Monica Manolachi

you were singing for those happy hosts around you rotating their hands searching for apples and nuts like the windmills in front of don quixote they were livening up your song shadows returning

1. if I were a sceptic and a pessimist, the interiour of a strawberry would be a little wooden box. you sell everything on another’s account and only stains remain, shame, blackmail, fears,

a while ago, I was thinking how it would be if I were made only of words – like this – only whispers from one mouth to another, a gentle sign, a breath between two playful gazes, an inspiration

sweetie, more and more often people call me by names other than I know, as though they would abandon me in the baptistry. they talk to me addressing other faces and I watch their dialogue, their

you wait and wait rod in anticipation you feel it suddenly it pulls you say what could it be? and reel a shoe you throw again wait it pulls what if it is nothing? and you reel a soldier’s

my dream horses’ provender was my lack of spontaneity. as the day when I was eleven and found the front door open, doorcase broken, fridge empty, no cuban sweets on the table, wardrobe jumbled,

no wild creatures turn up in my forest. my forest simply is. it is for the owl’s lonely hoot and the spider’s stroll along the moon’s lips, for the she-bears who do not rush to towns, but move

if you have got the impression poets live to no purpose, then give them something to work on, such as an execution and a child birth in one pack, two in one. wait for about twenty years, let

This is an invitation to the launch of a book by Diana Ioncică: \"Cultural Hybridization in the Contemporary Novel\". The book explores the controversial postcolonial concept of cultural

I\'d have liked to become an architect, as I like drawing and painting, the perspective and tall pillars. I used to dream about beautiful and large buildings, but one day I envisaged their

while I am giving my lover’s wellies a rub, I remember I used to write him love letters once, transparent, loud, wide open, mouth smiling. and, arrested by a dead woman, a diva’s great voice,

nobody has ever told me I am beautiful really truly mindfully disquietly endlessly whispering not even when the moirae were hastily stirring in the pots by my cradle among the cherry-trees not

one day a poet came to me he wrote a long text on my back – I was murmuring once in a while yes no yes no he was writing incessantly passionately painfully rebelliously he has never read to me

light is darkening - indecent magnolias on the river banks. * foxes beckon trees to release their singing birds - no wind in the woods. * ripples whispering messages in the shadows

If I were a transparent willow I would have many more arms to caress you If one of them were lazy There would be another to shiveringly rise its garlands of leaves And touch your raindeer

She crossed the sea climbing hill after hill The land made her blister Only the interiour sun was faithfully searing her sores She used to eat fallen apples like a manicheist Empty like desert

I am going to describe my lover in the most ordinary way look: she appeared from nowhere exactly when I started to see the world as an ethernal field hospital suddenly she came like a

Omar, I love you in the morning When you get out on the balcony tuning your trumpet The yearning lace suspends the life in the French Quarter A jealous sun is cheating burning liquid The walls

A bird with two bodies Was drawing near in twin flight from its world It was searching for nest in me I was waiting eyes wide open all day all night Its feathers were rustling wriggling for a

I love the one that enters the waves up to his waist And carves me a husla on the beach at Izmayil Out of an old willow forgotten on the river side As a hidden subject He sews me shoes out of its

A man is like a bus He is always following his own way written on the timetable He stops at bus stations blinking his right headlights He starts again winking those from the left Sometimes you

mimosas in the snow my sun seen in sleep rummaging my hair on a pillow of fluffy airy sugar torn walls by the legs of the bed monastery puzzle in the peace of my palms the fruit yes the

almost every woman has yearned for more everyone collects a memory within her ribs never shared with their daughters when they comb their empty look with the passion of disavowing life I think