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Best Poems Written by Cristina M Moldoveanu

Below are the all-time best Cristina M Moldoveanu poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem

Childhood Trifles

those days the sun flew like corn flour 
freshly ground at the millrace 
even in winter it was yellow  
when I pressed it down with my thumb 
like an unfastened button on my chest 

I hardly cut my way with a stick 
through the tall weed field 
until my knee high socks 
were filled with thistle tassels 
jumping over the fence like a thief 
into our apple orchard
so no one knew where I was 

when the Big Dipper rose over the barn 
I slipped on the manger’s opening
inside freshly cut grass 
stealing my grandma’s small chair for milking  
singing for the young foal with caramel skin 

those days all hearts were red and warm 
in the shape of a gingerbread heart 
each star was a story 
whispered by fairies in the daffodils’ glade

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I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

i won’t forget the times when i made roundish letters 
in blue-black ink 
as if i were crushing blackberry beads 
perfumed and wild 
and in the eyes of that man by chance 
it was always the same toulouse-lautrec painting 
with my watery blue dress 
like a cloud in an armchair the color of rose petals 
frozen rotted in november 
with his checkered hat thrown 
accidentally over my raincoat 
i wondered too much 
why he squeezed the whole sun between his teeth 
while laughing 
i continued to write about the dreams 
like white dead pigeons 
my lord 
with the heart shielded between wings

Details | Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem

20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair

the man who lied to me knew 
that immortality is the best kind of lie 
that pain is closer to the soul than happiness 
secrets known only by the old watchmakers 
and the erudite antiquarians 

men who lie read every book with their fingers 
they know that leaves are the plaits of virgins 
unwounded with bloody hands on the cross 
and letters are the thorns within the heart of every Laura 
betrothed for ever nevermore a wife 

only the sea is for the whales’ fishermen 
old whore with hair on her chin 
the only true men who learn 
the salty taste of death 
at daybreak

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The Old Man

just as everything is in its place 
the cracked pitcher in the cellar’s window 
the maize porridge pot amid the verandah flowers 
the knife sharpener in the kitchen table’s drawer 
the squared clock hung slanting on the wall 

day after day the old man 
takes off the straw hat from its hook even if it’s cloudy 
pulls it down on his head with both hands 
opens the street gate till it hits the wall 
upright like a thistle he looks down the road 

under the hat colored like an autumn sun 
it gets warmer 
his face furrows overturn a smile 
as if the moist earth sliced by the old times plough 
under the steps of sons grandsons and great-grandsons

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Resurrection

In my time I looked at my hands and I understood:
I resemble my mother.
Life flows out from my joints and comes back to itself through my fingertips,
according to the season. I juggle with life, I give it and take it back.
Either I keep my hands in prayer, or I place them on the bare ground,
I am just like her.

Yorick died to me not so long ago. 
He was gentle and subdued in the hands of Hamlet
and it was him looking back at me from the mirror of Mary Magdalene.
From the smoke of my cigarettes, little black spiders appeared 
between my fingers and I smashed them one by one...
but today they are resurrected, sadly jolting on the dirty floor.
I did not know that even they can come back to life.

Today I speak to Yorick's son, whilst through the pulse of my fingers
yesterday's sun still passes towards tomorrow:
you too, your Kindness, you are alike your father.

Details | Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem

Group Photo With Fishermen

it’s christmas dad 
lend me once more your hand to compare ourselves 
among the living people i ever touched 
only your hand was bigger 

if you want to we can go to the seashore hand in hand 
to leap wave after wave together 
or you can take me to the puppet theater 
where the orange tiger swallows pancakes 
while we’re clapping along with our big hands 

this year i didn’t grow home bread and 
i didn’t burn candles 
i simply crouched with half-opened eyes 
leaning against high cushions 
over a cross scratched with my nails on the bed sheets 
lying in wait
fishing like you dad 
sometimes hours other times days 
go by without any catch 
apart from your pale and slippery smile 
in the last photograph 

dad 
why on earth didn’t you put aside the fishing rod

Details | Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem

Don'T Look the Children In the Eyes

because I  was a child I had my eyes above 
I saw too clearly beyond clouds 
then the rain came down 
and grandma took me by the hand 
to the beehives 
I stepped into the sticky mud up to my ankles 
my eyes slipped down 
when I tasted for the first time 
the core of the honeycomb 
too sweet 

little by little 
my eyebrows thickened 
from dandelion to dandelion 
and baptism after baptism 
the tiny stars grew roots 
no more place in the sky for my eyes

now when it rains I search in vain 
my grandma’s big and black umbrella

Details | Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem

The Stain On My Forehead

only highly immunized girls make love 
anyway not those like me always stamped 
with spit on their forehead 
to be protected from evil eyes among other children 

after years I rubbed the memory of that stain 
with tender lemon leaves 
to wipe off that mellow scent 
and the bored kiss of a man 
right in the middle of my forehead 
as if he understood 
that I stopped liking to wear red clothes 

I had both hands in my pockets 
without knowing what to do 
because of cold and shame 

anyway it will pass 
after the wind blows over it doesn’t hurt