Poetry & Reflections

I’ll never have enough words to paint  Neither enough colours to speak  The language of flowers the peak  An intangible mountain many layers of voids/voices many shades of looks as only a blind face can describe. hold my hands when it ends  hold my hands  when it ends  The limits of my limits—a boundary I’ll never reach each  sound till the end  Never touch these words that I send  to the chords of your mind in a different ‘same way’. I’ll never say  enough to make you laugh to make you deep  I’ll never have enough legs to creep  In your stem, in the steam of an extinguished dream.  hold my hands when it ends  hold my hands  when it ends  They say trees communicate through their roots  their leaves don’t touch, Yet, when one root was poisoned, the forest was in pain. Collective bleeding running through our vein....

Midnight in Paris. I am typing and typing and the poem  Unshaped and aborted, it levitates in my stomach  Full of love and confidence. This is a savage poem that Whirls in the distance like a wandering leaf in the storm Collected by a scavenger.  Today in Strasbourg I’ve seen a bee trying to get some more food  But it drowned and there was no escape. Death and pleasure turned out to be  Nothing more than a glass of orange juice 2 calories to the body weight A form of disappearance through addition. Wanderlust. I was running through languages and spaces. My retina could not get attached to these fuzzy images of trees  Dancing and growing with the roots outside, upside down  Gutach was detaching from my eyes. I lost myself In someone else’s mind. I lost myself, unshaped, aborted.  I wrote some letters from the hertz of this Black Forest.  I left my luggage in the Gare de l’Est. I left  It wasn’t the time but we said goodbye anyway because...

  How do you spend your day? She asked. I am always somewhere. Shaping spaces with words Inside crevices of times  In-betweenness----------flow------------Yet always performing  A name               No echo              animated by fluids. Organicity  is the key word.  Monday      I imagine how the void looks like  Tuesday      invent new forms of forgetting Wednesday write with silences. muting and mutating the voices inside my head Tuesday   explain that blue is not a color. It’s the sound the body makes  When shaken by exhilaration.  Friday    Her arms are elastic. wobby divine. I contemplate Thinking in colours. in mountains. in  particles.  Saturday Nurtured with high hopes/ inflicting enough pain to make it work  Sunday.   Sun rising in my day. I orient my le...

  I see  restorative sounds       det/aching             F a l   l       i n g                 i n     the  s       p       a                           c     e                 I wonder/wander    Visible                    Inside                          ...

  Ulay and Marina Abramovic Bleeding doll   Your pen- so dear to me a fetish that sets the world on fire never consumes us.   Your love poems         in my hands             are bleeding.   You say that these words written for her years ago, could fit our story now.   This is the proof that love is not unique, irreplaceable but   a ragged, recyclable cloth we put on our skin and adjust to make it fit our bodies.   It blinks and pulsates like a talking doll’s heart every time you shake it   the doors closed and hardly can open now to escape from   the loneliness a doll feels when it is no longer the child’s favorite toy.

Great news: three of my poems were published in the renowned Revista de Literatura, Quimera. Many thanks to the writer Mario Martín Gijón for translating my poems into Spanish.

  New poems published in PARNAS XXI.  https://parnas21.blogspot.com/2022/04/daniela-nicolaescu-recunastere.html?fbclid=IwAR1I_yfDF3V8hnN545ilRuiX8VMZt2by9N-mSjCw4EFRD4khOpHzL5_5j5U Despărțire Totul începe cu o desincronizare Pași ce nu se aliniază. Un lapsus Din palton cade un nasture, Îl pui într-un sertar și aștepți. Privești mușcătura din măr Pe care acum năvălesc muștele. Bărbații-actori al căror nume l-ai uitat Îți dau târcoale repetitiv. Îi consumi cu regularitate Un anxiolitic ce se dizolvă în ani. În lipsa oricărui stimul, privești mersul cuplurilor Un mers îmbătrânit și greoi. Ce nu spune nimic despre câte lemne au ars în ei În iernile cele mai geroase. Totul începe cu niște mâini transpirate Ce se desprind încetul cu încetul În ruperea asta ușoară E o zbatere, o rezistență. Un gât ce se refuză ștreangului Un urlet înăbușit în pernă. Și din el, viața unui nou-născut. Dincolo de piele Dincolo de piele piere nemișcarea - straturile de tăcere se adună. Albinele colecteaz...