Like a storm that is coming and leaving,
Like a lake that in the summer is draining,
Just like the same, my dear lover
In the white night you left.
And behind you left a soul
That was struggling in tears and roar.
But I won’t let you knock me down
This pain so big.
I’ll be like a stone that is not moving,
I’ll be like a wild beast that has no fear.
12 January 2002
ROXANA IACINTA BOGDAN
My heart is a leaf,
That in the autumn is gently falling down,
My word is an excuse
So I can soothe you.
My heart is a cloud
That is floating like in a dream,
My hands are wings to fly
With you in paradise.
My heart is a flower
So you can pick it up in your palm,
My eyes are the sun
That warms you with the look.
My heart is the moon
That is a queen at night,
My hair is plaited with hoarfrost
For the one that will come.
My heart is a star
That leaves in the sky,
My lips are the jam.
I’m a sweet angel.
9 November 2003
ROXANA IACINTA BOGDAN
pink shaded polyurethane
ribbed and rounded edges
smooth as silk
chrome interlaced bars
bend and flex
for easy positioning
zebra pattern shag carpet
and thick twill
bamboo lined walls
and cascading ruffled curtains
in baby blue
big white dots adorn the ceiling
shiny dome lights like bullets
light big glossy books
on block stacked shelves
as high as the sky
with purple and green dyes
pinpointing accuracy in design
rotating coffee tables
with spouts dispensing licorice
and mike and ikes aplenty
oxygen masks drop down
from pilot helmets
that look like disco balls
wallpaper of studded vinyl
wraps the guest room
with dresser drawer aquariums
filled with blowfish
and sharp objects
from a car wreck
barbed wire holds hooks
for hanging
the floor is a window
Memory fades…
with people,
with time.
Something to think about
next time
you
hold back
I have my eyes tired with so much crying
And sadness.
And the fine desire is extinguished for me
To live as a youth.
Earth, water, storm,
To be the sun and the moon.
Word, sentence, syllable,
Trees, flowers or grass.
Smile, honey, pain,
To be a big fortune.
Day, night or daybreak.
I envelop you many clouds.
Mist, mountain or stars
To soothe you in hard days.
Angel, rain, queen
To rid you of any blame.
Sky, dreams, street lamps.
To be a candle in your soul.
Only for your love
I would transform myself.
12.01.2004
ROXANA IACINTA BOGDAN
09.09.2008
ROXANA IACINTA BOGDAN
playing south bend
southern cries pulsing pneumatic drills fading
delight crashing inwards
sudden elegant nightmare
dashing fleeting gospel
ignites and creates
another enigmatic legend
as
you
On a paper heart
I’ll write you a poem.
On a wooden heart
I’ll write you a long poem.
On a plastic heart
I’ll write you a fantastic verse.
On a heart of sun
I’ll write you everything that hurts me.
On a heart of hazel nut
I’ll write you for a year and a month.
But to your heart
I’ll join my heart.
ROXANA IACINTA BOGDAN
Darkness’s light
Light’s darkness.
Thorn’s flower.
Flower’s thorn.
Silence’s word
Word’s silence.
Blackness’ white
White’s blackness.
Night’s day
Day’s night.
Noise’s music
Music’s noise.
Sadness’s happiness
Hapiness’s sadness.
Death’s life
Life’s death.
You’re lucky to feel the warmth
Of May’s sun,
You’re lucky to feel the pain
That you may have in your soul.
You’re lucky to see the tree
That in autumn it’s like sad,
You’re lucky to see the lake
That looks of silver.
You’re lucky to run the forest
That is big and proud,
You’re lucky to walk on the alley
That is like talking to you.
by ROXANA IACINTA BOGDAN
$1.50 remark now only $2~
fast action graphics
with splash dance tactics
brilliant news she said
that’s not all
something new
is about to blow
topple down mountains
glass shadow fountains
illuminated
barbaric
fortunes
the very stuff
orgasms are made of
organisms with higher visions
light with darker revisions
water from liquid fission
little sparks
from your mind
ignite it all
sudden fall
from darkness
into
apple, glowing, motown, southern looks
from a vagabond
on the corner
The theory of everything
First morning after labour
day, dank, dark, and dreary,
softened summer muscles,
swear, It’s too damn early
for back to school theories.
Replies a fall chill, in a shock
of sea air, that Dr. Bluespire’s
lecture begins at 8:30.
Barely conscious, choking
back simulation coffee
black, He can hear himself
contemplating infinite
regressions, the counter
intuitive paradoxes of anxious
freshman questions.
In total darkness, one foot
out the door, he reaches for
his already outdated,
all-in-one accessory:
memory stick, pda, speed
stick, hairspray, man purse,
bus pass, smaller than
a shot glass.
Backpack bulging, cold
and sore, his shirt he tucks
in, more secure, everything
begins to spin, trudging closer
to apprehension, heart
rates soars with worried
expression, the first class
worse than first confession.
If I don’t write, if I don’t contribute a verse, if I dream but never live, I fear I may be “unprofitably travelling towards the grave, / Like a false steward who hath much received / And renders nothing back.”*
*from “The Prelude – Book One” by William Wordsworth
Everyone had the chance to live the American Dream.
To eat apple pie and drink Bud Light from a can,
the goal that every little boy (and little girl!) aspires to achieve.
The second selection for the Faraway book club is . . .
The edition that we will be following is the Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets, ISBN: 067944369x, or http://www.amazon.com/Wordsworth-Poems- … 11&sr=11-1, which includes the following poems: