THE INFINITY DF LOVE
The INFINITY of
LOVE
Stella Anghel
In order to select the
poems of this anthology, I followed an ideal learned from Rene Char:" A
poet shall leave a trace of his passing, not evidence. Only traces make you
dream." Nothing more appropriate for "The Infinity of Love" an
anthology which recommends distinctive voices in a multitude of forms and with
an impetuous sensitive brilliance. Following an aesthetics lesson and without
promoting the paradox for its own sake, the work of new talents has been
brought to light as well as that of debutants . Poems have their own
structuring laws, oriented towards meaning, towards insight into new possible
worlds. The reader will have to decide whether this anthology is remarkable for
the novelty in language, in meanings or passion. What I know is that the reader
will succeed in finding among the poets an idol who may offer him the joy of
capturing the energy he may be looking for. I confess that the poets , whose
names are included in this anthology , become , like Pirandello’s characters,
beings that are no longer anonymous, in order to re-create their own
“character”, unique in their manifestation. I expect the reader to embark on an
infinite lyrical reading adventure. The book close to the heart and…. evidently
the best so far, will be that one which has not been written yet, the next one
(the one they are working on…..which, until it is published bears and will bear
….the soul…… of today).
The Contra Argument to the
Anthology
Ștefan Dumitru Afrimescu
Who was saying that
nowadays miracles no longer happen? Nothing is more untrue. A miracle is
happening right in front of our eyes. I am speaking of the edition of "The
Infinity of Love", which is at its second publication.
Just it – LOVE
Elisabeta Gîlcescu
When you think of the anthology, you expect to find the most beautiful poems. But when you open it and you discover the poetry of love, unique, sincere, captivating, without any magic recipes to love, it moves something within you, it stirs up your interest, you wonder what comes next. I have been working hard for this anthology for quite some time. Each poem has a story, hiding something that only the one who wrote it knows about.... our story is the poetry... it has intense feelings, a worm tone and a gentle soul....Reading it one can dream, one can live... The future of the anthology belongs to us, those who entered the contest, to finally arrive at the core of things, it is love that makes us perfect as people, which stays in our hearts and which wakes us up at the crack of dawn with the most beautiful words... you know them... In a wonderful landscape, the whole universe can gravitate around them. These words, through balance and fulfillment, lead us towards moral purity. "Because thousands of words are not enough and love is asking for more and more"
Ani Bradea
Metamorphoses
Remember?
I was a dreaming willow,
I
was crying with yellow zany tears,
To
be tall like a poplar it was in my thought
But
on my body didn’t grow nude branches.
Do
you remember? You grew me petals
From
my body you embroidered a trunk,
And
you carried me through all your longings
As
a sunflower – light.
Now,
I became a cascade,
You
the lake where I want to fall,
Stormier
than a tornado
Loving
from a monte in aval.
To my guardians
I
am not from your world,
Easily
you can hurt me!
Building
up tall walls
And
behind them
My
dreams to close,
Painting
My
blue horizons
In
grey,
Stealing
My
springs,
Killing
My
birds
And
stepping on
My
flowers.
But
you do not know
That
I am waiting
My
wings to grow!z
Hope
Today,
the angel came
To
show me the path,
He
knew that I am not prepared
To
evade,
“Be
patient – he told me-
Your
heart,
They
didn’t burn it yet on the stake
Its
ashes didn’t spread it
Over
the sea,
And
your gift of tears
For
them, it is not enough yet!
But,
prepare yourself,
Believe!
Soon,
Very
soon…
And
just until then
You
still can
Cry!”
Ani Dragoianu
Build me castles
I
was pressing you into my fist
As
though the light would be disturbing the silence
From
the urn, that was burning like a flame
Over
the town who passed through the worlds wars;
I
was feeling your flesh twitching with anxiety
Through
the ears of my time –
I
was exposing myself as a bride
Imploring
the gravel roads
To
hide into the hills
The
dust of the ancestor thought;
I
was having you as the greatest trophy
Won
in the battle with the witches
Condemned
for white magic;
You
are building me a castle from fresh clay
With
your callous hands,
Arching
your anxieties
Over
the gentle murmur of the river
From
my heart…
I found your happiness
The
wet hands were driving the destiny –
Streaks
of hope into a dark field –
Quietly
you are sipping your drop of coffee,
Rummaging
into the old wardrobe for sleep…
There
is a corner where I leave you a shadow
From
my passing,
Crumpling
the image of love
Into
rebel words –
Double
stake for an occasional waltz
And
another will grow
from
nowhere
blue
forest –
your
heart
The snows of times
In
your town, nor sing the nightingales,
Nor
fly the butterflies,
They
sit crouched
Into
the cracking of the windows,
Fallen
in love with the white pvc frames –
In
your town, it is night
More
than a day
And
the moon is rotating
Like
a bride caught
In
the net of a perverse love
Casts
a sidelong glance at the common mortals…
Carmen Huzum
I give
I
give
your
walking
To
my feet
lime
thought,
To
the rain
my
gyro destiny
painted
on the shoulders,
To
our Father
the
world’s aim and mine
into
the wormwood graft,
To
the knee
cloth
of poppies when I pray,
To the wing
bird
with fiery eyes,
To
me
nowhere
a place.
I, the clock
The
hills and I on the pavement
The
clock of all those who were late
Hey!
Who
cut the tree,
Where
in the evening your thoughts you were hanging
Red,
yellow, blue,
Spheres
or deforms,
Who
were swinging
Crunching
the sand from my eyes?
A
kid takes my hand
With
reproach in his eyes:
Did
the time stop?
The
truth is lashing my cheek…
I
forget about the tree with the thoughts
And
I go further away
I
– the clock of all those who were late.
Carmen Stefania
Luca
Diffuse
the
light of the day
it
only just flickers
the
up-side down clouds
from
dust to dawn
borrows
the
colors of the autumnally
sunset…
it
is quiet,
only
the music
that
alerts my mind,
fills
up my thoughts’ space…
I
inspire the light
of
the tired sun,
I
expire the dark…
the
spider web
of
the time,
sometimes
covers it all,
it
remains only
a
light…
a
diffuse light…
on
the mountaintop,
now,
I listen to the silence…
Catalina Munteanu
Everything and every
part of it
I
would like to look into your eyes
when
you touch me by mute signs
to
break the lenses
that
is overturning us in reflections,
to
caress your tired image,
to
halt on a playful thought,
to
be your light, dark to be,
to
drawn myself into the blue
and
beyond of all and everything,
to
endlessly love you
to
be what I could not be
your
woman in everything and every part of it,
even
then when is not meant to be…
Constantin Cristescu
Diana Vinturici
The dream of a
wintry night
It
snowed with colds over my breasts,
This
night, they spend the most beautiful winter,
The
softy kisses hit them,
When
they detaching from your lips are sifting you,
Pour
more snowfall on their heaven, bit-by-bit…
It’s
so nice when snows with love!
It’s
your winter with the eyes of ecru silk,
It’s
my night walking through wonders,
And
light snow falls on my breasts, daintily,
The
dream of winter strained into the linens…
You
cover up my grey soul,
With
frosted flowers – concubine kisses,
And
frozen coldness is stoning on my lips,
White
marbled mysteries – wanting to be known
How
you loved me snowing the white snowfalls
On
my breasts with speechless heavens …
It’s too late
It’s
too late… the trees are begging me at the corner of the street
They
are lords without fortunes; you cannot believe them
I
just felt their shadow left in the snow
Bared
disbelief in the shoes with green hills…
It’s
too late… the snowfalls hanged by the branches
Timidly
lose themselves in the cold eyes of the windows
They
act as clowns looking at me, colors-marionette,
My
sweetheart… I am not thirsty anymore and it’s too late…
It’s
too late, sweetheart… I am myself your winter,
You
closed the window, breaking the disheveled trees,
And
broken nails into the stars are nailing in my temple,
There
where we are crying, together, like silly people…
Ecaterina Serban
I am mankind
What
was activated in the dream,
when
I dressed up myself planet?
I
respire earth mixed up with water
I
grow trees that are stabbing in my flesh
deepened
roots.
A
slight tremor
I
feel vibrating beneath the eyelashes,
tick-tack
is hearing from my grandma’s clock…
I
am planet!
I
do not know if I should be happy
or
sad?
I
orbit around of a bigger one.
The
carousel is rotating,
rotating
me too…
running
out from the dark,
I
see the spider that is making
its
web, quiet, enigmatic
and
black… holes with their openings towards
me.
It
is revolving the ball of fire,
I
throw a filling into your gate of thoughts.
The
net sings with serene voice,
It
urges me to look at it, to touch it…
I
rotate my eyes towards another dimension.
I
escape from the whirly net.
Destiny
is called your net
or
illusion of life?
To
find the answer
I
come back at my mankind state.
The
right hemisphere
is
waiting quietly and patiently,
is
hugging me!
I
am loved!
I
am mankind and this is enough for me!
The stars are
running
You
know, sweetheart,
then
when
you are not besides me,
it
happens
that
all the stars are running
in
the weighty night
whiten
with insomnia.
They
run like water,
from
underneath a temple’s eave.
And
when the stars are running
the
sky loses its equilibrium.
It
keeps on revolving in the point of Archimedes
and
desperately is looking for its sun
into
the time with closing eyes.
Then
when the stars are running,
nor
you, nor me,
we’ll
not wait for a tomorrow anymore
to
catch the dream together.
Bow
and strings
will
take us both by our hands,
and
the orchestra
plays
with vibrant violins
under
the bow of One,
the
infinite love
that
comes from Love…
The Role
Why
I’m finding you always
Only
in the profane songs
Where
just you and I
Are
painting with the heart, holy icons?
Once,
I found a coin…
Together
we hid it
Beneath
a pure apple tree
Were
singing divine melodies.
It was, into the cracking noise of the buds,
Into
the spring like sun,
Pink
perfumes were throwing
From
inside to outside.
The
seeds grew into a poem,
Simple
words, from the yeast of the clay.
Turn
the page of the life, as an urge
To
be the early love.
Now
I am the only soloist
Of
those profane songs,
With
weeping face in gloomy soul
I
am painting, from time to time, icons…
Ella Franc
The echo of love
beyond
the world’s window it can be heard the kneeled
flight
of the birds hit by the blades of the time
towards
the shops where they make wings for righteousness
(the
angels are tracing the matrices for the high flights)
the
silence of the churches, lifted up from the tears of the roses,
cried
out in the bloody prayers, at the feet of the glass icons,
drives
away the darkness of the white souls,
on
each side of the centuries spread with the mirth’s ashes;
there
are counted the new boughs risen from the voices of stone and sunny realms
(the
shadows are taller than the words)
the
wafer of the crucified mornings by the ding-dang of the bells
is
divided, tack-tick, in round pieces of time, leavened
at
nine a clock by the green soles of the angels:
“knock
and it shall be open unto you!” ???
(wings
of love are raising up from the veil kissed by the prude women)
Concentric
In
a hole, I revolve…
With
the soles, I read in the petals of poppies
Bloody
love
And
I shut up
In
a hole, I rotate myself…
I
touch, with the eyes, the contour of a butterfly
In
an encoded thought
I
am quiet…
And
the round field of so much red,
I
pass through it with an opaque soul.
Elena Buzatu –
English Translator
Coffee Thoughts
I
bring the cup to my lips
…
thinking of you
I
get burned
the
coffee is hot
I
hold the cup close to my chest
and
the coffee is hot
…
of you thinking
I
move it innocently
its
hot aromas
drives
me crazy
hot…
tears
…
thinking of you
like
lava fall down the cheeks
aromas…
tears
burn
twice as strongly, Gemini
that
I do not know more
which
one hurts the most
and
of which wind are they driven
…
I’m thinking at you
I
embrace myself
I’m
crouching
in
the primeval form
I’m
shrinking my body
of
longing, I’m sniveling
I’m
crouching more
drawing
towards my chest
in
an absurd motion
the
hot coffee
…
and you are haunting through my soul
only
love remains
and
keeps me alive
ember
almost extinguished
a
torch within its own ashes
that
snowed is waiting
to
be revived
with
a gentle blow
a
breeze… a breath of wind…
The tear
in
silence I listen to
how
it groans deep inside.
exhausted
by its fight,
I’m
helplessly looking at
how
it gathers its lava.
passionately
is bursting,
disconcerted
it stops
between
the eyelashes.
at
the edge of the abyss
I
feel its hesitation,
its
shivery
waiting.
slowly
I come closer
with
my hot lips.
I’m
tempting it,
I’m
making it fall
calmly
rolling down
into
the cascade
of
my soul.
he
the
soul
is
ready
to
caress
with
febrile fingers
the
tears.
The symphony of love
The
symphony
of
fall, quietly
the
silence is spreading
over
the missing places
as
in an eclipse…
I
wonder, really,
how
could yet resist
in
the wind,
the
green leaf
of
love,
heartbreaking…
ephemeral
tears
are
running
white
as the framework
of
a demiurge.
Kissing hands
two
words
within
where it is hidden
the
entire infinite
and
the whole tumult…
I
would give anything,
to
hear them spoken
once
more,
just
once,
here
on earth…
to
follow the movement
of
the lips, as in a kiss
and
their smile
in
formation…
the
echo of the sound
singing
into my ears
as
an old song
of
lullaby, reminiscence…
then
to lose myself
into
the deep eyes
of
coffee, of blackberry, of us…
to
forget of each and everything
to
throw myself like a storm
to
feel the heart that beats
from
eternity
to
chain, to catch,
to
crash myself
as
the wave by the shore
into
a thousands of whispers
and
rustlings…
…for
eternity!
Elisabeta
Gilcescu
With love
I
stepped over the fragrance of the night,
I
gathered the wealthy dew,
To
guard it for the whole eternity,
From
the mystery of the weepy night;
Only
the dew is pure, calmly,
Crashing
the sin with love…
I am gone
astray…
I
am gone astray, but I do not know which way,
I
wonder through the falls by us contained;
I
listen to the burden of the growing older string,
in
the magic moon, the kiss soothing,
when
the fall transforms me
into
a shadow, mirroring the streams,
shaken
by the rain of the undreamed dreams;
only
the vestiges are lost into unspoken,
among
the branches, forgotten unopened,
yet
you split my longing into new pathways;
I
am gone astray…
Persistency
To
enjoy the woman,
To
gently savor her,
From
the measured portion,
To
feel the chill
And
the shadow between the breasts,
And
the words, in tears,
Are
lost, covered
By
the greenish heat
Of
a late race…
By
a town square,
Two
trees were leafing
The
books – were growing fainter
I
gathered myself close to them
The
air was hot
The
most wonderful thought
Costly
filled up
Its
chest with desires;
It
gave me away…
Have
decadently fallen the principles,
Has
become blind the obedience,
Has
disappeared the rationality…
Have
crucified my time…
Have
lost my compass
Only
the flame is vigilant
At
the foothill of the ten
Persistent
mountains…
Bonsai
I
burn myself, I am on fire,
Into
the anxiety fire,
I
have patience,
Because
the place is sacred,
It
is a stake of thrills,
I
am the only one carrying through the fears
A
mountain of flowers
It’s
the game with the fire,
I
burn myself, I am on fire,
But
I have patience,
In
the place – flame
Rite
and word,
And
I subdue
Descending
from the flames;
Better
to burn,
Ashes
to be,
And
you, from the ashes,
Love,
come out,
Makeshift
of my anxieties,
Bonsai…
Hovering
around,
Caressing
its forms
That
they are still burning…
Effigy
I
feel how I grow like a bird
how
I fly and my wing stronger
towards
the infinite of a whisper,
blooming
breathing,
free,
deciphering
my heart beats,
climbs
up the stairs of the dreams,
and
me, new bough rendered heavier by time,
I
read unique memories –
the
effigy of a noble flight
Florentin
Nicolae Streche
The young people
Wings,
breathe of winds and leaves, as many as they are
the
sun in the sky, the young people kiss each other with charm.
They
do not leave the earth in a hurry
they
remain hugging like missionary
to
give to the others what it is left
from
the disarray, from the days and the nights offered
onto
the unseen altars for the mankind.
Ah!
These young people love each other like the leaves
fallen
on earth in a breathe of wind
they
are not tempted as it is written in the Scripture
because
the Heaven smiles on their bodies
burning
them endlessly until they are transformed
and
they are left in the momentarily pledges,
in
the looks that only the Time knows them.
Love
your young people, as long as they are here
without
any hate, until it’s not too late
when
they freely speak to nature and to love!
Love
their images and their forgotten silences
They
are here with their shiny pearl eyes
Accompanying
their struggles in a lessen way.
Promise,
for the sake of God!
I do not write
poems
I
do not write poems
for
the sake of some women
I
have energy for rhymes
adios,
to you, feminine illusions!
I
do not write poems
to
buy me illusions
I
am penniless and unhappy
loving
all it is holly.
I
do not write poems
in
deserted parks
surrounded
by strangers
with
looks of silvers
I
do write poems
only
for the love
born
among people
with
heavenly fortunes
I
do not write poems
to
buy me illusions
in
deserted parks
only
for love.
Gabriel Gherbaluta
Believing no more…
I
believe no more in the nights without you,
as
I
believe no more in the tremor stirred up by the drops
of
the night beams in the lighten side
of
your hidden eye…
I
cannot hear anymore
the
crickets from your moon side
nor
the crickets nor even the green
are
passing.
you
put them into the leash, sweetheart;
and
even if it is made of gold,
the
leash is a leash!
In
my poetry, I harnessed the butterflies
to
the sleigh,
and
God is making eyes at them.
Sleepwalking…
My
eyes want to sleep
but
not me
they
would like the head to lay down on a stone
to
get some rest,
leaving
me alone
to
wander
with
two flowers of chamomile
in
the empty space left while sleeping.
Shut
the window,
Sweetheart!
In
the nights with full moon, my thoughts
are
leaving its shepherd
and
are sleepwalking, keeping their equilibrium
on
a beam –
naked
they are
they
have thrown away their nightgowns
not
tripping over their too long hems.
The
wary walking asks for sacrifices,
and
the eyes,
the
eyes keep on sleeping their dreams
with
the head laid down on a
stone…
The disobedient…
And
you call the tree, tree,
Because
you cannot call it otherwise…
And
you call your sweetheart, sweetheart,
Because
you love her, and you cannot live without her…
And
you call your mama, mom,
Because
without her, you wouldn’t exist and the nothingness
Would
have been into your whole thing…
And
you call your God, Lord,
Because
the inner man from within you needs a Master…
Only
the words from your mind, you do not call them anyway…
They
remain as they were at the beginning,
The
unspeakable,
The
uncalled…
The
disobedient
When I do not feel you…
When
I do not feel you
I
am as I’d be somewhere outside cool and wet
I
am looking through the damply window
by
which your soul
is
escaping
I
just remember of the heat
from
the interior
it
didn’t disappear at once along with
you
It
persists within me the state of
being
cornered –
of
being put aside from the running in twos
The
window is becoming damper -
through
it, it makes no way anymore
the
perfume you wrap up yourself…
George Safir
On your body,
like a violin…
on
your body, like a violin,
I
would like being a bow to sing
to
make you shake, to hurt you,
in
a solfeggio, like when
I
would hum it for the first time…
into
your virgin body,
I
would tire myself towards the empyree
where
evening after evening
I
would listen to you singing, just me,
on
a portative of spring.
…and
your body, sweet burden,
I
would lift it up from the armpit
to
see from heavens how it climbs down
perfume
of angels and of flowers
in
sweet arpeggios of violin.
on
your body like a violin,
I
lay down as a liana
and
my arm is wrapping you,
in
a gamma of a music lover,
in
a holly prelude, of summer.
..and
I do not wonder how they have mercy
the
whole calendar full of saints,
why
in this overture,
you
caress me so gentle
with
such a divine game?!
And in the
autumn, princess, it rains with angels!
Princess,
what do you do into my soul?
You
stir me up, taking away the comfort from my conscience!
I
do not dare to stare at you,
Dull
is my lancelet, numb the right arm.
Mistress
above the masses and empires,
Woman
– you course me, despot – you scare me!
I
was your Knight, through my arms as shields
I
battled swarms of butterflies, in dreams.
How
straight I was walking, when your gentle hand
To
kiss I was longing at night, Mistress!
The
hem fragrance, from your swell walk,
Hurts
me like the creek, through its bedrock.
Your
sweet mouth, sweeter than the honey,
This
burden I carry, the ache is holly!
I
suffer with pride in death I carry it,
Princess,
it’s time, I dry of longing!
As
the leaf, in the fall, dishevels off the boughs
Towards
you my arms stretch out, likewise.
Passing
through defeats, the man is born again
In
the autumn, princess, with angels it rains!
George Tei
We have met
…
when the apple trees were waving
white
flags
into
the air
each
one
into
a circle
as
two different multitudes
we
were looking at the butterflies winding
around
us
reddening
our chicks
as
a pirate
throwing
an arrow - heart
I
intersected your circle obtaining
a
mix multitude…
Surgery on an open cord
We
are running
each
towards
the other
the
steps are swallowing
the
distances between us
we
are attracted as two
magnets
with different poles
we
are looking at each other…
in
the sky of your eyes
there
is no lighting
your
body is rejecting
love’s
transplant…
Leave me the love!
Give
me, Lord,
the
word
to
hit it by the rocks…
…
the sight and the hearing to send
as
spies among the friends,
but,
better
leave
me, Love!
without
it
I’ll
not be able to climb up
the
steps who will lead me
into
the deepness of the souls…
Pastel
The
sun cut
his
long hair…
the
darkness takes the place
of the light
and
the frostings,
the
frostings have tied the boats
by
the shores
but,
behold!
the
sun is throwing to us
his
arrows
and
green teeth were growing
on
the trees!
Ah!
if
my love would be spent the winter
inside
your soul…
Just for love
Night
lightened by
your
looks beneath which
is
burning a heart
…and
this corner is
too
close to the world
but
the
day is kneeling
just
for love!...
Never, the words
We
are looking for each other as
the
spring for the sea and as
the
night for the dream,
as
the look for the horizon
and
the snow
for
the winter…
never
were
the
words
so
fragile
but
the
chameleon knows
to
hide its presence
before
peril
…
as the life, the years
as
the steps, the path,
as
a bedrock onto the other under
a
bridge of thoughts…
always
the
first knocks would be
more
powerful
although
the
last wound is killing
…
as a star
onto
the other
into
a blind world…
Gheorghe
Serbanescu
Beyond far away
A
line from a story tell
It
is my life.
-Destiny,
I ask you, just for now!
Forget
me, at least for one moment, everlasting
if
it would be the time in your world!
Now,
I am a man, with flesh and soul.
-Destiny!
At your will.
Tomorrow,
I shall be a star.
-You,
what would you do,
Will
you looking at my light?
A
graveyard of memories
I
leave them here with you,
the
love I keep it, it’s her and me.
Now,
as soul pairs
who
suffered at your gate,
feed
up only with ache.
You
pulled off my sweetheart
from
her root!
You
crashed me!
-Are
you plotting with Death?
-Stay
in your world.
Chipped
away from just pain,
we
are a whole, she and I
light and love,
on
the path – already is a star.
Pain hosted in
the altar
You
rise yourself from vivid horizons
coming
from the hidden worlds.
Of
earth, of water, of fire,
you
are not a strange
pain
hosted in the altar.
You
victorious soul
crying
substance
no
more in tears.
Reborn!
The
pagan sin
you
transformed it in wax.
-Light,
come, you,
promptly
melt the evil!
-You, reborn
as
the pure child
from
vivid horizons
gatherer
of words,
you
add with care the rhyme
you
look for their realm
earth
and water
with
ancestral forms.
-My
light!
-Creation,
is my name!
On
a wooden cross, you put me,
into
meadows of words
is
my contour
and
the soul with love
is
saying its pray.
Everlasting
remains the word,
earth
and water
from
sad horizons
I
make room into the shadow of forgetting
and
you remain
altar
to soul into Destiny.
Symbols,
starting mysteries
Symbols,
starting mysteries
desired
taken forms into the space and living.
The
pentagram with charm and magic
standing
stock-still by a sublime
breezy
touching.
Deeply
you are looking, it is written,
Protruding
by the iris into a dreamy realm,
Wandering
through the time of yesterday and today
Or
through the untouchable time yet.
It
is a form of lines and colors,
you
go deeply, you have the access
to
sleep on it at infinite.
Hanging
up, delighted you want to touch them
wrestling
between the lure and the real.
There
are implied arcades
that
are changing their form,
becoming
mystery, covered in sparkles.
Surprise!
They
are wet, in tears, pure longings,
calendar days from the time when in the man were breaking
words
with nectar from Mesozoic.
We
are perceiving the unseen from the stars and the earth,
discerning
desired existences
feeling
by excellence.
-Learning
the unknown?
Angelic
syllables, lovely prints,
are
delighting you, seeming unreal
ending
into the core of the piety.
You
want to know that there it is the place where
the
eyes are lost into the relish.
It
is a dreamy round, abysses,
it
is the answer of who is looking for
the
right to get the real, eternal mystery.
Prefiguring
the lure into a string of dreams
I
contemplate to maximum.
-Look
Aphrodite!
The
ecstasy’s unreal, it’s just the dream you want to die,
the
chimera for centuries we were wishing for.
It
carries in it the essence of life
we
belong to it, to the eternal one.
Gia Ramona
Ionasu
Red poem
one
day I gave to you my heart beats
and
I came back, unknown,
in
my clouds, overflowed
on
sunflowers fields.
look
for me,
I
forgot my red pulse within you.
The dying
butterflies
the
rain killed my butterflies
that
I have drawn them on the window
waiting
for a fairy tale
too
tight
for
a box of dreams
their
pock-a-dots
were
rhythmically biting their upper lip
drowning
themselves
into
circles too empty.
today,
the colors are crying, silently, on the windowsill,
an
October inutile,
crashed
by the closed window.
when
it rains in the fall
my
butterflies are dying
in
the letters without destination.
Acute
I
strain
lights
and shadows
through
the sieve of the hearts rhythms.
it
gives me chills
when
a warm smile
catches
me from behind
with
claws of goshawk.
this
Sunday
sounds
as a broken bell
and
as burned prayers
on
the mountaintop.
with
closed eyes I look for
the
faraway place
where
your smell
is
buried
forever.
you
taught me
to
take the days on my shoulders
and
never let them down
until
bloomed.
and
today, I’m doing the same, mom,
even
if it’s only one
that
I would like to make it
one
with the earth.
Inexistent.
Gina
Zaharia
The hermit from the
calendar
Curiously,
how many prophets told me: do not touch that shore –
it
carries poisoned wounds
sown
with threads of raining nights,
it
kills in the sleep and in the coffee cup, and in the spell of the light!
Well,
because it could be seen from afar and it seemed faithful to the sea,
I
borrowed a shipwreck,
a
wind storm in the sky before Sunday
and
two looks.
I
never finished reading the preface of love,
it
seemed that someone was walking the seashells
from
a boat to another,
now,
I know,
is
him – the hermit from the calendar,
from
time to time he does the inventory of the blind people
and
is praying for each wave drown by the shore.
Then,
it may be given again a sentence to love.
I
slept more than tenderness, but less than a crazy pulse,
I
started to write the words of the prophets in the sand,
That
shore was conductor on the boreal scenes,
I
was afraid to look for myself,
I
was inventing all kinds of games,
Otherwise,
we would have died, instantaneously, on a heart attack of a whisperer prisoner.
Deliver me
Woman,
in the market today
it
was sold the last cover of snow,
hopelessly,
you are waiting,
I
gave it with closed eyes,
it
was unique,
I
had promised you that I’ll keep it, together with the autograph
of
the first impulse.
The
dices were thrown,
it
was bought by a wealthy constructor;
with
certainty you wouldn’t have enough curtains for the light to play
from
the colored angles,
maybe
I was wrong,
but
coming forwards from you, there were mountains growing
and
I kept sending them away not to get a scratch.
At
fin,
I
got rid of the backpack I was carrying your heart.
---------------------------
I’m
writing to you
From
a hell without you
It
passed ten clouds and an angel in hurry,
They
gave me back the eyes
And
a syllable from the name that blinded me.
That’s
it.
As
for the rest, I must take care of myself.
P.S.
Follow the covers from the market,
deliver
me!
Ioana Burghel
Collector of
everything
I
collect everything
especially
disappointments,
fragments
of life and whispers…
Come
to the nightly second hand bookshop!
I
receive even muddy boots…
Here
it is somehow different
the
books have nothing to do with it!
I
just offer a soul
as
a threshold
to
wipe yourselves
and
leave the mud of an ephemeral life
from
an immediately time or not so…
Come
to the nightly second hand bookshop!
I
am a good man!
I
collect disappointments!
Sometimes
even untruthful sadness
and
love…
I
cannot have more coffins!
Nail
it down so
in
the only coffin existent,
my
life!
Do
not be afraid!
It
may happen to bleed a bit…
But
I am a good man!
Once,
I’ll collect
Rain…
Come
to the nightly second hand bookshop!
Everything
is free!
Even
my heart…
The shadow
My
words are swirling like fall,
with
tears of violet dusks,
the
seconds are skirmishing us like drama,
into
an incompletely burned love.
if
you are going to build me inside you as Anna
I
promise now I’ll not put a spell on you to leave,
and
maybe your shadow secretly coming,
will
not be lost on the paths in fall.
when
the eyes are still full of sleep,
carrying
with them dreams of women,
I
want your shadow to come at the window,
breaking
a bit from the midnight,
to
heal the desert from the room,
where
I hid only phantoms,
your
kiss to light again the blaze,
of
the crucified love, of yesterdays.
Ioana Voicila
Dobre
Lost dream
Somewhere,
among the lines
We
met each other.
What
drunkenness!
I
was gone in my thoughts
with
the wing
broken.
The
time glued it
to
be able to hug
your
aching.
It
followed a dance
of
clouds
of
smoke and ashes.
It
rains and the earth
is
gaining weight again
with
belated regrets.
You,
remain the same,
exotic
bird,
my
youth!
Memento
I
find myself at the light of a lamp
in
the crickets’ night:
my
image and I
two
shadows which disappear
being
born…
Ion Vanghele
On your shore
On
your unrestricted shore
Of sun, like a desert, I burn.
The
desires are like leaves, they fall
With
their sinful shadows.
We
are writhing, two obscene serpents,
Two
abandoned magicians,
From
the night dream gone
On
the green layer of stalks.
Weather
ecstasy, bewitched,
Impudence
absorbs us lively,
More
than this, I cannot be
In
this depraved match.
In
flames, the seconds are breaking.
With
me, everything was offered.
In
my arms, you are dead
Abandoning
yourself to the never-ending.
And
we catch by the infinite,
Living
a second, ephemeral,
Tasting,
vastly, this mystery,
With
the fell in love angel.
Then,
the seconds lose us
On
a heap of burned ashes,
We
loved each other as in advance
Now,
I will caress you less.
And
the corridors go open
In
the silence within us, quiet
It
is another borrowed day
In
which all the feelings are calm.
Love goes
heartbreaking
Love
goes heartbreaking
Walking
your shadow by my window
On
the boughs the nightingales
Are
singing now of you naked.
From
whisper, sweet cry, you plot
That
runs within me like a must
From
seconds, love, I gathered you
And
now your flower I taste.
It
might seem that I am too crude
When
I caress your curved forms
A
body that appears nude
Into
the warm shaky waters.
Within
you, a bud is your passion
Sprinkled
with bloody vision
In
a fairy eye that cries
I
am the flowers’ stake that burns.
I lost you
I
lost you in the vast knowledge
Of
your pretended illusions
When
you, tribute of the everlasting rebirth,
You
were saying just the absolute truth.
In
the unrolled life as a comedy
Dead
apocalypses of the words
We
were waiting repressed endings
Into
a debauchery of tired passions.
The
essential lost its trait
And
we were left dancing under the empty sky,
And
the sounds of the nights are routing
With
the whispers from a foothill thicket.
Through
our dreams passing, the dogs, are barking
And
the stars are drizzling endlessly
Burning
lights on a sepulchral stone
That
is occulting breaking the serene.
Later,
we will burn separated on the stake,
On
a crucified cross in love
With
the afternoons wept at sunset
Into
a never worn out process.
And you, through
me, are passing…
And
you through me are passing, as the Dead Sea
Torn
out by the wind caring its billows
A
bird, a yell from the crucified sky
That
the sea, within it, she didn’t find it.
There
are born blind abysses of mist and water
At
her chest, just demons, quench themselves,
And
the nights are like a moan coming from the bottom
A
world of sadness I plunge into it.
There
are passing stars without wings and fish without dreams;
There
are weaving walls of shadows without any left beliefs,
Forests,
where the wolves, in their sleep, are startling
And
illusory biting, with their amber teeth
Love
is a lie; in vain she is calling me
And
her tempting mouth is trying to dig
In
my heart and soul to stir up the sea,
The
sadness is the answer, the silence is the heal.
Above,
in murmur, mounts up the unweaving dream,
The
desire is a shadow that yet is calling me,
Only
the rain is washing me with its claw as liquid
And
the night turns on its course in the clepsydra sleep.
At
the sepulchral stone, I’m calling you, now, pagan,
With
the falling autumnal leaves, the silence I hum
And
I fill the sky with the magic rainbows
In
the gloomy everlastings, to call you, woman.
Ionel Cretu
I’m looking for
you – possible retreat
If
you would not exist, the longing would leave
looking
for you, wandering,
the
huge calvary, inform following,
without
a core rolling!
But
as you exist, as you are
and
the desire is a living spark,
that
isn’t in vain, as the windmills,
to
me you prove it… as well as, to you I prove it!
Panic
attack, I had, it’s right,
Out
of stress, a stitch in the side, as a knife;
I
was asking myself: do I have a castle anymore?
Cause
the bad thought is tempting me on and on.
And
I was pinching myself, to wake me up,
Making
that venom to run away, the bad thought;
I
was kissing you to find you back,
My
castle, with all your nectar!
The fountain
Purple
rainbow reflections
green
image, shadowing,
the
eye with the dark ring, at the arriving azure looking
where
an angel gathers tying up deserted islands
dried
up in the middle;
only
if one escapes towards the stream
with
your living water you will be able to get it …
The park bench
Oh,
if the park bench would be able to narrate!
Oh,
if she would be able to walk through her story!
The
destiny gave her roots grown with love.
she
groans unheard; she sighs with poetry.
her
CV, her CD,
as
a gramophone disc, scratched with passions.
She
grew up the love
as
the cured meat by cruel Hun,
drying
it off in the salt of the fiery horse,
beaten
by the sun and the hunger of the burning steppes.
A
race horse, the bench from the park
an
altar, where it has been conquered and mounted love.
Her
unseen arms,
interweaving
wishes and thoughts,
remodel
the mélange of love.
The
park bench,
skinned
archive,
card
index with moans and tears
offers
her polish to the love,
safeguarding
it;
the
eternal love story.
Marian Dragomir
The
insolent
believe me
I met ordinary people
dying on the balconies
from its start to its end
without seeing life’s infinity -
believe me
I met young men
with sun-dazzling future
relatives under the neighbors’ spell
who just realized
flying isn’t easy -
I do not see poets as people
their voice - young woman,
thought rushing through the bone marrow,
and when I think of it
my flesh becomes a blur
don’t jump to the conclusion -
on the one hand
I'd like to think I'm sick
but something happened
I can speak no more
so with no further ado
I make love as poets do
English
Translator
Who is for
whom?
people, listen!
I vote for the fluid city from the civil marriage
with the emotions behind the laboring curtains
I was thinking that I induce sex
but I’ve learned
how to trade emotions for false legumes
green - agreement
the woman from the market saw on TV
a false wave cut as with aquarium scenes
emotion padding ways
of medium size girls
a glass membrane
that our dreams flounders
hold on
there are three days left
till opening for you the street verse
with naked ladies
misogynist and bashful men
I speak of a morbid poem
stasera the town is celebrating
the political view failure
in moments of respite thinking
what does optical mean?
English
Translator
The dream
Greetings!
There are three years since I’m connected to the verse
translated with the angels vibration’s help
a rudeness, exclusively
of the intelligence that is leaving me
the poem has no shame
speaking at some sessions with lively passion
using it I permanently smile along with those who ask –
what do you mean
my soul is always changing
but I came back to the actual warp
that help me collecting
morality from the dream’s field
you see the link
click on your vast intellect
that is imbued with the ideal
that orders an accomplished day
for all people tamed
give share to your page
English
Translator
Help me too
I ask those who support life
to add me to their list of privileges
my verse hurts when I feel
mocked
humble
quenching for water
excuse me
but I stand for the lyric’s tyranny
I am free
I say what
I feel
I think
I do not hide behind the nickname
humility
you like to sit on the threshold of the memory -
eh…
remember the feelings posted last week
on the water brink
take spring
good morning
English
Translator
Marius Iulian
Zinca
The nature’s
contemplation
Drawn
by
a
feeling of inner
joy,
forgetting
entirely of himself,
he
immersed himself
into
the nature’s contemplation…
The opposite of
wondering
In
his mind wondering
was
deeply inhaling the air into his lungs
watching
his shadow
how
it was sliding by himself.
The
hours were crawling with the speed of the snail,
it
seemed to him that the dawns
would
never come up.
When
the pain and the panic
invaded
his heart, he was trying
to
imprint into his mind
(that)
the opposite of death
is
love.
Under the
question mark
Under
the influence
of
the pressure,
he
was listening to the stream of words,
feeling
lonely,
in
a romantic way
with
his eyes
squinted
in the corners,
concentrated,
when
he was listening to
the
confessions that were coming
too
fast
in
order to be able to verify
if
the feeling of quietness
was
still there,
to
put it in order
and
also to put it
under
the question mark.
Mystique
hallucination
Plunged
into
a hallucination
about
a mute story
of
the stone covered with images
with
cutting flakes as the blade,
the
eyes got accustomed with the semi-darkness
of
the image
illuminated
by
the frightful beauty
of
a halo
in
that mystic
lingo
he
bent over…
Made up joy
His
eyes
were
swimming in tears
by
a mixture of surprise
looking
at his joyful image
made
up
of
the pieces of the others’ images
with
an ineffable smile…
Melania Grozavu
Really?
Lord,
Do
You really
made
me a sphere
leaving
me
in
vain
to
look for
my
half?
But,
Lord,
since
I figured it out
who
I am,
I
started to look for
my
other
sphere!
I disappeared
among the lines
I
have hidden away
all
that vibes inside me.
I
do not leave proof at sight:
sadness,
happiness…
I
do not let you see
nothing
of what I feel.
It
betrays me
only
the smile –
answer
to
the ravenous glance
as
you recognize…
and
I close
any
path towards me.
storms
of
calm
I
sent to you to feel them.
I
cannot dream anymore,
I
cannot allow to myself
even
to hear the thoughts
or
the hot
whispers…
I
hid myself.
among
the lines I am not,
do
not come,
trespassing
seasons
of games!
on
Earth we do not have time
for
love,
in
this Universe
we
do not have a place..
Miha Aionesei
With you, I am a
season
the
time was skimming through the leaves of heaven
lost
in the endless labyrinth,
nor a woman, nor a child
and
here it comes, she, the scatterbrains!
passes
through me, as a bullet
through
a flock of sparrows,
puts
me a gag not to cry
pulls
out the mildew,
scatters
the dust from the bones,
the
veins shed their skin
taken
the form of a serpent
intentions
stopped at the middle of the season
are
writhing of green.
I
feel the smell of the new blood
of
sunbeam, of buds,
banished
butterflies are coming home;
and
I sing like a skylark
who
hears its voice for the first time.
The love’s
dialog
there
were passing months of waiting;
it
would have been so much to be said…
they
were being silent crashing each other through looks
the
hands –
gestures
prolonged in the soul –
they
were rummaging for words
it
was too late to hide;
with
arms filled of birds
the
longing welcomes with trills…
it
rains and the rain
washes
the loneliness
but
they keep silent, hugged;
the
hearts become aquariums
inside
where they fearfully wonder
echo
into echo
whisper
into whisper
fascinating
dialog between two mutes
learning
the alphabet of the love beneath the waters.
The touching
your
calm hands on my body
remember
me of me from another century
like
I was stuck in a bag of bones
and
suddenly I felt
how
my shadow takes contour
even
though is dark
look,
how the earth is making space
and
violets are growing between my breasts
and
you are not fed up with tasting
this
piece of tired carcass,
smelling
of passions,
as
you’d be a megaphone
lost
on a broken band
you
keep on telling me that I am beautiful
silent
I listen I hang on each
finger
of light that wonders through my furrow
where
I deepened myself without a guilt
the
tickling from the ear
makes
the vanity grow as high as the house
it
goes out of me, breaks the indifference
stallion
kept for too long in leash
neighs
at each touching…
it
is good, I am too good, now,
but
who can know
if
it is enough the happiness of being yours
the
mane in the wind gives sign of running
catch
the reins and tie my earth up to you
to
feel myself living…
Mihaela Aldea
Paradox…
I
like the state of void
the
soul is in vacation
but
I display it on the market
it
goes well with the kitsch merchants
I
am blind
I
see well only near
I
sense when the music gets a noise of manea
I’m
using embodies of words…
with
cool form
scratching
the whole autochthon
for
which the scholars
died
giving life
I’m
smiling…
yesterday
I got
two
ivory eyeteeth
they defend the intransigent
image
I
love the effect of flock
And
the obedience
transhumance
I never lose it
it
only awaits its turn
if
not today
maybe
tomorrow
I
think when I do not think
that
I can think
although
coherent, some people look at me as to a bear
and
then I become abnormally normal
I
could compare the phenomenon with
the
lover’s perception
while
you love him you cannot see him
mentally
or
when for the biggest pain
the
tears go on strike
because
they cried to much
when
they borrowed
momentary
feelings from the F.M.I.
I
am so tired when I am resting
When…
when
you kissed me for the first time
the
heavens held hands together
were
sighing in Pleiades
stars
were burning of desire,
the
wind was sleeping beneath the brow
of
the lavender flower…
when
you kissed me for the first time,
Goddesses
went out of the castles,
they
gave me wings
cut
up from rainbows,
caught
on shoulders
of
wild water lilies
in
the streams…
when
you kissed me for the first time
Jail
at
the end of sorrow
the
white light falls, opaque,
into
the Alcatraz built at night,
when
the silences cry,
the
gulls are coming and steal
a
limb of dream
from
the life’s hopscotch vertically built;
I
can see, outside,
the
castle of the Mirage,
today,
it has transformed into the moon,
it
exiled the sun and it has stolen its heart,
leaving
it to run like lava
among
frozen souls
over
time,
loved
with guitars…
Mihaela Meravei
Infinite
with
the fingertips,
just
grown
from
a cell in division,
you
take the life’s pulse
radiantly,
unconditionally,
endless love;
when
you touch my soul
I
wonder
are
you a miracle
that
I can live with you within me,
better,
I call you child.
Odette Bota
Et benedictus fructus ventris tui…
And
blessed is the fruit of your womb…
In
the night of Walpurgis, Scheherazade picks up fairy tales weaved from leaves;
The
autumn puts a spell on the words, disheveling galaxies
On
the top of the moon, the prince recites the poem of the century’s crepuscule
And
the ocean receives the seal of the black light miracle;
In
the Amal’s sleep, the angel’s son writes to her sister, with Arab words:
You
are the Amal-the hope… you are the Amal-the hope…
On
the mother’s chick, there are crying feathers from the wings of the unborn loneliness;
Only
the Christmas is waiting to lock up its offering into a carol;
The
smile of the little girl blesses the eternal from the book of Geneses
Because,
behold, the desirable is at the gate of the remembrance, breaking its seals;
With
his tear, germinates the woman’s dream, for a long time, fallen asleep;
The
angel was announcing from the aurora the geneses and listening to him, she
conceived…
A story from Eden…
In
a tear, it is gathering today the azure
Of
the turquoise look and poem
And
is crying into the heart’s cave the hermit
The
verses of the past tandem…
The
Eden deciphered the immortality,
But
another Eve rewrote the geneses,
Gentle
bearing on her hips the blooming
And
with a smile, the ascetics, bringing…
From
a moment, we try to born the century,
And
the out-of-date serpent sadly laughs,
Only
the apple bears, in its seeds, the oblivion cure
Like
a line from the priest’s list…
Raluca Nicoleta
Bocu
Poem for the
tree of God
I
know that I will never see
a
perfect poem like the tree
with
a mouth fed with stars
quenching
its thirst with milk from the earth’s breast
a
tree that looks at God, day and night
and
with its arm-branches, prays Him with leaves.
In
the summer, nests itself in the feathers of the birds
and
in the winter lays its chest on the snows of clouds
it
is intimate with the dewdrop
and
makes love to the breeze of wind
in
the daylight
my
poem is a false song of branches,
because
only God can make a tree
to
breathe heaven…
Oak child
I
come from the world in which you were before
I
am just a flower child, a sunbeam and a fairy tell
I
see myself sitting on a star that never is getting old
And
I want the world’s second to stop, with a reason.
You
shall go back there, in separated centuries
From
the fairy tell world, to that of the grown people
That
maybe today, the little ones, by tomorrow they are oaks
From
green leaves, they transform themselves into conserved leaves.
I
am the grown up kid, through your childish soul,
I
breathe a sweet air from the cold sea waves
Storms
of dreams are mysteriously beating in the sun
And
gates hit against the world that thinks I am humble.
And
I can be the spark from the burning ember
With
my heart that burns in my tiny body
I’m
still calling towards you the swords, sharpening them on,
Catch
on the fire blazes you to be included too!
Are
you really, the child? Am I your child?
I
ask myself, as well, what we become over time,
You
do not dare to tell me, with anathema you struggle
And
I remain the child’s answer, always…
I
am the world’s moment into your wondering time,
You
grow older and older and you walk with idly steps
And
you still want to take from what is left of the measure’s slag
From
my time, I give to you, to be a child – oak!
Romita Malina
Constantin
Fingerprints
once
I have you at the end of the cry
today,
it is the day in which something transparent
invents
me from a pair of interweaved paths
look
at me, from the fire stake;
you
do not have the right to ask me
why
I stop a leaf that is dripping living water
you’ll
understand it later,
maybe
too late,
that
I was born from the helplessness of the stillness
squeeze
my belly
in
each ring that is seething
into
contractions that reduce you to a point
if
I didn’t die
it
was written so,
you
to be tattooed with my dust
in
vain you try to wipe it off;
my
touch wraps you as a tornado…
Spaces
my
words are straining
through
the free spaces;
if
you look, nearer, at me,
I
have two buttons opened
a
fine woman smells as a summer ripen apple
you
know
I
miss so much the hat
with
which the mountain chills off
remember
on
the crests the air makes you dizzy
from
dawn to dawn
look,
the
stubble field is burning
just
beneath your eyes…
Endless
I
am just a simple survivor of a shipwreck
everything
happened by an astonishing light
in
a banal life
when
I was furnishing the small endless rooms
from
the people’s cochleae
around
the boulevards seem immense
and
my fist is opening in a clumsy way
like the first step of a toddler
I
do not have the right to hate the darkness
who
could recognize me
than
my attire
which
I share with you
I
am just the abyssal line of which the sky is hanging
Ștefan Dumitru
Afrimescu