Poetry & Reflections

A blue whale’s heart  It was a grey afternoon.  A grey afternoon.  When I received   The BOX.  Labelled:  FRAGILE.  It was heavy.  A bit hairy.  Tainted   with cracks and holes.  The delivery guy  must have dropped it.  I took it.  I had pity  For the man who carried it from Arizona.  And passed away.  So that the box   Could be here.    It was a grey afternoon  A grey afternoon   When I received   The NEW HEART.   A blue whale’s heart  Made of glass.  Full of scratches.  came first class.    And I said It’s like the eel’s migration to the Sargasso Sea.  Eels travel 6,000 kilometers.  To the North Atlantic.  To lay their translucent eggs  By the time they get there,  They die.  And nobody knows.  Why.  Why the Sargasso Sea?  Why not  Anywhere else?  And sometimes I ...

A review of 'Hyperboréen' by Mario Martin Gijon was published in the Spanish-language newspaper 'El Periódico Extremadura'.   Translation:  'I've never been to Romania, nor do I know any Romanian in Spain, although there are more than half a million (there were almost a million, but many have returned as the economic situation has improved) but some of my favourite writers were born in that country, like Emil Cioran or Paul Celan. None of them wrote in Romanian, as natives of that Romance language with Slavic influence have shown a surprising dexterity in expressing themselves in other languages. This linguistic polyglotism of Romanians endures to this day, and I've just finished reading Hyperborea, the first poetry book by Daniela Nicolaescu, a poet who writes, with complete naturalness, in three languages: Romanian, French and English. Born in 1993 in Rădăuți, a small town a few kilometers from the border with Ukraine (and near Czernowitz where Celan was b...

I'm thrilled to announce that my poetry book, 'Hyperboréen' will be published by Éditions Spinelle This final version will soon be available in both English and French editions, on Amazon, Fnac, and in libraries. A heartfelt thank you goes out to Andreea Molocea for her stunning cover illustration, titled 'Time to Go', and to everyone who has supported me along this journey. My collection of poems, Hyperboréen, comprises poems written between 2012 and 2023, reflecting various stages of my life across different European locations. Each section corresponds to one of the four elements of nature: Earth, Water, Air, and Fire. Stay tuned for updates on the book launch!

 What does it mean to be human?!  Photos: Ramona Aristide drink your tea it gets cold  I am human, therefore   I am a fragile spiderweb in the murky corners of my mind.  I float and sink in indeterminacy   Like the iridescent tentacles of a jellyfish   I glow in the semidarkness of my sea  But first, drink your tea   My sur/face is carved with a small entry  occluded by the humming of a lost language,   I am layers of m/loss liquid absences-sentences I am trapped in this hollowed-out mind  the fabric of my body is soft and permeable when fissured.  But first, drink your tea   I play uncertainty  on the staves of time   on the spreadsheet of tasks                                              play life and ask  What does it mean to be homo sapiens?...

  4 a.m CAT time (Central Africa Time) My mieuw/view on certain aspects that don’t concern me…  The morning light softly touches my lovely fur. Eyes are mesmerized, with remnants of images from the Frankenstein play where we see the birth of an organic/mechanical being. In the 21st century, humans become robots and robots are humanised. The abandoned creature asks for its rights. Who exists and who exits?  I talk about humans with such nonchalance - a buoyant indifference like the old creepy French eighteenth-century intelligentsia crafting the French language - deciding if the 'e' should be added to mark the feminine. The masculine doesn't need an 'e’ - so natural. Let's be clear: 'e' is the lipstick, the flavor, the additional letter that differentiates the anatomy of our bodies. In English, an 'it' and ‘(s)he’ can make a difference between what is fully shaped and what is unborn, what is human and what is a cat. What stays anonymous and what is na...

  Checklist 09.02.2024 To be sent to the tortured poets department . Constraint: don’t use pronouns.  Dear recipient,  Won’t be long. Snippets of information to be sent to humans ALAP. No satisfaction from reading these lines. Clear? Clear. Won’t provide many instructions. Poetry shall be short, but last for long. Like cats, should be furry, lazy and occasionally annoying. Should be flashy, chubby, unshaped- a bit like a teenager’s body- charged with hormones and tiny bumps. Should show affection playfully by biting and scratching like cats. Leaves marks. Should be like koala: dreamy, tucked into the forks of the trees.  Quick question. What is code? What is code? What is code? What is code? What is your code?  Malfunction detected in the web. Some words are overloaded with meaning.  Love Loneliness.              Grandparents.  God.  Me.              You.  We.  How....

  The space between bones is essential for human life. Without holes filled with fluids, there is no movement. no life for my Ex/X-rays     Nothing cannot be perceived wholly  nor our fractured body, a fragmented jellyfish-hand fulminating  around the acidic         memory,   how could I possibly see? Error 256: Failing    to   store that                fades        narrows                  like when you get older the space between bones shrinks       surrender         in a machine without organs  allowing me to see/ graze inside       your elastic organs          smooth  and striated textures     in y...

  Ungraspable A name—that's all I've got. Born in a hollow, Floating miles like dandelion seeds Until I settled down In a Dream—the space where angels go To rest their wings. Years ago, I stared at blank walls Until I could hear the sound of my mind Projected on them. Silent walls like pages that could not have been turned Playgrounds for ideas to jingle and merge. I wanted to be real, in the eyes of my shadows, Staring at me from the distance, But nothing fits in the body— smell, flesh, or voice— Ghostly mind haunting the walls, the pages Of an elusive existence. I tried to reach out To the flickering shapes of the Unwritten, Unspoken, Untouchable, Ungraspable, That slippery echo Of the name On a book that has not been written Yet.

  Internal flight S/he:  ‘I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel it soft, featuring turning, its malignity’ (Sylvia Plath- Elm) Wearing the nights as gloves before surgery  In this filigree s-hell, I built up soft striations— a spirderweb   I’m caught in soft bones              A nest I do not own.  Neither these words, neither these swords like  dandelion seeds coming in and out                                         an exhausted mouthhhhhhh                      What is thhhhhh     is      What is thissssss        ...

  BORN. C a sting off S tones (Speaking with Pebbles)        On the b each                         e ach                        ach e bee s                       s ting                        s kin s                                         kin s hip s        ...