Pragurile iubirii.

Vom aștepta nedrept să fim salvați?! 

Mi-e dor de tine, omul care-ai fost,
Pășind cu grijă, alegând o cale,
Dar parc-acum n-ai nici un rost,

Pe noul drum, orbecăind prin vale.
Mi-e dor de ochii larg deschiși în față,
De mintea trează, drumul drept;
Acum te degradezi, e-o nouă fază,

Primită, acceptată, decadent.
Valorile, principiile-s pierdute,
Ce ne mai trebuie-ndreptar,
Când parcă lumea e pe ducă,

Și negurile luminoase par.
E-o noua eră, era populistă,
Dar cât de ponosită și vulgară,
E o alegere neinstruită,

O malformantă ordine mondială.
Fatidic e ce ne așteaptă,
Ne pasă? Poate e normal,
Doar o oprire și gândire ne salvează,
De întunericul primordial.

Să viețuim, ce-o fi- să fie,
De ce păsarea să ne urmărească?
Ce, altul e mai bun ca mine ?
Deci răul să ne stăpânească.

Principiile (?), o, vechi metehne,
Sunt depășite, bune de-aruncat;
Să ne trăim noi nouă, pe-ncercate,
Mielul e fraged, gândim ce am mâncat.

Ne-am pus noi singuri cătușele-ndoielii,
De ce să ascultăm de Legi,
Viața-i a mea, nu e a noastră,
Vom aștepta nedrept să fim salvați.

Iubirea renăscută e salvarea,
Înțelepciunea de-a fi frați,
Oprește-te din alergare, altfel,
Nedrept vom aștepta să fim salvați.

© Eugen Miloș

sursa: Facebook

Text Messages from the Universe by Richard James Allen

Text Messages from the Universe was inspired by The Tibetan Book of the Dead, a Buddhist text which guides souls on their 49-day transmigration through the ‘Bardo’, or intermediate state, between dying and rebirth. It immerses readers in subjective states of consciousness they might experience when they die. It imagines what they can see and think and hear in a seamless but fragmentary flow of poetic images which turn time and space on their heads.

Text Messages from the Universethe book, designed by Dylan Jones, includes images taken from the film of the same title by The Physical TV Company, and a front cover painting created especially for the occasion by Australian painter Michelle Hiscock, who similarly created the cover for Richard James Allen’s earlier volume with Flying Islands: Fixing the Broken Nightingale.

available at:


Making poetry more bearable to look at



„Now what?”
I asked

„What?” she
said, not facing me

she was
busy scratching
the wood of the desk
with her fingernail

up and down
and up and down
as if coloring
with a crayon

„What are you doing?”
I asked

and she said
„I’m making the face
more bearable to
look at.”

Of course

She had this issue

Saw faces wherever
she looked. On almost
any damn surface

I knew people
in my life
who were tormented by
this condition

She was not one of
because she was not real

I worried not about my
desk being scratched

It would be a scratch mark
that the rest of the
world would never
be able to see

„Alright then,” I told her:
„I’m going for
a walk.
Alone. Maybe when I
get back we’ll compose
some verses together. Like
in the good old days.”

She ignored me

Kept scratching
the wood

When I came back
she was no longer

Only the
scratch mark

I’m looking at it
right now
Even feeling it

©Bogdan Dragoș

>> read on Amazon

some things can never be put back together

Some things can never
be put back together
after they’ve been
taken apart
No matter how much
willpower is involved
One of those things,
she now knew for sure,
was a marriage
Like the one
she was presently fleeing,
flying down the highway
like a fiend or a bat out of hell
Another such thing
could be her right hand
resting severed on the seat
there beside her
Though she wasn’t so
sure about the hand
Maybe if she made it
to the hospital in time?

Pour the Whiskey Over My Heart and Set It On Fire
Copyright © 2020
HST & Bogdan Dragos

Bogdan Dragoș: Ultimate art


on both sides

of the river


and her face in

the middle


on the bridge


somehow brighter

than all of



brighter than



It’s the sad

smiles, with glinting

tears in the eyes

that shine the



And all he could do

was watch


The urge to stop


from jumping was


but even if he did

stop her…

What would that accomplish?


She’d just find

another way


No, this was not the

time to play hero.

Sad smiles with

tears glinting in the eyes

need no heroes



he came here to be

alone. He was just

another failed artist


But tonight he also



the most beautiful art

is not made by

human hands


As she turned around

one more time,

thanking him for not

playing hero,

and jumped

ultimate art was performed

and witnessed

and will never be



Ultimate art

makes the soul



And witnessing it

he too

felt inspired

and ready


Text © Bogdan Dragos

Daniel Ioniță on FB: Lake Dwelling / Lacustră

Laurențiu-Ciprian Tudor reminded me of the great writer who was Daniel Drăgan from Brașov, Romania. I know his poetry well, and I rate him among the top 10 contemporary Romanian poets, although few in Romania know about him. He passed away 8 years ago, today.


Daniel Drăgan – translation Daniel Ionita

Those frightful swamps, the silent shimmer
scent of the night on leafless, empty lanes
watery walkways, reeds and hemlock glimmer
deft poison to keen nostrils, eager veins
I row – a godless hired slave,
conceited to the waving flow
I break from it when it’s below
and ripped from magic, rebel knave
I serve another, cheating slave,
my crafty paddle, artful crave
impales with justice, to its grave,
the chest of every single wave
Those waving swamps, the silent shimmer
they flicker meekly and obey
I’m living in the wave that’s coming
and die in that which goes away.

– Daniel Drăgan

Temute bălți, luciri tăcute
mireasma nopții desfrunzind cărari
poteci de ape trestii si cucute
otravă meșteră avide nari
Vâslesc ateu si rob mă vând
părelnic valului ce vine
mă rup la de el când e sub mine
și smuls din vrajă sclav rebel
ma vând la altul și-l înșel
iar vâsla mea viclean duel
se-nfige dreaptă și egal
in pieptul fiecărui val.
Mișcate bălți luciri tăcute
clipesc în urma mea supus
renasc cu valul care vine
și mor cu cel care s-a dus.
(from Romanian Poetry from its Origins to the Present– Daniel Ionita, Daniel Reynaud, Adriana Paul & Eva Foster – Australian – Romanian Academy for CulturePublishing, Sydney 2020; „Testament – 400 de ani de poezie românească/400 Years of Romanian Poetry – Editura Minerva Bucharest – 2019)
***Aproape necunoscut în România, în afara Brașovului natal, pentru că nu s-a aflat pe „lista lui Manolescu” (Nicolae Manolescu, a plecat și el dintre cei vii acum câteva zile, și ar fi bine ca și „lista” lui – o caricatură incompletă și bizară a poezie românești contemporane – să urmeze același drum).

Banishment from poetry (V)

I see lights among the steam of my hands: the time has come to shout
with me under the bellies of the symbols.
Just as in my childhood when my mother had made me an ear out of wood,
she caressed me and said:

Take it and scream into it until it turns into a little girl!
Behold, I get back to my house and hear the prophets chuckling under the window.

short and thin like young ladies.
I lurk and giggle.
Madness sits at my work table. it raises its yellow eyes
out of my poems: –
Don’t be upset, I’m sitting at your table too,
I have what I have and leave!
It smiles wistfully.
It scratches the chair with its fingernail.
Now I want to shout into someone’s mouth even into the mouth of a deaf mute

Ion Mureșan

Decaffeinating hypoalcoholemia

To Toni Chira, with hope

the news just breaking in say

horrible weather stays ahead

don’t leave your children outdoors to dream

they could be filled to the brim with melancholy

they could become infected with rancid sentimentality

they could drown from in a rough wind

or get carried away while they’re sick

delirious seahorse studs

wallpaper on their green skull

like moss growing on hospital walls.

the news just breaking in say

what a possessed time awaits us

do not let your children be born

they could be contaminated with illusions to the point of wasting away

they could get used to censored poetry

they could sniff each other out

or get the idea to revolt

hating edited family photos

upholstering their school years

like broken stained glass windows in abandoned churches.

better cover yourselves with the glory of ashes

lock yourselves in houses as paradigmatic snails

pull the blinds like sirens of memories

and abort yourselves into the future internet.

Marius Buculei


If you ask me how I’m doing,
I am standing on a railing, somewhere on any floor of a very tall building,
people seem small in perspective,
I’m rocking back and forth
in an unnatural, undecided balance;
when I lean forward I go backwards
and when I lean back, I’m pushed forward,
a chaotic balance,
with an unforeseen end by the thoughts that fly at every swing in the opposite direction,
only the hands, the robotic ones,
my grip on the railing, desperately strong,
is drawing their blood,
a stranger to my blood
undecided whether, at the last balance,
they’ll pull me off the railing
floating in the void
in a smooth flight, like that of paper airplanes,
down to the little people
smaller than the drops of blood from hands that labor in vain,
or, with a last effort, they will disperse me,
like a shower of dandelion flakes,
back to what I know

Dora Budăcean