Hurtful Words

September 18, 2016 § Leave a comment

Like stones thrown at a hungry dog

Like rain falling on an unfinished roof

Like a river flooding a newly planted field

Hurtful words.


They wake you up in the middle of the night

They look for you in every corner of the city

Their sound faster than the light

Hurtful words.


Like fine sand entering every corner

Like wet weather for an old man’s bones

Like a wind that dries the greenest garden

Hurtful words.


My Book is Full of Words

March 30, 2015 § 8 Comments


In 2013 I spent a whole year on Twitter exploring the meaning of “big” words like life, death, love, sex, pain, pride, violence, hope… When I started writing these “definitions” in January that year, I had no idea they’d become a project. I had just entered a period in my life where reflection and its creative documentation not only felt necessary but became my life’s red thread. A thread far from following a straight line, though, but mostly curling into circles that only slowly, if at all, formed a moving spiral. Most of the words escaped permanent definitions; life kept, and keeps, redefining them for me.

This project, I later named ‘All the Words’, became something like an online journal of aphorisms, epigrams or naked verses — sometimes looking for a poem and coming closer together, and sometimes running away from each other, contradicting and opposing each other. All of them were based on my personal observations and emotional reactions to readings of all kinds, the news and everyday experiences, or chats with friends, online or in person. Many people followed my ramblings on Twitter, retweeted and frequently replied commenting on them, as they felt addressed by one or the other poetic definition.

The creative process on Twitter has been a unique experience for me but now I’m delighted that ‘All the Words’ has also become a beautiful little book thanks to Phoenicia Publishing and my publisher Elizabeth Adams. Even if you’d read each one of those tweets on Twitter, Elizabeth has created a typographic design that will make that process, that Heraclitian river of words and meanings, visible for you and aesthetically a new experience. Some of the earliest supporters of that project on Twitter shouldn’t be surprised to find yourselves also mentioned in my words of thanks as your generous feedback kept me writing and posting.

Among those precious early readers were three people I enormously admire and am grateful to for they were kind enough to write what they liked about ‘All the Words’: the poet and translator George Szirtes who has won a variety of prizes for his poetry (Reel, The Burning of the Books, Bad Machine) and for his translations (László Krasznahorkai’s Satantango), the multitalented Natasha Badhwar, columnist at Mint Lounge, film-maker and fashion entrepreneur, and the poet Dave Bonta (Twelve Simple Songs, Odes to Tools) who is a very well-known blogger and online publisher of Moving Poems.

You can read what they had to say about the book on the Phoenicia website page for ‘All the Words’ where you can also order the book. Launch Date: April 20th, 2015.

I will be happy for your feedback, here or elsewhere.

Night Trains

August 1, 2014 § Leave a comment


Night trains. Like blood in night’s veins.
They take my sleep away in their luggages.
My memories, their passengers.
Night trains in the distance.
Night trains in the distance.
Night trains, night trains,
night, night, night trains…
Trains passing over the iron bridge;
pillars crunch with their teeth at night 
moved by invisible weights
and the sound of their shadows.
Far away a faint whistle now,
maybe night’s last breath.


March 12, 2014 § 2 Comments


She waited on that bench. There are places that come back to you. She just had to wait.

How often must one tell a story to believe it? How often must one listen to it to forget?

There were names written on that bench.

For whom had these people carved their names? Who was their reader?

Maybe she could choose one of these names. Stand up and walk away named like that. A name has always a story. The story would be hers then.

A man stopped right in front of her and looked at her. She held her breath. Was he her reader?

Some places come back to you. You just have to wait. Your name can bring them back. A stranger can bring back your name.

Come on, darling. Come on, Helen, let’s go home.


My dear, on that bench

I’ve forgotten all the poems

I’ve written and read.

Three Kinds of Morning

February 8, 2014 § 1 Comment


In the morning the winter is trying hard to remember a bird song.

In the morning the world stands still and waits for us to jump on.

In the morning we eavesdrop our heart beating, our blood running, feel our breath over our lips. Our small planet in orbit.

In the morning we stretch our limbs to the places we want to travel to.


In the morning it’s our truths that wake us up.

In the morning his words, her hair, his hands, her smile and how the light erases them.

In the morning we know other people’s dreams.


In the morning we’re lost and found.

In the morning all the poems we’ve read are street names in the town we live.

In the morning we’re never lonely. We still have ourselves.

Indoor Swimming Pool

November 11, 2013 § Leave a comment



Indoor swimming pool:

All these bodies small and big,

light on the water.


Indoor swimming pool:

We all become little boats

in a fake ocean.


Indoor swimming pool:

We surrender to water

and escape the rain.


Indoor swimming pool:

under water, the best place

to shed secret tears.


Indoor swimming pool:

like a womb that protects us

from that mess outside.

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