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Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem
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
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2014
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Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem
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
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2014
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Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem
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
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2014
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Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem
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
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2014
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Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem
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.
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2017
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Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem
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
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2014
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Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem
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
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2014
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Cristina M Moldoveanu Poem
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
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2014
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