The Road to the Station
We have gathered. We are enough people now,
in a hurry to start
down the road to the station.
The house is tattered, the clothes that have passed through life
lie in a pile on the bed.
Rain drips slowly through the ceiling
directly to the wet sheets,
over fine, mismatched, porcelain plates and cups.
Many things have already disappeared from the rooms.
This is how it is when the host, the owner, dies.
People steal,
but it's nothing. One sunny day I'll clean this place myself,
and no one will dare...
I arrive on the platform, I hold the compartment key
in my hand,
I take it to the right,
then to the left.
I see familiar faces. I ask a conductor where my room is.
The writing world is full of traps. I meet my colleague.
I ask her too.
She looks at me in amazement. She has a fit of joyful anger.
"I broke a Murano vase, she says, “and I will break another, once again,
as long as I find the right one."
You are here too, my beloved. Are you looking for me?
Look! I have several keys in my pocket, crafted from sea stones,
patinated by the waves, but I don't think any of them will work.
Which is the best key? Does anyone know?
Inside the station, the heart, the engine, gives signs of fatigue.
You sink into lascivious dreams. Lethargy grips you.
You say the word “sex.”
You think the word “sex.”
Your lips thicken hungrily; your body
is invaded by a cold and heavy sweat.
I'm not going to pick you up from the floor.
I'm not going to lift you up again.
I'm in a hurry to board the train,
but it hasn't yet reached the platform.
The Dance of Living Cells
it won't be long until
I will shake myself
from diseases and traps.
Great currents cross me,
endowing me with foreign, healing powers.
I feel like, from now on,
I can sprout from every stone
with my heart carved
in stone,
like the towering firs,
anchored in a small amount of clay—
almost nothing at all,
like a ballerina dancing
on tiptoe,
feeding herself on a furtive look or smile.
In the breeze of her fragile arms
transformed into a downpour of rain,
a spirit breathes light
from the secret life of living cells.
Three O’clock in the Afternoon
"Peace to those who arrive.
Joy to those who remain.
To those who leave, blessings."
The sun rises at three in the afternoon—
Good news overflows from all the medical reports.
Beauty pours over the world.
Dishevelled,
love runs through the forest.
Its greying hair, aged way too soon,
becomes tangled in thousands of wedding dresses
spread to dry on frozen stems.
Trees of both sexes sparkle, dreamy...
We take shelter. We agree with everything.
We learn to be satisfied
for no reason.
Flavia Cosma – is an award-winning Romanian-born Canadian poet, author and translator. She has published more than 50 books and her work has been represented in numerous anthologies and literary magazines.
Cosma’s poetry book Leaves of a Diary was studied at the University of Toronto 2008. Her poetry books Thus Spoke the Sea and The Latin Quarter were studied at Towson University, Baltimore, Maryland, USA (2014 and 2017.
Flavia was decorated with the Golden Medal and was appointed Honorary Member by the Casa del Poeta Peruano, Lima, Peru, 2010, for her poetry and her work as an international cultural promoter.
Flavia Cosma received the Colleen Thibaudeau Award 2023 for Outstanding Contribution to Poetry (League of Canadian Poets). She is the Director of the Biannual International Writers and Artists Festivals at Val-David, QC. Canada and the International Editor at Červená Barva Press, Somerville, MA, USA.
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