By Cristian Andrei

Why (Exile)

Why has the cloud to pass through tops of buildings
as a hippo through darkened waves?
Why men
have to cloud, to storm one in another’s eye
like electrons in fluorescent tubes?
Why is this belly shivering like a tribal drum
under hotloving fingers bringing into dance
old love poems’ letters?
Why are you, young man, keeping asking
again & again pulling the spell out of me
determined as a hand on a trigger-alarm?
of the shuttle-commute? from you to me?
from me to you? who knows it yet ?
A lot of history
is gone through us, memory’s
footprints are to the plain worn out



You’ll give the circle the wrong of your lines
The sound will, too, receive
the atmosphere from around your line
will flicker of circles
reset in
question marks


Our discourse is often just a puzzle which lacks in coherence,
instead of single, steady piece ("la taille directe", Brancusi).

Ruling Metaphor

The body stretched along the fingers
Merciless pointing out "Go ahead !"
The history’s spade
digging the trench
closer & closer to Alpha Centauri
Heartbeat : helmets for the cohorts of ideas
The poetry’s gas mask
on the long distance runner’s face
A man props his elbows on knees,
his head on palms: starts thinking
His thought is the gladiator’s net


We are two parts of a fluid architecture
(standard movement
for our own translation by each other)
Two little spots from different areas
anticorrosive layer & underlying structure
Or: molecule in the foundation &
thermoinsulating pellicle
Or: wall with elevators gurgling through &
acoustics of the mavericks’ oval room
We telepathic roll out drawing board memories;
we’re genuine & up-to-date


Meaning of History is all in St.Paul’s sentence: live in this world as if you wouldn't be part of it (stands not in contradiction to the Augustinian "ama et fac quod vis") History is only mirroring the process of remembering which you have to set up.


Anxiety swims the right arm along
Exit are fingers
Gets dry in the air
Plunges in the left arm’s waves
Outlining a triumphal arch
Under it, like tame animals under yoke,
pass silence after silence
And silence of other hands
gives them lovingly
stroke after stroke

No In, No Out

bewitched me:
I’ve no more sense for "up" & "down"
and "far" & "near"
And dare not to show my Icaruslike wings
Eyelids’ landmark
stroked me at swishing borders of time
At lookbottom, everywhere
same waters, teardust. And
one tear
swimming me through


Happiness is only heavenly. In this sense, I would reverse a Latin dictum and would say: everything that’s human is not my concern (except the humans themselves).

Eclipse On Both Sides

Faces in effigy are our legacy
on the scarred green of grass, of leaves
A small people of tears passing through us
A morning dedicated to fragile sensibilities
Yearnings’ ghost (wolfskin over it)
with foggy boats is gliding:
The howl is spreading out
along with our shadows
under whim of light, obscure smile

Pretty Faces

Beyond every history
is another one
Breaking of the moment that enchanted us
Echoes are spreading
old flavors on dead languages
the old song & the new one
are chewed together
The second itself is silence’s rhythm
fed up with reincarnated words
Bus station: I’m tasting faces
which have signs of a writing got in oblivion
And each one in the waiting crowd
(mute open pits)
is applying to the others
the same taste procedure:
That’s how a love story starts,
the archaeologist reinventing himself
out of the memory of his findings


Wisdom has any power over catastrophe, yet catastrophe is powerless where wisdom is.


My love is homelike
Has the shape of wash-basin
Come and wash your hands
as Pontius Pilate did
After you'd have crucified me
in your mirrormornings


Human love is only a substitute for the heavenly one ("platonic").
We are so often missing just this:
ultimately, love is not about sex.

The Street

Sumptuous cars of the blood are speeding at full throttle
On each side of the race
feminine buildings are raising
Lipstickroofs got hot
Everything is socked in China ink love
A child
crosses the street

Happening With Newborn

Muscle speaks to tree’s fiber:
every contraction is a twinkle to the eye
Forest & man
are looking at each other through
A flock of birds is going the looktunnel through:
As through vagina a child


Language is such as the model in the artist shop:
you’ll find it as real-as-real & as real-as-art.

The Child & The Softtoyadult

The skin put on every morning,
undone in the evening:
Where the last stitch was
bleeding ideas ooze on child hands:
Wound passed down from year to year, age to age
Red string protecting from the evil eye

Letter To The Far Edge Of The Sleep

Behind, the route of life
is sickleshaped & has rainbow reflections
Poetry letters outline the head of a horse:
The race of its ancestors
is what the present thought is trying to take in


"Charming" words don't match up to my yearning. I want them saviors (they don't build, they are temples). It's the way I believe in their power.

The Girl With Matches

Everywhere mother’s heart used to be
nowadays are, here & there, bloody spots -
father’s heart/papersun:
an innocent play shall lit it up once & for all

Someone Later On There Love Me

As a steaming bull
younger years are leaving the field
Skin’s curtain unfolds
Somebody hoods this move
with a sandlike caress


Stars -lucky or unlucky- under which someone’s born are only maps in the same land.
Don't take the Landlord for his ministers.

Big Bang

I sing an off colored song
For the community
No, I’m not a priest
Neither a poet
My song’s a muted buzzing in the blood
Headache without pain & echo
And I’m gentle hunting
all the egos gotten lost
in this (incredible how harmonious)

The Statue Of Liberty (Bosnian Tale)

Red sun is setting up
In the other half-side
(aubergine purple & blue)
the gold of the moon’s still lasting
Destiny & sensibility are divided too
However, Day & Night are scattering through
the body with waterfall sound
"Hey, bud, how are you ?"
(The movement is out)
"Here, have some water"
(Only the sound)


Morality steps in, on going short of spirituality
("Jenseits von Gut und Böse").


The fighter sits down at the writing desk,
his helmet nearby - desklamp
Yesterdayhand is a plastercasting
Over it, presenthand,
inquisitive thrilled,
is scanning
And cutting fingerknots
might just turn up the hand of the future
The fighter sat down at the writing desk
The head groans, full of stars
Shooting ones turn into eye-avatars
A gladiators’ school
is raising ahead
The lookfield is stirred up by cool
jaws of
prehistoric clouds & dread

Cranes Are Leaving

We don't see them
Yet know it’s about time
We’re on a tophill
have pictorial sense for the scenery
To an outsider
we have the immobility of a painting in museum
And yet we get closer
and us and everything around are vanishing
faster & faster
according to Hubble’s principle


Poetry is mysticism
("When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding joy").


I live in the eye’s sphere
yet I see me in others
Like bats, I hang from beams of dream
Outside the eye I writhe
get kicks
In blind spheres
I play hidden-and-seen
I play God over these sheets
which swaddle me, unborn,
more & more in the eye

Far & Up

The tree’s left to itself
A shiver with shy breaks through it
along with the sunbeam (this one hugged
by bark as sword in faithful scabbard)
Down from the mountains
a bird alights on the tree
The tree is looking through it
The tree is my brother:
That’s why my eye is a bird
Memory of the mountain where it came from
is stinging me
I’m left to myself
I’m looking
far & up

© Cristian Andrei

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