Everyone said I was
looking in the opposite direction
when the car hit me.
The sun was very tall
at the beginning of the longest day,
the birds kept flying above the spilt blood on the pavement.
The crowd gathered around,
covered me with a blanket,
put a coin on my eyelid.
The traffic stopped. The sandwich maker over the road
made the sign of the cross in the air
and came closer to watch
the phone still ringing inside
the white pocket of my white dress.
The unreturned call echoed in heaven
for a long while.
A week later, news got to you
about the girl’s body found by the railway station
in a silver box.
Photo: John Stadnicki
June 21, 2014 August 22, 2014
art, Communication, creative, culture, gloucester, iasi, literature, Maria Butunoi, media, poems, poetry, poetry reading, stroud
We have become so good at
talking about the weather
when we don’t speak at all.
Not a moment of silence can pass
without me reminding you
how you left the white empty chairs outside.
Look, it rained on them
for weeks and weeks,
we have nowhere to sit and rest now.
We walk on the frozen cement with bare feet
the rust peels off in the sun,
our skin peels off
to reveal the true colour of our bones.
Ink: Maria Butunoi
March 3, 2014 March 13, 2014
art, Communication, creative, culture, gloucester, iasi, literature, Maria Butunoi, media, performance, poems, poetry, project, stroud
We did not think we needed food
When we set to walk back in the dark
Guided only by the reflection
Of the angular words
It rained so much overnight that
The road collapsed
The city has now locked you in
Hungry in a white room
At the top floor.
January 23, 2014 January 23, 2014
art, Communication, creative, culture, gloucester, iasi, literature, maria boghian, Maria Butunoi, performance, poems, poetry, project, stroud
I live in a round house across the road
And every day I wave the invisible white flag
Just to distract you from writing so many letters.
Other times, all I do is stare at your reflected image
Bent over the desk,
Thinking whether your back is broken
Having to bear so many words.
You do not lift your eyes up
Never see anything but yourself.
The only time you stand up and walk to the door
Is to refill the glass with sand.
You do not receive news from the outside world
You do not know we live in times of peace now.
All the sealed envelopes have not been delivered anywhere
For a very long time.
December 1, 2013 December 1, 2013
art, creative, culture, diversity, literature, Maria Butunoi, poems, poetry, project, stroud