Diana Geacăr







On time embodiments


Rain breaks as gentle as a cat

on the roof. It’s looking at us.


I remember the signs of possession.

I remember time slowly turning me into


a freedom embodiment: behind the gate, looking

through the wooden bars, listening to the bells


getting closer. It’s nothing like fear. The enormous

bodies of silence know their way home.


Your mind can’t process, but experience

the field this cattle is returning from.


You try to remember as much as you can –

of the time embodiments you were passed by and above


all, their name. They seem tired and somehow

overwhelmed. Walking heavily through gates,


through the narrowing air, to the stables, without saying

goodbye or hello. Grandma’s touching a wet and warm


belly. I’m looking into the beast’s eyes. Grandma

whispers gently its name. It resembles mine.




Heart stammering


Years came in a rush, leaving you with so little

to say.  What have you been doing, they ask.


Someone leans to take a sip. Maybe it’s me.

There’s no right answer to that so


I look sideways – in class, teaching English grammar,

in the bar or at home, listening to his fears reducing


me to heart stammering. You don’t see me, I say

ashamed of the thousands of women’s


voices from movies and literature – the mind

residues of a boarding school girl who stammers


about what love and happiness should be.

This isn’t it, she says defiantly. I encourage her.


Say some more. Tell him. You’re not it,

he says and shuts her heart.


She doesn’t trust her flesh. She doesn’t trust her mind.

Still, she corrects spelling and grammar and gives in red


bad marks, while he plays table tennis and darts.

He needs his friends, or so he says,


for the talking and drinking.

She needs him to acknowledge her on the way back.


The bell rings and you rush outside

for a cigarette. For every fifty waiting minutes, you


get ten minutes of excruciating freedom. This is your

life. Bulls-eye and the bell rings,


upright, you return to class, say good afternoon,

– whose voice is this –,


envy their minds for not doing their homework,

write the date on the blackboard – whose mind is this –,


revise the functions of Present Perfect while

he’s still eliciting the Past.




When pain finds a voice


I’m rummaging through sheets and pillows,

mutilating my brain with scenarios


about the new school, about the new minds

I’ll have to carve into with my own.


It’s three in the morning. A terrible cry’s

approaching my still heart, intensifying until


I realize it’s not mine. A man’s

yelling his lover’s name. I lean over


the window sill. A shadow is stretched

on the pavement, alone. A bottle in its hand.


Blubbering. Howling like a puma being

eviscerated by Doctor Moreau.










Diana Geacăr, born in 1984, is a writer and translator. She writes poetry, short stories and children’s literature. She published three books of poetry in Romanian: „bună, eu sunt diana și sunt colega ta de cameră” (hi, I’m diana and I’m your roommate”, Vinea Publishing House, 2005), which won the Mihai Eminescu National Prize for Debut, „Frumusețea bărbatului căsătorit” (the beauty of the married man”, Vinea Publishing House, 2009), which received the Marin Mincu Prize, and „Dar noi suntem oameni obișnuiți” („But we are ordinary people”, Cartea Românească Publishing House, 2017). She published poems and short stories in Romanian literary magazines, on paper and online, and anthologies. She attended various poetry workshops, festivals and readings in Romania. She translated poems of Anne Sexton, Anne Carson, Gwendolyn Brooks, Adrienne Rich and other American or British poets, which were published in Romanian literary magazines. In 2009, she participated at the third edition of the Re:verse workshop of international poetry translation, organised near Lake Balaton,in Szigliget, Hungary, by József Atilla Circle Literary Association of Young Writers (JAK), where three Romanian poets (Diana Geacăr, Răzvan Țupa and Dan Sociu) and three Hungarian poets (András Gerevich, Ádám Mestyán și Zsuzsa Csobánka), translated each others’ poems in their mother tongue, using English as a mediating language. She lives in Târgoviște, Romania.

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