30.10.2013 călin torsan
Chris Tănăsescu giving a poetry-performance with the group Margento/ photo George Floarea

His place is not among us. I can't see him here and I can't see him now. He is a fool, and a thief, and a mystic. But these words are just blowing their own trumpet, marking his entrance in the woven text that is talking about him. In the same manner, the king was announced before, and he prepared himself to open the gates at the throne's hall. Or maybe there is something good about the shadow of a poet being built out of words. This would be the most appropriate way to conjure him, to make him come out of time's web - easy, trembling, as the spirit that bedeviled the minds of those that came too close to the mysterious shroud.

Chris Tănăsescu la Cafeneaua Critică
foto Raluca Tănăsescu

foto Dana Hodorog

I can't see him here...
For sure, he is hidden, in the snow layer that lay long ago underneath the aoidos Homer's eyelids. He looks like a snowman, made out of three giant snowballs: a sung word, a spoken word and body many more souls carrying. Lost by the pathways, finding himself between citadels that will have to listen to him. A nomad philosopher, at times entangled in the hairs of Alceu's beard, other times in the lyre's strings that he used to pluck; other times casting aside his manhood, putting on Sappho's sandals, looking after the phrase fragments from Muses House (Margento) that melted into tinted refrains.
He is carrying us along with the lexical waves aroused by his skolia, at times taking us back to the hidden past, in the crushed leaves that rest between yellowed book covers - dried - at other times, covering us in the adequate stitches of  a minnesinger, troubadour,  trouvère or minstrel.

Margento Live
foto Pollak Po

Margento Live cu Liviu Butoi
photo Pollak Po

To speak... a verb that describes him more than anything else: Chris speaks through his mouth, toppling his verses like circles. When his rhymes cling on to his hands and burst into gestures, when the anacrusis hides in his throat, together with his breathing, when from vowels and consonants he kneads beads on the staff, you lose all of your dimensions and you don't know any longer who's the spider, the web, who's getting who or who's letting go.
Then, the snowman (Chris) calls us to mind the kneaded world with a single colour and a single sound:

Winter solitude –
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.
                            (haiku, Basho)

Slowly the snow has started falling, polystyrene... pan, carrot, besom - mystic, fool and thief.

translation Andrea Nastac
călin torsanSour and cold like Romanian ground beef and potato salad. Queasy like mayonnaise. Good on the holidays and bad during the rest of the year. Has olives instead of eyes and bell pepper slices instead of lips.
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