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
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CAUGHT IN THE NET 66 - POETRY BY
FLAVIA COSMA
Series Editor - Jim Bennett
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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.
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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 |
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CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
Finding You Again
Leaves of a Diary - 34
Eventually
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…
3 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY: FLAVIA COSMA
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
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2 - POETRY
Finding You Again
You,
As much unknown to me,
As falling raindrops on blue flowers,
You,
As necessary to me,
As the pure air, seeping into my lungs,
You,
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
Love,
You,
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…
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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
_______________________________
Eventually
I’ll be forgetting you,
Eventually—
When the thin thread of grass
Snaps in two.
I’ll be forgiving you
Eventually—
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,
Eventually—
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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,
Train.
I, like people with plentiful destinies,
Am content to replace
A longing with a new sadness,
A worry with another
larger one.
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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 -
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