Nichita Stanescu was a Romanian poet and essayist. He is the most acclaimed contemporary Romanian language poet, leaving behind some of the most important poetry in post-war Romanian literature. more »
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Nichita Stanescu Poems
Then we met more often. I stood at one side of the hour, you at the other, like two handles of an amphora.
She remains bored and very beautiful her black hair is angry, her bright hand for ages now has forgotten me, -
Sad Love Song
Only my life will die for me, in truth, sometime. Only the grass knows the taste of the earth. In truth, only my blood misses
Black snow was falling. The tree line shone when I turned to see - I had wondered long and silent, alone, trailing memory behind me.
He offered me a leaf like a hand with fingers. I offered him a hand like a leaf with teeth. He offered me a branch like an arm. I offered him my arm like a branch.
You are so beautiful in winter! The field stretched on its back, near the horizon, and the trees stopped running from the winter wind... My nostrils tremble
The Golden Age Of Love
My hands are in love, alas, my mouth loves - and see, I am suddenly aware that things are so close to me
Field In Spring
Green rings around the eyes, this grass in vibrant motion arcs tenderly about you, at a distance- you summon it, then fling it round, broken by your laugh of youth and innocence.
I was so very aware that the afternoon was dying in the domes, and all around me sounds froze, turned to winding pillars.
Poetry is the weeping eye it is the weeping shoulder the weeping eye of the shoulder it is the weeping hand
Distance is the cog wheel on the haunted axle of my hearing, grinding fine the deadened mind of that unborn god
Adolescents On The Sea
This sea is covered with adolescents learning to walk on waves, upright, sometimes resting their arms on the currents, sometimes gripping a stiff beam of sunlight.
Little by little she became a word, bundles of soul on the wind, a dolphin in the clutches of my eyebrows, a stone provoking rings in water,
Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
I would lower a knee,
and touch my elbow to the ground
to look at the grass, bent
by the falling of some word,
as though by the paw of a lion in flight.
The words spun between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they continued, this whirl almost seen,
the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.