The Imitators Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

When I look at the golden days of the Romanian writings
I immerse my being like in a sea of sweet and clear dreams.
And it looks as if on this area, wonder about sweet and beautiful springs.
Or I see nights, which stretch oceans of stars on top of me,
Or days with three suns on their sky, or green meadows with nightingales
— Meadows, with springs of thought, and streams of songs.

I see poets who wrote a language like a comb of honey.
Cichindeal was a mouth of gold. Mumulean was woe with his say.
Prale had his weird spirit. Daniil was a sad and insignificant guy.
Vacarescu loved the water spring, and he sang sweetly.
Cantemir was scheming with goblets and knives.
Beldiman heralded in verse, about the war with his enemies.

Sihleanu was a silver lyre. Donici was a nest of wisdom.
How it seldom happens, this poet makes the reader think about
The ears or the stag's antlers, which are too long…
Where is his clever bull? Where is his sly fox?
All have vanished. All left on a way of no return.
Gone is the one, astute like a proverb.
He was Pann, the godson of Pep the Jester.

Eliad had built from dreams and from old centuries' tales
The delta of the sacred writings — the bitter prophesies —
Truth soaked in myths, a sphinx filled with meanings,
A mountain with stone head, stricken down by storms,
It stands even these days, facing the world as an unsolved puzzle,
And it looks at a charred stone in the midst of clouds of uprisings.

Bolliac praised the serf and his bronze chains.
Cârlova calls the army to follow the land's black flags,
At this time he casts magic shadows on centuries' plans.
And like Byron, who was aware of the raging storm of pain,
Pale Alexandrescu overpowers the sacred light of hope.
Making sense of the eternity, from a year's ruins.

The swan lies down dying, like a shroud on a white bed.
The pale maiden with long brows and gentle voice lies down.
Her life was springtime. Her death is a sorry feeling.
And her young poet looked at her, like drunk.
From his lyre flow notes. Bitter tears drip from his eye.
And so Bolintineanu began his cry.

With his rusty voice Mureshan shakes off his chains.
He breaks his bronze chains with his numb hand.
He calls on the stone to come to life, like the mythical poet.
He roots out the pain from the mountains, tells the fir trees their lot.
Priest of our awakening, prophet for the signs of the times,
And rich in his poverty, like a star he sets.

And Negruzzi wipes out the dust from old chronicles,
The list of the Romanian kings survives on mouldy pages,
Written by the old hand of the secular lettermen.
He gets the right shade, of times long gone.
He repaints the dull canvasses
That showed the cruel deeds of some tyrant and sly rulers.

And I see that king of poetry, the cheerful Alecsandri
Forever young and happy,
Aided by a leaf, he whistles, and plays a heartbreaking song with his flute.
And he tells it with a tale.
He strings pearls on a pale ray of a star.
Now he goes through the centuries — a marvel of hilarity.
Now he laughs amid tears when he sings Dridri.

Or dreaming of a white shadow, with silver wings,
With two passionate and bright eyes, like two mystical fairy tales,
With a smile like a virgin, and with a gentle, tender, and quiet voice
He places on her head a lovely diadem of stars.
He seats her on a golden throne to rule rebel worlds
And loving her a lot, he writes: "The dreams of a poet".

Or dreaming of the sad song of a lad from the mountains
— A dream of the deep waters and grey rocks
The dream of the old districts of the highlands —
Which wakes up in us the longing for the old country,
With sweet descriptions it calls to mind the time of Stephen-the-Great,
Which with its royal bison is history's awesome sight.
…………………………………………………………………….
And we? We the imitators… With cold feelings and with shattered bright ideas,
With more passions, with old and ugly hearts, and with shorter lives,
Smiling masks, placed well on a contrasting fundamental nature…
Our country is a slogan. Our god is a spectre.
All is gloss in us. All is sheen without structure.
You had faith in your writings. We have faith in nothing.

And as a result of that, your saying was pleasing and blessed,
Since it was thought by minds. Since it was taken out from the heart.
Great souls you are, yet young, even though you are old.
The world' cogs had turned back. The future reads the map with your aid.
We are the past again, with no heart, sad and cold. In us we have naught.
Everything is phoney. Everything is beside the point.

You immersed yourselves in sacred thoughts.
You held talks with ideals we mend the sky with stars.
We blur the sea with waves, because our sea is lifeless and ice cold.
You follow the queens of thought,
When floating on sacred wings, amid the clear stars,
After you went on their bright trails.

The quiet wisdom with its golden candle,
Like a star that doesn't set, with its magnificent smile,
It lit your life's way, which was sown with roses.
Each of your soul was an angel, and a lyre your heart was.
It plays with sounds, when the warm wind plucks it.
A palace of icons, your eye saw in this world.

And we? Our scrutinizing gaze, which doesn't dream of anything,
A stare that lies to the paintings: the ones, which stimulate one's feelings.
We name you: seers — as at this world we look coldly.
Everything is a set of instructions. What is right today, it is a lie next day.
You fought a vain battle. You sought a crazy target.
You dreamt of golden days on this bitter world.

"Death follows life. Life follows death."
This life has no other meaning. It doesn't have other choice or result.
People make symbols and icons from every single thing.
They name sacred, lovely and good: things, which mean nothing.
They split in many ways their theory.
And they put outfit for portraits on the sad and naked dead body.

What is the sacred belief? It is a skilled blend
Of some inexistent stuff, which is a poignant and elaborate manuscript.
The man, who wants to make sense of it, he complicates it further.
What is poetry? A pale angel with clean looks.
It is a voluptuous play with images, and with quivering voices.
Purple and gold outfit, on top of the heavy clay, it is.

So, sacred visionary human beings you, goodbye!
Since you made the wave sing. You required a star to fly.
You who shaped another world on this world made of dirt.
Now we cut down everything to the dust that is in us,
So we can defeat it tomorrow.
Stupid men or geniuses, insignificant or great men, the sound, the soul, the light:
Everything is dust…
The people are the way they are… and we are like them.

(1870 August 15)

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