In a room among newspapers from far-away climes
like a tame animal like a marvelous man you love yourself
                                                        ­ and sit on the edge
     of the bed with your palms on your knees
or absolved of birth and death you stroke your pumice-stone
                                                    ­                                              cheek
until the sun crosses the other side
next to the photograph of the happy child who is piddling on
                                                              ­                           a blue shore
Then every thing returns regroups
as though in a boiling fog in which things are mended
among the obscure plantations of chance And alongside
a woman carefully hangs out the clothes of the drowned lover and
                                                             ­                             speaks to them
the one who still seeks you in the black bones of the
                                                             ­                                   butterflies
And while you wander lost through the mists of a powerful
                                                        ­                                         manhood
past the spades left on the fresh molehill
or gaze at the swaying of the two stakes ****** into the shore
or lie down on the ground and the wind covers your face with
                                            thistles brought who knows whence
a great sadness brings back the lunar landscape of her tired
                                                                ­                            shoulders
and there are no more words but her whisper are things which
                                                                ­                                        settle
everywhere filling the ripped silence of the train's screech
her whispers are the water gathered over the prints of her
                                                                ­                  soles after the last rain
but a simple turn of the key is enough for you to be able to hear
the slow flowing of time by your dampened socks
or the heavy breathing of the roots
and again you dream the blue shore  at the end of the river
on which we ruminate our enchanted abandonment

Gellu Naum, Vasco da Gama and other pohems, Humanitas Publishing House, Bucharest, 2007

Feel the loud.
Flaring up with violence.
But it don't mean nothing unless you feel the silence.
Tracing the lines made with chalk. Life is useless unless you feel the living spark.
Crafting elongated signals across the chart to ignite significance across the board.
Live loving is the struggle to have your mind boggle until it regroups and makes sense of the struggle.
Sounds and music.
Vibrations that are congruent with the feeling that's felt.
A pencil melts into the page of the chapter kept sacred by a sage.
The meaning is real as long as you can feel.
When it ends up meaningless then you know you have failed.

To war!
The queen commands,
Battalions defend at once!
The battleship is pounding on her shores;
and past defensive lines extends
the front of the invading force,
retreats, regroups,
rallying the troops,
the enemy is pouring through the doors.
Her thoughts are soldiers finally expired.
Her generals now under heavy fire.
Yet she's the one who, after all,
this battle, skillfully,  provoked.
It seems that she forgot
that cold wars can turn hot.
She managed for awhile to slow down the assault.
Now the end draws nigh when final hill embattled falls.

At times refrain
to grow with age
Forbear the fruit
enjoy the strain
Much be learnt
in controlling pain

Plenty to benefit from
temporarily being empty

Mind regroups with a system cleanse
Body allowed to make amends
Fasts don't last but our choice remains  and will sustained

Though ever so tempting,
all lush and lovely
and quietly edged in morose elegance,
the raven's dark allure
is superficial,
boasting only cleverness beneath.
Embrace instead the bold phoenix
for behind her radiant beauty lies
a strength and wisdom
forged by countless paths, tests, and challenges.
When she has reached her limit
and seemingly can bear no more,
her soul shrieks, NO, I will NOT submit!
She ignites by sheer will and fury,
regroups, and starts anew
carrying all that she has learned forward.
You are that strength and light and will.
Own it. You will not falter.

Here I am once again, following demand
upon the back and chasing wind
this time joined by my band
we fly formation toward their end

Silent wings rip the air
golden eyes glow in the dark
in an unblinking stare
and inside an internal spark

The refugees at the beginning of the plain
have built thatched huts, escape the wind
to move them on, we add some pain
eventually to our will they will bend

Dragons breath sets huts alight
as the villagers run in fear
they stumble into the night
as we continue to steer

Our phalanx regroups in the sky
blotting out the stars
another pass we prepare to fly
streaks fire of than can be seen from afar

Dragons and riders fan formation
dressed in armored battle gear
Village guards, abandon stations
and all run and scream in fear

Herd and herd we continue
to move them on for miles
until at last, from tired sinew
we abandon burning piles

Headed for the roost we fly
and into our castle keep
Imagining villages cry
as we climb so steep

Four forty-eight
wait,
no,
four forty-nine,
he
whines in the wilderness
but I guess he's
getting  the nerve up
to get up

and automatically
tea,
he drinks,
droops,
regroups
and
pulls himself together.

a wash and brush up
ready for the rush up
to the bus stop,
heading for the sweatshop.