I never forget to say thank you

I go jogging late tonight and, before leaving the hotel, I ask the receptionist, placing my room key on the reception desk, whether the party in the restaurant is gonna last long.

“Till morning”, she says, smiling while looking straight into my eyes.
“So… How do you suppose the other people in the hotel can sleep tonight?” I ask her, smiling back.
“Well… I am sorry… What floor are you on? Oh, the first… Yes… You see, I would change your room, but we are fully booked, I am sorry. It is not up to me…”

Then she adds something about some of the guests having to leave the country tomorrow and the party having been postponed from daytime to nighttime in the nick of time and other stuff I choose to ignore as I’m smiling and nodding.

I thank her and go out. And I am so tired and just want to go to bed but the least I can do is spend my time in a useful way if the noise is too loud to sleep. So I run. My legs hurt, my arms hurt and I yawn from time to time. But at least it’s quiet as I am moving further away from the hotel and I can listen to the crickets and the leaves rustling under my feet and I can see the full moon above, lighting up the sky like the sun at night up in the north.

I force myself to go all the way and, when I start running back, on the other side of the road, I stop from time to time to collect feathers from the ground, as I need them for the creative writing workshop I am teaching this week. So I end up running with this small bunch of black feathers closely tucked in my right hand. Listening to them whizzing as I am running, I make the decision to start working on my book in September and finish it before the end of the year. I have all it takes.

So I get back to the hotel, holding my small bunch of black feathers. The party is loud and quite a lot of people are dancing on the terrace or chatting in the parking lot. As I make my way to the entrance, three men standing in front of the main door, holding their drinks, sticking out their bellies and waving huge, imaginary dicks in my face, are quietly staring at my legs. I pretend not to notice and raise my chin, sticking out my chest as I walk past them and into the lobby. The receptionist hands me my key without a word. I say thank you and go upstairs.

pene

your favourite

yourfav

 

I wore amber today.
Did you know it’s our second summer apart?
I still find it difficult to write about.
so I make everything rhyme
and sound beautiful like a chime
the second night I dream I’m in your arms
the warmth, the safety, the comfort that charms
and still your best gift was letting me go
so now there’s nothing either of us should owe

“What shall I get you?”
Massimo, the Italian restaurant owner comes to take my order.
“I’ll start with summer, please. The second. With a touch of amber.”
“Coming right up!”
And I make an exception and stay for dessert,
Which means I get a whole hour to run.
I notice the dead leaves fallen at my feet as I’m running tonight –
Her Majesty’s most loyal subjects.
Meanwhile, my lines have lost their reason to rhyme.
I get back to my purple hotel room,
Take off my running clothes –
A snake shedding her skin –
Light my pink candle and an incense stick,
Befriend my new heart and
Sit down and write
While up there, quietly, the moon is filling up again.

 

PS Did I tell you I now go jogging every night? To think I used to believe it’s so boring…

The rattle of my keys in my back pocket

rattle-jogging

Nothing else on me
No phone, no water, no money
No shadows of lovers gone
A stabbing pain in my back
As I’m running through this melting heat
There seems to be so much noise down here
Two weeks up in the north have that effect
They make you whisper
Why trade the forest for the asphalt?
I have nothing to say
Everything to live
And love

PS Took the photo last week in Sweden, Stockholm area.

Running is no poetry

here running

Silence is only accompanied by the distant noise of the highway, but I imagine it’s a big waterfall as I’m running up the hill and then down again.

Thinking back on my day, I wonder… If we were to measure the freedom one has, what would we measure it by? How about by the frequency with which one laughs?

Not a soul except me, running along these narrow streets lined with well-attended houses. This space I feel outside is also breathing behind those doors, behind the lit windows and I suspect even inside those rib cages dressed up by perfectly shaped muscles.

Here running is no poetry. It is as natural as showering or brushing your teeth. Add to that an increased amount of dignity and grace. And light. Everywhere. Even hanging in trees.

 

 

 

Nuca și spărgătorul de nuci

Un spărgător de nuci s-a întâlnit într-o zi cu o nucă.

– Unde mergi, spărgătorule? Te căutam… M-am rostogolit peste tot până te-am găsit.
– Mă căutai pe mine?! întrebă surprins spărgătorul.
– Chiar așa. Vreau să știu cum mi-e miezul. Nimeni nu m-a văzut vreodată pe dinăuntru. Coaja mea e groasă și tare. Înăuntru n-a pătruns nicio rază de lumină de pe vremea când eram floare.
– Credeam că nucilor le e teamă de mine, răspunse spărgătorul și mai surprins.
– Mie nu mi-e teamă decât că miezul meu s-ar putea să nu fie bun. Sau că s-ar putea să se usuce în interiorul cojii fără ca cineva să-l descopere vreodată.

Și așa s-au împrietenit spărgătorul de nuci și nuca. El și-a desfăcut brațele și ea s-a cuibărit în îmbrățișarea spărgătorului, care a strâns-o-ntre brațele lui puternice. Ușor, coaja nucii s-a crăpat cu un oftat și înăuntru a pătruns lumina caldă pentru prima dată după mult, mult timp, topind umbra și dezvăluind miezul fraged, acoperit de o pieliță cafenie și mătăsoasă.

Toate temerile nucii se risipiră odată cu coaja sfărâmată, iar miezul zâmbea acum dezgolit, mângâiat de razele soarelui. Spărgătorul îl privea cu uimire, continuând să cuprindă nuca sfărâmată între brațele lui, cu grijă s-o țină toată la un loc și simțind pentru prima dată că are un rost de care poate fi mândru.

PS Another one of my writings from the creative writing workshop I taught this week. See related posts: Zborul and My summer school creative writing workshop.

Zborul

zborul

Când eram pasăre
Mă-nțepau rădăcinile penelor
În piele, căutând albul oaselor
Dacă picioarele-mi zăboveau
În țărână prea mult.
Drumurile mele toate
Începeau cu V și cu U.
Copacii, hanuri de popas
Când aripile osteneau.
Când eram pasăre
Mă purta vântul în îmbrățișare,
Iar inima mea vuia, nu bătea.
Când eram pasăre
Mi-era dor de pământ.

Wrote it during My summer school creative writing workshop with kids.

Mad about you

braila

I touch my thighs
my belly
I see the lines of my body drawn on the asphalt
I feel them vibrating
I mold them like clay
If I press here, it gives in
eventually
stubornness is a thick line
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
an evening run after a day only on liquids
hunger is such a deceitful word
fear hides behind the “hun”
loneliness behind the “ger”
midnight yoga
as a late night snack

since
wars are always lost
I don’t fight my inner demons
I love them instead
I ask them their names
to thank them
and release them
I try to do the same with people
sometimes
demons find a shortcut to my compassion button
faster

anything must be possible
when it is made so

PS Took the picture in Hotel Traian, Brăila, 2009. Natacha Merritt style.

An unusual weekend

 

On Friday I was on the road for ten hours. The coach driver, a strong and beautiful woman in her forties, offered me candies and gave me a discount on the ticket. We caught a bad accident  and then heavy rain on the way and the coach was delayed for three hours. Never before in my life had I seen such a badly damaged lorry cabin. I doubt that the driver was taken out of it in one piece… A friend was then waiting for me at the end of the road and picked me up by car. He spent three hours waiting for me. And then carried my luggage to his car. How can I ever feel lonely? I am never alone. Never.

Then rain and cold and fog and moisture conquering everything for two days in this summer camp. Everything. Still, my heart was getting lighter and lighter. Saturday night came with singing and guitar playing and a lot of laughter and it felt so good to be with warm-hearted people and feel at home, among your own kind. And the next day, when I left the camp, a friend looked at me and said: “You are shining. And you look so kissable now.” “Thanks”, I said. “I’ve always been so successful with women.” And we laughed and hugged and said goodbye until next time.

On Sunday evening I was back to Bucharest, after a journey with three chain accidents on the highway and a speed ticket. Oh, and a fox crossed our road in a village, in plain daylight. As I was waiting for a bus to take me home, my phone rang. My good friend in Istanbul updated me on the news. I hadn’t heard anything.

“I was in the street when everything started. Suddenly, the army started shooting people. I saw about twenty people dying in front of me. For nothing… They were raising their arms in front of the military and saying: Shoot us, shoot us! And they shot them. And I remembered your words: You are a survivor. And so I got out of there.”

He is 23. Left Syria because of the war. Went to Lebanon and there was fighting there, too. Now Istanbul.

On Wednesday last week another friend gave me this book called “Istanbul Istanbul”, by Burhan Sonmez.

What is it with this life?

Now, in the light of this seemingly pure insanity, I am feeling so grateful for everything. For every breath. For every beautiful memory. For every kiss, every look that has ever felt like ‘yes, I recognize you from back home, I know who you are’. And for every hardship. Everything, every grain of sand, every smile, every step, every journey, every love story and every separation, everything has made me who I am today. And I am so in love with life. I am drunk on it. And I bow to the forces that bring us together every time. And I let go.

lady lazarus

ladylazarus

three hookers
suspended on their platforms
each wearing something red
complaining about low pay
waving sumptuous handheld fans
reminders
of long days between stone walls
in crinoline and lace

I still believe it takes such
can I call it generosity?
death by stoning
no exclamation mark as the words stop in mid throat
their
shall I call it availability?
a reminder
of long forgotten fears between two legs

I was dead
bearing the story of resignation
life took me by the hand
and invited me to dance
I said no
she insisted

PS I took the photo at a Rodin exhibition in Stockholm in January.