Carolina ILICA 


A man with his hair cut
all smelling fresh.
His hair cut short very short as if a soldier's
Looking much younger
For the sake of a woman, maybe,
The park
   is hardly green.

I look for a hillock here
       a place more swelling
A moist heap of violets
       violet and suave (Viola suavis)

O, how strong is my longing for your breast
A pillow much harder
To lay beneath the back of my head
When I dream.

 Then I look for two twin arms
Grown together
Of melancholic linden tree
Or maybe your hands I look for
To bind
to seize
And then I whip you
With snaps of bloody twig
here and there.
I thoroughly whip you
So that you may feel little pain
              on your outside

But as much as
You may enjoy it more.
In the way your longing
Feels pain
        inside you.   


I want to see you laugh
So as to have your eyes set on fire
Devastating around
The violet groves
      of dun mauve dark rings
Of your quite sleepless nights.

I want to see you laugh
And laugh with you again
So that the upper teeth see the bottom ones
And the bottom ones see the upper ones
And yours mine
And mine yours
As the white pebbles on both banks
at each other
Come out from the violin-like water
Of the rivers run from the mountains

It's so much shared intimacy-
As if they made love with each other again-
Among those laughing together.

Let's scatter to wind then the preconceived idea
that poets have to be forever sad
and drink from Holy Grail of sorrows!

They also are worthy of tasting
At least to have an idea
about happiness.
Though they just sing 
about it
without it!


A perfect machine
     for breathing,
Provided with two-cycle engine
Raced in the day time
A relanti in the night,
Is your broad breast.

And my sleep near it
is another machine –
provided with a balloon or with wings
for climbing, for dreaming? –
Able to rise ever higher
Till it is out of sight

At a wedding in heavens
Where people drink
Red wines
Where I also drink with pleasure
But my measure velvet-like and scarlet
Is hardly large as
The petal
Of the cultured rose bush
That you always have about you.
Your breast itself
Is a two-cycle engine machine
for breathing
of this age
run in and expensive
at work in the day time and in the night.

And my sleep
       a machine for air
Ever newer ever fragile
       with each night

From the balloon blown up with the helium of the dream
  much lighter than air
Or in between the wings too large
                  of a glider.

Ready to fall any time
To come down with a crash
Without crashing you
But crashing itself
    Against your breast.


I keep basking in the sun.
My body all sweat beneath me
As if someone were lying also there
Makes my beach sheet wet.

My face upward between the linden-trees and birches
Abandon under the cloud
That bends
as your hair dark once
now fringed with silver.
It gently bends
Over my fair image.

Seldom and hardly perceptible
Pass by small planes
        of birds
A feather leaving behind
That falls down on to the open book
By my head.
At my head
Like a cross in bloom
A shrub wild
Of marsh mallow tall
Swings its shoulders
one white-pink corolla on top:
butterflies Polyommatus icarus
       Don Juans
       Erotic men.
 invade it.
I look at them
     but soon I forget all about them.
For in the lofty birches
    hardly perceptible
Is the leaf light
As your sleep
       and little
       hardly perceptible:
In my memory
     Indigo-blue -violet.


Tomorrow night there will be full moon.
Through the window it will come into my house like a
Obsolete and romantic
that won't let me sleep.
The full moon is strong as you are
And won't let me sleep.

It will definitely remind me of you:
    like an everlasting Adam
before the open window
drawing the curtain slightly aside .
Reaching out your arms even more
Drawing aside
The outside curtain
              of the rain
 Cold and with fringes

Cooling you
         from me
          from yourself
          from both of us 
After you've initiated me in wonders.
For wonders are all
that happen to you but once in your life!
Yes, tomorrow night there will be full moon
And as it is now I shall have
           Bluish circles round my eyes.

The full moon is strong as you are
It lets me not sleep
From this very night
I remember again:
  you staying
Before the open window
Reaching out your arms
Drawing slightly aside
The other
        outside curtain
          of the rain
   with fringes
While I kept praying
    deluding myself
Like Juliet
that that night,
 the first night,
should no longer meet the daybreak


I have become
Like a drug addict
Drinking the hot smokes
        of marijuana
or breathing in the pollen of cocaine
 Without needing anything of all that.
Of course.
 Except you
       and you
For you stir up my senses.
You excite my mind.

 To think no more of you
      I abandon myself to flowers
I keep gardening all day long.
My balcony is a home for flowers.
I talk to them I talk to each of them
I caress their leaves
 as if I caressed
      uncountable lips-
         that seem
               to be yours!

 Sometimes I sing for them.
 Caresses stimulate their growth
  Just as happens to babies.
My Japanese roses
     coming down to several generations-
for they are mother, grandmother and

Every day they show me one flower
     red, passionate
      and unique
        apparently useless
            but unavailable

As beauty is.
And Christmas flower plants- how do they count:
   on their fingers
    on their blunt leaves
    geometrically multiplied?-

Since they hang
Their cyclamen earrings
At Christmas!

But none of my flowers has corolla
      or black.
None of them lets me think of you
 If I happen to think
     one thing or other
     drops out of my hand
I break all in the house.
For I'm addicted to you

Dreaming of you
          over and
            over again
 I keep doctoring myself with violet
    nearly black
          (in my memory stored)

As if I drank hot smokes
         of marijuana
As if I breathed in the yellowish pollen
     of cocaine.    


Summer nights when I sleep
As in a native clearing
           refreshing myself
In the grass embellished with flowers of the bed
With corollas of different tints of violet
Of which I choose:
     Neither spring crocuses
        nor bluebells
           or sweet violets.
     Neither hollowworts
           nor pasque flowers.
     Neither acanthuses
         preciously speckled.
     Nor tiny calyces
          Or tender fox gloves
     Spoilt with diminutives
           As children are.
     Neither vulgar columbines
         called also gypsy's flowers.
     Nor mulleins with spikes
     Ever smaller and darker
               to its top
     as if they came to an end in the sky
     Neither wild thyme
                nor lavender
                or healing
     Neither aconite
                 nor tare
                 or Hungarian vetch
                 in tendrils
                 twining around
                        the hayfield.

     Neither sage lamenting
     Nor liliac (Syringa vulgaris).
      Or belladonna
                  a great lady
      whose maiden name is Atropa belladona

Bearing on the same dress –
      as the Heaven's tree does
      on the same branches –
Both fruit and flowers at a time
(In tiny dose
    it reassures the heart)
(In large dose
    it brings death by poisoning).
Neither thistles
     noble also
     but debased
     beside the edge of the ditches
     or withdrawing far away
     in the mountains
     among cliffs solitary as a hermit.

 None of all this.
     But, yet,
     irises alone,
     being genuine irises
     embarrassed for
     The whiteness so white
     Of the breasts.

 I choose the irises
      with their stem long
      under the petals turned up and humid
      like a pair of labia.

 Summer nights
      when I sleep
      on the irises violet and erotic
        of the bed clothes

 wakened by the sun
 dreaming and dreaming myself
 in the bottomless pit of your arms
 under you
 as under the fire sky,
 it also naked!

Poeme traduse de Olimpia IACOB