The Garden of My Youth #Guest Post

A beautiful poem written by one of my friends, Virginia. I hope you enjoy it!


The Garden of My Youth

by Virginia Mateias

(translated from Romanian by the author’s daughter)


With barren feet I step on withered roses.

Out of warm blood-drops,

Memories will bloom

As I walk in the long since deserted house

Straining to hear

My grandmother’s echoing chants,

My earthly father’s forgotten voice.

From specks of dust and wind

I shall reassemble my Mother`s smile,

As my eyes dance away from cracked walls

Then turn to the sky above;

To the aloof,


Nostalgic sky.

Sunset to sunrise,

I will walk the gardens

Till sleep comes for me and finds me

Hidden In a deep fissure

Near a tall window

Because, you see,

I have always needed high, large spaces.

Afterwards, my child will come

In search of me and of a smile

Embedded in bricks and mortar.

The house itself shall fall apart,

Cars will enter the rose garden,

And a new highway will be built over it;

Only then, will my family and I, utterly freed from space

Will move to the sky,

To the best place to look upon

Strange people we have never met

With detachment,


And nostalgia.


In the spring of 2000 the poet, actress, and journalist, Virginia Mateias published her first literary work: a poetry volume in Romanian entitled “Persistenta Memoriei” (The Persistence of Memory). Virginia was acknowledged by her literary critics as “an authentic and spontaneous poet.” “The Garden of My Youth,” translated in English by her daughter, is a poem from her new book “In Umbra Ingerului” (In the Shadow of the Angel). 

Virginia’s biggest passions: nature escapades, and travelling with her daughter on the footsteps of lost civilizations.


i want to die alone #poetry


i want to die alone

on a dark pebble shore

a thousand frantic seagulls

will sing my mass


(my gravediggers)

will exult

the gravity of nonexistent stars

will bury me

into the scents of salt and fruit

and when my fearless Spanish angel

takes me to the altar of the moon

i will forget the misery i’ve lived

and never be reborn



imagine:  Atelier Sommerland/Shutterstock


paradise #poetry


the southern cross shines on my chest

Moorish patterns verse on silent walls

kisses spin on opal rings

like birds into the winds

which force the sailors

to anchor their ships in unknown lands


my body twists in perfumed coriander air

the Hand of Fatima takes off my veils


i’m falling naked at your feet

your lips entangle in my bracelets

Tchaikovsky’s hitting a crescendo

i toss into the smell of apricots and spice

don’t stop

for Michelangelo has never painted

any expulsion from the paradise


geisha’s pleasures #poetry


it must be January for cherry blossoms open their wings

and melt into the pleasure quarters of your dreams

my face is painted in the purest white

carnations are my lips grown in the dark

my ornaments are birds of paradise

my body sleek

my eyes unspoken fantasies

oh, how well i know your eagerness to bite

you roar and toss on purple sheets

like tigers kept in cages for too long

don’t you know

that in the month of January

the earth cages the sun

my skin remains untouched

my joy is unconfined

and all I am is art?

i’m smiling…

what pleasures do you think that a geisha has in mind?



imagine: iordani/Shutterstock


Love in Venice #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”

He looks at me. His eyes green, his hair dark like the depths of the tropical forest in inky nights when the moon never shows.

I bite my lip.

“Oh, no, but someday I would love to live here for an entire winter.”

“And what would you do?”

“I will walk every night in Piazza San Marco, at that very moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. I will look for a new love in the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival: changing mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain. Every morning I will mix secret essences of perfumes, seeking for the one that could revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic sea; my body shivering, my soul revived. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”

I stop.

I look at him. His eyes engulfed by passion, his dark hair touched by a mellow breeze.

The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.

He whispers:

“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”

“I am not going to parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”

For a moment he looks flabbergasted.

His lips try to bite into mine. In a flash, I avoid them.





purple autumn #poetry


this autumn

let’s bathe naked in the purples

of neurotic symbolistic poetry

let’s burn tree leaves

into the tongues of our passions

the cries of birds

the colors of sunsets

the spleen

lost in lonely parks in other hemispheres

let’s imitate the gestures of rejected lovers

and when the last repudiated poet feels the bliss

let’s disappear forever into the fumes of our kiss



imagine: LanaBrest/Shutterstock.com


no one’s world #poetry


i can hear the rifle firing

i’m trying not to think

i’m counting empty chairs in a small bar

the polish on my nails is red

my lipstick must be red

i don’t have a mirror

the rifle fires again

i can hear the screams of children

i can hear the screams of brides

it smells anesthetic

death sounds like newborns


bartenders polish glasses

I’m trying to remember where exactly

i belong…


in no one’s world…

lamentations tear at my soul

the hunger games are heating up

and your coffee’s getting cold.


Love #excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


A sky of gray and pink tones was descending upon us. The ocean was petrified, its agitated face morphed into an immense silent mirror. A heavy silence was flowing between the high clouds and the water, meandering like a black venomous snake in a humid jungle.

Sitting on the shore, bewitched by love, none of us moved or spoke.

After a while, Miquel said:

“I stood up to my own God for you, Clara. When I will leave this world, I want you to know that will not kneel in front of Him to beg for forgiveness. If I have to burn in hell, so be it. Love has nothing to apologize for.”

He felt silent.

His green brilliant were eyes scrutinizing the horizon.

For some reason he looked to me like a new version of Columbus determined to reach the East Indies, and instead ending up in San Salvador. Was it better?

I turned toward him. Drops of water were trickling on his neck.

Was it raining, or was I crying?