Cristian Mocanu, RO




Terza Rima




Dedicated to the Romanian students, the perennial winners of the International Geography Olympiad

I long to see the planet through your eyes
Which both to fathom and to love have learned
Using the steady compass of the wise.

For your sharp glance, that leaves no stone unturned
For truth and beauty, nothing is too deep
Nor far too lofty; nothing awed nor spurned.

If a volcano rises from its sleep
Or unknown riches hide into the sea
The fruit of Terra’s toils is yours to reap.

You’re drawing maps with care, for minds to see.
And, even as your dreams reach for the skies,
You also sketch the earth which is to be.

I long to see the planet through your eyes.



Mixed Genre


Refound: a Short-Verse Trilogy



Book Bonanza


of books
found again:
Silently we
Hug like friends who can share far more than words.





Stamp Collection


My key
To the world
Hasn’t rusted





Grandfather's Archive

His notebooks:
meaningless words touch
my heart’s strings





Thalassa: A Haibun


This year he won’t see the sea


Bending with difficulty to pick up a fallen pen, he thought just how difficult it had become, in his situation, to fend off the second half of the thought.. That second half could be: “…or ever again” or perhaps just “…and for many more years to come”. He had always waged war against the idea, tenaciously and successfully, so he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He rose from the chair, made a few tentative steps to the bookshelf in the other side of the room and managed to grab the book he wanted: a book about the sea nearest to him, the sea which he had seen the most and whose waves had caressed his limbs since his childhood. Yet the book spoke about a portion of the coast that his country had lost-in the intricacies of the World Wars-and which had become inaccessible to him or his parents before him. Therefore, another world opened before him: exotic, but with a touch of the familiar: something his and not his at the same time. He decided that sitting on the floor, just below the window, and starting to read in earnest would be the least painful.

After a while, emotions overcame him. Again, it was hard to determine whether the characters reminded him of someone he had lost, whether a twist of phrasing struck the wrong chord, or whether there was just too much “sea”. For some reason, Poe’s “Raven” came to mind, and he prayed for assistance, for an angel. As he did so, he grabbed the window-sill and managed to stand up. Without any logical explanation, opening the window proved less difficult than in the previous few days. He looked outside, his glance stumbled over the majestic Citadel Hill, and his prayer was answered:

Bound to give a start:
Murmuring like the sea waves,
The first cool breeze.









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