miercuri, 20 februarie 2013

The Infinity of Love (anthology)


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


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,
My blue horizons
In grey,
My springs,
My birds
And stepping on
My flowers.

But you do not know
That I am waiting
My wings to grow!z


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,
Very soon…
And just until then
You still can

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

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


the light of the day
it only just flickers
the up-side down clouds
from dust to dawn
the colors of the autumnally

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,
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)


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


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.


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,

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…


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…


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,
Hovering around,
Caressing its forms
That they are still burning…


I feel how I grow like a bird
how I fly and my wing stronger
towards the infinite of a whisper,
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,
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.

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,
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

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

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
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…


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!

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
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
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…

the first knocks would be
more powerful
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.
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.
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.


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

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.

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
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

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!


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

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
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

you like to sit on the threshold of the memory -
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

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,
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


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

by the frightful beauty
of a halo
in that mystic


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


Do You really
made me a sphere
leaving me
in vain
to look for
my half?

since I figured it out
who I am,
I started to look for
my other

I disappeared among the lines

I have hidden away
all that vibes inside me.
I do not leave proof at sight:
I do not let you see
nothing of what I feel.
It betrays me
only the smile –
to the ravenous glance
as you recognize…

and I close
any path towards me.
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

I hid myself.
among the lines I am not,
do not come,
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


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
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
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 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


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


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


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…


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

on the crests the air makes you dizzy
from dawn to dawn

the stubble field is burning
just beneath your eyes…


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