Horatiu Stamatin Poems
|1.||(anna Karenina Was A Novel Written By Lev Tolstoy)||8/10/2008|
|2.||(even The Saints...)||10/26/2008|
|3.||(on A Sunday Afternoon...)||10/26/2008|
|5.||(if Alva Had Known)||5/26/2013|
|7.||Works And Days||4/18/2015|
|8.||(the Effect Of The Marigolds On The Fact Itself)||4/22/2015|
|9.||(caesarean Operation In A Wild Daffodils Field)||7/6/2015|
|11.||(homage To The Philosopher Emil Cioran)||6/26/2013|
|12.||(a Man Walks...)||10/26/2008|
|13.||(the Girls Washed...)||10/26/2008|
|15.||(the Clock Strikes…)||8/10/2008|
|18.||(of Her Pants…)||8/10/2008|
|19.||(sing, O, Goddess...)||10/26/2008|
|20.||(if You Speak…)||8/10/2008|
|21.||I Don'T Like||6/20/2011|
|22.||When I Entered The Room||12/16/2010|
|23.||When I Came||12/19/2010|
|24.||(the Women And Christianity)||8/1/2008|
|26.||(it Was Autumn...)||10/26/2008|
A woman came in my garden.
She took off her bra, cut her left bosom, and buried it in the shadow of a tree.
After a while I kept working with the fruit, and she had got another bosom grown.
Digging a tree root, I came across a rifle. I lifted it to the sky and fired.
I heard a sigh and a blue liquid started to dropp down as from a wound.
(the Clock Strikes…)
The clock strikes the midnight and I make love with a poetess. Her hands are not her hands, her words are not her words. I lick some sweat drops from her forehead: their taste reminds me that the earth is halfhearted and the flowers, confused.