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Dorian Stoilescu – Separation

Profile Dorian Stoilescu LE Mag August 2019

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Separation, poems by Dorian Stoilescu

Dorian is bilingual writer (English and Romanian), lives in Sydney, and is lecturer at Western Sydney University. Born in Galaţi, Romania, he participated in writing activities in Romania and Australia.  The first volume of poems “under the wheels of truck” is the final stage (already published in Romanian). English contributions: Western Sydney EZine Anthology, New Writers Group Inc. Anthology and 41 Arguments Avant La Lettre – Romanian/Australian Literature Anthology.  He published over 100 poems in Romanian publications and websites.

https://web.facebook.com/dorian.stoilescu

Romanian Links:
https://www.viata-libera.ro/vlg-cultura/128507-angoasa-si-protest
https://www.viata-libera.ro/vlg-cultura/128989-carte-de-debut-un-mad-max-galatean-al-poeziei
https://bookhub.ro/poezia-emigrantului-pe-trei-continente/


separation

we no longer attempted talking to each other
that’s why an orchard of oranges raised in front of us
distracting us, making us wondering endlessly…
therefore, we started walking slowly around, admiring it.

when we no longer try to hold each other’s hands
a row of scissors rose from us instead of nails …
to quietly alter and graft the trees of the orchard.

one day, we couldn’t look at the face of each other
but we were stretching our arms to oranges
picking them for the sake of savouring them
forgetting our love
slowly.

but we were not trying anymore to go to each other:
then an eerie disease began to come out
so all the trees began to dry out.

in the end, we didn’t any longer respect one another
that’s why a tractor with metal strings grew on our backs
pulling out in our full acknowledgement
all the trees’ orchards from their roots.

now being far away from each other
we are silently looking down
at the empty earth.

phobia to the other

I’m broker at the credit bureau wearing a moon and a sun on each buttonhole,
a vacuum cleaner in arms nightly absorbing heart, intestines and morality,
holding them in an expensive jade pot
in an elitist, well-guarded, sacred temple, seropositive, serodivine
by practising all means and tricks
to be cold one another.

for my secret world and my beloved ones I am always accustomed
to be the owner of missed intentions and monotonous hugs.
I eat endives, mixed them with clean, fried, sterilised feelings
and fill them, after, in toners for printers’ stars.

now I’m an overripe cherry-tree, flowing down rivers of worms
from the centuries ago fallen factory with fences at the cemetery.
I was just saved in the extreme by the noise of the books
with barriers of spears and lung shields of adolescents
when amniotic paranoia broke out of the secret faction of shadows.

the rocky shores of mythology swiftly disappeared,
the surrounding air has become more fragile and ill
and Conchita Wurst told me in threatening thrills
that the portion of love, forgiveness and mercy has ended
for this earth.


the cut of the memory

your looks seem disturbed by some places and memories of old times. when these come back at you, the fear makes you cramp your eyes, for, in the next second, your body would get hit by a truck on a highway, driving at full speed on the wrong line towards you. sometimes this fear makes you feel like a little child, mercilessly beaten by parents with a metal belt. without being able to think of any opposition, you close your eyes to see nothing and try to move away, while the knife just cut the throat of the time and the body and head will be separated from now on.

until when?


© Dorian Stoilescu