Concours de poésie

Miruna Teodora Todor, Poetry, Group II

To read the creation of Miruna Teodora Todor in other languages, request a translation by clicking the „Translate” button.

Miruna Teodora Todor participates in the “Poetry” Section of the English Category, International Literary Creation Contest, 3rd Edition, from Timișoara, Timiș County, Romania and is 17 years old. She is a student of Banat National College. We thank her for this participation and wish her success.

Diploma
The clutching rock

A hole, a greyhound rock,
Its eyes, bubbling under the foot-
A boot, loose, like a tooth,
Crushing the rock vengencefully 
For being crooked and sharp and put.

A rock more graceful than a leg of sand,
A crust on a peacock’s beak,
I leak over the rock’s bladder,
I leak over the glistening skins-
I peel the scales off my fins.

The rock is me – I am this hard piece
Of earth, of meat, a set of red teeth.
I spill my sweat over this grass,
A goliard, a phantom of glass.

I think I might be strange,
I am not well – I myself am hell
And nobody’s here, only a crusty lip,
A clutching rock, a mental doc.


The ganglion

I was caressing my sleazy skin the other day,
My bulging neck, slim, like dim-lit fins,
I was projecting my ebony fingers like pins,
Rolling rough, scratchy like roots of iron seaweed,
Blue, sweaty, sour like a pulsating filling.

I touched a ganglion, yellow probably,
As I had envisioned it,
And how unhappy that made me-
Cruel to the bone and the marrow fully.

How much has changed since when,
I was given this ganglion – well, 
How much has changed since
The seconds started spilling in fumes,
As corrosive liquid and platinum brown flutes,
Started pouring into my walls, my shell, my wheel.

How much I had muddied it, like a brazen face,
At a fast pace, a fast race – cheap cancer on sale for a change.
I had made it swell, maybe made it hell.

My ganglion which is me, yellow probably, 
I had made myself a copy of a figure,
Ghastly like a killer – a drink,
I guess it made me think,
Of renouncing all my sins 
Before I start shrinking like beans.




Red reverie

Bloody – as in a dream,
The vampire scolds harshly at the veins,
In a town full of roofs and dangling plates.

I am too in such a gothic scene,
A cathedral – where you, like a gargoyle,
Bruise such a thigh, such an ego, you
Bite on such a blueless tide.

No question, you reprimanded me – 
Such a bony mask, a plastic bag –
A flask of carved meat.

Should I worry?
Or should I break you brawn,
Spurting like a dome of lizards,
Reeking empty like a bunch of killers?

I ought to burst like a static 
On the crowded page –
Where you envisioned my old rage.

But I shan’t now,
In this town of lewd chromatics,
Where I will rise awfully mute 
In this bed of rotten pus.