Doru Mihai Mateiciuc

 

 

(Romania)

 

 

 

after you close one door

 

the sense of hearing hidden inside the quantic motion

tasting the sense of smell . touching the sense of sight

a kind of autoeroticism that can only lose

 

my harp crushed

over the women of my life

the regret . at the casino from the canteen

of some people . who don’t gamble anymore

 

the hidden sense of hearing . tasting the sense of smell

touching the sense of sight . a history of mine does it

this is how you enter the library

as in a personal vagina

 

 

 

an elegy of a different kind, mon petit pays

 

we are fir needles rotting under stones

we will be born again . we will die under mountains

like springs . crucified on rocks, we break out

we want to hear the plains

we are flying we are running we ride horses

 

and you with the clean palms of your hands you

will swallow me again and again

like chamois do

untouched by bullets like holograms

 

when dying I will be reborn so that I can hear life

I will be calling for you and the echo will fluster

the blonde hair of the dried-up wells

 

 

 

let the bitter moon flow

 

don’t cry my beloved look

you are just a goblet

filled with ashes

 

don’t cry say something

let me chase away right now

the pack of wolves of leukemia

 

don’t hide your eyes

with spider webs

with your cascading hands

thrown towards me

 

you can choose to kneel

to lean on your elbows

to stagger slowly through our hunger

through our one-night hunger

 

watch the saints from the icons kneeling

in the candlelight

they have dew on their eyelids

dew on the palms of their hands

 

let this moon flow on bodies

with thousand of white petals . the icons

mirror themselves on nudes

savagely biting them

 

 

 

vintage

 

women, so white, were building walls aroud me. and naked

like the amphora receiving the mute wine

they were passing through the antechamber. beautiful equal to each other

I wanted so much to return. oh how much I wanted it

 

 

 

interior landscape (XIII)

 

I had to fly to Paris

to the city of loves that come to an end

so as to wash

 

my shirts with Shiraz

my white trousers with chia

my socks with arugula and mint

 

so as to imagine

a saintmichael mountain

on a tiny hotel bed

 

my heart was beating under your claw

your heart was throbbing in my mouth

who was grabbing who

who was deceiving who

 

you don’t know you don’t know

how many chillies I could drink

I could rave

then, in the city of love

 

 

 

memories of a teenage poet

 

I

under the encompassing silence of the eyes

they wanted me to be their road

keeping a close watch

over the poesy born from strenght

 

with a bough with thorns

soaked in the depth of the dew

they wanted me to be their voice

so that they could be

 

they wanted me to be above substance

a kind of crucified blood that speaks

striking the right hand with the left hand

of poesy

 

II

in a pyre of unread books

they burnt my body

without striking one spark

 

under mirrors fogged with steam

they hid the poesy

it is not to be sold . it is not to be translated!

then

 

they called confusion love

under a shroud of fat locusts

they hid the words the verbs

 

the image too

the sadnes too

you hid them into a key

thrown into a drawer

 

III

you’ve run to seed like grapevine

you shut all the books

in triumphal arches

you cut down the forests of light

 

masters walking leisurely in a pack, like wolves

masters gliding on their bellies

like slugs

 

without any belief without being thirsty without a spot

 

IV

you want poesies when you write novels

you sell novels . you translate novels

yet I tell you and I repeat

poesy is the sum of all things

 

poesy is the sum of all things

that did not occur on this planet

 

so write write

poesies not charades

light not slag

pristine springs not loam

 

learn to grow snow on your temple

learn to caress the thorns

to love to love

your rapturous shadow

 

close in hourglasses the hemorrhage

of the days of the nights when it hurts

 

V

you sleep in the ashes of your cremation urns

you drape yourselves in hate . with rust

you’d better drink

a drop of Merlot with silent stars

 

you’d beter walk on raphae the dry iluisia

a mix of sapid Aligoté

of a poem when you are embraced by

sadness . memory . an ark

 

an ark hidden in a gondola

on water thin like an arrow

 

VI

and I am telling you again and again

how good it is to have migratory birds

in your blood

 

and then to be

the man from mother’s thimble

 

VII

this very second

we all . rest

because we deserve it

 

 

 

father

 

give me the moth-eaten coat, father

 

(you brought on your shoulders

roads with no coming back)

 

give me the moth-eaten coat, father

it’s time I leave home

 

you see

behind me the grass takes the first step

 

 

 

to poesy (xiii)

 

why sad? why alone?

I don’t know. I don’t know anymore

you don’t know or you don’t want to know

you aren’t or you don’t want to be

 

I smile: my memory is

the voice of flowers forgotten in a book

why this question mark

why is it so faintly visible

 

I don’t know. I don’t know anymore

it’s as if somebody knew our thirst

you don’t know or you don’t want to know

you aren’t or you don’t want to be

 

and why all the seasons happen

and why everything that hurts me goes away

it’s as if you came back to the wasteland that I am

making the rain descend over scorching sands

 

where I, the lonely traveler

abandoned the (entire) strength of my hands

so that I can walk by your side

so that I can walk toward you

 

so that I can walk

again and again

 

 

 

reverence

 

come on, drink with me. I have loved you an entire life

with you I invented children. with you

on the empty field I chased

the transparent beetles of the rain

 

I leave my tears in your eyes

it’s better like this. admit it

under the bird cage of your fingers. together

we can invent anything

 

don’t be scared. empty your glass

I reached you. love me

 

now

even death can die…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________________________________________

 

CURICULUM VITAE

 

Doru Mihai Mateiciuc was born on 22 September 1961, in Suceava, Roumania. He graduated the Faculty of Dental Medicine at “Grigore T. Popa” University of Medicine and Pharmacy. He worked as dental specialist at the Dental Polyclinic from Botoşani and at the Şerbăuţi Health Center. Now he works at S.C. 11 Dentas S.R.L. (private medical practice). He was editor at “Opinia studenţească”, Iaşi, between 1983-1986.

 

Literary debut in “Convorbiri literare”, December 1983.

 

Publishes poetry, prose, essays and literary criticism in the following magazines: “Opinia studenţească”, “Convorbiri literare”, “Dialog”, “Ateneu”, “Luceafărul”, “Astra”, “Cronica”, “Amfiteatru”, “Albatros”, “Zori Noi”, “Glasul Bucovinei”, “Forum studenţesc”, “Pagini bucovinene”, “Trepte”, “Sinteze”, “Orientări”.

 

Editorial debut in the collective volume Prier, Cartea Românească, 1988.

 

He is included in the first anthology of Romanian haikus, edited by Florin Vasiliu – Umbra libelulei (The Dragonfly’s Shadow, 1993)

 

He published

  1. Raphae, Timpul Publishing House, Iaşi, 2014.
  2. Raphae (translated in English), Timpul Publishing House, Iaşi, 2015
  3. Iluisia, Limes Publishing House, Cluj-Napoca, 2015
  4. Iluisia (translated in English), Timpul Publishing House, Iași, 2016
  5. La pluie sur le sable brulant, Edilivre Publishing House, Paris, 2017
  6. Antierotics, Junimea Publishing House, Iași, 2017

 

 

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