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Bag with feathers
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ISBN: 978-606-28-1352-9
DOI: https://doi.org/10.5682/9786062813529
Publisher year: 2021
Edition: I
Pages: 154
Publisher: Editura Universitara
Author: Raluca Maria Ganciu
Product Code:
9786062813529
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Raluca Maria Ganciu is in her second published book. The first is a book of short prose, published this year by Bifrost Publishing House, entitled Nepovestiri.
From those that cannot be told to those that can only be told in front of the mirror, it is a road, a migratory bird's path. For Raluca Maria Ganciu, this is a road of roosters.
There is a Japanese legend, more a real fluid than a story, where it is said that migratory birds, when they leave for warm countries, take with them a wooden board, and keep it in their beak. When they are above the oceans, and are tired of so much flight, they release this wooden plank into the water, sit on it, resting, and at the same time, floating on.
Raluca Maria Ganciu is an incurable melancholy, and I don't see why it would be otherwise.
It is her native state as a man and a poet. It is its first source of identity or in terms of digital literature, this melancholy is part of the data through which it can be identified.
In the poem Zbor he says it clearly, with a neutral and beneficial feeling of detachment:
On the shore of a lake, crossed by the weather,
Next to a poplar handcuffed by crows,
On a cold stone that hugs me,
It's me, Raluca.
And the reference for the flight, or what's left of it, is part of the arsenal of identification portraits. And it is not a robot portrait, or an avatar, but a very personal, vivid one, pushing the imagination beyond the edge of the eternal night.
In the poem Sac cu plene we find another identity of the poet, remade from dreams, bird wings, darkness ...
With his hand on the embers,
With a sewn smile,
I lock myself in the feather bag,
With a silent zipper.
Far from the very colorful noise of modern poetry, far from the telephone chatter with pretensions of poetry, the tones of charcoal or ink, black and white, with silver iridescence, create for the author, a space only hers. The poetry in this book is found only in fluid spaces like the waters of a mirror, in which the flame of a candle flickers easily. It is a poetic framework par excellence, but also a domestic, familiar setting, an everyday ambiance in black and white. Maybe it is a self-exile, an imposed exile, a refusal to participate in the noise of the world. The smooth, slightly sleepy spaces, the swaying poplars, outline a third dimension of the poet: foreign.
There is a slowness in the poetry of Exile, a diffusion of the real world in the one subject to sleep.
I'm coming back from the shadows of the masts
let me sing you a song of sleep.
I wondered where he was coming from, where he was coming from, what was going on there, beyond the flight, beyond the mirror, beyond the confession:
I'm the girl in the mirror.
Maybe the legend of the roosters we were talking about at the beginning, can tell us more about the girl who looks in the mirror, and who brings with her a rooster's feather. It is the answer beyond this book, where the last verse speaks of life, as of the flock of roosters that never returns.
And yet, someone returns, carrying in his hand, as a symbol of flight, a rooster's feather. And looking in the mirror again, he can say like a new one: confession I am the rooster that has returned.
Clelia Ifrim
From those that cannot be told to those that can only be told in front of the mirror, it is a road, a migratory bird's path. For Raluca Maria Ganciu, this is a road of roosters.
There is a Japanese legend, more a real fluid than a story, where it is said that migratory birds, when they leave for warm countries, take with them a wooden board, and keep it in their beak. When they are above the oceans, and are tired of so much flight, they release this wooden plank into the water, sit on it, resting, and at the same time, floating on.
Raluca Maria Ganciu is an incurable melancholy, and I don't see why it would be otherwise.
It is her native state as a man and a poet. It is its first source of identity or in terms of digital literature, this melancholy is part of the data through which it can be identified.
In the poem Zbor he says it clearly, with a neutral and beneficial feeling of detachment:
On the shore of a lake, crossed by the weather,
Next to a poplar handcuffed by crows,
On a cold stone that hugs me,
It's me, Raluca.
And the reference for the flight, or what's left of it, is part of the arsenal of identification portraits. And it is not a robot portrait, or an avatar, but a very personal, vivid one, pushing the imagination beyond the edge of the eternal night.
In the poem Sac cu plene we find another identity of the poet, remade from dreams, bird wings, darkness ...
With his hand on the embers,
With a sewn smile,
I lock myself in the feather bag,
With a silent zipper.
Far from the very colorful noise of modern poetry, far from the telephone chatter with pretensions of poetry, the tones of charcoal or ink, black and white, with silver iridescence, create for the author, a space only hers. The poetry in this book is found only in fluid spaces like the waters of a mirror, in which the flame of a candle flickers easily. It is a poetic framework par excellence, but also a domestic, familiar setting, an everyday ambiance in black and white. Maybe it is a self-exile, an imposed exile, a refusal to participate in the noise of the world. The smooth, slightly sleepy spaces, the swaying poplars, outline a third dimension of the poet: foreign.
There is a slowness in the poetry of Exile, a diffusion of the real world in the one subject to sleep.
I'm coming back from the shadows of the masts
let me sing you a song of sleep.
I wondered where he was coming from, where he was coming from, what was going on there, beyond the flight, beyond the mirror, beyond the confession:
I'm the girl in the mirror.
Maybe the legend of the roosters we were talking about at the beginning, can tell us more about the girl who looks in the mirror, and who brings with her a rooster's feather. It is the answer beyond this book, where the last verse speaks of life, as of the flock of roosters that never returns.
And yet, someone returns, carrying in his hand, as a symbol of flight, a rooster's feather. And looking in the mirror again, he can say like a new one: confession I am the rooster that has returned.
Clelia Ifrim
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Bag with feathers
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RALUCA MARIA GANCIU (b. 1982, Bucharest) is a graduate of the Faculty of International Economic Relations within the A.S.E. Currently, she works in a multinational company. He started with the short prose volume Nepovestiri (2021). He writes short prose and poetry, publishing in literary magazines.
Real identities / 7
A soul between two lives / 13
Ravine / 14
Live / 15
Origin / 16
Change / 17
Spring / 18
Begging… / 19
Ectenie / 20
A soul and a candle / 22
The dead / 23
The kid in the mirror / 24
The clock / 25
I left / 26
Genesis / 27
Asthenia / 28
Path / 29
War / 30
Glade / 31
Night / 32
From your eyes / 33
The poet / 34
My Lucifer / 35
I'm looking for his talent / 36
Miime / 37
Cake / 38
Haloa / 39
Clean / 40
Past / 41
Time / 42
Betrayal / 43
Foreign / 44
Lily / 45
Treasure / 46
I came back / 47
Sleep / 48
Screening / 49
Council / 50
Carpe diem / 51
Star / 52
Wreck / 53
Cold vendetta / 54
Call / 56
Cigarette / 57
Slowly / 58
Sadness / 59
Tango / 60
Safe / 62
Flowers / 63
Aniei / 64
Appearancet / 65
Sweet frog / 66
Another date / 67
Aviator / 68
Out of love / 69
Silver / 70
Delirium / 71
Exile / 72
Agitation / 73
Show her your love with a sigh / 74
I love / 75
Heart / 76
Title / 77
Declaration / 78
You know… / 79
Insolation / 80
Feather bag / 81
New moon / 82
Waves / 83
The fear / 84
I deny / 85
And I don't want to / 86
I don't believe you / 87
Me / 88
Easy / 89
Parchment / 90
And you can't / 91
To you, in the glass… / 92
If I were to die tomorrow / 93
A thought / 94
Wait / 95
I have dead arms / 96
Cold / 97
On a Wednesday, in August / 98
Hmm… / 99
Rupture / 100
I don't know / 101
To be a Cyclops / 102
Chaotic / 103
Fissure / 104
Waters / 105
Disappear / 106
Beggarr / 107
Nesting / 108
Thursday / 109
I feel like laughing, I feel like crying / 110
I carry you / 111
Portrait / 112
Because of me, honey… / 113
Melancholy / 114
With you / 115
Traces / 116
Petunia, I cry / 117
Nota Bene / 118
September / 120
Time / 121
Talk to me! / 122
Dolet / 123
Morning / 124
Here I am / 125
Flight / 126
Life / 127
I call you / 128
Fluids / 129
Sea view / 130
On the eve of December / 131
I see you still / 132
Titans / 133
Dialogue on white / 134
Immediately, immediately / 135
Dial / 136
Hourglass / 137
Autumn / 138
I want ... / 139
About me / 140
If I could / 141
People / 142
How do I feel? / 143
An ordinary day / 144
What is happiness? / 146
Stoicism / 147
Shadow Creator / 148
A soul between two lives / 13
Ravine / 14
Live / 15
Origin / 16
Change / 17
Spring / 18
Begging… / 19
Ectenie / 20
A soul and a candle / 22
The dead / 23
The kid in the mirror / 24
The clock / 25
I left / 26
Genesis / 27
Asthenia / 28
Path / 29
War / 30
Glade / 31
Night / 32
From your eyes / 33
The poet / 34
My Lucifer / 35
I'm looking for his talent / 36
Miime / 37
Cake / 38
Haloa / 39
Clean / 40
Past / 41
Time / 42
Betrayal / 43
Foreign / 44
Lily / 45
Treasure / 46
I came back / 47
Sleep / 48
Screening / 49
Council / 50
Carpe diem / 51
Star / 52
Wreck / 53
Cold vendetta / 54
Call / 56
Cigarette / 57
Slowly / 58
Sadness / 59
Tango / 60
Safe / 62
Flowers / 63
Aniei / 64
Appearancet / 65
Sweet frog / 66
Another date / 67
Aviator / 68
Out of love / 69
Silver / 70
Delirium / 71
Exile / 72
Agitation / 73
Show her your love with a sigh / 74
I love / 75
Heart / 76
Title / 77
Declaration / 78
You know… / 79
Insolation / 80
Feather bag / 81
New moon / 82
Waves / 83
The fear / 84
I deny / 85
And I don't want to / 86
I don't believe you / 87
Me / 88
Easy / 89
Parchment / 90
And you can't / 91
To you, in the glass… / 92
If I were to die tomorrow / 93
A thought / 94
Wait / 95
I have dead arms / 96
Cold / 97
On a Wednesday, in August / 98
Hmm… / 99
Rupture / 100
I don't know / 101
To be a Cyclops / 102
Chaotic / 103
Fissure / 104
Waters / 105
Disappear / 106
Beggarr / 107
Nesting / 108
Thursday / 109
I feel like laughing, I feel like crying / 110
I carry you / 111
Portrait / 112
Because of me, honey… / 113
Melancholy / 114
With you / 115
Traces / 116
Petunia, I cry / 117
Nota Bene / 118
September / 120
Time / 121
Talk to me! / 122
Dolet / 123
Morning / 124
Here I am / 125
Flight / 126
Life / 127
I call you / 128
Fluids / 129
Sea view / 130
On the eve of December / 131
I see you still / 132
Titans / 133
Dialogue on white / 134
Immediately, immediately / 135
Dial / 136
Hourglass / 137
Autumn / 138
I want ... / 139
About me / 140
If I could / 141
People / 142
How do I feel? / 143
An ordinary day / 144
What is happiness? / 146
Stoicism / 147
Shadow Creator / 148
Raluca Maria Ganciu is in her second published book. The first is a book of short prose, published this year by Bifrost Publishing House, entitled Nepovestiri.
From those that cannot be told to those that can only be told in front of the mirror, it is a road, a migratory bird's path. For Raluca Maria Ganciu, this is a road of roosters.
There is a Japanese legend, more a real fluid than a story, where it is said that migratory birds, when they leave for warm countries, take with them a wooden board, and keep it in their beak. When they are above the oceans, and are tired of so much flight, they release this wooden plank into the water, sit on it, resting, and at the same time, floating on.
Raluca Maria Ganciu is an incurable melancholy, and I don't see why it would be otherwise.
It is her native state as a man and a poet. It is its first source of identity or in terms of digital literature, this melancholy is part of the data through which it can be identified.
In the poem Zbor he says it clearly, with a neutral and beneficial feeling of detachment:
On the shore of a lake, crossed by the weather,
Next to a poplar handcuffed by crows,
On a cold stone that hugs me,
It's me, Raluca.
And the reference for the flight, or what's left of it, is part of the arsenal of identification portraits. And it is not a robot portrait, or an avatar, but a very personal, vivid one, pushing the imagination beyond the edge of the eternal night.
In the poem Sac cu plene we find another identity of the poet, remade from dreams, bird wings, darkness ...
With his hand on the embers,
With a sewn smile,
I lock myself in the feather bag,
With a silent zipper.
Far from the very colorful noise of modern poetry, far from the telephone chatter with pretensions of poetry, the tones of charcoal or ink, black and white, with silver iridescence, create for the author, a space only hers. The poetry in this book is found only in fluid spaces like the waters of a mirror, in which the flame of a candle flickers easily. It is a poetic framework par excellence, but also a domestic, familiar setting, an everyday ambiance in black and white. Maybe it is a self-exile, an imposed exile, a refusal to participate in the noise of the world. The smooth, slightly sleepy spaces, the swaying poplars, outline a third dimension of the poet: foreign.
There is a slowness in the poetry of Exile, a diffusion of the real world in the one subject to sleep.
I'm coming back from the shadows of the masts
let me sing you a song of sleep.
I wondered where he was coming from, where he was coming from, what was going on there, beyond the flight, beyond the mirror, beyond the confession:
I'm the girl in the mirror.
Maybe the legend of the roosters we were talking about at the beginning, can tell us more about the girl who looks in the mirror, and who brings with her a rooster's feather. It is the answer beyond this book, where the last verse speaks of life, as of the flock of roosters that never returns.
And yet, someone returns, carrying in his hand, as a symbol of flight, a rooster's feather. And looking in the mirror again, he can say like a new one: confession I am the rooster that has returned.
Clelia Ifrim
From those that cannot be told to those that can only be told in front of the mirror, it is a road, a migratory bird's path. For Raluca Maria Ganciu, this is a road of roosters.
There is a Japanese legend, more a real fluid than a story, where it is said that migratory birds, when they leave for warm countries, take with them a wooden board, and keep it in their beak. When they are above the oceans, and are tired of so much flight, they release this wooden plank into the water, sit on it, resting, and at the same time, floating on.
Raluca Maria Ganciu is an incurable melancholy, and I don't see why it would be otherwise.
It is her native state as a man and a poet. It is its first source of identity or in terms of digital literature, this melancholy is part of the data through which it can be identified.
In the poem Zbor he says it clearly, with a neutral and beneficial feeling of detachment:
On the shore of a lake, crossed by the weather,
Next to a poplar handcuffed by crows,
On a cold stone that hugs me,
It's me, Raluca.
And the reference for the flight, or what's left of it, is part of the arsenal of identification portraits. And it is not a robot portrait, or an avatar, but a very personal, vivid one, pushing the imagination beyond the edge of the eternal night.
In the poem Sac cu plene we find another identity of the poet, remade from dreams, bird wings, darkness ...
With his hand on the embers,
With a sewn smile,
I lock myself in the feather bag,
With a silent zipper.
Far from the very colorful noise of modern poetry, far from the telephone chatter with pretensions of poetry, the tones of charcoal or ink, black and white, with silver iridescence, create for the author, a space only hers. The poetry in this book is found only in fluid spaces like the waters of a mirror, in which the flame of a candle flickers easily. It is a poetic framework par excellence, but also a domestic, familiar setting, an everyday ambiance in black and white. Maybe it is a self-exile, an imposed exile, a refusal to participate in the noise of the world. The smooth, slightly sleepy spaces, the swaying poplars, outline a third dimension of the poet: foreign.
There is a slowness in the poetry of Exile, a diffusion of the real world in the one subject to sleep.
I'm coming back from the shadows of the masts
let me sing you a song of sleep.
I wondered where he was coming from, where he was coming from, what was going on there, beyond the flight, beyond the mirror, beyond the confession:
I'm the girl in the mirror.
Maybe the legend of the roosters we were talking about at the beginning, can tell us more about the girl who looks in the mirror, and who brings with her a rooster's feather. It is the answer beyond this book, where the last verse speaks of life, as of the flock of roosters that never returns.
And yet, someone returns, carrying in his hand, as a symbol of flight, a rooster's feather. And looking in the mirror again, he can say like a new one: confession I am the rooster that has returned.
Clelia Ifrim
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