Mihai Firica, Romania

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    Mihai Firica, Romania
    Vice President of IWA BOGDANI

    Mihai Firica – He was born on July 26, 1970 in Craiova, Romania. He studied Letters, History and Law, having a post-graduate specialization in International Relations Management. He attended several courses and internships organized by CJI in Romania, Bulgaria and Croatia. A well-known press and television journalist, he set up several daily newspapers and cultural publications, especially as a television talk show publisher.

    He debuted as a poet in the Ramuri magazine in 1989, collaborated with the most important Romanian publications and his poems were translated into English, French, Spanish, Hungarian, Japanese and Bulgarian.

    He is a member of the Union of Writers of Romania – Oltenia Branch since 1997. For the volume of “Summarized Biography” (1996) he received the Poetry Award of the International Academy “Mihai Eminescu”. The second volume of poetry “Traveling Serpent Language” (1997) received the “Marin Sorescu” Prize and the Writers ‘Union of Romanian Writers’ Union – Craiova Branch. In 2017 he published the volume of lyrics “The Last Days and The Afterlife”.

    In 2006 a revised version of the volume “The Language of the Wandering Serpent / The Tongue of Wandering Serpent” appeared in Romanian and English. The journalistic activity was recorded in the volumes “The moth insect” (2004), “Dynasty of the Scoundrels” (2010) and “Romania puzzle. Illustrating the Cleopatholes Reserve” (Aius Publishing House, 2015), a trilogy highlighted by criticism of specialist for the incisiveness and accuracy of socio-political analysis. For his literary and journalistic work he has been awarded many awards by prestigious magazines in Romania.

    You are smiling just in the evening

    You are smiling just in the evening.
    Wax walls absorb the prayer,
    on walnut shells talk to God,
    I sigh in the whisper, comfort the words.
    The saints were my friends before being up,
    beside Him to be of use to him
    – They had become useless anyway.
    Perhaps some will come back through decay,
    will be hiding among the roots
    longing for the light.
    From the overturned city, the sun goes down.
    Your heart is a warm animal squatting in my arms,
    the night is cold, it has round and pale stars,
    is spreading into dozens of petals in the morning
    when we do not know our name anymore
    and why, when and to whom are all these photos
    from which we look at strangers.
    I swim in a pile of bright shards
    – a bird that covers us with wide wings
    it hits us with the golden clone –
    you will not remember my name
    when you look at the faded and yellowed picture
    This happens when young women cut their hair
    and it bears the wind all the way.

    Where I cannot find you

    I woke up dead.
    That’s what happens to me every time I find you next to me.
    You will not believe me,
    looking behind my eyed eye and still seems natural to me
    – a wound cleared of blue flesh.
    And if I did not have the luck to quit young,
    to approve me for love, and so with the flesh burning,
    all the hours stayed deep in my brain,
    letters burning like hot iron.
    In the inn, the future read in vain of women hidden in the black fire.
    I pack the insect dream
    in the thousands of gestures I want to surprise you with.
    I saw my body floating and flying parallel to me,
    a double ego. I wondered if anyone else was watching us.
    Who knows how much we are in this world,
    how many remain and how many are we going to end.
    Wire dancer on the last step,
    traveler in nothingness.
    I’m in a blackness.
    Everything around is to be reviewed,
    it is not easy to talk and rewrite.
    I do not want to dream of getting up.

    The Pink Ghetto

    I laughed, put my hands in the dry land,
    the tunnel almost swallowed me –
    how not to make your carved face
    to sell you how much flesh is you?
    Shadowless people will cherish you more than money stuck on your forehead,
    your silence will descend into the grave with bars.
    Come in the wagon, they cried out to me,
    beside the barbed wire fence
    arm to arm with death,
    align in oblivion,
    sneaking in history beyond the walls.
    I no longer liked my child’s shoes,
    the wind hung on a green meadow –
    from there the horizon is seen,
    the dream realm from which the clouds of cotton wool come –
    I can only touch them in the evenings when I fall asleep with my mother.
    My dad should have been up there,
    a god driven out of the autumn
    by the breeze sent by the head of the butterfly wing.
    I’m staying for a moment
    and I can not find you.
    Smoke nodes cut at the last glance.

    Stories for disobedient children

    I go in and out with a smile,£
    cross the sea that does not forgive from one end to the other.
    They gave me the pills without the faces –
    you are our brother here and beyond –
    we cracked our hands and feet,
    the end of the day I found the syringes too.
    The dog Judas had finished without us,
    without alcohol and rounded letters will be our lives,
    shadows broken apart without sleep.
    It would not hurt to stay at home,
    wait for the wall and listen to the rust hour,
    to hear the memories on the old faces.
    (your lady is leaving your dead man alive
    surely the tenderness has a price and the hat will catch you and
    the color and model of the alas and probably the gametes loved you
    until the last clock)
    Until we separate
    carve the diary with his sharpened pocket.
    Goodbye and goodbye, I hear voices,
    words like petty little glass.
    And the secondary stuck, but you never know, dear lady.
    Bye, no, no, better to say goodbye!

    Somewhere in the darkness

    Somewhere in the darkness I see myself,
    the one who waits with the jealousy on his face,
    with a bitter smile in the corner of his mouth.
    The ash chrysanthemum and the closed house,
    a hanging painting overturned.
    A long day I hated,
    I regretted that I did not stop him in my arms,
    to cling to my chest, to synchronize my beating hearts.
    The mummy of the forest is playing –
    finding a place is an art
    as the mission to survive between friends and roundtables,
    no home departures and no returns as late as possible.
    Tears after the tear-but still breathing.
    And if I am petrified entire life
    and if too many years fail to reach me,
    still as a tear on the cheek of a lost child
    I’m going to wait for you.

    Mihai Firica (Romania)

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