All the poems seem to have
fateful air and savvy stratagems
in there
sometimes too warm for a chilling flight
sometimes too hot for a straight fairytale
and sometimes the cold frame of your
choke
flowing like a green-like kite
in somnolent contemplation
between the love-doors of aging
& maturity crisis.
These doors are a child’s drawing.
The entrance password is the
sharp, oneword-poem, that’s stuck in –
my mouth, economy of spit.
If poetry keeps
the balance between
reason and body,
as a great poet says,
you won’t find me
there yet.
His name is I.M.
and I’m not there yet,
room for a chosen few,
in a child’s drawing,
behind a lovedoor.
Puslenghea Bogdan
Pic: Claire Palmer