Sunday, December 08, 2013

Candle lit note


this is not a confession
it's a singing lesson for the deaf
where my demons
sitting pretty 
on the white fluffy rug
play scrabble
with yours

Photo by I Must be Dead Photography

Monday, December 02, 2013

Dearest Virginia


I, too, am certain that it is harder and harder to stay afloat. The water is fast and deep and my pockets full of stones. I feel I have surrendered to a life I cannot breathe or bare or wake up to any more. I tried like you tried and failed like you failed and without you I would have thought that hope is still a pear waiting to be picked in a Sussex garden. I feel I did not understand this until you asked Mrs Dalloway to visit and she brought cake and we had tea and spoke about parties and vegetables. I'm afraid I've been buying the flowers myself for far too long or so the voices say. They are carnations and hydrangeas and perhaps lilies and sometimes I'm not certain which ones to choose, at all. I wanted to thank you for the other day when I heard the Big Ben chimes and remembered what you once said to me in London: *"The leaden circles dissolve in the air”. They did and I cried for no reason, no reason at all, because there was no reason left to cry for. If anyone could have saved me it wouldn't have been you. You opened my eyes and now, on sunny, monotone afternoons, I can even make up the face these hands are firmly holding under the surface.


*excerpt from Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Sunday, November 17, 2013


what is this tip toe dance I’m doing
around a purple room
without me moving a limb?
this pursing of lips and
imaginary fingers catching their kiss
at the other end

and this song?
I know this song
 the sounds climbing my frame
up and down, up and down
from pianissimo to forte to pianissimo
why sing it now,  in my dressing gown
smiling in front of a mirror like a dumb man
staring at his feet in a summer puddle

a child is blowing soap bubbles through a straw
in my head
and while my hat is still on
and no one can see a thing
I’m going to corner him
I’m going to catch him
I’m going to grab him by the hand and ask him:

what is this? what is this?

Monday, November 11, 2013

Pseudo (non-identity)

acestui nume mic îi vom da încă unul
şi încă unul şi încă unul
pînă la ultimul
posteritatea îl va descoperi singur, mumificat
într-un colţ de grotă
o stalactită atîrnînd şui din tavanul alfabetului mort

prima vocală-i va fi şi ultima
consoana - sufocată în faşă
de iedera suindă pe minciuna propriei cruci
marele cuvînt va fi bolborosit în neştire 
în limba tăcerii

şi cînd ne vom aduna cu toţii, în blănuri de animale la gura peşterii
trecîndu-ne mîinile prin păr, prin foc şi pietre
ca un lup alb, sideral
de printre nori se va-ntrupa brusc luna
[auzi cum îi trozneşte-n fălci lumina?]
ea vine, ea pleacă, ea urlă
ea vede şi ştie

să ascultăm deci, să privim şi să ne rugăm
să hăituim aceşti pereţi
în puncte puncte
cu dalta

Sunday, October 20, 2013


dezlipeşte-ţi frunzele de pe nas, cască lung
 unge-ţi încheieturile cu bale de melc
şi fă-mi un ceai cu lămîie si miere
întinde-mi turturele pe sîrmă şi lasă-le să-şi fîlfîie trilul degeaba
în ochiul meu trîntor, nemişcător

prosteşte-mă cu o veste bună , scurtă, neadevarată
cu o orhidee înflorită în şanţ, cu un val nespart de ţărm
 încuie uşa şi-nghite cheia ca pe-o felie de măr
dă-te aproape, aici, pe pat,  lîngă mine

aşază-mi un şal din caşmir pe umeri
o mînă de bărbat pe genunchi
şi citeşte-mi un articol banal din ziarul de ieri
lumea e un demon rătăcit prin coridoarele raiului
cîţi morti, atîţia vii, şi-o singura ramă
din care trebuie să zîmbim cu toţii

pune-mi un Bach
lasă-mi draperiile trase ca un capac de cosciug
nu-mi arăta ceasul cu limba, nu-mi scoate capul din căpiţa cu nori
şi nu mă întreba ce-am facut aseară

dimineaţo, de nu mă laşi să termin poemul ăsta
jur  că mă urc pe tine şi

Sunday, October 13, 2013

I do

do you follow rainbows to the end of the road
and pretend they end there with a screech of the breaks
or perhaps you miss the train and convince yourself that
you were on the wrong platform or you were there just
waving someone goodbye
or do you receive flowers from people you never loved
and your ‘thank you’ is the discorded key of a piano
 in the middle of a concert
do you make someone cry and comforting them is a trembling hand
a surgeon never shows the world
do you etcetera your list of to do’s into a painted oblivion
and never ever want to admit
that your blues are not just a shade of angry skies
do you talk too much so you can never hear
the voice of your loneliness
bouncing of the walls of your room
do you read tones of recommended books  
to help you catch another day
while tomorrow comes and discards you into yesterday
without a word of apology
do you stumble across true love and wish you broke a leg
rather than a heart

do you think this poem is nothing to do with you

Saturday, October 05, 2013

Apucîndu-l de falcă

ridică-te şi umblă îţi zic
ori vrei să fi cărat cu roaba la groapa cu ceilalţi
ce-mi stai chircit între pături cu pumnii la gură
în noptile albe şi reci, ca-n pian clapele
te scoală , blegule bleg
vrei  lapte? struguri? lego?
vrei  trup de bărbat? inimă de copil?
ai tras după tine un tanc peste carne şi oase
şi-acum te culci peste ele
le pipăi, le pupi şi le mîngîi pe cap
hai, mişcă un deget
spală un geam, udă un ficus
fă viaţă în jur
Merde! arăţi ca o ploaie de vară-n găleată
pune-ţi bigudiuri, caută-ţi rujul, fă piruete-n vitrină,
umbră de femeie nebună
ţi-am adus Rumi şi Lulu şi un braţ de buline
degeaba-ţi rozi unghiile cu nasul în zid şi genunchii la piept
degeaba mori, degeaba iubeşti
sufleţel, de n-ai fi al meu aş rîde de tine
pînă mi–ar crăpa faţa

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Monday, September 16, 2013

The last straw...

No. It is not his birthday, or the anniversary of his death.
In fact there is no reason for this post apart from the obvious one (known by many by now): Bukowski is a poet. And this is a good reason to commemorate him and his work as often as time allows it. (He would so laugh at these words if he was still alive)

I asked myself many times why love his work? Why obsess with a guy that drunk, cursed and used women instead of tissues.Why bother buying another poetry book signed by him? Why even planning to go visit his grave some time in the future?

And I bet there are a few more other questions out there my subconscious has not as yet processed.

Hank was a hater of people, a hater of poetry readings, a hater of conventionality. Yes, he loved his alcohol, his classical music, his gambling on horses and I believe he loved the idea of love - which may or may not be anything to do with the women he encountered.

Who cares?

 The thing that keeps me hooked is his cunning ability to be honest, brutally open about taboo and totally exposed to the waves of pain and deception life throws at any given time.

The link will take you to the last public reading he ever made, the last straw...

Tuesday, September 03, 2013



e smoală cu crini şi pericol iubite
castroane  cu stele se sparg sus de cer
şi palmele noastre alintă cuţite
şi lumea se plimbă cu paşi de-ofiţer

duminica ţipă la vrăbii şi-nghite
plăcinte cu măr, praf de puşcă şi gin
şi lanţuri ne trag înapoi zornăite
şi-n parcuri cresc tei cu miros de pelin

la şoapte ne luăm şi murim din cuvinte
ce nimeni nu ştie cînd/ cum/ cît le-am spus
şi gloanţe de frică ne-aleargă prin minte
şi plîngem cotoare de soare apus

ei rîd şi ne-arată cu mîna-nainte
noi poftim şi tîrîm setea  goală prin spini
şi mă strigi şi te-aud şi tăcerea-i fierbinte
şi aş vrea şi te-ntorci şi-i mereu şi suspini

e linişte-n noapte,-i răpciune iubite
castroane cu stele se sparg sus de cer
şi lumea se culcă pe cant de cuţite
şi inima bate ca un pas de-ofiţer

Monday, August 19, 2013

Absolute beauty (a thing or two about...)

it does not end
as it does not begin
is where Infinity meets Forever
and says: how d'you do
in a continuous white noise
with a touch of
it tickles your pores until your skin blooms into goosebumps
like cherry trees in a suspended Japanese garden
it pushes your face to the edge so you can touch the void
with your eyelash
it pulls you back just when you're about to jump
and stares silently into your dilated pupils
it feeds on you like a hungry beast
and you laugh the laughter of the King
and walk the walk of the clown
twist, turn and bleed with joy
clap, crawl and beg for

but you keep it all inside

Sunday, July 07, 2013

to give it a name

it appears out of nowhere
and even if I guess it
or not
I pretend to be too clever
to water its roots
with lacy butterflies of hope
too busy, too awake
to walk the walk of dreams
daily surrendered to dawn
like freedom 
by caught and trialed killers
and when it stings
like a bee that knows all about 
all about petals and fate
it feels grateful and peaceful and forever

it appears out of nowhere
it floats
and the blood carries it everywhere
obeying its deep undisputed route
to the heart
where some day
you may turn
a London bus

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

în iunie nu ne-am văzut niciodată

şi credeam ca nu mai ajungi. minutul
 atîrnînd în ştreang aşteptarea
bătea în perete ca pumnul unui vecin cu chef de scandal
număram diminețile în frunzele ferigii cind

ai ciocănit la uşă timid. 
am sărit peste-un prag, peste
nodul din gît,
m-am împiedicat rău, mi-ai strigat numele si 
ți-am căzut dragă
în acelaşi loc ascuns 
sub camaşa nouă, în carouri

apoi am pus trandafirii în apă. din lift
vîntul se luă după noi 
soarele ne urmări pînă tîrziu
ca un asasin blond
plătit cu ziua de Dumnezeu

 şi peste pontoane
Dunărea îşi lăți zîmbetul încercînd în zadar 
să ne ghicească-n ochi,
în buze,
în sălcii
numărul la iubire

Saturday, March 09, 2013


[..I said to Barbara, I said]

I’m writing my book, making my costumes and playing me

I think I am rather good
remembering all those lines that could
have once made a difference
when sunsets felt real,
 beyond their damaged magnetic fields
I sang, I danced, I concurred
and when my sword bent from my knees
 and I couldn’t cry anymore
I walked on burning coal through the icy rain
to embrace the forgotten

I keep on writing my book

I pierce my ears, die my hair, conjure the dark forces
and anchored by fear I deliver
touching, exhilarating, borderline shocking
live entertainment
half brave, half pushed
sometimes merely there
I remember the lights,
blinding they are, hallowing they are

I keep on wearing my costumes

children rush to me like lambs to their mother-sheep
and their smiles, joy and clapping
are worth a whole sun and one bright half of a Moon
we lick ice-cream together,
 get colds together
make sticker-charts together and
sit on the naughty step together
and after dark - and only after dark – we pray to not have to pray again


keep reading
turn the page to the scene
 with the guy who locked the rare wounded dove in a cage
and the woman who loved too much, laughed too much, wore too much lipstick
and her depressed chiwawa
and keep playing me
 Sunday to Sunday

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Carpe Diem


genunchiul fără frică  pus pe acest pat

cînd pereții ard de jur împrejur

palma din gheață sculptată după fruntea și imaginea mea

tu știi cine sînt?

unde mergem și cît putem îndura?

degeaba închid  radioul, fereastra și mă ascund după ficus

ești respirația gură la gură dintre pastilă și bubă

prima și ultima rază alunecate după perdea

cu buze uscate  repet în urechea de plastic a telefonului

aici, apasă aici, dă drumul garoului

sîngele promis vieții, să curgă

brațele tale labirint știu sa țină piept inimii

știu să țină inima la piept

sînt gata.

am pus creionul jos

și termometrul și hîrtia și apa

poemul acesta se învîrte

eu amețesc și tu rîzi

Friday, February 08, 2013

The *NHS Song

There’s a wheeze when I breath and this pain when I live
And no wonder our paths come to cross
You’re my Heaven my Hell within you I dwell
Each time my health is at loss
You’re pretty and sweet when we meet and we greet
But your chit chat’s a ‘NO-NO’ because
I am loosing terrain you drive me insane
And I don't know the name of your boss

Your  system has crashed your words come out mashed
My story – I say it again
But you’re now on the phone while I play my trombone
and my patience’s being washed down the drain

My lips turning pale you’re biting your nail
I just need my prescription, I’m sore
You smile with a smile, I repeat for a while
Everything that I told you before
You click and you stare at the screen I don’t dare
To look for the fear that you’re wrong
I can not buy time even for this crime
But tonight (oh, boy, this is so worth breaking a rhyme)  you’ll be blown on my blog

There’s a fire alarm and you say with a charm
'Please leave the premesis now'
I’ll be damned if I go, all I need is to know
Are you stupid or simply a cow
We part and I leave you wave and I grieve
For they won’t let me kill on the spot
And all I can do is wait a day or two
‘Till Tuesday is better' you thought


This saga was mine, I bet my last dime
That the papers will take them to pieces
The name of the story, for such fame and and such glory:

NHS – Hope is for sissies

NHS = National Health Service

Note: This poem is based on a true story and is aiming to reveal the impotence of a failing system. 

Monday, February 04, 2013

Control Panel. Test 01

Statement 1.The poem bellow is false

there’s no rush in pushing dreams
one into another and watch them disappear into black holes
like shiny balls on a Saturday night pool table
no need for hope and fear
to marry again and again and again
lovers can only be parents to one eternal daughter: agony

open your eye
the voices in my head are now quiet
muted by the glowing in the dark yoyo of life
forever ends Tuesday and
 it doesn’t matter why
or how or who played in it

the Big Engineer wants us to be grateful
for every dove flying above our heads
for every loaf of bread sliced on the kitchen table
for every mouthful of air allowed in this room

‘Breath in and hold’/ (should I do what I’m told?)
I take in you2 and exhale love dioxide.

Statement 2.The poem above is true

Audio version:   Control panel. Test 01 by Corina Gina Papouis 


Friday, January 04, 2013

din jurnalele Diotimei

voi face o listă cu trei lucruri
şi o voi pune după ureche
mă voi tolăni pe sofa
şi voi mîngîia catifea mov, genunchi de bărbat
şi ciucuri grei

voi ieşi pe alei
trăgînd norii de lesă. din priviri
voi clădi un turn înalt
îmi voi împleti părul în funii iar
noaptea voi evada

voi ajunge la timp pe un ţărm oarecare
unde voi oferi unui pescăruş oarecare
ultimul cartof prăjit
voi coborî din tancul blindat cu păpădii
şi voi săruta cu sete buzele urîţilor

voi rearanja ţările pe hartă în formă de război şi pace,
valurile oceanelor, cărţile pe raft
şi alibiurile celor ce adoră şi tac
voi alăpta copiii făcuţi din dragoste
din cenuşă, apă şi talaj voi ridica livezi de cuvinte

cu stînga voi mînca
un măr roşu
iar cu dreapta voi scrie în jurnal
ceva ce n-o să-ţi vină să crezi