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Iunie 6, 2017 / mihahela

Our mind

Our mind,
you that give us the will to act in (seemingly) freedom,
unfolded be your name
and revealed its (linguistic, metaphysical and ontological) secrets,
let agency come, fully restored after a history of deterministic slavery,
let perception be the same as understanding.
Feed us your bread, the truth, free from ambiguity,
and forgive us the arrogance of believing in you more than
maybe physics would allow
and don’t let us fall in doctrinal stupidity
and absolve us from dichotomy, the evil.

Iunie 6, 2017 / mihahela

Filosoful schiop — The Key to the Question

The Cripple Philosopher

via Filosoful schiop — The Key to the Question

Aprilie 23, 2016 / mihahela

The Sofa


play in three scenes and an epilogue

Aprilie 23, 2016 / mihahela

I Am Vulnerable


play in three scenes and an epilogue

Octombrie 19, 2015 / mihahela

The New Physics: Kepler’s Refutation of Aristotle’s Concept of Motion


Ianuarie 12, 2015 / mihahela

un mort fara sosete

nu lui i-am spus ci ei,
nu lor ci voua
si nu am plins ci doar
m-am dezbracat,
o mina dreapta
apoi o mina stinga,
maieu, sosete, sapca si manusi.
am stat citeva ore-ntins in pat
cu gindurile ca o apa tulburata
si ochii tinta.
un mort stupefiat.

„sa ma ridic”, mi-am spus,
„sa-mi fac un ceai”.
dar am ramas cu setea,
nu m-am mai ridicat.

mi-e sete si acum
dar nu vorbesc.
mi-am extirpat cuvintul
iar fapta i-a urmat.

un mort fara sosete, mut si-ngindurat…

Ianuarie 20, 2014 / mihahela

the shame

trying to relativate the shame that nodds at me…

„I’m guilty like the pig that ate the corn…”
and, just like the ignorant pig, so silent…

you can call it lack of interest and brutal ignorance,
I call it self-protection:
I stopped long time ago with
reading other poets than myself,
she said, ashamed…
not out of comfort as it makes life so much more difficult: 
no helping hand from other brothers in arms,
no mirror to mirror the face that sometimes
falls in deep silence and convicts itself
to months without music or rhyme,
to the minimalistic life of an ignorant pig…

I can still read shakespeare, the man,
with him I’m safe: no piece of him is possible
within the frustrated white verse of the modern me…

wyslawa, on the contrary, seems to wake up
in every sentence that I try to formulate,
her daemon floats with me
depriving me from the only gift I’m left with:
my freedom…

and seamus, the manipulator, the one I fell
in love with when I thought my heart was empty,
(honestly, it was. he filled it up again with resonance
and meaning)
takes me over, over, I cannot write my own words
because I write him through my pen…

without them around me, I can be myself…
what a torment to have to stay away
from the one you love, the ultimate trade…
call the pig an „ignorant”.
he’s nevertheless free…