Poetry & Reflections

  POLY The only prefix That requires consideration  is ‘poly’ Everything that defines us  is poly Polyester  Polyamory  Polyglotism Polydipsia  Polyvalent Polytheism- The age of poly Crowds. Conglomerations In the city of Poly  sulphurous eyes close  wasp stings born from the night’s belly we burn our deepest ingratitude  and cry- such a terrible choir  we are poly, polyself  polymorth  plasticine our soul is  Nocturnal bugs  Before running amok, the bug looks in my eyes Transfixed, threatened, it stares and it stares  How many kilometres its look have to travel until it meets mine -just as we see the past by gazing up into the fur of night; an astral creature, a line of demarcation shapes as only smoke can curve. Could a bug feel   my body’s salinity. my sweat after squeezing a dead body wrapped in towels, antifungal creams and soot? -glistening eczemas on my skin with red protuberances -the obsolete world ...

Gone were the days when she lived by herself, with hundreds of books and the rest of paraphernalia of another world, all jammed in 28 square meters. Uncharted, munificent territories to explore. Now she enters the empty room through a smoke screen and looks at the leftovers she took: a smooth toothbrush, small debris of toothpaste between the bristles, a worn-out blue dress. She thinks: What a jest, what a jest, and here I am. Terribly alone. Terrified, yet unflappable, flustered. Hands folded, dry skin, eczema on her neck, tired and lugubrious dark eyes . She looks at her phone: it is bed time, sets an alarm. Nothing unusual, she could rest and think, think and rest. In 7 hours, he’ll be here. She thinks: He’ll come. Open the door, open the fridge, open the window- so many things to turn on and open except me. I am a glacial figure, boreal as I am, magnetized by my solitude, I am pushing the limits of my absence. I forget what his voice sounds like. Honeyed when laying in my arms, app...

  She lives in a lifeboat  Keeping in her arms: a toothbrush  a white rabbit and  20 years of unconfessed love How would/what could/what if- she underlines these possibilities  The word “incompatibility” haunting aimlessly  -we suck at timing, baby, she’d think with the  uncanny feeling that  it was never meant to happen.  What’s the probability of being struck by lightning  What’s the probability of meeting him again after 20 years?  One in a million, she’d say  One in a million.  Now, miss Lilly, cheers to  All the newcomers that will come and go  Fading away, unblinkingly To all the failed, aborted ones that went unperceived  Raise your glass, Lilly, and sing to all The uncharted possibilities  Nothing is lost and buried  The best is yet to come.

  The chicken becomes sort of pink Pink monster refusing to die  It should be forbidden to leave some/one/thing half-dead Half-cooked chicken, a one-winged angel don't leave food on your plate our parents used to say Then what is it that not-too-salted not-too-sweet thing  Not-too-excessive not-too-beautiful not-too-ravishing not-too-nothing? Something edgy without being too edgy  I had enough of this; I said. A mouthful of paradoxes  A staggering story that keeps repeating  Each time I hold something that looks like a hand Each time it scratches the surface of a placenta  Generating crevices, a boreal image where always Always  All- ways  Something seeps in  Maybe a hand, maybe the glove that keeps warm and protects  Maybe your Polysteron 250- an incipient form of all sexes A generic multi-functional organ we can use for digging into the fertile permafrost Where I keep my 2000-years-old love-hate viruses We don’t know how long it ...

  Organizarea lumii mă perturbă.  Organizarea lumii, ca o succesiune de etape pe care le urmezi cu rigurozitate bifând, bifând.  Ori eu am uitat în dimineața asta, care e ordinea lucrurilor. M-am trezit cu toate obiectele astea plutind în jurul meu și cu mâinile mele în aer neștiind ce să fac cu ele. am icnit cu amărăciune gândindu-mă la cât de anevoios devine, într-o dimineață cenușie, actul de a face o cafea. Ibricul nu își are vreun rost, atunci când apa se revarsă direct pe ochiul aragazului, într-un gol sinistru. Din nu știu ce motiv aș fi băgat mâna în foc că există un ibric, un recipient care să conțină apa. La final, când totul s-a dezlânat, am băut zațul și am vărsat cafeaua.  Niciodată nu am știut care e ordinea firească a lucrurilor. am trăit mereu cu  sindromul impostorului, că nașterea mea e produsul unei erori matematice, un calcul nefericit. Ar fi trebuit să debutez cu o moarte lentă și tăcută.  Nu sunt mai mult decât o uriașă calotă glaciară...

10 Iunie 2021 1. Mă așez pe covorul persan scos la vânzare, cărăbușii se prăbușesc în părul meu ca niște meteoriți. Rădăuțiul miroase a pâine proaspătă. Clădirile ancestrale se năruie, confetti într-un spital cu pereții murdari. Coji de semințe purtate de vânt. Trenul ce duce la Putna se mișcă haotic, sâsâind. E un șarpe obosit, ce și-a pierdut sensul, pasagerii, locomotivele (unde sunt loco-motivele?). Câinii orașului nu mai au la cine să latre. Câinii nu mai latră la mine pentru că eu sunt o casă cu geamurile sparte. Aș vrea să te iau de mână și să plonjăm în iarba proaspăt cosită. Firele de lumină să curgă ca niște ițe. Deasupra nostră- veșnicia.  Cutii de carton în care rățuște rotofee sunt scoase la vânzare. O valiză parcurge drumul de la sat la oraș. La umbra orașului, par mai frumoasă. Ochii caută ieșirea din Sine .  Să aștepți un om 20 de ani fără să ai vreo garanție că acesta va reveni. Fără să ai certitudinea că acesta există. Că nu e doar o bulă de aer în nemișcare...

 M-am întors. Cu dependența celui ce zice „Asta e ultima țigară” Așteaptă-mă într-un loc pustiu și îndepărtat E o zi obișnuită. https://parnas21.blogspot.com/2021/05/daniela-nicolaescu-draga-s.html?fbclid=IwAR0W3lav9yHUpRquMqWpXXRaaELAvtzM8hzM1q0PUiAtfbBmauqdwH8w1_Q&m=1

  Dear gentle, sweet and weeping girl, these times are harsh The rumours swirl a gloomy story set on a marsh Priest unfurl when they confess and curl swollen fingers around a cross forgetting in a moment of blindness who’s their boss.   A promise is a promise they say. ‘I’ll do, I’ll do’ they pray. But these words are dandelions, the wind shook and blew into a prison between bars of iron.   Dear gentle, sweet and weeping girl, The meadows are over flowed with blood. Cows graze, have red milk and walk in mud. We are born alone, we’ll always be Ladybirds and honey bees Fighting extinction between orchard trees.   A one wheel bike, a flagrant dud, a piece of rotten smelly meat. Never fully alive, never complete. A promise is a promise they’ll say, ‘I’ll do, I’ll do’. They say and then they’ll stray.   But all these words are bubble gum the tongue shook and blew.   Dear gentle, sweet and weeping girl, our hi...

  Here it is! From Portugal with love, C-19 Litehouse was delivered to me. I am so happy to see my poem published here together with the beautiful illustration by Nadia Chamorra. Thank you Danae Spyrou for making this possible.

  My poem « Les débarcadères tristes » translated in French by Radu Bata and published in “Le blues roumain: anthologie imprévue de poésies roumaines”. in French and Romanian « les souvenirs sont perles de sueur —————————————— sur le front du malade ————————— (découpe-moi comme une planche en petits carrés flottants sur une carte de sentiments qui tranchent) ceci n’est pas un poème c’est une ville qui se contracte comme un muscle fatigué c’est le rail oxydé du train c’est une fille qui tourne en rond sur une ligne c’est le voisin transparent sur le banc contigu c’est une mère qui promène l’enfant dans le cellier c’est la frappe du cœur contre la poitrine qu’on entend jusqu’à l’autre bout de la vie tu n’es pas un poème, mère, tu es un débarcadère triste je t’attends les mains tendues dans la pluie avec les aiguilles de l’heure qui me piquent la peau et tu viens des siècles après pour me montrer comment cuisiner le potage et alors que c’est trop tard j’écris ces mots qui ne sont pa...

CUTRA magazine published my short stories I am very grateful Follow the link below:  https://cutra.ro/sfanta-parascheva-si-jurnal-porretta-terme/?fbclid=IwAR0bb9LYL9L7HzvkVEEicHtUS-6ypOqZCfyYkflNg9755k2du8XKNYNgjY4

Est-ce qu'ils ont un nom? Ces espèces de sandwich déposés dans les côtés obscurs de la ville. Ils sont bien refroidis, bien moisis, enveloppés de cellophane. Ils se cassent vite devant les regards impassibles. On les voit partout. On leur jette un sou en passant vite fait- derrière leur masque c'est plus facile à les ignorer. Les mains gelées, l'estomac dans les talons, ils encaissent la froideur, le mépris des gens, la fièvre qui ne se sent plus à force de trop glacer, des pluies abondantes. Et puis, quand la pluie s'arrête et que les pensées qui clochent se vident dans la poubelle de la ville, à quoi pensent-ils? Et surtout, en quel langage? Il y a un future, une forme verbale, une terminaison pour conjuguer une vie merdique ?  *** Derrière mon masque, mes lunettes, je suis toute parée. Je me promène devant une chaîne de magasins bien connus: Primark, Zara, H&M. Les sacs dans les mains, les filles joyeuses lancent leur achat en plein-air, chaque semaine une célébr...