Asked whether too much poetry is being written today, Ion Mureşan replied that there can never be too many poets and that they are all important, no matter whether they write well or badly. Just as our bodies produce antibodies to fight an infection, a sick society produces poets – that is his theory. “The poets are white blood cells, antibodies that fight off a bad idea, corruption or a vulgar use of language.” And just as every antibody is important in surrounding and making a germ harmless, every poet is important, even if he only reads his work in his own flat in the presence of a small group of friends.
To continue in this vein, Ion Mureşan, born in Vultureni, a village near Cluj, the capital of Transylvania, on 9 January 1955, is one of the most energetic white blood cells in the disease called Romania, despite his having published only three collections of poetry in three decades – Cartea de iarnă (Winter Book, 1981), Poemul care nu poate fi inţeles (The Poem that You Can’t Understand, 1993) and Cartea Alcool (The Book of Alcohol, 2010).
Alas, the poor, poor alcoholics,
to whom no one has a good word to say!
But especially, especially in the morning,
...
It is an enchanted night.
The moon quivers in my glass, yellow and full.
I dip my finger in my glass.
...
What a won-der-ful place for weeping and smoking you have here!"
I said to the barman, for oftentimes, at the table by the window,
late at night, I have sighed,
...
It is all that I have forgotten, the rubble, the dross,
that actually embodies reality.
The things and the deeds my teeth were unable to gnaw,
the knives unable to slice, from these
...
Tot ceea ce am uitat, molozul, zgura, resturile
constituie într-adevăr realitatea.
Lucrurile și faptele pe care dinții nu le-au putut roade,
cuțitele nu le-au putut înjumătăți, din aceste
produse ale uitării
pe care ghearele obosite le scot mereu din baia
de acid a memoriei
și le aruncă cu scârbă afară, numai din acestea
se poate constitui o lume nouă.
Șanțuri și gropi, șanțuri și gropi,
sălbăticiune leneșă cuibărită între fragmente
delicate de pulpe și coapse
între sâni desperecheați, de diferite mărimi
și culori, șanțuri și gropi,
trupul meu îmbătrânit într-o neagră dantelă îl înfășor
și uitându-l pe vecie, îl renasc.
...