  Carmen Tania Grigore is almost an unearthly apparition with a penchant toward deep feelings, without reserves. She’s got a child’s delicate soul and is always looking for herself. With a keen observation of details and full of sensibility, I would call her strong in her fragility, and her poems resemble her entirely. memory stickyou are so starved of poetry that you nourished yourself with all kinds of sensual coquetry you have a lust for life which runs through me with the naked eye and surprises me indiscreet in the space between imperfections and femininity you sometimes find me embarrassed in spirals of silk and you cannot separate my body from that flesh in which I grew without intent of falling in love sequentiallyI passed through the distance of betrayals with heart burned by the fever of a painful starvation aching after an aromatic ambient refreshed by your precipitated breath days and nights I held to my chest a knife that incited my imagination until I started to float in the greatness of the incendiary solitude only then I understood the peace of the invulnerable eye welcoming poemI'm returning home the gate welcomes me though covered in rust the euphoria of heels remains on the doorstep adherent to the spot where my mother comforts her sigh I'm returning home my heart like a bell out of control I call out my parents at a late hour only the lime tree startles more imagination than image I hear sorrow coming from stony chambers on behalf of longingthe angel has borrowed my confessions is waiting for me hidden into an Alarm Clock when the time comes the joy of rediscovering it's all that matters time it will remain in the air attentive at the choreography of the windmills returning homeI escape from everyday life I stop in the visual field of memory I stand up to the distance with all its drawbacks and relieve from my chest doves who carry the sobs from abroad with loveonce the nightfall
settles down winter allegories cover the discreet landscape of heart as if festivities are occuring in heaven and all the magic drains into an emotional anthology cages have their meaning even if I am feeling monitored ever since I was in my mother’s womb my eyes have been broadening the smile to beyond these phosphorescent borders then the flight in the open space is as a longing steadily increasing
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