Concurs de Poezie

Diana Ștefănescu, Poetry, Group IV

Diana Ștefănescu participates in the “Poetry” section of the International Literary Creation Competition, 4th edition, from Bucharest, Romania. We thank her for her participation and wish her success.

The Spirit of Love

With such a huge mouth, last year on my love fed,
All seas relied on all the tears I shed.
From nowhere, from thin air, from grass, from up above,
The thunder calls to me: “My dear, this is love!”

So, happy be, while living this wonder, dear,
Go on, keep tight, for you we will clear the way,
Go on, be strong, there is no reason to fear,
The wind will die down, for you to clear the day.

Do reach out to him, do not give up on your Love,
We will all bring as gifts, our gigantic hand.

Horizons open up to make the distance clear
Time himself may be coming out of his mind:
“Lone illusions die, reality is near”,
Adding: “Even at night, the whole sky is alight!”

Whose voice was that?  Could it have been the Almighty?
 Was that the voice of winter or my smallest tear?
Look up, far above, the stars are shining brightly!”
The voice again: “Dear, away with fear!”

“Who are you?” When I asked, he had already gone.
Was I asleep? Was this a dream? I am alone.


The Two Thoughts’ Dialogue

Is this the perfume in her hair or the scent of flowers in the field
In the aura of my last summer’s most bewildering event?
I toss the thoughts, I turn the words, to the scent of her leaving I yield
Turning to God to ask Him if her May day arrival He has sent.

Is this the tabacco impregnated in his artist-slender hands
Or is it the smell coming from my small, black, glass bottle of ink?
Is this pain in my mind what time like a mirror to my face stands?
The balm dillutes, changes, vanishes before I have time to think.

Are these the leaves or her eyes that I glimpse between the old forest trees?
The wood beneath my steps dusting like the ghost of a sunny day
Becoming the fragrance of a long, fading, luminous summer breeze
Settling  its memories in the seducing scent of autumn hay.

Is this the whift of his palms wrapped in the fragrance of the white paper,
Holding the pen or caressing me from this tormenting afar
Stroking the not yet born book while being released by his mind shaper
I see as I am peeping through the door of his thoughts left ajar?

That maddening me so much, little poem in the round, green ashtray
Is  still haunting me. Was it meant as I first read its every word?
Was she heading somewhere, passing me by, or did she really come to stay?
That cheeky, minute poem is still cutting me like a double sword.

Oh, dear God, you must know what he meant when he said he was not alone
Could that be possible? And yet that shall not possibly be true,
While I thought all I wanted to hear was: “You are finally home.
Where are you coming from? Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.”


Yes, Mother, you are right

You were right, Mother, when you said that whatever may come,
we can only tell each other what there is to be told
looking each other in the eye,
feeling each other,
touching one another’s soul,
loving each other by being together,
brought by the thought, into each other’s look and only
face to face.

You were right, Mother, when you kept telling us
to love each other
because love is the meaning of life.
You were right to tell us again and again,
and never enough,
sometimes you only called to tell us
to love each other.

You were right to keep telling us to be clever and wise,
you meant to say we must keep polishing our thoughts
until they bring out the diamond inside.

You sometimes called:
“Ok, then. There’s nothing I have to say.”	
“Still, why have you called?” I would ask.
“Love each other, dear. That’s all.”
“Oh, Mother, you’re kidding me. Are you real?”

Yes, Mother, you are right.
Thank you for having told us, 
we might have never known otherwise.