not a teleguided fighter, Mr. Gorbachev,
the language of physical weapons repulses me;
and yet I have shed a drop of my blood
everywhere we profitably sell our weapons.
I know that every new bayonette translates into an ounce less of bread, Mr. Gorbachev,
I know that the patriotic raid of every fighter plane wastes the
electricity of our town, Mr. Gorbachev;
but I am not a teleguided fighter
because to be a teleguided fighter means to be against my brother, Mr. Gorbachev;
being a fighter means being against somebody.
What right do I have to be against anybody, Mr. Gorbachev?
What right do I have to decide my brother's colour?
My brother is not my slave.
My brother is not the hostage of my whims.
My brother can open the door any time he pleases,
My brother has lips to whisper his own words with
rather than repeat mine.
What will happen to the line in my brother's palm?
The Border is under his thumb, the eternal sign.
What will become of our brother, Mr. Gorbachev,
because our brother is dying (they say) of hunger,
our brother is dying of cold in a hot
our brother is dying of too many brothers, in a galaxy of love, Mr. Gorbachev.
And what should we do with Her Komisar, who says that my brother is my spy;
Her Komisar says that brother keeps a knife hidden behind his back;
Her Komisar says my brother does not need light, is not hungry, is not cold;
Her Komisar says we together must change my brother's colour --
"Everything for his own good," says Her Komisar, because his love for us
knows no limit, Mr. Gorbachev;
because Her Komisar alone knows the meaning of my brother's happiness;
"Your brother MMMMMUST," says Her Komisar, "Work means freedom, " "Freedom means work," says Her Komisar.
Your brother MMMMMUST"
By why, Mr. Gorbachev, don't we replace must with what comes naturally? The word must is naturally useless.
Because my brother need not do what we want.
Because my brother need not believe in what we believe.
My brother is a planet that revolves around his own pole.
Hence the art of being, Mr. Gorbachev. You know that the world is not a
military barracks for planets. You know that the sun does not discriminate where it sheds its light.
But what should we do with those who tell us that they have invented the day's and night's reason, Mr. Gorbachev?
What should we do with those who have spanned Chinese Walls in the sky, Mr. Gorbachev ?
My brother is a planet, Mr. Gorbachev,
The Chinese Wall cannot arrest a planet, but if Her Komisar's bullet kills off the planets, the sky will become a waste land.
My brother's planet does not belong to a party, Mr. Gorbachev,
My brother's planet is not part of the State Security,
My brother's planet does not belong to a famous family of planets,
and yet my brother shows understanding and knows what he is talking about.
Why don't you invite him over, Mr. Gorbachev, to talk with him like two reasoning adults?
He would have grave things to tell you;
He might ask you what is going on with your neighbour’s family, Mr.
Gorbachev (this is a matter that I'm sure concerns you personally);
What is going on with your apartment neighbour’s family, Mr. Gorbachev?
Don't you feel the demonic tension emanating from the walls?
Don't you hear the wailing of the empty heater?
Don't you hear the groaning of the frozen water pipes?
Don't you hear the lamentation of idle electric wires in the darkened rooms?
Don't you hear the yelping of hunger?
My brother could describe to you the dwellers groping through mounts of garbage in search of a lost exit;
My brother could describe the dwellers crushing and
devouring each other,
in darkness, pestilence, and death;
My brother could tell you stories about a particular room in this
apartment; how in this adjoining room, somebody makes an appearance every day, eats lunch in the mirror-decked local pub, swallows medals instead of medicine, consumes the oxygen from cosmic spaces, leans of a stick with which he tames rabid dogs, and drags a huge chain of keys behind him.
When he does not want to be seen he hides behind a large red umbrella
and truly nobody seems to see him;
and yet, if you look closely, you can see in his wake an ageless harpy
walking apartment functionaries on a leash.
They grin and fawn like dogs,
with bulging bellies, thick and clumsy legs, and sweaty hands hidden in
soiled white gloves;
their flaccid asses bear the imprint of their chairs,
their wolfish backs are covered with sheep-skin,
their slavish faces are smeared with sly piousness,
and dripping with the paint of the day, Mr. Gorbachev.
Their dirty lips bark Hurrahs,
hungry ovations,
and senile praises,
their sharp, hairy noses sport a golden ring,
their ear is glued to microphone wires,
their loudspeakers drool pestilential.
In one hand they carry a bucket,
in another a paint brush,
in another a stick,
in another a telephone directory with a single name;
with one hand they nudge,
with the other search the pockets of passers-by,
with one hand they beg,
with the other they hold their own hand, Mr. Gorbachev.
I don't believe you, Mr. Gorbachev, would greet respectfully every morning,
I don't believe you witness the discreet mailing of packages, I don't
believe you shrug and think of my brother as somebody who needs a visit
from Her Komisar.
As for me,
I write this poem, Mr. Gorbachev,
knowing that I have no reason to fear Her Komisar,
you have told me that I have no reason to be afraid of him;
I take your word that Her Komisar sleeps with the Constitution under the pillow,
I know that he won't let me die of a heart attack,
I know that his friends won't break my bones in some cellar or administer cleansing injections to my brain;
because, you see, Mr. Gorbachev,
Her Komisar knew and detested doctor Mengele,
Her Komisar cannot tolerate the story of
revolution, or the death of Father Popjelusko,
Her Komisar has no ties to the Stalinist horrors, the political trials,
the future
because Her Komisar is a most gracious apparition in our apartments, Mr. Gorbachev.
He protects the Constitution,
His eyes open wide open on the bright future,
He awaits joyously the day of tomorrow when his name will be chanted and his merits known;
only then his children will be able to recognise him. This is my good
father, they will proudly say! May his old age be restful and his pains
rewarded! His humanity, good manners and a first aid kit hang
under his coat, near the gun that awaits the useless bullet that bears my
name.
Her Komisar loves Poetry, Mr. Gorbachev!
Her Komisar risks his life for Poetry, Mr. Gorbachev!
Since he will not run me over on the sidewalk,
and no personal vehicle of history will be pushed under the wheels of a
huge truck,
Our horizon is rosy, Her Komisar!
I thank you in advance for the poem you will be receiving, breathing.
Mr. Gorbachev is a voluntary witness to this necessary creation that I have called a chance poem from
Any resemblance between known people and the known facts of our facts is purely coincidental.
My brother is also coincidental, and yet he matters.
So what will happen to my brother, Mr. Gorbachev,
What will happen with our brother, Mr. Gorbachev,
about whom my brother has serious questions to ask?
October 1989,
P.S.
People in
( 18 December 1989 , Bucharest
------------------------------------------------
A Post-Scriptum
In a conversation with the reporters of the BBC television station, when asked about the circumstances and the significance of my poem "Open letter about my brother, Mr. Gorbachev," published in nr. 1 (6 January 1990) of the "Orizont" magazine, I explained that this text was sent abroad through a chance contact of Radio Free Europe, already in October 1989, but that it was, unfortunately, received only two months later, on the very first day of the Timisoara Revolution. My poem was resent from
While indicting the
I loathe to think what would have happened to the Romanian Revolution had a pre-Gorbachev Soviet Union, rigid, imperialist, aggressive, and closely allied with the Ceausescu clan, still been in place. The Iron Curtain would have been pulled once more over
"Orizont" nr. 2, p.5, January 1990,
translated by :
Prof. Marcel Cornis-Pope
Department of English
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