Robert Șerban (b.1970, Turnu Severin) is writer, journalist, producer and moderator of the television show “Pepper on tongue” (TVR Timişoara).
His debut volume of poetry was called Of course I’m exaggerating (1994, awarded with the Romanian Writers Union Prize for Debut). It was followed by Odyssex (poetry, 1996), Pepper on tongue (interviews, 1999, The Prize of the Romanian Writers Union, Timişoara branch), On the trail of the Great River/ Auf den Spuren des grossen Stroms (co-author, poetry and prose, 2002), Timişoara in Three Friends (co-author, poetry, 2003), The Pink Book of Communism (co-author, memoirs, 2004), The Fifth Wheel (interviews, 2004; The Prize of the Romanian Writers Union, Timişoara), Feathertales/ Annusdazumal (prose, 2005), Home Cinema (poetry, 2006, The Prize of The Observator cultural Magazine for poetry, The Prize of the Romanian Writers Union, Timişoara branch), Athenee Palace Hotel (coauthor, theatre, 2007), The Eye with Eaves (press articles, 2007)¸ A carriage loaded with nothing/ EinKarren beladen mit nichts (coauthor, poetry, 2008),The para-fine death (poetry, 2010, The Prize of The Luceafărul de dimineaţă Magazine for poetry, The Prize of the Romanian Writers Union, Timişoara branch), Below the line (poetry, 2015, The Prize of the Romanian Radio Culture, The Prize of the Ateneu Magazine, The Prize of the Romanian Writers Union, Timişoara branch) etc.
In 2009 the German translation of Home Cinema (Heimkino, beimir) was issued in Germany by Pop Verlag, in 2010 the bilingual volume Биоскоп у мојојкуђи/ Home Cinema appeared in Serbia (at Meridijani Publishing House), in 2012, published in Hungary, at L’Harmattan,the book Illatos koporsó (A fragrant coffin), and in 2015, in the French translation, La mort parafinne (The para-fine death), at Vinea Editions.
He won a scholarship offered by the Soros Foundation (1995) and literary residencies in Krems (Austria, 2005), Thusis (2007, Switzerland), Winterthur (2009, Switzerland) and Wiena (2013, Austria).
His poems have been translated into several languages (Polish, Czech, English, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Yiddish, Norwegian, Swedish, Arabic, Ukrainian, Macedonian, Hebrew etc.) and published in numerous anthologies and literary publications in Romania and abroad.
Robert Șerban is president of the International Festival of Literature at Timișoara (FILTM).
What is left of life
people are convinced
that in poems nothing ever happens
that they should be read
after death
when it is better to stop having desires
ideas
people don’t open slim volumes
and if they do
they notice immediately that inside there are
just a few words on the line
just a few words on the page
and otherwise
white a lot of white
and they close them quickly
but without anyone telling them
people know that
poetry is all that is left of life
after you have lived it
God talks to no one
for some time now
I’ve been hearing the same stories about me
most of them ugly most of them sad
and I’m glad
this means that everything I have been doing lately
is
perhaps
good and beautiful
in other words boring
and who would waste their time on things like that
but I’ve no knives out for them
because I hear God talks to no one
about any of us
It seems that I know
it seems that I know all the time what I’m doing
when I stick the car key in the ignition
and when I take the knife to clean the fish
and when I press the buttons of the remote control
and when I throw stones at the pack of dogs
and when I place the tip of my pen on the sheet of paper
and when I do magic tricks for my children or other people’s
and when I caress my woman’s cheeks
at all times it seems that I am very sure of myself
and no one would contest this
not even if they were to find out
that there isn’t any drop of gas in the tank
that my fingers have cuts
that the TV blew out a half a year ago
that the pack amounts to two skinny and faint-hearted dogs
that dozens of scrunched up pages fill my garbage can
that the kids figure out fast up which sleeve my coins disappear
that from my woman’s cheeks I dry tear after tear
Cakes
mother has made cakes for Tudor and Crina
I watch as my children bite happily out of them
as the sugar powder draws whiskers on their faces
as their cheeks puff up like a frog’s
and I start crying
my mother strokes my head
and whispers to me:
God tests us
the same way you try the cakes in the oven
to see if they are
or not
baked enough
Family tradition
all the men in my family
cleaned their shoes with shoe polish
my great grandfather whom I didn’t catch alive
my grandfathers
my uncles
my cousin
my father
all of them
and not only did they use shoe polish
but made them shine
shoe after shoe
pair after pair
day after day
long meticulously thoughtful even
because a man first looks at another man’s shoes
and after that in his eyes
I have a silicone sponge
with which I polish
from time to time
and in a hurry
on the toe caps of the shoes
Knowing the ropes about death
how well you know the ropes about death
you whispered
after you read a few of my poems
not at all
not at all
I’m just an impostor
everything I have written in there
is seen or heard from others
Here and here
so she would fall in love with me
I told a girl I had two hearts
she looked at me astounded and stepped back slowly
you don’t believe me?
put your hand
here and here
do you see
it beats on the left
and on the right
there are two
I remember how
due to wonder
the girl’s lips parted from one another
and her mouth opened
I hesitated for a few moments
then I kissed her
when she felt quite herself again
she murmured:
how can you live like this?
fine just fine
because the heart on the right is smaller
than the one on the left
but just a little
A new life
I’m getting ready to start a new life
it has happened before
it is not the first time
it’s worth telling you a few things about it
first
you start crying so hard
that
I’m not joking
you lift yourself from the ground for days on end
maybe even weeks
then
when you are back on your feet
they don’t hold you anymore
as if they were cut from your hips
you lie flat
you can’t see anything
but you can hear how beneath you a hole is being dug
you don’t get scared
it’s not a grave being born beneath you
graves have a different murmur when they get going
after a while you start seeing the sky
and then you repeat to yourself
in your head or out loud
help me God help me
sometimes
God immediately helps
other times
he is late
anyway
he takes the shape of your feet your haunches your knees
and
oops-a-daisy
he lifts you up
if you cross yourself
good
if not
it is forgiven
you have all the time in the world for a cross
you look all around you
you sigh smile wipe your eyes
take your hand to your heart
scratch your head
stare
blink frequently
you stare again
you are a little crazy
but a lot closer to who you are
even though you never had a waiter’s memory
you start remembering all sorts of things
and that’s not good
not good at all
you clench your teeth make a wry mouth and throw a vicious curse
like a protective screen
like those you saw in SF movies
then another one and another
you throw
just like that
you throw
may the force be with you!
look
it is better now
you take an orange and peel it with a knife
to look like a flower
you transform the peel in petals
which you then open up with your fingers
slowly
one after another
you might not eat it
the beauty of the world is all in there
but you are very thirsty
and you sink your teeth into it
a poor man that is getting ready to start a new life
and
maybe
a happy one
Translated into English by Ana-Maria Albu