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Through My Fingertips

By Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu

Copyright 2017

By Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu

Smashwords Edition




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Idyll



My lady-love has a shy and light shadow,

at the break of dawn she puts on a bride gown, the sun runs through her

under her armpits and on her thin waist.

She lets herself down like a veil on the grass, she barely covers

the fluffy dandelions shining with dew.

My lady-love is like milky quartz, she's crossed through by sunlight

from head to toes and all that's left of her for me are only her eyes,

big and gentle under her smooth forehead, only her copper breastplate,

the soles of her feet with a filigree of dust,

and her lips as if by chance moist, which I cannot touch,

almost never.


My sweetheart is white and straight like beech wood,

he grows far from the forest of so many heavy winters, he crosses the sky

with tall and bold branches, he steals the storm clouds,

and flashes his lightning upon my eyelids,

until I begin to shine.

From beneath my skin he unveils the blue little veins palpitating,

he listens to my silence until he feels my whole heart

how it beats under his thumbs in the hour of marvel and luck.

He loosens his wild cloth upon his chest

when he takes me in his arms,

from head to toes, with a blackcurrant taste,

and it's only his moist lips which I cannot touch,

almost never.


In their love he covers with shade her translucent body.

In their love she brings the sparkle in his eyes concealed from the sun.



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 also him looking at me around the mirror 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.




Broadway, New York City



Did you know that she was just a child between day and night?


Poco sostenuto, yells the coat check girl, right before the beginning

of the Concerto for bassoon and orchestra by Mozart.


A few evergreens but too opened, such as their ecstatic color broke

the glass and flew over the shelves, the difference between I and you,

the first step of con-science that the innocent minds do call epistemology.


Once she was still a (young) woman with her hair curled up

by the action of city pipeline water.


Molto vivace, yells the man in charge with announcing stage performances.


How beautiful it looks sometimes the moon landing of mankind

that you learn to accept, the way any kind of solo beauty falls

in the disgrace of the orchestral harmony.


She was just a child growing up in a family that grew older.

Oh, your daddy’s rich and your ma is good-lookin'.

The ears punished by listening to a jazz piece at the local pizza restaurant,

waiting for the ordered pizza with unidentified impurities in it.


Allegro ma non troppo. Dreams about the new world as a theater

for another director, a world that should be discovered at a time.

The mezzo arias uprooted from the brains.

Mutatis mutandis all operatic voices appear in another spatiotemporal loop.

All those who write poems at their computer keyboard,

when it is known that as an orchestra they kill like Sigismondo or they die

like Paolo and Francesca in order to rewrite The Divine Comedy.


She had a logical structure like any other female child,

she was growing leaves like any other thing with nervous roots,

and her mother rarely bathed into the fountain of life and eternal youth,

only when both of them could not face the iron and stone ages of humankind.

Otherwise her life was beautiful like a star captive in an icicle,

the calm of the sea was blue larghetto and the sky was how it ought to be,

pure and clear in largo.


Every day she ate the poison of the sun and the moon,

she stretched her hands and hid in a certain leaf,

her fingers changed the dust into little stones,

the water that she drank had no name yet,

but the secrets of the gardeners were still protecting her.


She- this very moment - exists. She spins the time flowing

from the bundle of wool with her clumsy hands.




Jagged



life is jagged

it sticks with doggish eyes to your ankle

and asks for fondling

at the border of the wasteland

where the long black engine whistles from time to time


but life is jagged and has no pity

alike the human brain seen under microscope

it has an extended area if you unfold it

each little street from the slums bears the name of a saint

there the scent of barbecue and beer mixes with incense

the magicians play tough games

forcing the neighboring constellations

to disappear

they bury them over the heads of everyone

under pleated and fanciful dresses


and fog falls in for the people who died for saintly matters

those who don’t understand the stubbornness of the bull

compelled to fight

with its bloody horns

there is the Moon climbing on the sky heavier and heavier

red or yellow

jagged on its edge like an old weeding knife




A Song for Stones



I have seen everything my eyes could see I have heard everything 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 notion

there is the godliness of being alive in the shadow of a tall door

slammed into the wall




Imago Materna



The maiden with black eyes and uneven bangs

lived near the Episcopalian hill,

somewhere on the street of the Muses.

She understood the difference between good and bad on her own,

somewhere between youth and old age,

in the times of the last gypsy caravans and hand-weaving shuttles,

swifter than the shifting summer constellations.


How much did I love you mother,

how much I loved you when you put on your towel bathrobe,

short just above your knees.

Strange how you had so many things in pairs and half of them you gave to me,

women's suits, swimwear, berets, sleeping gowns, ruby gold rings.


It's only memories my mother, nothing more.

Sometimes life was havoc and woe amid so many Muses,

moreover amid the masters of astronomic calculus.

Which one of us was a comet even I cannot tell.

You shared with both hands and took back the same way,

in fact nothing but the time that can be measured only by the wisest,

the time that shook off both of us,

as if we were two ripe golden apples in the unguarded garden


Some stars have frozen hearts, some stars still burn within their heart,

and there is also the awe-inspiring nothing.

And the little magnetic angel stuck on your fridge,

the dreams with our dead ones angry upon us or upon this sinful world

and the crucifix hanging in the most sober and white corner of the house,

where you, my mother, are living.




Vigil Lamp



In your big eyes the dolls learned to grow a little

solely on Christmas Eve.

You sew for them new clothes, you shoe them with woolen booties,

you ask yourself in a whisper where have all the flowers gone

and all the fairy tales resembling you so well.


What happened with all the abandoned children,

the ones forced to beg on the street,

the elders who lost their homes,

the ones about to die soon crying like babies,

alone at home near clocks that stopped ticking.


Because life is a blindfold race amid stumps of fir trees,

after being cut off in order to be lit two days,

near warm fireplaces, tables replete with food

and houses for dolls

that don’t grow bigger than they are.


Because life is a hunt with bugles for the deaf,

where you will fall with your legs folded beneath you,

with your large dress like a bluebell stretched around you

and you will say no open-eyed,

once and once more.




Forbidden Wedding



memories passing through your veins are probably blue

you wipe them with your sleeve as if tears on your cheeks

you feel like itches

you cannot cry for real

and this is the first sign that you grew old


at the graveyard’s gate

you will find so many hearts on silk covered mattresses

filled with straw inside

old men and women with fake teeth and fake pearl necklaces

with moth-eaten mink collars

with soft smiles close to their framed photographs


you take a deep breath

you swallow an aspirin to dilute your blood

it is as clear as the light of day now

you began to forget and you feel sorry for yourself

the same way you feel pity

for the homeless asleep with tight lips

near his daily bread ballooned in that cold rain


someone stole your sun the day before yesterday

exactly at the time of the first ripe cherries

two children laugh hiding under an umbrella

maybe it was yours

maybe it was red




The Other Teenager



there were very few odd things/ the pink stockings with laced

waist strip/ the blue mascara/ the rainbow-projecting shard

of glass hanging at the window/ the plastic little miss Piggy doll/

the postcards with well-known quotes from Shakespeare/

the head of a man sculpted in black wood/ the little books with

Louise May Alcott’s stories that I never read


when the sun set down I put on my pale magenta flats and ran out

on narrow streets to find the place where the light disappears

I passed over the world as if over a plank footbridge

paying attention to the tips of my feet that drew closer to each other

looking at the old mysterious trees like the Easter Island’s statues

at the red tiled roofs reminding of Vermeer’s paintings


I came back home with my heart in its place in my small room

I sharpened a HB pencil and wrote poems

about the other world in the village with a yellow church

where the moon came from the forests to roll down

over the gravel flooded with snowstorms


I ran between two different dance arenas

and there was almost nothing strange

in the times when there wasn’t yet dust on my desk or white in my hair




Still Frame



I’m the lady with an ermine in her arms/

I turn my eyes away from the world’s misery/

I prefer to be captured than to get stained/

teardrops are too dirty for my cheeks/

look at me from one side – I prefer to turn into stone/

while you take a picture of me and place me in a frame/

because the virtue of a woman doesn’t exist

without the love of a man/


when you get used with an older love

with the way he pampers you my dear

with the joy to warm your fingers in his sweater

and other little wild things

you walk stumbling

the soles of your feet get stuck into old boots

and you cannot take them out

you walk like a madcap with someone else’s feet

every morning when you make two coffees

until you realize that he’s gone

leaving the keys hidden under the entrance mat


then you feel that you’re a part of the dirt in a trivial world

like any other love story

replayed in slow motion




Ground Wisdom



you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed

you lived neither 7 years of drought nor 3 nights without a day

through the core of your eyes you let inside a hurry-scurry

of swarming cherry petals flocks of crowned swans

sunrises with a purple mantle


and all the vain beauty of this world


the gray nun’s outfit is so straightly cut

and the vestment of the nightingale is so poor

so do listen my friend to the deaf-mute mother swaying her sleeping baby

listen to the wordless and powerful silence of the last communion


yet it is still too much


I saw once a woman in a funerary cortege, the other women

cried aloud or wept along the way, only she lagged behind

like a sluggish stone she hardly breathed when the road

suddenly climbed and the funeral banner fell at the graveyard’s gate,

she was still silent like the earth, some people said she was a witch

or evil because she did not speak, but she looked gently

towards them with pure and sparkling eyes


I met once a man who loved his child and gave him

a beautiful fairy tale to be read every night, after many years

the child deserted him and did not come back,

but the old man looked at the child’s picture with the same love

in his eyes, when he died people said that he was a bad man

because he kept silent and thus the rats ate him in his grave,

but after a few more years his child became silent too

looking at others like his father did once


you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed and neither am I




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




Venus of Willendorf



With her hands tied behind her back and her cheeks soothed

by teardrops, as if a softened more from a photo manipulation,

she stands silent. The electronic table clock pours the seconds

softer or louder, like chirping newly hatched chicks.


She lies in wait, she hunts with her entire body every sound,

and even her heart beats relaxed, after the Newtonian laws of motion.

She tames the moment in the language of the clock

and shoves it into the bakery of civilized Time.

In this planetarium where we dared to dream too many

imperial stags with starry horns, disowned on the ground each springtime.


Yet we considered carefully to give them legendary

names until we still have names, because the names

that we own are hardly born, just like stars are born.


The more she rests, the more the silence dissipates around her.

She, if she stays in one place, in fact she goes farther.

In any direction. There is so much serenity that even blind men

cannot fight each other, the smiles of future mothers become

velvety smiles, the orchestras perform perfectly harmonious

music never conducted before, the hair of the virgins is even

and gentle, the level of waters gets higher.


All of a sudden, a wall will grow from the air in front of her,

and she will still be standing, with her arms behind her back.




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

did 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




Virtuoso



neither in the deepest valley nor on the tallest mountain

nowhere

I have never lived I have never loved what even myself did not know

the one who doesn’t pine for love doesn’t know when the moon rises

just keep silent delicate beast

go on singing though

you have never listened nor ever imagined the March marvel soloist

how he fills your windows with burning honey flames

it’s the punishment of love the punishment of the sky

belonging to stars

only theirs

the bird with folded wings until the right time comes

no fancy plumes holding on with gray claws

it stands still

it is the time when you fear to breathe to protect the song

as if a starry fragile dandelion globe

the second of heaven up in the tree

when it hurts

the master of souls and silences

in holy communion with itself

I can no longer listen to because god loves me too much

because the walls of my house bear the echo of the trill

of a nightingale

I am stained

at daybreak I will be captured by the guards who killed it


(in the memory of a nightingale or another bird with beautiful trill)




Intimacy



They were from the young gods, relentless and pure,

like the winds, like the fire, like the incense from the pines.


My love, I won’t drive away your hand that rests over my body,

because I want to be ours forever this moment of pure bliss.

Otherwise it would fly, die and be resurrected

like a beautiful butterfly, a hungry and outlaw creature.

Forgive me to be loving you so much, to be loving you at dawn,

when you seem to be so white. You are my eternal seed of unluck and misfortune.


With their hands tied to the earth by oath,

like this they were crucified their whole existence:

he with the palm of his hand covering her belly,

she with her thin fingers under his head pillow.


If a wall tumbled down, they felt their hearts fluttering.

If another wall was built, something stroke their foreheads.




Growth Marks



We were children, our lips smeared with the milk of unripe hazelnuts,

and we felt our knees and our elbows itching all the time.

In a corner of our garden we stood upright smelling the roses,

we had small and big balloons over our clothes and sometimes we flew high

until the rope swing reached the tree leaves.


How quiet we stood unseen when they called us for lunch,

sometimes hiding our voices within mother’s voice,

and we heard nothing, because our voices grew more powerful day after day,

like our feet grew wearing too large shoes until they fit.

So rarely we saw cranes flying over us and so often we used to paint them

with black lines in the notebook with blue covers.


We did not know that the young foals with white stars on their heads

understood our thoughts

and even throughout winter we gamboled in our bed among pillows,

only to fall asleep aside, with the warmth of the sun in our thin heels.




The Woman Without a Man



Every evening, her skin gently breathing, raising bluish clouds over the world,

her clothes smelling like laundry soap, attached to hangers,

not walked upon by any fingertips, fluffy

inside the wall closet with too tight things.


Into the bare wilderness

all the names of the secrets concealed under her breasts,

and that drop of bitter moonshine like smoke in the night table mirror.


In vain all those hermits who took chastity vows and

vowed to abstain from hunting a woman's gait:

within haunted homes, her languid widow body, bereaved of thousands of men,

still dies

like a water spring.




Spring Wind



Exactly like you would take the imprint for a death mask, aiming immortality,

the spring sky loves the woman and copies her body into different molds:

from her eyes it grows eggs inside birds’ bodies, from her nails it grows petals into light,

from her fingers the feathers of all wings,

from her hair the breath of the grass over the meadows.


Inside the woman things are warm and,

through her nostrils and her breasts, she sweats bitter green hues;

in her world the moon creates whirls in the water of her blood

and dies along the sea returning to estuaries,

in this little world of the earth covered by the woman’s skin.


With her right hand she raises the river locks

and with her left hand she heals from cold the rose beds from around the world.

For her man she gathers wild mint and sweet scented geranium,

in order for them to enter together smelling good in the place where the song begins.


And I with my female heart, I am the copy of other springs,

thigh after thigh, shoulder after shoulder.




The Night When She Healed the Moon Upon the Sky



Awake at 4 AM, February in its 4th week, the moon in her last quarter, the woman over 40,


with the disgust of reading a novel, bad as any other novel at this hour of the day,

with the same murky hyperrealistic waters for her mind, the necessary evil,

because there’s always the vital instinct, because survival is not logical for mere mortals,

like this kind of woman with her luggage of words and memories,

with the difficulty of dragging her past between night and day,


the lonely woman who stretches her arms in order to feel more comfortable,

she looks through the glass of the window, she sees her reflection,

she thinks that it’s a wonder to have electric light

and a bed to lie in this morning, she remembers the inscription nihil sine deo

between the two golden eagles guarding the graveyard’s gate,

over the steel bars and the steel lock,


she feels how the temperature raises 10 degrees Celsius in this February

and she standing at her window feels sorry for the Moon,

this Emperice gliding down from a sacred painting, because she can barely be seen my God,

a cloud of steam shrouds her, but that is not her hallo,

she barely shines upon the clear night sky around her,

and her middle is broken like the ancient fibulae found by archeologists,

like an X-ray through the fracture of a thin bone,


and watching her carefully, the woman sees her glowing stronger

rising from the abyss beneath her, more and more serene and beautiful,

without any blemish, with all the stars dozing off towards sunrise,


and then look at him, the blind and greedy sun,

the circle of fire through which all stars are dead and reborn altogether

and the sky getting hotter than this woman hoped for the moment.




The Book of the Young Female Builder



She, with her virgin hair and nails,

she was bluing the summer sky at high noon,

she was cleansing the song of the Niagara falls

and was shaping rounder the bread crust.

She was clean like the rain in the desert.


But she was in love.

She really loved a man, she still loved him in spite of all, as if he were God.

Because in reality he did not exist.


Can you see there my child, far away, there’s a white little house,

that’s all I could raise

upon the place from where my love, your father left me.


Sacred is your memory mother, like the raising of a cathedral:

it requires centuries

until the wet winds will blow off all those dandelion lights from inside,

from the vault of the soul.


And the rest is only our sadness instead of ruins,

foundations of temporary churches in the remains of our memory.




The World That I Used to Be



And look how we live our lives: God puts his hand upon our heads.

He makes us good and warm,

to share with others the flight and the walk upon the waters,

to feed the centuries to come through the dictionaries buried in our brain.


But why is it that this coffee cup remembers me

and has the same chink that I already forgot when my son touches it?

But the old oak tree from my father’s childhood, why does it recognize me?

But why Mona Lisa or the Statue of Liberty?

And the stars my God, until when will they remember about me?


The whole world lives our lives, the same way an archeologist touches

and gives names to the objects that he finds.

We glide with soft and warm bodies among the dead or alive things

that keep hanging onto our hearts. Meanwhile we learn to write our names

in the palm of our hands to keep them in mind and to understand them,

we, those who broke apart from the same root.


Meanwhile the fire from within us runs away

like the light runs away from the sun, far through our blood,

through skin and flesh and bone, it gives birth to the Word we’ve been given.

I beg you, live me through life, my Lord.




Home



It was a beautiful country and it was good, the air was sacred and pure to breathe

over rivers and grasses from the summit to the valley,

such as I clearly saw our words upon your lips, yours, my mother and my father.


How beautifully colored is my school map, tell me if the world is like this.


No one heard me while I used to shiver inside because I was happy

with my small hand of a child traveling over the palm of your earthly hands,

yours, my mother and my father


How can I cry or smile while I’m still a child,

my eyes are not an abyss yet, my whimpers are not violin sounds yet,

and there are so many old folks close to my naked soul,

my soul growing like a tender hazel wood shaft.


All of them keep me up like a basket full of bread

in the arms of the woman with watery eyes,


so many past and future waters.

You grow up my child, why do you grow up did they ask,

why is it life so hard to bear farther?

All that you tell me, all that I had to learn from you are only your questions,

my mother and my father, that’s why it is so.


I grew up proud of who we are, I breathed through the grass

beyond the place where memories fade away,

I breathed in the shade of the old apple and the old pear tree from our garden,

my body rested there on the ground, the growth rings

inside me and inside them grew older and tougher

and we began to lose one another,

me and you, my father and my mother.




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