Archive for October, 2014


Utopian mindscape

Sometimes I dream
A poem wherein nothing happens
Nobody dies, no love is rived
A white poem, like a waiting room
Once caught there the thoughts become imponderable
They don’t get stuck in any fetish-idea or view
They don’t stumble over any chip of world seeped from the eyes of the poet

A poem that nobody cries in
Nobody screams
Nobody breaks mirrors
A poem without dried fountains, twilight romances, wine vapours
And other relics
With no splash of blood on the ground of desire

A poem dwelt only by the spirit of truth
And the lyricism of reason

We live for centuries enslaved on the grounds of the feeling
We live in an abattoir of ideas
In a human colony wherein all happiness prescriptions
Recommend the escape from the bondage of reasoning –
This philosophical machine bewitching us, deluding our senses –
“Reasoning never solves anything: it just makes things even more complicated
Turning even the simplest matters into problematic and intricate ones…” the wise men use to say

This poem written only with the sap of pure reason is my utopian mindscape



Order of things

The first ones to get old are the hands
The skin swells and reddens, the pores start opening

I’ve seen so many old hands, so many hands
I look at mine and I don’t recognize them

My hands are delicate, spotless
No pleat no rib could be seen through their immaculate white
The skin is smooth, perfectly tight
Whose are these hands full of hatches, lines and signs
Of illegible maps?
These hands with scattered fingers like gnarled tree branches
Whose are these hands, I wonder
I saw them so many times in books and movies
Hanging on other people’s arms
My hands are young, white, with no wrinkles,
They are not furrowed with such dykes

I’m used to write in the darkness for some time now
That’s how I haven’t come to see my hands in a while

There is nothing stranger than aging
Your childhood memories are as close and as vivid as those ones of yesterday

There is no chronology in memory
The time doesn’t flow out there
Each single remembered moment is a world itself
Another universe
As real
As truthful
As the one wherein the hands are getting older
There is no order of things inside us
The pieces settle arbitrarily
Everything is enchained in a bucolic disorder
Playfully and not nostalgically
The memory is only and always present
The nostalgia is destined to what we cannot remember to what we have forgotten

I look at my aged hands and I keep on seeing them spotless, smooth like snow
Like in the first day I contemplated them.

I think of all those faces that I still carry on with me
Although the mirror doesn’t recognize them anymore
I reflect to all those things happening outside of the world
I think about all those impalpable layers of our existence
I think about how we walk through transparent labyrinths
In dreams
About how we wake up confused
Tying in vain to fit in a single face, in a single fate

I think of the hands that I am writing with as if they are one with the writing
As if nothing happened to them from the first line to the last one
As if they would be the same hands
Making the same gestures like in a ritual
As if life itself could burst out of my chest
Without stripes, without pleats, without hatches or wrinkles
As if I could understand it
Without more and more complicated maps

All the walls of my heart are tattooed with such maps
My sights are full of hatches and arrows
Of superposed creases, of lines covering the thin ditches that furrows my hands
My sights are blinded such way that
I see but the immaculate spaces from between the stripes
The image of the white hands, with the smooth skin, of youngster

Memory is the source of the eternal youth
In memories the time is not passing by in spite of the fall of leafs,
Of the rain, of the snow
In memories there are only statues with immaculate skin:
Caryatid-moments sustaining the walls of the world

I wrote all these in a document called: I am afraid.








This winter we’ll stay locked inside the house
Following from the window how the snow turns into mud

We’ll feed ourselves with the elixir of the untruthful truths that ensure our survival
We’ll be astonished by how many mechanical gestures possess our bodies and souls
By how many beings without name abide inside us
Undermining our right to happiness

From time to time we’ll touch each other through the darkness
We’ll cling on each other to not get frozen
We’ll lie to ourselves that this is all we can expect from a real love

We’ll stay aligned like two soldiers at the border of the bed
Counting our scars
Blaming the worlds, the others, the damn past

We’ll listen to the music of the blizzard
Waiting for the new poetical season to come…


Soul mate


I hide myself under deeper and deeper layers of muteness
The silence is the only answer I can give you without lying

Your hands stick in the window a sky cut from an old photograph
Our love started resembling with the obscure room

I miss my solitude as a soul mate

The wind closes the door upon you
And the fear sits on my lap like a wild animal
That I tamed since it was little….




I hunt coincidences with manic fervour.
They help me for nothing.
The coincidences make no sense.
The truth makes no sense.

Let’s presume that one day
I will find the key of the mystery
That now I hang on like a carnivore plant
So what?!

copyright Ilinca Bernea


"For moral reasons ... the world appears to me to be put together in such a painful way that I prefer to believe that it was not created ... intentionally."
- Stanisław Lem

"The most henious and the must cruel crimes of which history has record have been committed under the cover of religion or equally noble motives".
- Mohandas K Gandhi, Young India, July 7, 1950

“Organized Christianity has probably done
more to retard the ideals that were it’s founders
than any other agency in the World.”
– Richard Le Gallienne

"I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do because I notice it always coincides with their own desires." - Susan B. Anthony

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