New poems, in their double version, Romanian and English, new moods, new ways to believe that the beautiful things are still possible in our world...

I am back now to poetry. Five poems in just one week.

"My Life as a Man" by Philip Roth, in its Romanian edition, is the special book that has accompanied me since yesterday. I have a lot to learn from this master!

I write these days lines and phrases without thinking of reader, just for the art’s sake, and this is the mood I always look for.

Poetry is something easy to write, but not very easy to live.

There are many ways a writer finds the path toward his natural goal, to write as many good pages, as many good books as possible. They differ with each and every single writer. As far as I am concerned, I have written my books in different conditions, due to a strong consciousness of the fact that I must not waste in vain the talent that God gave me. What is strange somehow is that in this matter neither the complaints, nor the self eulogies count. In the final what really matters is the quality of the pages you will have written.

These days before Christmas… Preparations, visits, a certain emotion coming from far away, from childhood, a little bit of magic adding itself to the day to day life, an undefined waiting… Children repeating carols… Our Savior’s birth is a gift we get each and every year… Merry Christmas!

To be just normal has become one of the most extravagancies nowadays.

I have been trying to come back to poetry during the last time. This is just a new piece.

Those Days

There are those days
everyone has to face
at least once; and I am sure
they can be taken as
gifts when nothing else comes.

Days when you wait for good news
forgetting that
the main reason
you might enjoy life
is that you are still alive.

Those days when nothing fits,
and even kind words
from strangers
are of no help.

That long string of days
when art and beauty
no longer make sense
for your
frame of mind.

Days after days
when it becomes clear
that all you have learned
from books
are just theoretical matters.

Those gray days
when you feel you are someone
unable to describe yourself,
above - and beyond - all
you might have to say.

Those days in the world
when poetry and waiting
look like one and the same.

It is autumn here in Romania again. And again there will be days full of poetry I will not be able to “manage” properly, to take advantage on them so that I should write poems, poems, poems... A question arises. How to manage the strange situation in which poetry outside is more powerful than poetry inside? I wonder if discipline and determination could solve this matter. I will see…