If with one hand you
made me a king, god,
with the other you
brother have taken everything else
My wide eyes travel alone
They all stare at my crown.
But words do not weep
and nor do you.
We both have wet muddy hands,
under your skin, new silver,
under mine, a whole new town.
The familiar surrounding of yet
another road to Jerusalem
which I follow
as I follow black.
Perhaps this is not a poem…’ C. Milosz)
And because I was made a poet
a lot of blood is spilt
on the neat grass, when I walk.
For fear that I will have
nothing to give back
I collect old books.
My word confesses to its imperfection
with the honesty of a fractured second.
Not that I mind,
not that I have high hopes,
only tall steps.
Because of this self deluded truth,
it happens that waking up in a desert
is not a surprising coincidence,
but a certainty, like a niggling pain in a missing limb.
I am not grateful to sleep facing the wall
but hey! someone needs to show a bit of courage
and say nothing
when nothing is to be said.
And though no one will remember
the poem once written but me,
after all, forgotten things are
the only possessions worth keeping.
Photo: John Stadnicki
August 23, 2014 August 24, 2014
art, Communication, community, creative, Cultural diversity, culture, gloucester, iasi, literature, maria boghian, Maria Butunoi, media, performance, poems, poetry, poetry reading, project, stroud
I do not happen to know
the purpose of our war
but I’m working hard to
remember the words you
scribbled on the piece of paper
which set fire to the entire land.
Then I could not catch
the imagined rain on the glass roof
nor the light of the earth
the battle just happened.
Out of the blue, both of us
on the horse’s back,
measured with precision
the distance between
the polished guns.
The bullets hit my left arm,
hit open my skull;
the flesh exploded in thousands of pieces,
covered the yellow sky
with hair and skin.
At the end,
the music kept playing again,
you followed the clear road,
I followed you:
nothing more than a perfect, unfinished poem.
March 20, 2014 March 23, 2014
art, Communication, creative, culture, gloucester, iasi, literature, Maria Butunoi, media, poems, poetry, project, stroud
For a while you kept feeding me
ink pots instead of water.
My mouth locked in a bud
could only touch black fruit
The language came afterwards
to check my vital signs;
my weak pulse made the world see
I existed at last
unspoilt spring, not creature, not flower, not cloud.
But when you stopped,
Photo: Maria Butunoi
March 13, 2014 March 13, 2014
art, Communication, creative, culture, gloucester, iasi, literature, Maria Butunoi, performance, poems, poetry, stroud
I will say it again,
with the risk of repeating myself:
the poet does not exist really,
do not wait for him, do not.
The words themselves, not the tears, will choose to
get out in the world and
Photo: Maria Butunoi
March 4, 2014
art, Communication, creative, Cultural diversity, culture, gloucester, iasi, Maria Butunoi, poems, poetry, project, stroud
I kicked a dog in the teeth.
The dog turned and
Bit my lip.
The gushing blood stained my words.
I am now silent.
February 20, 2014 February 20, 2014
art, Communication, creative, culture, 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