\n
In
\nPloiesti, a city 60 km north of Bucharest, you can find a small
\nhidden away street with a courtyard full of blooming trees, with an
\nelegant house typical of the area. This is the memorial house
\ndedicated to Nichita Stanescu, the poet said by the critics to be the
\ngreatest Romanian poet of the modern era. We went to this house,
\nwhere the poet grew up, accompanied by the curator of the museum,
\nIoana Rosu. She shared with us a few thoughts about the museum and
\nthe poet it is dedicated to, Nichita Stanescu, who lived between 1933
\nand 1983. She told us about the significance of the place for the
\nlocals and for all Romanians:
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I
\nwant to recall and prove that our city, famous for its crude oil
\nproduction, has also provided many people of value, such as
\nplaywright Ion Luca Caragiale, actor Toma Caragiu, and poet Nichita
\nStanescu. The latter has been promoted heavily since 1986, when the
\npoetry festivals named after him were started. They take place every
\nyear on March 31, the date of his birth. This happened up until the
\nyear 2000, when we recovered the Stanescu family house, and we could
\nstart the process of bringing him back home. This is the home of his
\nbirth. We were incredibly lucky back then to have his sister,
\nMariana, to guide us and advise us in restoring the house the way it
\nwas when the poet was growing up.<\/p>\n
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We
\ncontinued our incursion into Nichita Stanescu’s life going through
\nthe museum and its exhibits, with stories about his childhood. Ioana
\nRosu led us through it:
\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
We
\nhave here a few manuscripts, with biographical data, photos,
\ndiplomas, but this is mostly his childhood home. In his bedroom we
\nhave on top of his bed a teddy bear, which was dear to him when he
\nwas a kid. We also have his writing desk when he was in school, and
\nthe upright piano he played when he got back from school. We have a
\nlot of the family’s belongings, which were given back to be seen
\nhere. The keeper of most objects was his sister Mariana, since he
\nlived most of his life in Bucharest, even though he was never
\nofficially a resident of the city. He spent his youth there. The most
\nvaluable are the books with dedications, autographs, the prizes. I
\nwould mention the two most important prizes, because the Writer Union
\ngave him awards for every single volume of poetry. His highest
\nachievements, though, were the 1976 Herder Award, which he got in
\nVienna in 1976, for his volume Elegies, and the 1982 Struga Poetry
\nEvenings Award, which he got in what is now North Macedonia, a
\nbeautiful golden wreath that is now displayed in a glass case, the
\nmain attraction for visitors. Many a poet has coveted this prize, but
\nNichita actually got it. He grew up with a nanny, Ana Silaghi, who
\nraised and educated him. He was getting piano lessons at home,
\nstarting from the age of 6. His mother, Tatiana, noticed he had an
\near for music. In a radio interview, sometime in 1975, she said that
\nif he hadn’t been a poet, he probably would have been a great
\nmusician. He had everything he needed, in addition to his mother’s
\nsupport. Tatiana Stanescu said that he wrote his first poem when he
\nwas in kindergarten. One autumn day, she recalled, she was cooking in
\nthe courtyard, and she heard him babbling something, and asked him
\nwhat he was saying. He recited the poem to her, and she went in the
\nhouse to jot it down. She showed it to him when he was older, it was
\na poem with a pace and rhyme, written by a preschooler. He was a
\nfeisty kid, a true Aries, a fire sign. In school, his math teacher
\nsaid that he was writing epigrams in class, and so he didn’t push him
\nmuch in that subject matter, even though many of his poems feature
\nmathematics, such as The Lesson About The Cube, The Lesson About the
\nCircle, or Geometry, which some say is a mathematical poem. He had a
\ngreat childhood, but also a bad period. He lived through the
\nbombings, the Americans were bombing the city of Ploiesti and the oil
\nrefineries there, so the Stanescu family locked up their home and
\nfled. Luckily for them, the house was untouched by the bombs, but the
\nchild wasn’t, some images stuck with him, because in his poetry we
\noften find images of soldiers, or of burning trees. These things were
\nimprinted in his memory.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
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For
\nthe end of our visit to the quaint and beautiful memorial house,
\nIoana Rosu told us her impression of the place:
\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I
\nam trying to tell people that this is a welcoming place, and many
\ncross its threshold with the feeling that Nichita is close by, that
\nhe could even be their host. He lived to the fullest, he was a torch
\nburning bright. He passed away too quickly, but Nichita lived in 50
\nyears what others wouldn’t in 150 years, and that is all that
\nmatters.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
This is the childhood home of the poet considered the greatest in the modern era<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":139,"featured_media":163297,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[44685],"tags":[],"coauthors":[],"class_list":["post-163296","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-world-of-culture"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n