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I want to believe in a world
Where ashes do not go back to ashes,
Where dust will not go back to dust,
Or into the bones
Of oblivion.

I want to believe in a world
Where hats would drop off
When the artist speaks,
Or sows together pieces
Of melancholy and precision.

Yes, I want to believe in this perfect world
Where a thought can be bought
For more than a penny,
But for a whole
Golden mine.

This world is both yours and mine,
So please believe in it,
So we can stop beating around the bush
When it comes to you and me
And art.
This is for all the artists out there feeling they are not worth it. Or thinking their art is not good enough. Your art is worth it. This is the kind of world we create, so please believe in it. Believe in your art, as this is the way of making a difference.
raindrops
are just
tears
of fallen Gods.

for these Gods
will never learn
the art of falling,
so they just leave
the falling
to crystal  clear
water.
I decided that every written poem will have it's own translation in both English and Romanian. For how could I forget where I am and where I come from?  

Despre ploaie

ploaia
este numai
lacrima
zeilor cazuti.

intrucat zeii
sti-vor niciodata
arta caderii,
asa ca lasa
caderea
cristalului
apelor.
let us talk about that moment
where two strangers wake up together,
where reason is no longer dormant
and all the lust evaporated like ether.

and when the sun would rise
and shine on their lost bodies,
they would find theirselves dive
into the light's luscious *****.

because night is their secret keeper,
their key to a lock of dreams and lust,
while day is a cruel truth seeker
which none of them could ever trust.

you'd expect this to be the start
of a fairy tale, a long lasting love story,
starting with breakfast in a tiny mart,
ending with a ring in all its glory.

but then again, let's not be deceived
by the bare skin they shared
and the tension they relieved
during their alcoholic glare...

Because *** is just ***,
Plain and simple, like a treadmill run,
Having nothing to do with love
And everything to do with fun.
With all the thoughts
That you have thought of
And all the dreams
You've ever dreamt

With all your worshipping
Upon everlasting strength

And all your waste of hopes
And poetical lament

With every inner struggle
And every night's torment
You exist to be
Another's denouement.

So don't despair, love,
And end your discontent
For you have a purpose,
As you will have an end.
A few words about a philosopher's favourite subjects. And a bit of an ironical title.
Step by step,
With a gorgeous plié,
Kick some pep
Into a battement jeté.

A toy brought to life
During a winter dream,
Wining a mice fight,
Becoming king and queen.

Graceful and white,
Perfection is seized,
A swan's flight,
Applause from the pleased.

All these to treasure,
To hope for, but first
Have the right measures
And break the weight curse.

Do not eat much
And practice all day,
Have the right touch,
Get that perfect cambré.

Pointe for pain
And chukkers for luck,
Just hide those blood stains
And redefine pluck

When all the joints hurt
And toes can't be touched,
When all one has heard
Is Tchaikovsky's crutch...

So proceed and endure,
Feel pain and relief,
Prokofiev's pitch contour
To be ones only belief.

Let all this be forgotten
When the curtains rise
And show all this works gotten
Perfection for a prize.
Holding.
onto myself, tightly,
along with my arms which seem
to be too short, too… thick.
They've always seemed to be
too slow, lacking expression.
so I gather them inside myself,
as this poor self
would firstly accept them as they are…
then it would paint them,
sculpt them,
adding them a finger or two,
until
my poor arms
start looking
like wings.
but they are not like any other pair of wings,
they do not have any feathers or scales.
these are enclosed wings,
splinted to their marrow,
closed as some misplaced umbrella,
like a chisel with its hammer. 
or they might be… fine embroidery
ready to cover
the holes in my soul.
This is why, occasionally, I would hold
Onto myself.

Tightly.
This is the original poem, written in my home language a few years ago.

Frângere

Mă strâng.
Pe mine, în mine,
Cu tot cu braţele ce-mi par…
Prea scurte, prea… butucănoase.
Mereu mi-au părut
Lente, lipsite de expresie.
Așa că le strâng în mine,
Căci minele meu, sărmanul,
Le acceptă, mai întâi,  așa *** sunt.
Apoi le vopsește,
Le sculptează,
Le mai adaugă un deget sau două,
Până când reușesc,
Sărmanele mâini,
Să arate și ele
A aripi.
Nu sunt, însă, aripi ca toate aripile.
Nu au pene mari ori solzi.
Sunt niște aripi închise,
încleșate în măduva lor,
strânse precum vreo umbrelă pierdută,
o daltă cu ciocan.
Ori… fină broderie,
Gata să-mi acopere
Găurile sufletului.
De aceea mă strâng ocazional.
Pe mine.

În mine.
closing claws
ripping off the flesh
of a shadow
saved in a corner
of a single
soul.

no room for an S.O.S.
in this glass jar
filled with despair
in hermetically
closed
words.

closed, closure, close,
such hilarious
list of words
suitable for both
love and
hate.

no reason available
in words or gestures
or thoughts or mimics,
but a single feeling,
a painful thirst
of freedom,

but this closing
fog
stealing
every breath
is closing
every exit,

like alcohol vapours
surrounded by flames,
imploding
violently
into
oblivion.

scared,
alone,
trappe­d,
wrapped
in a single
point.
Trying to get into the core of despair itself, in order to better understand severe depression. As difficult as it sounds, being in someone else's shoes has never been so eye-opening, so started throwing words together, maybe it will be of relief for someone at some point.
poppies and chamomile bloomed roads,
covered in warm dust... such a pity
that these are the only ones left
to be pointing towards the eternal city,

where marble and stone still stand
on places gods used to walk bare-footed,
where belief was more than just demand,
until cassocks have had ancient ways sooted.

A place where manner was turned into art
And polymaths emerged from genius creation,
where Latin blood spills from heart to mart
In a continuous state of vibrant elation.

where green is the colour of oils and lust
and the sun can burn to a lemon flavour,
and the sand on the front of the boot is black
and the wine is more than a bitter-sweet savour...

There, where a walk through square paved markets
is bursting with hand-made stories,
where scratching through history's pride
would always end in timeless glory...
When in Rome, one writes about Rome.
play to me on strings of sunlight
when night braids itself with day
and let the crickets whisper to my ear
suave words of silence and longing.

engrave me the stars gemstones
onto the depths of a clear blue sky
and send me a warm wind caress,
soaked in the perfume of dried grass.

Offer me peace and happiness
in the silver of falling waters
and ask singing birds
to write me serenades.

and love me. Just like the oyster loves
both the fullness and the emptiness
of its own body, without
her ever knowing it.
Wrote this in two languages, as I often do. Below the Romanian version.

Apus

canta-mi pe strunele razelor de soare
cand noapte se impleteste cu lumina
si lasa-mi greierii sa-mi zica la ureche
suave soapte de liniste si dor.

si bate-mi pietrele stelelor
pe tarele albastrului adanc si clar
si trimite-mi calda mangaiere de vant,
imbibata in parfumul ierburilor uscate.

ofera-mi linistea si fericirea
in argintul apelor curgatoare
si pune pasari cantatoare
sa-mi scrie serenade.

si iubeste-ma. Asa *** scoica iubeste
atat plinul, cat si goliciunea
propriului trup, fara macar
ca ea sa o afle vreodata
Gods will rise and fall
And many suns may set,
but man will never get
loose from hatred's thrall.

so even if he shouts
his love and inner peace,
man will never cease
to have his hateful doubts...

arguments not needed
for this statement poem,
as hatred is yet flowing
so rhymes can be conceited.

Because man should hate,
as he has always done,
When fear and pride have won
this poetic prate.
How do you taste a woman?
Do you let your breath
Take over her skin
Or do you,
Gently
Uncover
Her treacherous,
Deceitful, delightful touch?

Do you take her sight for granted,
As if it was yours to own,
As if she would
Never vanish,
Or do you know
She's nothing more
Than a chimera on a wall,
Than Clotho's spinning thread
In an ancient story of forgiveness...

Do you trust her soft and humid body,
Like a silky cloth soaked in
Spicy peppermint oil,
Or do you fear
Her lips
As if they'll
Harm the pulse
Of your easily grown
Desire for all that she has enchanted?

Do you let her fingers linger
Somewhere in between
The locks of hair,
As they were
Her only to poses,
And make them come alive
Like serpents shadows on a desert's moonlight?

All in all, a woman cannot be
Taken for granted,
As she isn't there
Only because
You see her
Near.
No.
A woman is
A passing shadow
For your mesmerized vision.

A woman is that summer rain
On your heated body,
Or that devastating
Storm on a
Moroccan
Desert.
She is both
Dust and wind,
Love and hatred,
Hope and despair.
She is nothing more
Than clear, cold water.

So drink the woman
As you taste
Water
Turned
Into good wine
And tell me, stranger...
How do you taste a woman?
thank you for all your comments and likes. never thought that this poem would be so appreciated. thank you again and again.
I am dust.
Blown by the wind
And rained down
By evaporated seas,
And flowing
And glowing
And starting
A sneeze.

I am dust.
Just a tiny piece
Of earth,
Just a flying piece
Of rock,
not steady,
But ready
for permanent
Change.

I am dust.
Not now,
But always,
And important
Through all days
Like Saturn
Or Plato
Or Gods
On walls.

I am dust.
And as dust flows
And as wind blows
And as my
Soul beats
With ashes,
I will
Forever be
Dust.
Have a look at a piece of dust floating on a down coming ray of light. And exhale towards i, to have its course changed. That is how we both are, you and I, dear reader. Dust, on the waves of time.
pack this memory
along with old socks,
set dust on our story
and on all of our trust.

let time flow
like dental floss,
so we won't know
how to weep our loss.

let the day turn
into dry moss,
remove our hopes
like you do dross.

this was not a story
of charm or of grace,
but more of a wonder
into a lost place.

still, this doesn't end,
as one may believe,
it will only linger
as long as we breathe,

for our truthful story
grows full of despair
like wrinkles on foreheads
and strands of white hair.

it is not a burden,
but a curse, or just fate,
we did not choose this
haunting wraith...

have faith in me, love
as night can trust day
on a sun lacking sky,
on a sword lacking fray.
That point of a relationship where the two partners have known each other for so long, that they don't know how to live without each other, where the hurt they both caused and felt becomes their drug, their air. It is growing together in a perfect, but sad symbiosis. They are both drugs and drug addicts. It is that point where quarrels or fights are pointless, where despair can only take the place happiness, as they both know they tried to change each other, but there is no point in trying. These are not only infected wounds, but gangrenous ones. This is living together with the opposite of a soulmate, only of fearing the unknown situation of a life without each other. This is a story of many.
A pair of once clear blue eyes
And a small mouth in silent desolation,
both shut, but warm and so brave and wise
to fight against painful memory ablation.

A mixture of perfume and dust
Added to this peculiar presence
Or a puzzled piece of the sun at dusk
Mixed in a strong, bottled essence.  

Some bare foot steps on an oaken floor,
wrinkled hands and silk curtains get drawn,
A gentle touch of both old and cold ****
And maybe the armchair contemplating yesterday's dawn.

who was that, passing on the main road?
who knows, but that ponytail looked so familiar!
now and here, when time seems to have slowed,
when no visit is ever auxiliary ...

there are no steps coming through the old door,
and waiting is the only thing left to do,
until all of these hopes will no longer be sore
or maybe memories will fade away too...
kept this from being posted for a few months now.

To my dear grandfather, who passed away in May.
As long as his
Rubber hands
Slip away
From my wooden chest,
I gladly fake that
Inner sorrow.
Night is just night,
without it being told that
it should be dark
and sunless.

It is what it is,
by its own definition.
It does not need stars to shine
In order to make darkness meaningful.

Still, the stars shine.
They do what they do
Without self-acknowledgement,
They simply do.

Be.
Like night and stars
And meaningfulness
And Self-acknowledgement.
I am. And this awaken shudder
falling on the sands of unseen hourglasses
is precious in itself.

We are flowing, both you and I,
on these sand waves,
worn by dust, from world to world.

we are tasted by rain and feelings
with the appetite of a butterfly
recently freed from its chrysalis.

oh, we are! us, two strangers,
in perpetual metamorphosis,
forever oscillating between all and nothing.
Another philosophical cogitation, naïvely constructed in both my maternal and adopted language. Below the Romanian version.

Cugetari naive - Partea a treia: Scurgere

exist. Iar acest treaz fior purtat
de fire de nisip in clepsidre nevazute
Este pretios in sine.

Ne scurgem, si tu, si eu,
in valurile acestui nisip,
purtati de colb, din lume in lume.

Suntem gustati de ploi si sentimente
cu pofta fluturelui
proaspat iesit din crisalida.

oh, suntem! Noi, doi straini
in perpetua metamorfoza,
vesnic osciland intre tot si nimic.
Love is a transforming plant.

you can water it just enough and give it warmth and sunshine,
so it can grow and flourish and give fruits.

you can water it too much or give it too much heat and it will suffocate.

you can water it too little and it will grow spikes.

you can give it too little sunshine and it will grow into a ****.

or you can just hate gardening and live without it.
One could be a moth
Or midday butterfly,
A deceitful demon
Or a cherub on Eden's sky.

An enclosed cellar
Or an open book,
Bittersweet venom
Or a milk and honey scoop.

One shall have a choice
of to be or not be,
Facing one's own path.
Call it destiny.

There is a daily choice
Opened to be selected
Between what's right or wrong
To stand straight, or to be deflected.

But then again life's more than
A black and white selection,
where 'pro's and 'no's run
to create one's subjective reflection.

So we are the sums of our choices
no matter if they're right or wrong,
and doomed to be constantly living
with both beauty and chaos along.
Started contemplating the "To be or not to be" from a moral perspective. Until the moment when we cease to exist, we are. We exist. So the next thing would be... the way we choose to exist. The way we choose to live our lives. Because our choices define the type of our own existence.
profane is the word you seek
when it comes to
looking up
this vicious word
called
love...

for how can one live
in deeper lies
than the imaginary
of permanent belonging?

for what is eternity
but a mortal's illusion,
and what is love,
but the sum of all of mankind's fears
and insecurities?
Cugetari naïve - partea a V-a: Cateva atribute incalcite ale iubirii

Profan este cuvantul cautat
cand vine vorba
despre intelegerea
acestui crud cuvant
numit
iubire...

intrucat *** ar putea sa se traiasca
altfel decat in adancile minciuni
imaginare
ale apartenentei permanente?

caci ce este eternitatea
altceva decat iluzie,
si ce este iubirea
altceva decat suma temerilor
si nesigurantei umane?
words are just wonders
   one
          can release,
                 but only one's pen
could ever crease
                     into the safety
of a poem's lease.
     so this
        is
        a
    note
        to
       a
  pen.
      "
     Oh,
    draw
  Your line
And never
Look back
From those
inked words
that flow
   from
   your
   clack
   and
   let
   them
   flow
   into
   sharp
   flack.
  or maybe
  give words
  that proper,
  warm embrace  
  which can get
  lullabies fall
  into disgrace.
  or maybe just
  draw a perfect
  dark contour
  playing with
  edges that
  make sights
  demure...
  add dots
  and spots
  on plain
  white
  paper,
  like
  living
  knots
  in the
  hands
  of a
  draper.
  pour
  some
  more
  ink
  on
  me.
   "
Let dos and don'ts prevail
Where man cannot decide,
Remove the uncertainty veil
And put instincts aside

And build a concrete fence
Between all right and wrong
For the sake of social rules and hence
For the sake of pitiful us all.

And let us grow less human,
Robotically designed,
With obvious solutions,
Uncertainties consigned...

Show me the spine of morality
And give me a choice to make
For who am I, if not a gambler
Playing on fine ethics edge?
After a long day of debates on morality. A recall of an inner monologue from a few years ago. Opinion refined, arguments sharpened, but basically... having the same first thoughts.
Through this window
I see a life
That seems to be mine.

Episode by episode,
Its scenes flash
Towards oblivion.

Fast and unexpected,
This life falls in front of me
Like a rock through
An endless well.

No feelings or care
To be received,
But the constant action
Of ignoring loneliness.

No screams of help,
When expectations
Proceed hard work.

No glimpse of joy.
This life just rushes out
Of my beating chest,

With every ****** verse.
The shadowy wall potently pays
Tribute to an open door.
Because the door will know
How to shut itself,
While the wall is just
A bean stalk with the gift
Of making a bit
Of shadow.

The low witch would walk
Distinctly away
from the Concrete bean stalk
As the wall would burn
And the shadow would turn
The witch's own shadow
Into a mice meadow.

And the witch hates mice
When throwing the dice
On the shadowy floor
Of the room with no door,
With no lock
To the dock
Where the concrete bean stalk
Has popped.

So the witch stays away
From the mice and the hay
Of her meadow-growing
Steps of annoying
Rhymes yours truly
Has made to undress
A reader's curiosity.
Played with random words at some point in the past and this is the result
it is not in my nature

to be as I am.

I am not just a creature

of mould or of damp.




I will not be converted

to some noxious disease,

nor will I be perverted

to just stand on my knees.




I will not bow my head,

nor my heart or my hands,

as they're all I have had

to stand tall through time's sands.




you can shout if you please,

I am still my own boss

and will never just seize

the days that have past.
There is a mark on your cheek.
A token of something that used to be.

A shadowed corner of a smile,
Of a giddy mood and conspiracy.

A memory of lick and press and yet to be
And bunch of butterflies. But yet a memory.
Unicorn sprinkles,
Daffodils jam,
A little star's twinkle
And some dragon ham.

Some emerald clovers,
A pint of fairy dust,
A handful of stover
And some canned gust.

Teardrops of a Selkie,
Well shaken, not stirred,
The horseshoe of a kelpie,
Late Iron Age sherds.

Some fizzy witchcraft,
One bottle or two,
And maybe a draught
Of love potion too.
Someone challenged me to add my shopping list in here and to have it called a poem. I think they had no idea what they were asking of me, so... here is my shopping list. Enjoy!
I have sketched you in so many ways,
with dots and lines
and shadows and lights
and covered in colours
or in black and white.

I've sketched you as a prince,
I've sketched you as a beggar,
I've sketched you as a lover,
I've sketched you as a hater.

I've adjusted myself
to several graphite scales
so I can shade your flaws
into fairy tales...

you have been my muse,
both master and apprentice,
you have been obsession
for my sleepless senses...

But even if your image
has haunted me for long,
you have never been
just mine to belong...

so I'll just keep on drawing
and sketching you, my all
so I can have you near
when nights are getting cold...
Many stories and legends have sketched our imagination when it came to unfulfilled love. I imagined a plastic artist in Beethoven's on Dante's situation - craving and transforming their love into muse, into inspiration.
let me dance
with your sweet perfume
with your embrace
as my salvation

let us sway
towards forgiveness and pain
and mend our hearts
with every step we make

let me hold you tight
with my arm around
your tensed back
and let me move it slowly

let the tango
or any other sensual rhythm
draw the white curtains
of an empty bedroom

let us sway together
towards the memory
of the vineyard
that got us drunk with each other

let me taste
every movement
until we remind ourselves
that we are one
Lean your head
On my
Bare
Hip
And taste
Sweet,
Pure
Freedom.

Let these
empty
sheets
Cover this
naked
Body
Of mine
With relief.

Let my ankle
Feel
The pain
Of your
Passionate
Kiss,
As we both know
It is our last.

Close your eyes,
Love,
As you did mine
Once,
So you won't see
My shadowed
Steps
Walking away.

Take your farewell
And cover it
With clothing,
But it will still be
Too much
For our
One hour
Love story.
I am not here. I hear them talk, but
 their words do not reach me. I hear myself talking like
a theatre actor learning a play's lines. I am
 faraway, beyond the light and into delightful days, where the
 highway does not bring me home, but where I do belong. That
 place is a faraway land, full of fairies and leprechauns and
 knights in shining armour... they don't need to know
 that I exist. It is a land where I will go beyond my
 body, beyond reason. Because my tensed body gives me reason.
 I can feel every muscle in my body full of that faraway land
 energy, and every blood vessel in it is full of the dream of
 having it devouring my imagination. I feel blind. I am not
 able to see, nor hear the voices in my throat. But they are
 there, so close to my heart that I could breathe them
 through the lungs and spit them back to where they belong,
 back into my heart. I am not here. I feel myself, but beyond
 their reach. They will never touch me, as I have put them
 there, where they belong - in a shadowed corner of my ear.
 There they will not be able to hear the sound of the fairies
 wings, nor the laughter of the leprechauns. They will never
 be able to smell the tar on the back of my knights. But so
 be it. Let them smell fresh rain on hot concrete and hear
 the cracking of elders bones. As this is who they are and
 who I am.
Intr-un mine indepartat

Nu sunt aici. Ii aud vorbind, insa cuvintele lor nu imi ajung urechilor. Ma aud vorbindu-le, ca si cand as repeta replicile unei scenete. Sunt intr-un mine indepartat, depasind barierele luminii, intru delicioase zile, undeva unde nicio autostrada nu ma poate purta acasa, ci numai acolo unde apartin cu adevarat. Acel meleag este un taram indepartat, plin de zane si spiridusi si cavaleri in armura… ce nu au nevoie sa stie ca sunt. Este un taram in care voi exista mai presus de fiinta, de trup, mai presus de ratiune. Intrucat fiinta-mi imi este ratiune. Imi simt fiecare muschi din trup plin de caldura acelui taram indepartat, iar fiecare capilar din el este plin de dorinta de a-mi avea imaginatia devorata de acel meleag de vis. Sunt orb. Nu *** vedea, nici auzi glasuirile pieptului meu. Dar ele sunt acolo, si inca atat de aproape de inima mea incat le *** inspira adanc in plamani, ca apoi sa le revars inapoi unde le este locul, inapoi in pieptul meu. Nu sunt aici. Ma simt, dar mai presus de simtire. Nu ma *** atinge, caci i-am pus acolo unde le este locul – intr-un colt intunecat al urechii mele. Acolo nu vor putea auzi zbuciumul aripilor zanelor, nici rasul spiridusilor. Nu vor putea vreodata simti mirosul de smoala de pe spatele cavalerilor mei. Dar fie. Fie-le ploaia proaspata pe cimentul incins si trosnetul oaselor imbatranite. Caci acestea sunt ei si acesta sunt eu.
How much
I would wish
to be the shape
of your tear...
Twinkle twinkle little light
How I wonder that you might
Give my sight a bit of joy
Through this wooden toy.

How I wish that it could just
Speak to him and so, entrust
All my thoughts, my love and care,
He would be my only glare!

I would care not that its flesh
Is a piece of pine refreshed
By my old and wrinkled hands,
That's not where its value stands!

Twinkle twinkle little star,
How I wonder if you are
Listening to this old fool
Who has nothing but his tools

And his silence and long beard
And some hope that he could hear
Someone dear to call him "dad",
Privilege he never had...

— The End —