For Stephanie Jane

Here is the link to Stephanie’s blog, writing about my poems:

Thank you very much, Stephanie, for your comment and appreciation of my ebook. I wrote poems since the end of 2006 so I waited for a dialogue with a reader or an opinion about my poems for 12 years. And your answer came just after my 48th birthday. I will tell you the story of my literary errands in brief. I knew since I was a child and even better while growing up that I was not gifted for poetry, but I was compelled to write poems on the net for two main reasons. First, I was totally alone for too many years except for my relationship with my mother and I had to try to communicate at least in a few words with other people. I noticed since my first year on the internet, that is 2010, that it was very fashionable to be a “poet” on various poetry sites. Maybe it is more like a plague because these many sites on the net don’t have aesthetic criteria for their acceptance or prizes or boosting the poems (except for paying members of course). Instead, all they ask the members is to write in the most explanatory and meaningful way possible, more like a military parade lyrics – just like saying for example “I love you so much and my heart aches and I bleed sadness like a willow swayed by a strong wind, letting go of my tears like autumn leaves falling into the river of my life etc.” The members just want to talk to each other under the form of so-called poetry. I quickly understood that all those too many poetry sites for the plebeian poets wanted only rant or clear-cut messages, as if poetry were a skype or facebook messenger, while in the same time they founded their official attitude on the principle expressed by Archibald MacLeish that “a poem should not mean but be”.

So, the first reason for writing was absolute solitude, imposed by the rest of the society, because of a truly unjust psychiatric diagnostic while I had all the proofs in the world that my forced isolation and imprisonment were unjust and incorrect, a clear cut medical error. I know that by writing this here you will say that of course, I failed writing good poems, because I was insane, but if you will really need me to explain to you the truth you can write to me and ask whatever you want. The Italians were right 40 years ago by adopting their law to reduce to a very strict minimum the number of psychiatrists and psychologists. I studied both sciences and I achieved good grades and I understood for certain that I had no mistakes or delusions or psychiatric trouble at all and they only lied because of the very poor background where I was raised. It is still reported by WHO (or was reported not too long ago as I read) that suicide’s main cause is poverty/lack of job etc. so it is not linked/ correlated to psychiatric forced admission. So they talk too much illogically about suicide in the next article, but you can see in table 2 that Italians have less than 3 psychologists for mental health care/100.000 population, while in France you can find almost 50 such professionals per 100.000 people. I understood there (who knows?) that the suicide rate stayed almost the same in Italy over the last 40 years. O tempora, o mores… Maybe you know that it is historically reported that educated slaves were better treated in ancient Imperial Rome – who knows? – but anyway we still have the letters written by Seneca for Lucilius.

I studied for 23 years in state schools and Universities. I was denied basic human rights and that’s why some of my poems – possibly in other ebooks – are about solitude and poverty, their “message” is clear. On social poetry sites, I was rejected for the same reason that made you give me 1 of 5 stars for my “work” – they said that my poems don’t convey a clear message, although theirs were not doing that for sure, but were only less intellectualized than mines. Theirs were full of confusions, but they had what’s called social support. I did not understand your critique of my poems – you say:
“the problem is that Moldoveanu alludes to many varied traditions and stories but each poem identifying its subject or theme.” This sentence is not logically clear and I don’t understand what you meant by that. Anyway, it is clear that your assessment of my poems is based on the fact that you did not understand them, and that’s why you consider them bad poems. I learned in school that the greater part of good poetry, whatever the school or movement was, was not understood by people and anyway poetry consumers are a very small group of people, usually unfortunate and rejected youngsters. The second reason for me to write poems was that I was very much in love with nature and life and people and I forgave them, whatever they did to me and I felt only love and bliss for being a human being and my old wheelbarrow filled with roses was so loaded with beauty, that I felt the need to write down a part of it, to give something good to the poor for free, because anyway I could not hope to sell my books in order to have food or clothes, while they rejected my right to work, and I couldn’t afford to have the necessary PayPal account. I failed to give beauty to others as if it was that quote from the Bible:

“Do not give what is holy to the dogs; nor cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you in pieces.”
I silently waited alone for decades, asking to work and to have the right to study from time to time, in vain. I entered a poetry contest in my country also because I was alone and I won the first prize and they published for me a thin book with some of my poems, that is my only real published book. Otherwise, no one wanted me or my translation skills for other poets too, or whatever I could have worked or written for any magazine or printing house. The Romanian internet poets rejected me entirely, though my published book was given at no cost in a book fair. In my country, they did not even answer with rejection to my poems, whilst the USA literary journals either accepted my poems sometimes ago, or they answered with a polite rejection.
That’s all I wanted to answer to you and many thanks again for your honest opinion. I give you the link to my present time Romanian blog, where I have poems and prose in English too and other links for my literary endeavors.

And, if you want to know how more about my way of writing in English – prose or poetry – you can visit my Goodreads blog in English, where one member was very kind to rate my ebooks as 3 stars from 5, but only because I explicitly asked him to write a review for me if he could:

Of course, my philosophical texts are meaningful too, but you can imagine what the psychologists say about me and I can easily refute:
that I don’t have organized and meaningful thinking at all!

I can show you official papers where they tell that hideous thing, while the opposite was obviously true and it was also true that I was almost totally alone (since 1984, when I was 13, and my family was small and very poor), forcefully, so they had no proof whatsoever that I could not normally communicate or work or think. Not only that I never had psychiatric symptoms, but I was a perfect person – with a very beautiful soul, all the virtues of good characters, no mistakes, no sins at all. exactly 2-3 apparent mistakes in almost 50 years of age, but those things were not my fault, but theirs, or I was simply framed. Apparently, smoking – which everyone knows that does not bring pleasure was my only mistake, but in reality I was almost totally alone, being a perfectly normal individual. I quit smoking for two years in spite of everything, but they did even more hideous things to me, even stealing my photos or minor objects. I restarted to smoke and each time I tried to quit they doubled the pressures and tortures. I resisted to almost 35 years of tortures of different kinds and poison was one of them, not psychiatric intoxication, but other things that I could have proven, but no one wanted to see my proofs. It is obvious that an intelligent person cannot be wrong, cannot do wrong, cannot invent nonsensical things, like poison for example, which is a perfect example of concrete, objective reality, testable reality and not at all interpretation or imagination or delusion. It cannot be. I told about it only in later years, just like I told about my perfection, which they think that it is a kind of illusion of grandeur, while in reality perfect people do exist and I was one of them, with my own numerous specific traits of personality. I knew well myself and I did not express that in my early complaints. I went everywhere I could go in search of freedom and justice and human rights. My last psychiatrist, for example, lied even about my past psychiatric admissions and refused to give me a copy of my clinical reports in order to be admitted at a social center for psychiatric patients. They rejected me everywhere while I was still able to do some work and I was a perfectly reliable individual and I had perfect mobility too until last year when suddenly my osseous system broke down. It is true that I have an amputated leg because of a suicide attempt 20 years ago and that was not what the psychiatrists said, because they always lie, just like psychologists do. I was thin and I did not smoke but I became obese because of poisons and poverty and hideous hunger symptoms, like thirst. The other doctors refused to treat me although I had specific serious symptoms of gastric, or cardiac disease, they all were like Javert hunting the innocent Jean Valjean, instead of accepting him in the society.  Last year for example, amid many other problems, it was proved by echography that my kidneys did not form urine, but a very little amount of it and all the water that I normally drank went into my tissues for two weeks and it was serious oliguria for three days (100 ml) and the doctor advised me to go to the psychiatric hospital, because this so-called metabolic malfunction may be from psychic reasons! For many years I complained of drinking 10 liters of water each day and they did not help me, not even when I had swollen legs, and tens of other serious symptoms, including peripheral neuropathy and stomach burns and pain and powerful cholics. When my blood analysis revealed, for example, a huge Prolactin amount, they said that they cannot give me an antidote because it may be from the psychiatric drugs that I must take, but they cannot be certain that it is because of those drugs. They are apparently stupid because many times I could have proven that it was poison in my life from other sources but they want to give the impression (maybe, that’s why some fools say) that it was because of psychiatric abuse, and that’s why they lie to conceal the truth. I was not condemned to be euthanized, because I was trustworthy and I had no mistakes, as I said. Sometimes it was hard to write poems while having a heart attack, a thing that they refused to treat for many years and only 2 years ago they gave me 4 different heart and blood vessels drugs, with no proper diagnosis. Etc. I was always above the intelligence level which separates good and virtuous people from bad people, those bad people who are not guilty of being evil only because they are poor in spirit. And how can you accuse of something wrong a poor and always lonely woman like I was? Exactly like in my poems, I was modest and I was never driven by sensuous pleasure in my conduct, but I was very much attracted by intellectual work, because that’s how I was educated and how my natural propensions were. Meantime I enjoyed very much physical work, because I was raised in the countryside and used with toil and minutious work. Otherwise, I had no other minor defects or mistakes and I did the best I could every day. Here even the garbage collectors have luxurious mobile phones from a time ago, while I cannot afford iphone or smartphone to browse the net without back spine pain, people are rich and well dressed and well fed and shoed compared to me even in the suburbs and they don’t have pity like I always had and I asked in vain for 1 leu (our currency) begging on the street, which is not a shameful thing, like many others consider, because suicide is normal in their opinion. I wrote poems about this too. Anyway, I was dressed in rags or cheap cloth and had my haircut by my grandma ever since I was a child. That’s why they don’t respect me – people say that job recruiters consider what kind of phone do wear first or what kind of social connections do you have. They cannot understand for example that I can adapt to the situation of delighted ballet spectator (my favorite show) in the opera hall just as well as to the situation of Heidegger reader or commentator, just as well as to the job of a cleaning woman, like a psychologist asked me once and I said yes, of course, explaining to her that I am totally alone and very poor. She could not help me find any kind of job for 4-5 years while being in their social integration programme. Etc. Of course, the very few people who talked with me, in spoken or written words on the internet, treat me as if I were an idiot child, but they do this a priori, without any real knowledge about me, it is not me who inspire them this attitude.

Moreover, my literary style changed in later years, but I was even more outcasted than before, when I used too many cultural allusions maybe, as you pointed out, and it is a certain fact that historical sciences and data change over time, (maybe those who are young don’t know this), because of different cultural opposite or divergent perspectives. True poetry should stick with the Universals, the facts and the ideas that don’t change over night.

Categories: prose, Uncategorized | Tags: , , | 3 Comments

Eternal youth

The infant opened his eyes and asked the sky:
who are you mother?
tell me if I am like you.
The sky kept silent and the child started to cry.
turn your face to the woods, my child.
do you see that tree struck by lightning?
How could he keep inside himself the fire and the light?
How many years did it take until he fell broken in two?
how much love, how much beauty, how much truth, how much sorrow?

The child began to cry louder.
Mother, I miss you, tell me where I can find you.
Shut up, my child.
Look over the chimney, what do you see?
The child saw the whitish trail of smoke rising slowly in the air.
At the end of that frolic twist of smoke, there were three stars.
Then two. Then one.
The child covered his eyes and ran inside the house.

Old and frail, the child looks towards the three stars once more
and smiles: and you, my son, you too are like me.

Categories: My Poems in 2017, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

Some of my poems

my smashwords page

Categories: My Poems in 2017, Uncategorized | Tags: , | Leave a comment

the discreet peace of a late summer

it is a wonderful day that looks me straight in the eyes/ the cleanest moment when the sky of deep blue is leaning on the shoulders of the earth/ and the grass hardly grows as if from an ocean with its tips slowly swaying

it is easy to tie with the knot of your scarf two skies or two earths/ the scythe of bygone times seemingly bites from the future/ human beings are bits of sunshine because the thing that births them also kills them/ somewhere upon the sky of their soul

some of them cry without tears like the sad lunatics
those who never cried in vain
those who drop their teardrop as if from a wound in order to protect the life of lives about to come
with their faces gentle and sunken like leaves falling still tender
half-dead half-alive

Categories: My poems in 2016 | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

song for the bewitched pumpkin

it was a beautiful story about little girls big as acorns reading other stories
sitting upon bewitched little mushrooms
with hot milk with honey inside amber cups before bedtime

I sat with my ear on forest soil
searching for the tree of trees
the giant from the fairy tale
his words stilled the whole breathing
didn’t you know that trees speak louder than the wind?

stay calm hard-boiled apple sun of a bastard goldfinch mouthwatering gingerbread
today I need to draw a rainbow like a hammock for all the dreaming in the world
like children do before ever seeing one
I miss the forbidden fortress that grows for centuries within ourselves
I cried and I believe that my teardrop is the stem of sunrise
let it be for offerings and sinlessness

Categories: My poems in 2016 | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

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