The Pepper Grinder

Only a few poems, simple expressions for feelings of love, natural beauty, ideals of peace, death apprehension or the purpose of writing or reading. More
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About Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu

See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic a king; (Alexander Pope: An Essay on Man: Epistle II. )

I began to write poems in childhood, then, after a scientific education, I restarted to write poems when I was 36 (in 2007) and then haiku in 2010. I also translated some of my poems in English.

2 poems from my last ebook here:


if you are my friend you would always believe in what I say
we would bite from the same orange even if we know
that stones disappear and rivers remain
even if I read Heidegger and Kierkegaard and I dislike Confucius or Laozi
even if I value Hugo and Dostoyevsky and I am still outraged by Picasso
even if I cry without a word very softly and I want sometimes
to play another Nine Men’s Morris with beans or lentils
until night falls upon us and you will believe me again when I’ll tell you
about the black forest grown from too high dreams
and about the catacombs built by warrior ants

right now we stay together face to face at the round table
somewhere at Stonehenge
measuring the time necessary for light to run back and forth
between me and you
we both smile the same however much it hurts
because tears would divide us forever
like the sword separating Tristan and Isolde
same as all the others divided because they never betrayed
not even for the sake of their love


my happiness ends here / on a Sunday’s evening
after the cross atop the church’s steeple becomes cooler
after this bright red sunset
there will be no more painless/ careless/ fearless moments
the asphalt is empty and dull for my soles/ its echoes are lost
no better things to do than strolling these streets/ almost losing ground
then staring at people right into the whole/ the full of them
without any thought on my mind

only the shadow of my elbow is touched by other shadows
en passant
silhouette after silhouette
Modigliani’s women/ Brâncu┼či’s magical birds
la dolce morte della luce

everything flows into thoughts/ thoughts into other thoughts
even Charon’s boat disappears
and right now my lips paralyzed to prevent me from proving the truth

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