Posts Tagged With: philosophical

a song for stones

I have seen all that my eyes could see I have heard all that my ears could hear
I stood pondering without words that it is easy to see with the eyes of the mind
colors and shapes that you have already seen
you are just a fine photographic memory
it is easy to hear with the ears of your mind songs that you have listened to
you’re just an instrument spanning over a few octaves
you can even write new songs in your mind and you can imagine another world
created in your own image thus there’s nothing new under the sun
because God is one and only letting you grow old sense after sense
until the sparkle inside you is like sunset over snowfields

there is still time
a heavy philosophical dimension
there is the godliness of being alive in the shadow of a tall door
slammed into the wall

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

why does the thinker from Hamangia sit in the window of a travel agency

now it was the time to sit propped on my elbows
upon my share of sky waiting for the end of the world
(everyone knows what this means) I and all the children of my age
with their parents
and axis mundi
and the hatchet chopping always something else
more or less barren

I still have my geographical atlas from gymnasium
back then we played the game of statues and we tickled stones
and the laughter
was gargling close to our ears
like the water of the sweet spring source
from which I was piously exhorted to drink
innocence/ silence/ eternal youth

it is more common to see people coming back from their death
than the man with his tight lips kissing
the wall of wails and gufaws
kissing the heart of the cross
that sometimes looks like a man propped in one leg
stuck into the ground with his life in other men’s scripts
with his large arms still bearing fruit

Categories: My Poems in 2015 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Memini Meminisse

That day I entered the corpse’s room. As it is customary, the mirror was covered. But I thought to myself: here are so many other yet uncovered mirrors, the eyes of those staying at wake are opened and in each eye you can find the neighbors’ eyes mirrored. Sometimes a teardrop mirrors in itself the image of funeral candles. Mirrors are endless, they grow one within the other, like deep wells inside other wells. Other things have precise borders in space, I can see there is an edge of the rain, an edge of my voice or an edge of the hearing of those who listen to me. If those people wanted to hide all mirrors in the room they should have entered there blindfolded.

And what is time? Does it have a border like all the rest? How much does it take until the light reaches the mirror and comes back to my eye? Do I see my future or my past? Do I really exist or I exist only as far as my senses are processed in some amount of time by my brain’s utilities? People break mirrors or they break up time in tiny pieces that resonate like the clock ticking in their ears or eventually like objects through the touch sense for the deaf. Did you know that hearing is considered to be the last sense lost before parting from this world? But the dead one, once he had lost all his senses, does he live now only in the living memory? Could it be true that our life is only memini meminisse? And is it memory itself a mere mirror? In our brain there is an area named Ammon’s Horn, with significance for the consolidation of human memory. Its name is a reminder of the sun god Amun-Ra, identified subsequently with Zeus for the Greeks, an antique source for a partly monotheist vision of the universe. Since we appear in this world we are prisoners of centennial memories, because the human embryo evolves through different stages, similar to some characteristics found in different other adult beings, from amphibians to primates.

Meanwhile, people gather round the coffin, touching each other and singing the song of the eternal peace and remembrance. It is the circle of senses of those alive close to the departed one, the circle of hearts pumping warm blood, the circle that is still pulsating and alive. I believe that eternity exists, and the moment is only an illusion.

Categories: My Poems in 2015, prose, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment


for every child the nutcracker is alive.
dolls come to life
somewhere over the rainbow.

all humans are the living blood
that speaks the word of God
in their own language.
the dead ones are inheritance
either hell or heaven.

we struggle in our lives to keep
the moon rolling
up and down the hill.
death keeps the earth in one pocket
and the sun over the head.

which one is heavier?
who’s the doll?

Categories: My Poems in 2014 | Tags: | Leave a comment

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