Four poems by Adrian Suciu

29 August 2019
Author :  


A cultural tramp, a vagabond in spirit, a literary hooligan. So amazed to have a biography that he forgot it. He has written too many things for somebody who dreams to write the silence. Hadn’t he published books and hadn’t he received diplomas, a bunch of trees would be still alive. Member of the Ash Collectors’ Association and of the Union of the Music Composers for the Deaf. Hopelessly in love with Poetry, which he has never touched and he has never cheated on, neither with women nor with wine. 




A woman can build a house with a single
brick. That’s why we don’t give bricks to women:
the construction industry would go bankrupt.

A woman can create a country with happy people
on a thread of sand. That’s why we don’t give
threads of sand to women: there would not be 
enough kings to rule all the countries.

A woman can rewrite God with a pen.
That’s why we don't give pens to women:
everything we know would be upside down. 
The body would go to the sky
and the soul in the ground, where it would be happy
like a butchery knife that has mercy.




You can’t but come from a beautiful town,
from a street between two oblivions.

There one can hear endless shadow factories
packing lonely things. We talk about them
as if sowing sand in the desert. 
Us, the most fulfilled widow and 
the merriest orphan.
We talk to silences in houses without paths,
when the sun won’t come out 
and the moon goes on waiting.
The sky is darkening with words and 
the blood riverbed is draining.

And your hands are so clean
that you can wash water with them…




Nobody is good at love and death. Proof being that

man’s illusions about love are identical to man’s illusions

about death.

We have been combing the rags doll for a lifetime and we expect it to say: mother!

What you say is to be understood by you alone, in your good days. Or not.

But following your loves and your deaths

deserted cats and bricks remain who would long to be windows.

Only your prompter calling lasts within the cemetery of the unknown heroes.

Bring your rags doll with you outside, just tell her mother!




Nothing is born in the flesh,

even if the wonky eyes see differently. The one who

weeps will rejoice at his weeping

and will become a tamer of birds. Whereas the one who

laughs will take no advantage of his laughter, for nothing

is born out of joy, even if the little ones

are chasing it all day!


Nothing moves in the flesh. Neither the blind worm

moves in the flesh, even if the wonky eyes

see differently.


We are not in the flesh. If we were in the flesh,

our love for God would waste us like a merry

brushwood fire and nothing would be left

and our love for God would wander by herself in the streets

like a consuming thirst looking for someone!


Nor the end of the world comes in the flesh, even if

the wonky eyes see garbage men emptying

dumpsters full of dust-smelling daffodils

in the street. Many are not aware of that, but

the end of the world has already been a few times.


I have several photographs of it.

Literary Editor

লেখা পাঠাবার নিয়ম

মৌলিক লেখা হতে হবে।

নির্ভুল বানান ও ইউনিকোড বাংলায় টাইপকৃত হতে হবে।

অনুবাদ এর ক্ষেত্রে মুল লেখকের নাম ও সংক্ষিপ্ত লেখক পরিচিতি দিতে হবে।

আরো দিতে পারেন

লেখকের ছবি।

সংক্ষিপ্ত লেখক পরিচিতি।

বিষয় বস্তুর সাথে সামঞ্জস্যপূর্ণ অঙ্কন চিত্র বা ছবি। 

সম্পাদক | Editor

তারিক সামিন

Tareq Samin

This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.


লেখা পাঠাবার জন্য


This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.


We use cookies to improve our website. Cookies used for the essential operation of this site have already been set. For more information visit our Cookie policy. I accept cookies from this site. Agree