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 !

Scattered clouds on a July sky

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

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

An imaginary friend

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

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

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

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

Expect to rain

Expect to rain with feathers of light
A pillow of thoughts brought
The fight to a new level of depth

Expect to rain with blue sharp eyes
The overflow of tears will wash you anew
Clean towels balming your spirit

Expect to rain any day now
The snow will melt in touch with the asphalt
Slowly, sadly, silently, the trees will cry

Expect to rain with forests’ ashes
Choking the hope in their blue eyes
Rain is postponed on the those hills

Doina, my only fairy

When you find out that your best friend, Doina, the beautiful woman with dark, long hair, thin and elegant, tall and always smiling, a fairy entirely for you only, is, in fact, your mother, and you dance in front of the mirror keeping that piece of paper pressed on your heart and you sing: ‘Doina is my mom, Doina is my mom’… And you are happy, you feel forever connected with that angel… Even if that piece of paper let you know that Doina is deceased by suicide, you know that was the only way for you to have your own fairy, your own angel…. Never been mad on my mom, I understood completely her gesture… It was a reminder for me to pay attention to the people around me who act like they love me but they weren’t truly my friends. So you see, I always had my fairy with me to dance, to laugh together, to run a mock in the fields, to trek the mountains… We always meet in my dreams, in my poems, when the waves kiss my soles, when the sun breaks the clouds blanket, when the storms postpone their light lashes till I arrive on a safe ground… When my own daughter smiles naughtily, I find her, my fairy, my tall, thin mother.
From that moment onward all my nightmares stopped, my mother was there with me forever. Strange it is that I completely forgot this episode of me dancing and singing in the mirror, crying out my mother’s name, but the bad witch was lurking around spying on me and for sometime now, I wonder if she didn’t put that piece of paper especially in my way. I think her scenario was that the news of my mother’s death will kill me as I was already a very sick kid suffering of separation syndrome… The effect was the other way around, I felt connected with the gods, happy as never been before, suddenly a purpose rised in my life: to make my mother proud! Thirty years later I found out about this manifestation of mine from a friend of the bad witch… This was her argument that she knew I never loved her even if I called her mom as
she taught me herself, she always knew that I will betray her…. How this witch could imagine I would completely forgot my fairy, my mother, my angel is beyond my imagination… You steal another woman’s child to secure her husband, then you get pregnant to tie the knot perfectly around that man’s neck, his wife commits suicide, but you expect their child to be loyal to you forever… This logic ruins my mind… But, do not worry, my friends, we are safe for now, my fairy and I

The nostalgia map

Somewhere else the day happens to pass
Here, the seconds’ teeth jam your eyelids
Hang heavily by your eyelashes
Heave worming
You scatter yourself, you frown
The wrinkles are deforming your perspective
And the summer fails on the other shore
We are back to that waiting
Dayless, nightless
A kind of hope that in the other season
Something will happen
Something exterior to us
In no connection with the cannibal seconds
With the random deaths of our friends
A friendship will rise
Between a spade of grass and a passing kite
A grain of dust, a swallower of galaxies
Will swirl itself and waves as cuddles
Will caress the winnowed cheek, sieved by the galactic winds
And yes, right there, in that space where no Stellar dust rests
The time hasn’t been invented and
The day is yet measured with the circle

Murderous mood

I shouldn’t murder my sister

The imaginary one, of course

She was nice and we had great conversations

The white walls were always her inspiration

She would paint horses

Talking horses, at least that was my impression

They had verses around their mouths

I remember asking her if they could fly

She leant her head to the right

Like a painter

No, that is a cliche

It is enough that rhymes are hanging from their snort

And then, just then I killed her

I wasn’t furious or frustrated or anything

Only that her imagination was tight around my skin