Very impressive work. These poems may be light in tone and movement but they are absolutely serious in essence, and in many cases philosophical... And it is not only the big poems that impress. I can also completely identify with a brilliantly wise little poem like Blackberry: “that big blackberry / there/ is the word I need / in my line // I’ve tried to get it // nettles and thorns / hurt my hand // that ripe blackberry / gleaming / in the thicket. -- Dennis O’Driscoll

Ariadne Spinning

Ariadne is spinning the fleece

humming, lost in her dreams

she weaves at the loom
in the soft penumbra
lit by November leaves

hardly able to see her own hands
or the design of her veil

the royal veil
made to envelop and enmesh

to find
and lose
the way

Feeding the Beast

Poems like bread, you say
rough and sweet
like the bread for those
who plough and harvest

bread as in home
bread as in far from home
the bread of communion
of survival

bread to feed silence and darkness
feed the beast's hunger for beauty
and blood

wisps from Ariadne's ball of red fleece
poems across the void

their promise
their echoes that keep us walking
in the dark

Ariadne and Theseus on the Threshold

Here, the thread woven in my ancestors’ veil
which I am unweaving for you
the thread gold and read
as promised
in which I've spun myself, my whole land
the very stone underfoot
it will lead you to safety
they say
through the labyrinth bequeathed by my ancestors

through your own labyrinth.

Oh, the joy, the playfulness, the terror
of being face to face
on the threshold of the Minotaure
you and I
mirroring one another
to infinity

Here, my offer
that I do not quite understand
- let it glide
from my warm hand into yours

the promised thread red and golden
as silky as a sleeping serpent
as smooth as the horizon
that revolves in its sleep
for you to reach the hungry beast
in the labyrinths of the heart

That Closeness

forehead to forehead
and closed eyes

so close that we fall in place
like folds of silk
like folds of wool

like our flesh that knows so much
and can so much

Our true language

poetry, our true language
that says it all
and can deny

poetry burning sky-high
and rising from its ashes in the morning

to spell anew
what hasn’t been quite said
and cast its spell between the stone
and its reflection
between the skin and heart
the heart and skin

the language of the secret
sacred ground
that covers and discloses
the nakedness
stark nakedness beneath

and hides us in plain sight


Dancing Ribbons

let our bodies go where our minds

let our minds, so much slower,
go where our bodies have been

let us walk up the path of our hearts
and reach out
though we may never quite reach


Today the time of WikiLeaks
the time of superbugs
that break virtual locks to virtual trash and treasures.

Rock and Lib lasted several (hasty) generations
before this curt final motion - and switch back
to the timeless village: the one we love
yet would not choose to live in

Read more: WikiLeaks

Midsummer - Drăgaica

sweet stuccoed facades whisper to one another
under labyrinths of branches

the linden trees sway their ripe scent
in the chiaroscuro of streetlets
at high noon 

this hushed secret charm of Bucharest in summer
when the sun melts above drowsy roofs
past cool dark seductive interiors

Europe almost Orient

gypsy girls have suddenly flooded the streets
having come from afar
from their dance in the fields at dawn

they bring fresh garlands and wreaths
they sell armfuls of sunny wild Midsummer flowers
at timeless crossroads
under the blink of traffic lights

The Stealthy Touch

Once my hand met a hand that was just gliding into my purse: it slid against my palm, felt like a soft falling leaf, moving velvety, unhurried to its target. Still advancing for a split second. And then the thud, my grip.

I silently let go. His eyes clutched to mine for a fleeting moment: the famished face of a young gipsy boy, hardly in his teens. And that age-old sadness. His slim, shrinking frame. His power to become invisible in the crowded bus. Bucharest, late '80s. He slipped out at the following stop, among people hanging and dangling at the doors.

Read more: The Stealthy Touch