Ionut Caragea









and if the server crashed

would I still be a poet?

and if the Internet crashed suddenly

in the whole wide world

who’s going to ever hear of me?


I would like a law

to forbid poetry in public

to have to go in specially designed places

with a pencil and a piece of paper

to write only for myself

as if my poem were

an engagement ring

a vow for love


I’ve been hurting my soul

on a piece of paper

in a puddle of words

you call it clichee

a hole

or a whole lot of nothing


while poetry is

a crosswalk

between life and death


or a wild boar chased  by bullets

in a pristine forest


My writing is  not

a simple pastime

but a dedication for God

Who sometimes puts his palm

on your forehead



even if Life is a hospital

where people treat you

with drops of Indifference

while Death counts souls


if the Internet crashed

I would walk barefeet in the dust

to feel the cold body of my ancestors


or I would shave my head

so that nobody notices

how beautifully it snows


I would stop this talking

(a whole lot of nothing)

and I would kick you

where it hurts the most

to prove you

how much I love you


I was born on Google

everybody knows

and I endlessly seek

a place

to confess



God’s Abdication


a whole bureaucracy up to your skies, God…

…the waiting lines are long

we are obediently waiting for our turn

birth, marriage, death certificates

the every night prayer

the sign of the cross before every meal,

the Sunday mass

the confession, may our terrible sins be forgiven

there were times

when dying was a lot cheaper, God

and easier

all these holy papers are not enough anymore

we must fill the graves with gold

a whole bureaucracy up to your skies, God

so I speak and fight

like a hero on the field of sufferance

for the eradication of the sacred misdeeds

I gather signatures from the miserable ones

and I demand you, God

to abdicate the throne of your empire

manifestos, everywhere manifestos

we want free elections

the revolution was defeated through ignorance

we are obediently waiting for our turn

there is no other option

but mercy



Poet Talk and the Polyglot Clock


The Clock spoke three languages

Universally used

It spoke all three together

Without mistake

The Poet spoke but one

One the Clock could not understand

One that was born

Before the clock became a clock

Before the hours became hours

Before the minutes became minutes

Before the seconds became seconds


One day the Clock stopped

Determined to learn

But the Poet’s language was long gone ahead

Beyond hours, beyond minutes

Beyond seconds

Beyond any expectations


You stopped for nothing Clock

For nothing



Surviving The Game



its hands never tremble

it is slowly passing its scalpel on our faces

like a serial killer in love with its art

only my hands tremble

when I try to shave

I always say to myself

today I have to be more beautiful

perhaps I will meet the sublime

I have been wearing the same clothing

for a lifetime my word

I walk the streets laughing

perhaps I will disappear in this clatter

and time will lose me from sight

yet people turn back to their homes

I am left alone facing the destiny

my hands tremble with love

I am surviving the game where people hide

after each sunset my hands are trembling

a bow to you

who taught me to live by the rule

everything reduces to the one and only clothing

in which I was born I live I die



translations – Ioana Tirtirau











Snowdon King (b. 1975) is the pen name of Ionut Caragea, a Romanian-born Canadian writer who has been living in Montréal since 2003. He has written 24 books (science fiction, poetry, aphorisms, literary criticism), some of which have been translated into English and French. He is the three-time winner of the Helion, the most important prize in Romanian science fiction. He is a member of Romanian Writers’ Union, and a co-founder and vice-president of the Québec Romanian Writers’ Association.

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