Author Archives: iulia gherghei

About iulia gherghei

I live in Bucharest, Romania. I work in the National Radio Broadcasting- Radio Romania Cultural as technical director- d.j.-. I write poetry in my spare time so I am an amateur !

Blue solitude

8 Replies


Do you know why I don’t like the outter space? Of course, you don’t! 

You all are mesmerised by the fireworks the galaxies are playing for our eyes

Where you see a party I only see solitude

I even feel the taste in my mouth

Bitter and dusty


Big swirls of fire

Giants of gas

Huge rocks spinning in gravitational slavery

Under a blanket of infinite recluse 


Do you imagine the level of sound involved in these collisions

Cause after all, universe is all about collisions and fireworks, dark matter, electromagnetic waves and black holes


But our lives are too

We all swim in our seas of loneliness

Waiting an interaction of some kind to happen 
Back to the curtains of decibels exhaled by the universe

The flash of electromagnetic waves that undulate the space towards our blue beany planet

Only makes it even more acute

The feeling of loneliness and inutility

But why should I trouble you with that

Enjoy your fireworks, folks! 

Overmeasured Monday

6 Replies

The cold light of the bus
The somehow whispered voices of the travellers
The blue mask worn by the October night
The Monday that hasn’t promised anything
The broken screen of the mobile phone
All these are crowding the space between my ears
They are overmeasurely tiresome
Over the measure irritatingly the driver is breaking
But the breaks don’t follow the order
Chaotically drifting
We are going to fly through the windscreen
Soiling with our shrieks the automn
October will crawl its leaves on our
Over measured wounds

The cathedral will toll its bell over the pandemic
And I will miss the bus stop

A winter of slumber

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More than an autumn I wait for a white winter

A silent morning, muted by the heavy layer of snow

A blank sheet of paper where my thoughts to have a fresh start

A winter of slumber

A winter of heavy coats and frosty limbs

A winter of silent wars and timid hopes

More than an autumn I dream for the perfect snow fall

And as the snowflakes lightly fall

All my pressure and burden slowly will elevate from my shoulders

The branches of the trees almost touching the ground dressed in white splendour

And on my shoulders new dreams will rise

angel wings

I sit by my window watching this imaginary winter

A winter glued with bits and bits of fifty other winters that past by

And, meanwhile, this fall ahead of us is slowly crawling under my skin

A spider spiralling on his web to his victim

A sunset lingering on a saddened sky

A whisper left behind by a leaf in her surrender

The windy sea of summer

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For two weeks now the wind won’t stop

Feels like a sea is constantly moaning at your windows

A sea of trees sending waves of air that cross my apartment spreading widely my curtains

They won’t stop dancing

They move like thousands ghosts intoxicated by drugs

Somewhere in the building doors slam

Perhaps someone wrote a symphony and instead of drums he used doors this season

From time to time a tzunamy of sirens rushes on the boulevard

You skip a heart beat, death in a tiny tin vehicle passes by

I wonder how loud the noise is in that recipient

I wonder if that terrible sound scaries away the virus

And then the wind delivers the final blow

so the summer could end in silence

I started this poem to whine about the wind and how its gusts startles my dog

How, for some nights now, dog and owner chase a moment of silence

But somewhere in the middle, the sirens stole my poem away and in their high pitch note dug all the silences under the rug

Scattered clouds on a July sky

6 Replies

Scattered clouds on a July sky
A perfect picture
Weather suits me today
A bit too perfect
Seems a kind of mockery
We keep up here the perfect resemblance of a summer
What you guys are doing down there is your business
Your virus, your trump shenanigans, your dictatorships Eastern or otherwise
Racisms and all kind of – isms
We, scattered and fluffy white, we don’t judge
We are the perfect clouds for a perfect summer
Wear your masks, keep the social distance
As we do
We are scattered as you all can see
A perfect summer up here
A very dark season for you
You all soon to be scattered

Serenity is blue

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Serenity is a wave
Blue in a frame, pink when you call your mother
Serenity caught in a frame
A wave sinking ships
Swirls of dreams shattered
Muted tears, eyeballs popped up from the turtle’s orbits
Serenity hue drained from the intricate veins
Death in small particles, coloured dust on a Butterfly wings
Serenity found in the cinder flakes ascending from the devil’s pit
Laughter turned to shrieking
Louder, louder, son of mine
Louder, louder, daughter of mine
Let’s sink this ship
Louder into the serenity seas
Break all the windows
Let your mother breathe in one more time
This arrogantly pretext of an air
Flip one more coin before the agony
stops

An imaginary friend

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An imaginary friend?
No, I don’t think I had one
The pattern on the curtains scared me though
Rows and rows of monsters perfectly aligned
Waiting for my moment of weakness

Later, the very same curtain will become my princess veil in my daydream play
The monsters got forgotten
But still perfectly lined up

The mirror was my friend by now
There I found my safe place
A dance, a swirl, another pirouet
There I could split up the sad me from
the scared me
Danger lurks in the curtains’ folds

A dance, a pirouet, the news of my dead mother
The news that she was my real mother
The mirror was my single true friend now
Another pirouet and again one more

A perfect swirl

Wings grow on my shoulders

One fluffy stretch and I am next to her

To guide her through the mirrors

The poet and his island

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The poet walked in helping himself with a cane
But one could easily see that he carresed many thighs in his time
Whom he then rounded about in rhymes

On his island all the women melt in the Mediterranean sea
So the poet has to leave the verse free
To build a maize of subtle meanings
To lure back the maddened sirens
Maddened by his rocky kisses

The poet was reciting
The poet rolls out verses in an unknown language
The way how he breaths in the h’s is familiar to me though
The sounds emitted are faucal, like spell of some sort
The poet has a warm smile as if he met some old friend
And in his eyes he wears all the warmth of his island

The faint

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I didn’t write for sometime
Didn’t feel the urge to do it
Overwhelmed by the reality flow
The muses fainted
The cracks from the floor swallowed them
Another layer of dust lavishingly spread at my feet

Vacuum, void, nothingness 
Powerless, exhaustion 
Mainly, emptied and knocked down by the atrocities of these times
The bad news are followed by more bad news
Fake or true, an instrument of manipulation 
The muses got swirled under this tsunami wave called reality
No wish for survival left
In their foggy eyes I saw the doom 
With the next wave poetry will leave too
The curtain of smoke from the Amazonian forests will envelope slowly our poetry buds
The lungs will succumb in desperate attempts to form a rhyme or to keep the rhythm in this intricate nightmare
The muses, already dust under our paved ways, can’t save us anymore 
They donated us the last amount of oxygen 
Their last breath, already
We are left intoxicated with our egoes
We will fall, one by one as the trees of that far away forest did

The thirst

14 Replies

The smell of rain from my dog’s hair
The rhythmic sound droplets make on my windows
The smell of wet cement
The pink veil magnolias are waving before my eyes
The suave flavour that envelope the streets after the rain
The gentle whisper trees pour down my ear
All that sensorial realm builds walls of nostalgia

And I wake up fully armoured against the cloud of depression

I walk straight forward shredding all my memories of the lasts springs

I am thirsty, a thirst like only an ocean can bear

The thirst for the first blossom, for the first spade of grass, for the first thrill of a bird

The thirst for the original spring