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The Poetry Of.
Vasile Baghiu......................................


VASILE BAGHIU is a Romanian poet. He illustrates how
charmingly the language makes strange new turns when
it is not a writer's native tongue: it is new music.- Editor


Seen From Outside

You have such a mood of being,
a hidden way,
without the outbreaks
we have seen in others.
The train made a high noise, not too far off,
but no change on your face.
It is quite clear
we deserve more sky,
more green land, trees, grass, flowers,
all these things,
the spring itself,
maybe even smiles
of obvious happiness.
The gratitude of people,
having a better affective memory,
humiliates us.
We must admit
we had forgotten them,
yet our embracing gesture
is for each of them.
They were like springtime past,
enthusiastic and volcanic,
and that simple gesture,
under an uncovered sky,
might surely seem mechanical
on the outside,
yet strange and clear at the same time,
like a secret mood of being.





I Am At Home

Not only would it seem too hard,
Laughing with my entire face
Like that big advertisement sign
Outside the window.
Neither this thing, nor something else,
Would be even crueler
Than the correct frame between accepted limits.
The power to let loose a long moan,
Both discrete and deep,
From a depth no one can reach.

I stop myself for a while
To watch the people at tables.
I stay, but am not able to have an opinion,
Not even a temporary one.

I actually try to pretend
I am at home talking to me,
Yet I am far way, not with me.
I suppose this can already be seen,
Just as a state of pregnancy can be seen
On a young woman's face.

It is clear that I have been carrying along
A kind of cheery discord to these times,
Which seems, however, to be a positive course.
Still, I have got a little hope
And I decide to make it true,
Just as this day has finally become a real day,
And this is just because I have been staying, and
waiting,
Not a problem to anyone.





It Seems To Be Simple

Waiting for a flight,
I drink a cup of espresso,
a teaspoon of sugar and a thimble of milk,
mixed with a small plastic-stick,
at a table in the airportís bar.
As time goes by,
I'm increasingly convinced
it is the best thing I can do: wait.
I stay and think, and maybe write two lines
on this empty paper sheet.
A smiling stewardess wearing a short skirt
deflects my thoughts,
but not more than the announcer's repeated phrases.
I feel a shadow coming over,
but not because of the clouds or any other obstacle in front of the sun.
Iíve just a single story to tell.
It is not my lifeís story,
rather it is that of the world I live in,
full of endless nuances.
It seems to be simple,
but it is more complicated
than the Woody Allen movie I saw yesterday...
and I do not say this just to defend myself.





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