Dragoş Niculescu is awarded in national and international literary contests. Niculescu’s poems were published by many important publishers and cultural magazines, he figuring among the fifty most important contemporary Romanian poets. He has published until present three poetry volumes and he has in print two poetry volumes and one drama volume. He is also literary critic and cultural redactor. He is an active presence at the book fairs and literary circles of the Writers Union of Romania.
The inner wind
Through us was blowing a terrible wind and we were clinging tight
by the lamp’s pylons, waving like some conspiratorial flags.
Around us was warm, the people have already gathered to look at us,
to express their view, while above us, in the lamps’ glass,
captive flies were seeking for a passageway, another, saving dimension.
It was warm, the sun was beating down, but we were shivering
under the chill blow, with our fingers writhed on the metal pylons.
From time to time I was looking at you how you were levitating
under the power of the inner wind, parallel to the ground.
With the hair like this, waving, you seemed like an unearthly bride,
in the endless search of a nomadic target. You were also sometimes
looking at me and even once you winked at me, as if our situation
would have been a happy one, as if our past and future would have
found a secret meaning right at those balanced moments.
The city has emptied, they all have gathered in that dusty square,
on the scorching sand.
“What is, mister, with these guys?”, asked a fatty one, with straw hat,
munching an ice cream. “My opinion is that somehow we must intervene,
does not seem naturally what happens to them.”
The people were not listening to him. After they looked a while
at us, each began to mind his own business:
two children were peeling potatoes right next to us in a plastic bucket,
a butcher unscrewed his wooden leg and threw it in the grocer
across the street, the shoeblacker, in lack of customers, began to brush
of dust all the mornings wasted along his ingrate existence.
The rider came later, when the wind of us showed signs
of calming down. He was holding his head in his left hand,
in the right hand he was holding the reins. On his healed neck
stopped a white dove.
“This too will pass”, spoke to us the head from his left palm.
“The dwellers of this city are not accustomed with long cataclysms.
Look, they already have gone, each mind his own business.”
At that moment we both fell in the hot sand, with the arms wide open,
like two crosses prepared for the beginning or the end of a calvary.
The wind of us stopped. The rider walked away with the white dove
on the healed neck and only then I saw the aura that surrounded his face.
“Has gone the last archangel, too …”, whispered the child peeling potatoes,
while you were clinging by a gentle ray, which was tightening
towards the clouds.
On the river
I am a man of light and shadow, hidden among sands
and lonely forests.
At sunset, I watch the evening boat lazily carrying on the
large way of the water…
I have appeased my memories. They lie, with me,
far from everything that would mean end or beginning.
Their sleep is my sleep too, no more haunting me for a long time
like a proscribed law of the fate.
One day, here, near the fire that I litghted on the island
on the river, halted a man. I streched out to him broiled fish
and loaf from chestnuts and wild barley. He was a fugitive,
hasn’t cuted his beard anymore, his clothes were black and shabby.
“My life was a long string of biternesses”, he said to me
looking in the firelight. “A rush from which I always wanted
to escape me and them. ”
“Stay on the island”, I said to him. “Here is peace and quiet.”
“Thank you, he answered me, but I have to run on. I can never stop… ”
And, one evening, he began to swim towards the steamboat that
seemed to be stationing much longer, to measure the low depth
next to the thresholds of the Two Snakes. Suddenly, I didn’t see
him anymore. I think the boat has going to leave and caught him
in the paddle’s mill, pulling him to the bottom.
In the depth of the night I watch the lights on the other shore ‒
a distant land, resting its bloodied hands
in the underwater roots, and I seem that in me dwells
the ghost of that escapee, which has found, finally, his peace.