contemporary poetry


POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 1, 2019













Her eyes were shivering a tear
while the old year was shot
she softly sighed ‘Happy New Year! ‘
And dried the tearful thought.

Her eyes were echoing the heart
its beating ten to one
the counted seconds, whole in part,
made future be outrun.

Her eyes kissed Mother’s loving hands
and Father’s forehead gray
they cry in their faraway lands
and for their daughter pray.

Their eyes were searching, near and far,
to meet each other’s soul
watching the same heavenly Star
and each part as a whole.

When Time she stopped, she whispered sad
into wide Heaven’s ear:
‘I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!
Blessed be this New Year’!


Vintage print

The scent of the old year

POSTED IN contemporary poetry December 31, 2018












The scent of the old year

The old year, which is about to start the countdown, living its last hours, is just one piece of the puzzle we, humans, call it Time.In order to be happy, to accomplish the puzzle piece by piece, we need to kiss the old year goodbye, without labelling it: it was bad, it was good, it was hard but satisfactory, I can’t wait to enter the New Year….

Thank the old year for everything it brought upon us and look forward for the next 365 days, think how to live them to the fullest.

I felt the same after I graduated the High School: “I cannot wait for my life to start”, being blissfully unaware that I was already living it.
And, the older I get, the faster the years fly by. After I graduated University I found myself thinking: “I wish that I will never get old, that I will work forever”, that happy I was as a fresh High School teacher.
As the years speed by, New Year’s welcoming becomes more important as I begin to wonder just how many new years I have left. I remember a line from “Fight club”: “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”

So, my darling old year, you’ve been kind to me! Thank you for every morning I woke up and I saw the Light, for every season I’ve been blessed to breathe once more, for every Tree, every flower which once more was a wonder, although every year of my life was filled with wonders, for my old friends which are well and happy, for the new friends I’ve made who taught me to be wise and humble, to love poetry, the scent of new books, for my parents, which are still on this Earth, for my family and the every day we enjoy together, for every tear, or fear, or joy which made me grow, for every wisdom I’ve got from others, for every prayer I said for humanity, for the poor, for the ill, for the one in need…
Thank you for every second!

The scent of you is happiness, gratitude, kindness, tolerance, understanding, love for Beauty, for Art, respect for ancient values and acceptance for the ignorance, desire to help the helpless, power to be strong when the weak needs me…

The New Year will be new. A clean slate. A blank canvas. Endless possibility. Isn’t that an exquisite thing to wait for?
I simply wish that will define the smallest fraction of me, make me a better human!



POSTED IN contemporary poetry December 24, 2018



From Finland, Turku, to the whole world A MERRY PEACEFUL CHRISTMAS!


Vintage Print

The Snowman

POSTED IN contemporary poetry December 23, 2018



The Snowman

The winter holiday started that year on December 17th and it would have lasted up to January the seventh next year, so a big “school free, not waking up at 7.00, in the darkness, not walking through the snow” bouquet of days was lying ahead.
The holiday with Dad!
It snowed pretty well that December and it kept snowing so that the day before Christmas Eve it seemed a must to build a Snowman!
So, out we went, equipped with gloves and desire to build the biggest Snowman ever! It took three hours to gather the snow, to roll the huge balls, to put them one on top of the other and finally to make the Snowman see, give him a nose and a large smile and a purple cap (my cap!).
Tired and wet the three of us stood watching the new friend, none of us willing to go inside for lunch. Some other neighbour kids played outside watching enviously our Snowman, somehow wanting to join the labour yet yelling, fighting with snow, being restless.
No, the boy would not trust them with such a delicate task: to make a friend!
At length we decided that it is time to eat something and went inside to dry ourselves first. Our balcony window offered the perfect view straight to our new friend place so the eight years old boy had a peek every so often to check on him, the Snowman.
Slowly the darkness covered the trees and only the snow was shining. I was writing something and every once in a while I watched my boy: he was nervously standing near the window, fighting tears.
I didn’t ask yet I went next to him as if something important had to be told and then I saw it all: three toddlers with their Granny were touching our Snowman, talking, laughing…
The boy, tears running over his sweet face, silent as a rock, tried hard not to scream at them : “Go away, don’t hurt him, he is my friend!!”…but I did…I went out, to the balcony and asked politely the old lady to not allow the kids destroy the Snowman…Colour me amazed when one little girl took some snow and caressed the Snowman exactly when the Granny explained: “Oh, no dear, they are simply loving him and wanted to kiss him!”…
I thanked her, I stood still at least fifteen minutes more while my boy joined me on the balcony, supervising somehow that everything is alright. The tears dried away and a serious yet a tad smiley face radiated in the darkened evening.
– It’s all good, I caressed the blond head and the kind heart of an eight years old, they are just happy kids!

That night he slept well, carefree, knowing that his snowy friend is loved by everybody and protected by me
To be eight years old, to have all the toys you want yet to cry for a Snowman, well, this is the Spirit of Christmas.

Now he is sixteen, yet the little boy inside remembers his friend who, one December day told him the secret only children know about Christmas.


Vintage Print

Past Present

POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 2, 2018












Past Present

Powers below and powers above
He asked you to bring him me and my love.
He put a spell on me many lives past
asking for a love that will always last.

He opened the mysteries’ dark heavy door,
He wanted to see what his Fate had in store.
He willed Light and Shadow intertwine with my mind
asking candles’ flame burn searching for me to find.

In my sleep I felt his scent every night
and his fingers caressing my hair in dim light.
I missed him, the man I knew in my dreams,
when the morning life whispered: “it’s not what it seems”.

I lived a whole life with my eyes opened wide
in my nights while sleeping with a ghost on my side,
he came to my world or I travelled to his.
I was no more myself. I knew what love is.

I found the safe road for my chosen one
to come and to do what was long undone.
Truth, knowledge, feelings: it mattered not
all I wanted was him and this was all I’ve got.

My true other self who made me feel whole
came one day and smiling gave me his soul.
I knew who he was. I breathed and I felt
the dark nights of senses and his dreamy scent.



POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 1, 2018


September Sometimes, in the end of September when leaves are crying in the wild wind, lonely on shore I remember you. Life has many ways and there is nothing to say. Running on sand early in the morning I am only waiting The sunrise. Another day will comes and I know that I will love you forever. Anonimous

Unde-s nebunii? / Where are the madmen?

POSTED IN contemporary poetry, translated Romanian-English August 21, 2018












Unde-s nebunii? / Where are the madmen?

Unde-s nebunii, unde ni-s nebunii?
E, Doamne, lumea plină de cuminţi,
E plin pământul de martiri şi sfinţi
Atinşi de filoxera-nțelepciunii.

Tăcuta-i gloata de-nțelepți ca sfinxul
În faţa lumii şi-a nemărginirii
Şi-ascultător de rânduiala firii,
Cu un plăvan în jug trudeşte insul.

Scâncesc cuminții-n chingile durerii
Şi, sângerând din răni adânci blândeţe,
Lângă neveste mor de bătrâneţe,
Necutezând să tragă spada vrerii.

Boleşte omenirea ca o juncă
Şi nimeni nu-i ca să-i sloboadă sânge;
S-a-mpotmolit istoria şi plânge,
Cu prora-nfiptă într-un colţ de stâncă.

Nu se mai nasc nebuni care s-o mâne
Cu bâta de la spate, ca pe-o vită,
Acestui veac să-i pună dinamită
Şi evu-nțelepciunii să-l dărâme.

O! Doamne, Doamne, unde-s Don Quijotii?
E lumea plină de-alde Sancho Panza
Ce nu-ndrăznesc să mânuiască lanza,
Ci scutieri cuminţi se vor cu toţii.

Unde-s nebunii? Unde-s Machedonii
Să tragă spada şi să taie nodul?
Tânjeşte după glorie norodul
Şi nu-s Cezari să-l treacă Rubiconii…

Sloboade, Doamne,-n lume nebunia,
S-o răvăşească şi să o răstoarne,
Ca un berbec să ia pamîntu-n coarne
Şi-acestui veac să-i surpe temelia!

Demostene Andronescu

Where are the madmen?

Where are the madmen, are our madmen lost?
God, world is filled by sapient and good,
the Earth is filled by martyrs and sainthood,
all by the wisdom phylloxera crossed.

The mob of wise are silent like the Sphynx
in front of world and the infinyty,
obedient to nature’s trinity
like an ox in the yoke the fellow blinks.

The quiet whimpers in the straps of pain
and bleeding from deep wounds docility,
they die near wives old in tranquility,
not daring sword, not willing sword, in vain.

Humanity is ill like an old cow
and there’s nobody here to bleed its sickness,
the history is stuck and cries as witness,
stuck in the rock of time, of here and now.

Not anymore are born the mad and raving,
to push it from behind, as if a beast,
to this epoch some dynamite to feast
and wisdom time to crush, no more enslaving.

Oh, Lord, Lord, where are all the Don Quijotes,
the world ifs filled only by Sancho Panza
who dares not fight neither by sword nor stanza,
just kind shield bearer are all those bigotes.

Where are the crazy? Where the Machedons?
To shoot the sword and , oh, to cut the knot?
The crowd longs for the glory like they ought
and no more Cesars to cross the Rubicons…

Oh, Lord, release the madness, the lunatics
to storm the world and cast its lethargy,
and like a ram to grub the earth sinewy,
and to destroy this century’s weak bricks.


English version, Maria Magdalena Biela

Wondering with the Moon

POSTED IN contemporary poetry, Stories, Summer July 24, 2018


















Wondering with the Moon

Flaming glowing moon, sleeplessness moon,
Overbearing, foolishness, in the heart of June
Mercilessly you torment my eyelids to falter,
I am hit by your ray like a boat by water.

Shining in the Time’s eyes amused in delight,
you watch us from cradle until we depart.
Scared by you, the shy cranes so astounded and shady
they thought you a tender. They thought you a Lady.

You yelled at the Night while the timid stars
Were hiding in heaven their tears and scars.
Overdone, your praisings bored you with no wit,
worn-out the Word’s meaning fell in infinite.

Do you seak new flattery? New worship to earn?
Try and search on Google, time to be modern!
You will thus create a new identity
To match perfectly with your new eternity.

Dead are the lunatics who in the days of yore
at a corner of a street loved you to a roar.
By a wicked spirit in a rush consumed
They distorted your face as cheap poster doomed.

No longer a mystery, genuine , unique
You are now cloned by a world virtual and freak
Using grotesque make up, awful Photoshop
they defiled your pure Light, they disgraced your hope.

Someone in this phony, ephemeral life
knows that your forgiveness will be like a knife.
Humans of these decades are a tad rough – hewn
They screamed at you last night: “take a selfie, Moon!”

Maria Magdalena Biela

Magdalena’s Day

POSTED IN contemporary poetry, Summer July 22, 2018















Maria Magdalena

Men called you light so as to load you down,
And burden you with their own weight of sin,
A woman forced to  cover and contain
Those seven devils sent by Everyman.
But one man set you free and took your part
One man knew and loved you to the core
The broken alabaster of your heart
Revealed to Him alone a hidden door,
Into a garden where the fountain sealed,
Could flow at last for him in healing tears,
Till, in another garden, he revealed
The perfect Love that cast out all your fears,
And quickened you  with love’s own sway and swing,
As light and lovely as the news you bring.

Malcolm Guite

I Thee Wed

POSTED IN contemporary poetry, Summer July 21, 2018











I Thee Wed




















She wasn’t taller than her doll-house.
She was still writing to Santa Claus.
Dark curly hair and wide open eyes
she piously kneeled piercing the skies.
She smiled to Heaven and silently said:
“With this heart I Thee wed!”.

She blossomed slowly as a dark Rose,
her wild thorns brought bleeding to her many foes.
Her pale fingers played with rosaries and ink.
She kept watching the heaven without a blink.
She smiled to the blue Moon and silently said:
“With these eyes I Thee wed!”.

Only once she met the dark Evening Star.
Her heart echoed its shine near and far.
She opened her bud, her thorns she killed,
with divine love the dark Rose was filled.
She smiled to Him and silently said:
“With this life and love I Thee wed!”.

Maria Magdalena Biela