The Infinity of Love (anthology)

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