My second poem written with the writer Martin Tobias Lithner, + ++ congrats to him for the video. 💙💙💙🧚♀️🧚♀️🧚♀️🙏🙏🙏 I'm thrilled about the results of this poetic experiment and the way our minds connected.
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Poeme în proză O gâză mi se aşază pe nas/o alung/ gâza migrează pe mână/ o alung/ acum e pe sprânceana dreaptă/ o alung/ gâza dansează pe cicatricea de la gât/ o alung/ se cacă pe o ureche/ o alung/ mi se strecoară intre sâni/ o alung. Gâza se face ca pleacă o simt iar pe degetul mic de la picior pe incheietura braţului/ pe burtă dispare/apare ma scutur toată dau din mâini devin un zeu hindus cu zece braţe. Gâza aplaudă cu picioruşele din faţă/ râde in hohote/ dispare. nervii mi se târăsc sub piele beau un pahar cu apă, ma linistesc. Deodată aud un bazâit in stomac -mai alungă-mă acum dacă poti- zice gâza care se aşază pe un plămân. *** Obsesiv-compulsiv Te pregătești de muncă verifici aragazul verifici apa la baie verifici apa din bucătărie fierul de călcat închizi ușa după tine faci doi pași te întorci Verifici din nou aragazul apa din baie apa din bucătărie fierul de călcat închizi ușa după 5 minute te întorci Tragi aer în piept miroși fiecare...
My heart, an anti-stress ball A poem in Romanian and English My head is a well bucket I have enough water to feed 20 thirsty camels crossing the Sahara desert When I was sad I would lean over the well and I would shout loudly in my head I could hear my echo "help me" "help me" By shouting in the well for years I learned to answer my own questions with questions The ballerina music box is also a Sisyphus who has to dance on the spot the same song Looking at herself in the mirror As time goes by I learned to wear my sadness like a loose nightgown I am an empty cinema (no chairs) I invite you to watch the same scene where a child breaks the windows and Chaplin installs them back ‘In this empty cinema your breath in my ear is so erotic, ‘you whispered me I know I am the dumb woman haunting the trains to sell cheap things a keychain, some playing cards the dumb you fell in love with and has no echo the dry fountain pen the dry well above which, a bucket is float...
A poem for my mother in Romanian and English This is not a poem It's the rusty rail of the train It’s the neighbour on the next bench It’s a mother who walks her child in the park It’s your heartbeat that you can't hide it, whatever you do. you are not a poem, mother you are a sad wharf, you see I'm waiting for you with my hands in the rain with the clock’s hands stuck in the heart and you you come after centuries and show me how to make a pot of soup, to knit a dumpling I've been waiting for years, mom, and when you came you said while sewing a coat for me I've been raising you with a needle all my life now I am writing this poem which isn’t more important than the soup you cook
Birds are falling I don't know where this night comes from A hole in the tissue. A crack where it leaks Oily and crunchy. A celebration. We parasitize Under its breasts full of black milk. Paul Celan said 'language is my country'. I speak four languages but I am a stranger . A beautiful immigrant you can play with. A doll endlessly repeating the same words. 'Mama' 'mama' 'mama'. In my genetic code So many words entrenched (why do I fear them?) I look through a magnifying glass. I zoom and cut up. They retract. Such a tremendous surgery. I proceed with a delicate operation. Words keep coming back from submarines, undergrounds, dark corridors. Obli -gation Vio -lence On -going process Oblivion. There is an error. Irrepressible. Error. organic as water. You rather take my hand. We'll play chess on the edges of memory. Every time I win, you cut words. Every time you win I cut words. My organs are be...
Look at me. How stable I am... floating slowly. I don't bump into rocks. I am that houseboat you've seen in the pictures and dream of. Around me, so much water. Nothing else. The same view over and over again. I can only see myself inside my water Waves would gently wrinkle my face. Wind will move me forward ----an illusion, like everything else--- that magnifying effect In water, my image seems closer and larger than it actually is. Look at me. My eyes gently squeezing a raindrop. On my blurred glasses. On my restless hands. I dream of museums, Left Bank, unlocked doors. Churches where you can walk naked, unashamed. Blazes of grass for people to sleep (in each other's arms). Dazing light growing inside. get older beautifully like a Romanian peasant girl, making a cozonac. Look how beautiful I am- a dark spot on your retina. Shrinking.
BORDEAUX Le 1er Mars 2015 Richard Wagner: Tristan und Isolde. Ce prélude est imprégné d’une angoisse déchirante, d’une menace qui plonge, plonge et s’évanouit comme la fumée d’une cigarette, engloutie par l’air frais. La nuit est tombée, il fait froid, très froid et mes mains sont tout à fait glacées. Le ciel nuageux et menaçant est tombé aussi dans le vide, comme un oiseau blessé par une balle et tout d’un coup, ma vie semble sombrer dans une solitude immense, infinie, une solitude de chien égaré ou d’un ange qui cherche sa voie vers le ciel. Inutile de songer, inutile de me créer des fantasmes qui finissent par embrasser le désespoir et les ténèbres. Le passé et le futur constitue la symbiose qui accompagne la marche musicale de la vie, les derniers mots d’un malade trépassé. Le passé est un mort, le futur est une illusion. Moi, moi aussi je suis une image, comme l’image vague qui se reflète dans le miroir étincelant d’une rivière. Je me regarde, la même, les yeux trempés de lar...
Perucheria de vis (-à-vis) 22 august--- Drumul era pietros și un val de neliniște se lăsa în straturi. Dumnezeu privea de la distanțe hipermetrice, cu ochii obosiți și miopi, spațiul acesta canceros îmbibat de drojdie și aluat proaspăt dospit. În București, covrigăriile s-au împrăștiat ca ciuma monopolizând maidanele nealterate încă de cizma postcomunistă. Mirosul de susan și mac se lăsa ca o pânză pe ochii adormiți ai bucureștenilor, îmbiindu-i să se așeze în coloane kilometrice și să înșface, cu mâinile bezmetice și lipicioase cercurile fierbinți săltate în cuptoare. La capătul cozii, lângă o femeie îmbrobodită cu trei baticuri și o plasă de megaimage atârnând de mâna scorojită, se putea lesne întrezări un jandarm care își muta greutatea de pe un picior pe altul, așteptându-și porția răbdător. Diminețile răgățene aveau miros de shaormerii, acolo unde huliganii amețiți se aciuau fără preget, cu stomacul bulbucind a bere iefină de haimana. Câinii vagabonzi se ra...
Das Buchenland I knew a child who strewed his path with blue petals, I asked him: why, chum? “I wanna find my way home” he said Do not use flowers, I told him, the wind will blow them away Next day he strewed his path with breadcrumbs so that he could find his way back after being engulfed by the world, by mountains, by rivers Do not use breadcrumbs, my child, I said, the pigeons will come and eat them and you will be lost forever in this savage, fierce world, you will even forget your words, you will speak the language of trees and birds. He looked at me with brooding eyes, dimmed by sorrow, he vanished in the forest fading away as the blue petals, as the breadcrumbs, passing away the old cottage where he lived crumbled his home is now a blurred photo If you zoom in on it you can see the ruins.
GLACIAL DREAMS I have glacial dreams In my dreams, I see my mom in front of the shop Waiting for me to come, I say to her: Why don't you wait here? and I'll be back soon With mangos, ginger and loads of tomatoes. Alright, she says. I'll wait but don't be late It's cold outside and I am getting older. I have glacial dreams. I am drinking a cold tea. I say to her Why don't you wait here? I'll be back soon With strawberries, ginger and loads of tomatoes. Alright, she says, but don't be late Your tea is getting colder and I am getting older. I have glacial dreams: I'm touching a cold hand, I say to her Why don't you just wait here? I will be back soon With apples, ginger and loads of tomatoes. My bag is heavy. I put in on the ground I'm looking for her: mom, mom I came! Nobody was waiting. Only the Siberian wind Blowing In a cemetery Only the bloody poppy Growing In my tea I say: ...