TEODORA DUMITRIU - POEMS

​Teodora Dumitriu was born and lives in Campina, Romania. Passions: children, books and English. Sometimes, she writes. 

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                         Is There Anybody Out There?
                                   (The Scientist)
 
 As Time walks down the Hall of Mirrors, Clocks salute
(some sing, some sigh, some hail, some hiss, some mourn)
– his face and figure mystifyingly elusive:
sometimes so starry-eyed.... sometimes so worn…
 
Each Clock shows Time in a unique array of Mirror Minds;
inside each Mirror ticks another Heart, another Clock -
each figure is a key, a road, an answer;
each face a fork, a question-mark, a lock.
 
You never know, you never know which Clock, which Mirror
will be the One to tell Time right.
 
How many Suns a flash of passion can light up and feed?
How many black holes in a speck of Night?
 
How many deaths a bead of pain can bleed?
How many planets spinning on a string of Light?
 
As you walk down the Hall of Clocks and Mirrors,
measuring your Being,
the seer and the seen remain unknown.
 
Enjoy the wondrousness of seeing.
                                   
 
  
                                          Is There Anybody In There?
                                                      (The Artist)
 
                                    Let the artist blast the night
                                    into billion shards around you.
                                    Feel them dart into your heart
                                    and bloom.
 
                                    Tend the throbbing trees
                                    and fragrant galaxies inside you.
                                    Steal a silky planet
                                    from the wayward wind of doom.
 
                                    Sense the artist’s anguish
                                    carving continents and oceans.
                                    Hear the artist’s tears
                                    caress the grass.
 
                                    Take the little flower;
                                    run your fingers through his silence.
 
                                    Watch him tip his hat
                                    and dive inside
                                    the looking-glass.
 
 
                                                      

      IT
 
You ache and yearn for it, you cry…
and suddenly - it’s happening; you don’t know WHY.
 
You shy away from IT…for fear
that it would, once unveiled and revealed, disappear.
 
Then you know that it WON’T…
like you know that no lightning would bring about freezing,
nor closing their eyes would make people stop breathing.
 
It’s massive,
striking,
raw,
intense
and sharp
as lightning
to sense the sizzling dance of depths:
 
 ~ the sway ~ the rise ~ the rush ~ the flood ~
~the whirl ~ the beat ~
 
to know that trying to unfold and contemplate its magic won’t dismantle –
but magnify the miracle of doing the amazing feat…
 
profound and plain and powerful as breathing –
one needn’t have IT named,
defined,
described,
explained,
enforced
or taught
to DO it
 
and – crippled, blind or deaf or dumb or agonizing –
you won’t (because you simply CAN’T)
stop doing IT.