I am a fan of imaginary travels since reveal us pretty much about ourselves and of the world seen as a whole. Such travels require an open mind and a thirst for scrutinizing the absolute. Our imagination is the best companion we can find...Well, this is what I came up with during my last journey.Enjoy!!!
New-Born
Pierce into the murky sky!
Down below ,
The sea folds and unfolds the creases of its veil
Revealing each time a little more
Its rocky shoulders.
Now that you’re so close to get moulded into clay
Avert your gaze from it.
The rope threaded by your brain
Has finally reached the other end of the universe.
Your temples pulsate.
A juggler riding on a moncycle leads the way.
He escaped from the pack of cards
You carelessly left on the table.
And squeezed into a remote corner of your mind.
He takes you where a scaffold will erase
All self-conscience.
Dipping you into the nothingness bordering
The deluge of comets and spheres.
Death disturbs the undulating wavelenghts of your brain…
Can’t you already feel it in the piercing darkness of your mind?
The juggler fiercelessly moves forth .
The potter’s wheel spins undisturbed.
Matter ridiculosly moulding matter.
Conditioned by skilful hands.
The juggler ,with a swift motion
Windmills his unicylce groping
Into the wide gaping hazard.
Revolving a thousand times,
The wheel crunches beneath it the sandy stardust.
It presses against the rubber texture of space.
Leaving a luminous trace behind it.
A string of pungent dewy petrified crumbs of stars.
Get pinned on the travelling wheel.
Like gems on a platinum ring.
With every rotation new island stars
Find their place on the orb.
Giving up their solitary eternal melting in the Milky Way.
Their first fleeting vibe of light.
Sweeping away the denial of any hope,
Reorganizes dusty matter into a brand new universe.
Life is no more than an echo
Reverberated an infinity of times in a multiplicity of ways.
So that anyone could hear its waves whispering in a conchy ear.
One
Far-reaching, the silverline thread of my thoughts
Envelops you in a neon-electrical coloured cocoon.
I lift myself from the ground.
Arms wide apart.
Thirsty to bath in the dewy tears
Of the Eye.
Plunging into the almond shaped repository of liquid wisdom,
I get crushed by the waves and slapped in the face by the Whale
My eyes are captive in a soup of dissolution.
I feel them dissolving ,disjoined from their hinges.
Floating adrift.
The valves of my muscles burst open
Deflating their proeminent knars.
The stewing grip forks my fingers.
And I slip more and more into knowledge.
But my mind resists the outmost temptive embrace.
Identity repels the readjustments into a suffused unity.
And I remember that my heart never ceased to beat.
The pores of my shipwrecked body absorb
The verb “to be” together with the gall becoming separated.
Once created.
I lift myself and soar until I reach an eyebrow cloud.
But the crows rush over me
Feeling the vulnerable wounds
Uncovered by the shield
Of your protective yet thorny thoughts.
I assume they got tangled once more in your murky unconsciouss.
Their beaks pick my nerves just like
The strings of a harp
Playing a soundless music of pain and disrupture.
I feel how my weakness cries for
An abrupt fall
Which I gladly can offer.
In the valley of the Moon
Where I shall crush
My already broken backbone…
vineri, 30 octombrie 2009
sâmbătă, 3 octombrie 2009
New Poems
The poem Anatomy/Geography is the last one I wrote during my stay in Germany. The second one depicts the end of a love relationship without pointing at a particular case.The bottom line is that there are many chances to plan things ahead in a couple and the next day we can't wait to get rid of one another.
Anatomy/Geography
Sitting motionless on my bed.
With every gulp of air I inhale
I feel in my chest the peak of a newly-born mountain.
I breath out
And fall into a bottomless sea
But soon run out of air.
Another mountain soon pierces my chest.
Breath , breath says the body.Or you will die.
My soul clambers ceaselessly
Hands and feet into piercing stony-thorny earth
But every time he is just a step away
Of reaching safe land
The clods get smashed into his fists.
All that is left from a stout mountain
Gets levelled down by the rythmical thundering earthquakes of the heart.
Roots
Slowly I’m trudging the soles of my shoes back home
At dusk my shadow oozes fluidly down my pipe-like feet
Drops of lead fill up the pores of the pavement
Creating an impersonal , hell-like self-portrait of the paintor.
As long as the wind brushes our fluttering body contours across it
It denies any remodellation of its surface
But it is eager to resume its never-changing smooth complexion
As soon as the moon is up.
As opposed to the shiny screen of the lake
It makes no distinction between old or young.
Just like Procust’s bed, it overemphasizes deformities.
Just like the reflections of my self on the smooth shield of your thoughts.
My brain become a pot of honey and I have to set free
The nasty swarm of bees humming my ear
Until they leave a larvae –leaving me with the burden of pampering it
And protecting it against …..you know what I mean
You stop and wait on the pavement.
Not for me but for the green light.
Shadows of anguish contort my face.
I notice that we’ve become like two pieces of magnet with the same polarity.
Rejecting each, denying that we are the roots of the same tree.
Beneath the soil ,the pavement,
Faster than the moles, the worms,
Carving the underground clay.
Heading towards the abrupt precipice of the grave
After having spread all our tentacles
In search of the ripest soil.
After all isn’t the way all things go astray ?
Anatomy/Geography
Sitting motionless on my bed.
With every gulp of air I inhale
I feel in my chest the peak of a newly-born mountain.
I breath out
And fall into a bottomless sea
But soon run out of air.
Another mountain soon pierces my chest.
Breath , breath says the body.Or you will die.
My soul clambers ceaselessly
Hands and feet into piercing stony-thorny earth
But every time he is just a step away
Of reaching safe land
The clods get smashed into his fists.
All that is left from a stout mountain
Gets levelled down by the rythmical thundering earthquakes of the heart.
Roots
Slowly I’m trudging the soles of my shoes back home
At dusk my shadow oozes fluidly down my pipe-like feet
Drops of lead fill up the pores of the pavement
Creating an impersonal , hell-like self-portrait of the paintor.
As long as the wind brushes our fluttering body contours across it
It denies any remodellation of its surface
But it is eager to resume its never-changing smooth complexion
As soon as the moon is up.
As opposed to the shiny screen of the lake
It makes no distinction between old or young.
Just like Procust’s bed, it overemphasizes deformities.
Just like the reflections of my self on the smooth shield of your thoughts.
My brain become a pot of honey and I have to set free
The nasty swarm of bees humming my ear
Until they leave a larvae –leaving me with the burden of pampering it
And protecting it against …..you know what I mean
You stop and wait on the pavement.
Not for me but for the green light.
Shadows of anguish contort my face.
I notice that we’ve become like two pieces of magnet with the same polarity.
Rejecting each, denying that we are the roots of the same tree.
Beneath the soil ,the pavement,
Faster than the moles, the worms,
Carving the underground clay.
Heading towards the abrupt precipice of the grave
After having spread all our tentacles
In search of the ripest soil.
After all isn’t the way all things go astray ?
luni, 28 septembrie 2009
Poems of horror and rage
The following poems were written during my stay in Germany (september 2008-july 2009) and they mirror my moods and states of mind.
Potbelly
Windows hidden in walls-my eyes;
If you twist my neck and
make me see what I keep at my back
You won’t make me your prisoner.
Only my body is the pearl in the oyster
Trapped in the belly of her own mother
But that grain of sand had no choice
You-oyster mother sucked it inside you
Warm , the pleasure and delight , you thought
Can keep the pearl away from
Evading your suffocating universe
But one day the seaman
Will smash you into pieces
Only can the pearl shine on a golden necklace
A Handful of Sorrow
I sqeezed it, tossed it until
My heart gave birth to a pip
It was full of thorns that had been tearing it ceaselessly
But the pain did not subdue
Since the sole of your foot
Had pressed it deeper and deeper inside
Until the blood ran no more
And my heart became dry like a fig.
Rage
What is natural to me is unnatural to you
You can roll your eyes like two peanuts in a hollow box
You can stick your tongue like an anchor
Trying to drop it into the quick sands of my conscience
You can unroll a carpet and say:
‘This is your territory
Never cross its borders”
But you’d only be the master-slave of your vain ambitions.
You shove against a wall
Trying to grasp the scent of the elevated world.
You can hold my hand tight.
Still, my hands are greasy,
And my fingers slip slowly away
Because I killed your Moby Dick
With bare hands
There is no other world beyond us
You see only the shadows your imagination projects
On the wall of the cave.
Solitude on Train
(2nd episode)
The train runs far away
My soul gets ran over by its heavy wheels.
But my imagination picks up my corpse
And tries to heal it.
No use…
It had already died.
Falling through a door.
Into the abysmal infinity of solitude.
(1st episode)
The widows of the train are so dirty
I cannot look outside
I don’t know where it takes me
Instead I take a trip inside
To find a sunny face
Sitting near me. My companion
Oh, I remembered! I still have in my purse the tiny paper man
That I cut yesterday from the pages of NY Times
The shape of my own shadow
Resembling me in any way.
Silly, dumb, deaf
But I cut its mouth too wide.
It is smooth, teethless, breathless
I’ll whistle through it
My own megaphone.
Potbelly
Windows hidden in walls-my eyes;
If you twist my neck and
make me see what I keep at my back
You won’t make me your prisoner.
Only my body is the pearl in the oyster
Trapped in the belly of her own mother
But that grain of sand had no choice
You-oyster mother sucked it inside you
Warm , the pleasure and delight , you thought
Can keep the pearl away from
Evading your suffocating universe
But one day the seaman
Will smash you into pieces
Only can the pearl shine on a golden necklace
A Handful of Sorrow
I sqeezed it, tossed it until
My heart gave birth to a pip
It was full of thorns that had been tearing it ceaselessly
But the pain did not subdue
Since the sole of your foot
Had pressed it deeper and deeper inside
Until the blood ran no more
And my heart became dry like a fig.
Rage
What is natural to me is unnatural to you
You can roll your eyes like two peanuts in a hollow box
You can stick your tongue like an anchor
Trying to drop it into the quick sands of my conscience
You can unroll a carpet and say:
‘This is your territory
Never cross its borders”
But you’d only be the master-slave of your vain ambitions.
You shove against a wall
Trying to grasp the scent of the elevated world.
You can hold my hand tight.
Still, my hands are greasy,
And my fingers slip slowly away
Because I killed your Moby Dick
With bare hands
There is no other world beyond us
You see only the shadows your imagination projects
On the wall of the cave.
Solitude on Train
(2nd episode)
The train runs far away
My soul gets ran over by its heavy wheels.
But my imagination picks up my corpse
And tries to heal it.
No use…
It had already died.
Falling through a door.
Into the abysmal infinity of solitude.
(1st episode)
The widows of the train are so dirty
I cannot look outside
I don’t know where it takes me
Instead I take a trip inside
To find a sunny face
Sitting near me. My companion
Oh, I remembered! I still have in my purse the tiny paper man
That I cut yesterday from the pages of NY Times
The shape of my own shadow
Resembling me in any way.
Silly, dumb, deaf
But I cut its mouth too wide.
It is smooth, teethless, breathless
I’ll whistle through it
My own megaphone.
sâmbătă, 26 septembrie 2009
My first attempt to reach the masses
The following poem is very dear to me since it is part of s series of other poems that helped me turn a very difficult period in my life into a source of inspiration. Although it may seem a love poem , it deals rather with the feeling of despair at the thought of having lost a very large period of time waiting for someone, whoever that person may be.
Medusa
I let my pencil slip on the sheet of paper
A hundred times.
A river of winding lines
Destroying its intimacy , its identity.
And reordering it in the shape of my heart.
Intricate , full of thorns and tubes like a potato
Abandoned in a cardboard box and never used again.
A hundred times
I scratch deeper and deeper.
But before stopping I realise those winding lines
Form a handful of hair
I have grown old and bald
Waiting for you.
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