Series Editor - Jim Bennett

Introduction by Jim Bennett


Hello.  Welcome to the next in the series of CITN featured poets.  We will be looking at the work of a different poet in each edition and I hope it will help our readers to discover some new and exciting writing.  This series is open to all to submit and I am now keen to read new work for this series.


You can join the CITN mailing list at - http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm and following the links for Caught in the Net.



My mother didn’t know much

About the affairs of this world,

But her smile, like a lamp’s flame,

Knew all about everything,

Before fading away, much too soon,



                 from; My Mother by Flavia Cosma






Finding You Again 

Leaves of a Diary - 34


My Mother

My Man, My Tree

Angels’ Feathers

Before I Die

I will speak

To Be Sixteen Again…

Under the Cover of Time

And Now the World…







Flavia Cosma is an award-winning Romanian-born Canadian poet, author and translator. She has a Masters degree in Electrical Engineering and studied Drama in Romania. She is also an award-winning independent television documentary producer, director, and writer. She is fluent in English, French, Romanian, and Spanish and produces original literary works and translations in all four languages.


Flavia has published seventeen books of poetry, a novel, a travel memoir and five children’s books. Her poetry book Leaves of a Diary was accepted in the University of Toronto E. J. Pratt Canadian Literature program as course material during the school year 2007-2008. Her poems and publications have received numerous awards.


Her translation of Burning Poems by George Elliott Clarke into the Romanian language was published in Romania in 2006. Her translation of Argentinean poet Luis Raul Calvo’s work from Spanish into Romanian was published in 2009 under the title Nimic Pentru Aici, Nimic Pentru Dincolo.


In 2008, Flavia Cosma was appointed International Affairs Chair for The League of Canadian Poets. She is a member of The Writer’s Union of Canada, The Ontario Poetry Society, British Comparative Literature Association, and Writer’s Union of Romania.

She is the Director of The International Writers’ and Artists’ Residency, Val David, Quebec, Canada http://www.flaviacosma.com/Val_David.html







Finding You Again




As much unknown to me,

As falling raindrops on blue flowers,


As necessary to me,

As the pure air, seeping into my lungs,


As much precious to me,

As golden light gliding through stained glass panes

Over hands clasped together in prayer,

Invoking peace, forgiveness,

And above all




One day you will cross the sea and all the forests,

Weary, you’ll stop in front of my gates,

And I’ll welcome you, seized by a holy shiver,

My eyes filled with tears, and my soul a nest

To belated, mellow loves.

Oh, beggar…





 Leaves of a Diary - 34



I find myself always warm

In the laps of pine trees, ruffled, green,

Even when winter with its elongated fingers,

Descends forcefully from the clouds,

The tears of Saint Anthony

Weep unbroken on the drained faces,

And the world trembles

                                    from its foundation.


Away from fear I roll and fall asleep

In nests of pine trees, sweetly scented,

Soft shadows enwrap me with much care

In the warmth of a mother,

In a warmth of a brother,

In the misty warmth

Of a lover








I’ll be forgetting you,


When the thin thread of grass

Snaps in two.


I’ll be forgiving you


When time, like a sponge,

Erases your image

From my heart’s wall.


The golden-feathered bird

Was never ours to have.


On a deep and bleeding wound

We scattered bitter words,

A salty, burning load.


The moon hides; the night darkens,

Heavy mists whirl far into an abyss;

Moist, the earth smells

Of mint leaves.

Under heavy rain drops

Frail lily-white flowers genuflect,

Their faces in the dust.


Life carries us forward,






My Mother



My mother did not play the piano;

She couldn’t find a purpose for

My growing fingers, outstretched,

She wouldn’t guide them;

She was unaware

Of the lofty sense of flying,

She had no daring.


My mother did not read

Scholarly books or great literature;

Poetry made her by turns

Laugh or cry;

She would sit quietly humming

Melancholy songs about Jesus,

While the fold on her brow

Obstinately deepened

And her face became

More and more pallid.


My mother didn’t know much

About the affairs of this world,

But her smile, like a lamp’s flame,

Knew all about everything,

Before fading away, much too soon,

Leaving us holding

All the boundless and hungry darkness

In our arms.


My grandmother knew even less,

But her hands, those sorceresses,

Alternately plaited and unbraided our lives,

Like a transparent kerchief,

A magic word,

A flowering dream

Stretching over the world,

Like a light, gentle breeze.





My Man, My Tree



Hold me by the hand

Man tree, tree man,

As though protecting a lost child

Protect me.


Let me drink quickly

From your painted palms,

Painted green, painted red,

Painted in spring colors.

Let me drink your sweet wine,

                        your wormwood wine,

Your happy tears,

Your bitter tears.


Man tree, tree man,

Weave me tightly

Into the magical threads of your roots.

Bury my words and my fear

In your wholesome silences.


The sleepy lullaby,

The gentle lullaby,

Let it softly heal

Both my heart and my wing.





Angels’ Feathers



We remove dainty, slim,

Minuscule angels’ feathers

From our clothes;

We take them out, launching them into air,

Watching them as they rise up and soar,

Dashing vertically toward the ceiling,

Thinking that

They could reach through it with no problems,

Toward the void where,

Like withered branches,

The Arms of The Father are waiting.

Tired of us people,

The feathers long to settle

On His sleeves,

Thus becoming again full angels

And come back in the evening

At bedtime,

To guard our sleep

Against the Evil One.  




Before I Die



Before I die

I will speak to you about roads,

About stony hills with flowerless bosoms,

About the urge to run

And about desperation;

About lost wanderers—

The first of them, the last of them—

Or about those who are thinking to take to the road

                                 one day.


Ashen faces, tired foreheads,

If one could only close their exhausted eyes!

The trembling lips, the demented whisper-

Started or not

All journeys

Descend into a terrible abyss.


Give me my life, give me back the jaunty step,

To reread them over like I would a book;

Somewhere on a bench

Under fragile question marks,

About departures that aren’t departures

I will speak to you

Before I die.





To Be Sixteen Again…



How hard it would be

To be sixteen again,

To be suave, fragile and to keep

Your eyes half closed under your lids;

To embrace your knees with transparent hands,

To wish you could return into the warm belly

The one that not long ago

Held you tight, giving you the air

And the nourishment you needed

To grow, to flourish.


How hard it would be

To be sixteen again,

To know, to sense, that your turn had come

To bear fruit, to become a blue cradle;

--The sky opening up at the blessed hour

And letting you see in a flash

Your future lovers and children,--

To feel your body heavy, your breast round,

Your eyes weary, your step slow,

And later on – to face with modesty,

The bitter servitude of the golden years.


Sometimes you would like to stop time in its tracks;

Wishing to be sixteen forever

And have no future.




Under the Cover of Time



Old age and demise

Will catch up with them too;

They will be buried in turn by others

In the shade of illustrious ruins,

Because all things come to an end

When you truly know them.


Although we may say that

The immortals-- the hibiscus trees

Are continually in bloom,

Their lascivious, ruffled flowers,

Longingly waiting for me

More than a year now.





And Now the World…



Beyond the void made of frigid marble

Where I live without bridges,

Without clothing,

An entire world waits with patience.

Lithe paths emerge under extended palms;

Astonished windows open

                                    toward the sun,

Flocks of birds follow me wherever I go

In a hanging, singing,



I, like people with plentiful destinies,

Am content to replace

A longing with a new sadness,

A worry with another

                        larger one.


4 - Afterword

Email Poetry Kit - info@poetrykit.org    - if you would like to tell us what you think.  We are looking for other poets to feature in this series, and are open to submissions.  Please send one poem and a short bio to - info@poetrykit.org

Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net.  Our other magazine s are Transparent Words ands Poetry Kit Magazine, which are webzines on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at -