Stories
Hamburger ori franzela cu parizer / Hamburger or fresh bread with salami
POSTED IN Stories June 16, 2015
Hamburgher ori franzela cu parizerTimpul ne mai da cate un ghiont din cand in cand, amuzandu-se: ”iti mai aduci aminte?!”. Imi aduc aminte bine toate cele…nimic nu am uitat, cum spune Darie.
In vara lui 2005 am venit acasa in vacanta, am lasat in urma avionului Finlanda occidentala si m-am reintors ”la portile Orientului”, sa-mi retraiesc amintirile copilariei, ale adolescentei.
Pe 4 Iulie, tocmai cand SUA isi sarbatorea Independenta, eu si tata am hotarat sa mergem o fuga la Iasi, doar pentru o zi. A fi acasa si a nu vedea Iasi-ul este pentru mine o blasfemie.
Iasi-ul ma astepta cu parfumul cald si lenes al teilor infloriti. Parfum familiar…ma simteam in siguranta, mergand alene cu tata spre bulevardul Lapusneanu.
Deodata, insa, imaginea s-a frant si m-am trezit in Matrix. Un alt Iasi isi oferea chipul ciudat, isi etala bratele vlaguite, ca o femeie batrana ridicol si inutil intinerita de prea multe operatii estetice.
Un frison de dezgust…primul. Occidentul isi pusese amprenta peste Iasii mei dragi. La fiece pas un alt boutique, un alt McDonald, atat de multe si inghesuite , incat nici nu mai aveau clienti. Larma si murdarie pe strada eminesciana.
Incercam, ma fortam sa gasesc ceva din Eminescu, o bataie de inima, in tot acel zgomot infernal, insa Poetul se ascunsese doar intr-o statuie.
Tata era si el derutat de prea multele masini, care forfoteau peste tot. Eram precum doi rataciti pe o planeta necunoscuta.
Intr-un tarziu, tot incercand si unul si altul sa simulam veselia, am hotarat, la insistentele mele, infometati, sa intram intr-un McDonald
(in Finlanda sunt multe si ieftine, oamenii nu se prea omoara sa-si cheltuie banii pe fast-food-ul american).
Fete tinere, moldovence neaose, se chinuiau sa copie modelul american, asa cum le ordonase probabil managerul inca din zorii zilei de 4 Iulie. Copie jalnica a Zilei Independentei USA.
Hamburgherul era imposibil sa fie mancat, cola era pe jumatate gheata , iara nota de plata m-a facut sa plang. Aproape 30 euro cheltuisem pentru o trista imagine jenanta, care nu ar fi trebuit sa existe. Iasi-ul meu si ziua de 4 Iulie nu au nimic in comun. Ma indoiesc sincer ca America stie cand este Ziua tarii mele.
Am parasit acel loc flamanzi, nervosi, frustrati…In Finlanda as fi platit pentru un hamburgher, cartofi prajiti si cola doar 3.50 euro.
Am incercat sa caut in mintea mea confuza un loc in care eu si tata ne puteam linisti sufletul. Si am intrat in Casa Cartii. Alta tragedie, alta surpriza trista. Casa Cartii era pustie. Carti far’ de gust, traduceri palide ale unor telenovele ori serii erotice, ori sfaturi practice à la Oprah si Dr. Phil cum sa te descurci in viata, se etalau hidos, cu copertile lor de prost gust, pe rafturile unde odinioara gaseam numai rare editii ale clasicilor.
Si am plecat. La fiece pas simteam cum Iasi-ul meu, batran ca timpul, insa cu fata reconstruita de botox, ma ruga sa nu-l judec, sa am rabdare.
Astfel, cu tot amarul in suflet, am intrat cu tata la Mitropolie. Acolo nimic nu ne putea atinge, zgomotele si mirosurile Occidentului isi pierdeau puterea.
Am regasit-o pe Cuvioasa Parascheva si, langa trupul ei, cu tot dorul si toata durerea, m-am rugat pentru tara mea.
Dupa aproape doua ore de liniste, lasand in urma lumanari aprinse si sperante infinite, am plecat spre un alt loc cu liniste: Copou.
Acolo l-am gasit pe Eminescu, stand pe o banca sub teiul lui. Ca din senin o briza a batut si a plouat cu flori de tei peste capul albit al tatalui meu, tocmai cand ii faceam o poza…Semn bun, am gandit, sunt totusi acasa, Occidentul nu-mi poate lua TOTUL.
Spre seara, osteniti, am pornit usurel spre gara, flamanzi, salivand la gandul mancarurile pe care mama le pregatise acasa, in lipsa noastra. Eram rupti de foame. Si, deodata, miracolul s-a intamplat. Tata mi-a spus sa stau cuminte pe o banca, pe peron(ca pe vremea cand eram doar un copil).
A venit repede cu franzela aburinda, parizer taiat felii si doua sticle cu bere proaspata si rece.
Si acolo, pe peronul Iasilor, eu, ditamai profesoara, am mancat cu o pofta de copil franzela rupta cu mana si parizer, band bere rece direct din sticla, fara fasoane si far’ de etichete.
Simt si acum gustul bun, gustul ca sunt acasa cu Tata.
Pana sa vina trenul, in jurul nostru se adunasera caini ai strazii si pasari flamande, caci noi impartiram cu ei festinul incropit de tata.Si astfel am plecat din Iasi, fericita, alaturi de tatal meu, la ceasul cand in America incepeau focurile de artificii, iara in Iasii mei se stingeau luminile comerciale, si Poetul isi incepea plimbarea pe Lapusneanu.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Hamburger or fresh bread with salami
Time gives us all a nudge every once in awhile, amusing himself: “do you remember still?”.
I remember everything very well. How could I not? It was the summer of 2005 when I came home for the holidays, leaving behind me the airport and Finland in the West, to return to “the Gates of Orient”, to my Romania, to my childhood memories, my adolescent years.One day we decided, my Dad and I, to travel from dawn till dusk to the town of Iasi. To be home and not see my Iasi would have been blasphemy in my eyes.
It happened to be the 4th of July.
Iasi was waiting for me with the warm and lazy scent of the blossomed linden trees. Familiar perfume. Walking idly with my Dad towards Lapusneanul Boulevard, I was feeling secure, at ease, breathing the scented air so strongly missed by my soul.
Yet, suddenly, the image broke and I woke up in “The Matrix”. Another Iasi was offering me its weird face, as an old woman senselessly and ridiculously rejuvenated by too many plastic surgeries. A shiver of disgust. At first. It seemed like the West put its stamp on my beloved Iasi. Every metre another boutique, another McDonald, so many and cramped, that they did not even have clients any-more.
Noise and trash on the street where Eminescu once lived.I started to force my senses to find the heartbeat of the Poet in all that infernal noise, but the Poet was hiding himself inside his statue.
Too many cars moving everywhere, too fast, like termites, confused me and my Dad. We were two lost souls on an unknown planet.
Later, both of us simulating happiness, pretending to be content, we decided at my insistence and both being hungry, to enter a McDonald (in Finland there were many and cheap and people were not in a hurry to spend their money on the American fast-food).The waitresses, young girls, pure born Moldavian, were trying hard to copy the American model, as their manager perhaps ordered them to, in the early hours of the 4th of July.
Artificial, distorted fake of USA’s Independence Day in Iasi, Romania.
The hamburgers were impossible to eat. The Coke was half ice and the bill made me cry. We spent almost 30 Euro for a sad and pathetic image that should not have existed. My Iasi and the 4th of July had nothing in common. I was honestly doubting that USA knew the Independence Day of my country, let aside where and what Iasi was.
We left that place angry, hungry and frustrated. In Finland I would have paid 3.50 Euro for a perfect hamburger, French fries and a quality Coke. I was trying to find in my confused mind a place where my Dad and I would have been able to relax our tired and restless souls. We entered the book store named “The House of Books”. However another tragedy, another disappointment was waiting for us.
The “House of Books” was empty. Tasteless books, pale translations of soap operas or erotic series, or practical advice à la Oprah and Dr. Phil as in “how to make it in life” were exposing their idiotic hideous covers on the shelves where, in other times, I would have been able to find only rare, out of print editions of classic books.
So we left. With every step, I was feeling how my Iasi, old as time itself, but with a face rebuilt by Botox, was begging me not to judge him and to be patient.
With all the bitterness of this world in my heart, Dad and I entered the Mithropolia. There nothing evil could have touched us. All the noises and smells of the West were losing their powers: we were surrounded by “made in Romania” faith.
There we found Saint Parascheva and near her embalmed mummified body, I was praying for my country.
After almost two hours of silence, leaving behind burning candles and infinite hopes, we left for another place with peace: Copou, the great heavenly garden.
We found Eminescu sitting on his bench under his Linden tree. Out of the blue a breeze tenderly touched the blossomed trees and it rained down Linden tree flowers on the grey-haired head of my father, just as I was about to take his picture.
“Good sign”, I thought, “I am still home and the West cannot take everything away from me”.
With the coming evening, tired, we walked slowly to the railway station, hungry, longing for the food we were sure my mother prepared in our absence. We were as hungry as two wolves.Then, suddenly, the magic happened. My Dad told me to stay still, on a platform bench. He left and returned quickly with oven fresh bread, salami and two bottles of fresh cool beer.
And there, on that platform of Iasi railway station, I, madam teacher, was eating broken by hand bread with salami with a childish appetite, and I was drinking cool beer straight from the bottle. No etiquette, no fuss, no “lady-like” meals or gestures.
I can still taste it – the taste that I am home with my Dad, in my country, free to be myself and not a western pretender.As we waited for the train to arrive, lots of dogs and birds gathered around us, because we were sharing our feast with them.
Dad and I left Iasi happy. As the fireworks were starting in USA, the commercial lights were switching off in my beloved city and the Poet could start his lonely walk along Lapusneanul Boulevard.Bielka
To all the yesterdays and more tomorrows
POSTED IN Stories June 9, 2015
The wounded healer
POSTED IN Stories April 1, 2015
The wounded healer
This humanity
blinded
by consumerism,
envy,
ignorance,
bigotry,
selfishness,
greediness,
this blind and deaf
humanity is
addicted to
abused words
and needs
a white cane,
to help it
find
the path.
So, I
collect words.
Used,
broken,
senseless,
dying,
barely breathing,
scared,
vintage words.
Who
out of mercy
will revive
the
single
essential
word
that will be
the white cane
to saveour
humanity?
Say it!
Thank you, Daniel Brick, for loving the words, for helping me understand them deeper! You said: HOPE!
Maria Magdalena Biela
Donation
POSTED IN Stories March 25, 2015
Donation
I have collected
words
since I was born
fascinated by theirpower
uniqueness.
I’d like to donate
words,
excessively used,
eventually broken,
some without sense,
so they could fill
an empty silence
some wounded,
mutilated,
so they could fit
in the Procrustes’ bed
of a text message
or a Facebook ‘share’,
some without soul,
so they’d be fit
to lie.
Their letters could be
reused
for different purposes
and arrangements.
I have collected
words
since I was born
fascinated by their
power
uniqueness
I believed
in their fate.
But I woke up.
25.03.2015, Lanzarote
Maria Magdalena Biela
Mountain Ash
POSTED IN Stories March 25, 2015
Mountain AshMornings’ tears refresh your eyes
Occult forces in disguise
Urns of ashes from the skies.
Name of names and One of ones
Time will call the Son of sons
Alchemy that heals and stuns.
In my dreams I pass time through
Name of names, to drink from you.All my eyes perceive your mind
Secular with you to bind
Help me feel You, deaf and blind.
To my Mountain Ash, Garnet Robbie, on his birthday!
Maria Magdalena Biela
The legend of Martisor
POSTED IN Stories March 1, 2015
The legend of Martisor
Once upon a time there was an old woman named, Dochia, who lived in the Carpathians, in that country who has the shape of a heart, called Romania.
Dochia had a son who married a young innocent girl. The son was a shepherd; he lived far away from home with his sheep so he would come to see his wife every now and then, leaving her with Dochia, whom she helped keeping the house.
Dochia was cruel to the girl. She gave her always impossible tasks to do, just to see her failing and to have a reason to criticise her in front of her son. The villagers always helped the poor girl in her unhappiness, knowing that Dochia was a mean old woman, hateful, lonely and greedy.
One winter day, by the end of February, Dochia told the girl:
– You, ungrateful child, go to the river and wash these towels until the white ones will become black and the black ones will be white.
– But, tried the shy scared girl, the rivers are frozen…
– How dare you talk back to me, you, shameless bastard? Go away from my sight and do as told!
The poor girl ran to the river, with big tears washing her sad face, wishing herself a sweet death in the icy waters. The villagers once again came to her rescue and by evening, the towels were washed and coloured as Dochia ordered.
Seeing that, Dochia became even angrier and demanded that Marta, the girl, would go to the woods to bring her sweet red berries.
– But, the land is snowed and frozen…tried Marta shyly…
– Do I hear your voice again? Go on, go on!!!
And Marta left, crying her way to the snowy woods…Even the villagers could not help her this time.
In heaven, the playful angels, watching the crying child lost in desperation through the woods, decided to put a basket with strawberries near a tree, in Marta’s way, to ease her pain.
– Strawberries, screamed the child with joy and amazement, when she found the red berries, shining on the white snow!
She believed that to be a miracle and, thankful, she took the basket and returned home to Dochia.
When Dochia saw the red berries she thought that finally Spring came and she decided to go to the mountains, to see her son. She took with her nine coats and she started the journey. It was the 1st of March. The further she went, the warmer she felt and one by one, Dochia would take off every day one coat until one day, when she vanished buried by the snow.
The red berries on the white snow punished Dochia for her greed, her badness, her menace.
Ever since, when March arrives, people celebrate the joy of Spring by offering each other The Mărţisor, a reminder of Marta, a reminder of love, goodness, happiness, acceptance, gratitude, everything that Dochia did not have.
Every Romanian wears the red and white thread on their chest, near heart. They offer it each other to celebrate the Light of a new better life.
The first nine days of March are called “Dochia’s days”. They are a reminder of Dochia’s nine coats. Sometimes it snows, sometimes the sun is shining, and the weather is as moody as the old woman was.
On 28th of February people choose one day between the first and the 9th of March to be “their old woman (Baba)”: if the day is beautiful and sunny, so it will be their year and soul. If the day is grey and snowy, then sadness will be waiting around the corner. The Weather Oracle never fails.
On March the 10th, the Martisor thread shall be hanged on the first blossomed tree, a wish shall be made and the whole year that tree with one’s thread will protect one’s happiness.
Marta lives forever in our hearts with red and white Mărţisor of hope and love.
Happy 1st of March to everyone! May Light shine upon you!
Maria Magdalena Biela
Willed out
POSTED IN Stories February 16, 2015
Willed out
I live vis-à-vis.
I see you every morning
naked
through your wide opened windows.
If you saw me,
you’d smile,
so I hide.
I study you.
I count the women
you wear every night
and I mark those
who gain their right
to open your morning windows.
I know your true face
while you are alone.
I even saw you crying
after you loved
a woman who just left.
I saw all yours masks, because
one day
you forgot the attic windows
opened.
You must climb all
those stairs alone
only to choose
who you want to be?
I think that
only three days
in this last year
you lived without any mask.
Then one same woman
would come to visit you.
Only then
you would close the windows,
all of them.
And draw the curtains,
all of them.
And the others would leave,
all of them.
She would come
backwards
straight to you
but she’d be willed out
by how deep
she’d have loved you
had she not known you
so well…
so bad, actually…
Don’t love!
Wait for me
to come and do
the memory wipe.
Finland, July 2002
Maria Magdalena Biela
Garden of War
POSTED IN Stories January 20, 2015
Garden of WarThe pain in their eyes,
still fresh, bleeding.
I know
their sleepless nights,
trying to put together
the missing pieces
of this puzzle called life.
A Poet who writes
in the garden
and then must write
in the war,
may loose the silence
of his soul,
fear and hope could melt
into same one feeling,
death becomes a word
to describe the every minute
he is still alive
not knowing what comes next,
pain becomes a scream,
a prayer to heavens
to make an end,
the horror becomes
the everyday image to feel.
A poet who writes
first in the war
and after,
he is blessed
to write in the garden
will contemplate
cheating death,
or death as a friend
who allowed him more time
to write.
He sees the trees
as his dead friends
without a coffin,
the sky is empty
without the bombing planes,
the silence is deafening,
the birds appear useless
compared to the song
of shooting guns.
Between ‘must’ and ‘blessed’
the mutilation of one’s soul,
has an increased sense
of seeing life and death.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Birthdays
POSTED IN reading poetry, Stories January 17, 2015
BirthdaysI’ll bake tonight a rounded cake
to celebrate the wish I make
I’ll lit my candles with the Moon
and let them glow in nightly gloom.I wish myself a better year,
to feel and see what I can’t hear,
and as a snake sheds its own skin
I’d like to shed my old chagrin.In darkened room a mirror stays,
in candlelight I catch a gaze
from mirror staring straight at me.
One moment thought: who could that be?The candles shiver as I do,
She looks at me as if she knew
something I did not. Who is she?
From mirror comes another me.A girl with dark wide opened eyes,
she’s silent without any smiles.
She’s watching from another time,
she hears and sees a silenced chime.I look into the mirror’s will
another me its waves reveal.
All other me that through time strives
to help me learn my other lives.I make a wish and write it on
a piece of paper which anon
I fold in half and light in fire,
and let it burn my heart’s desire.Candles like not to be blown out.
Wet fingertips or with my clout
I kill their flame. I’m born again.
With all my stars I drink champagne.
17.01.2015
Lanzarote
Maria Magdalena Biela
Hypocrisy
POSTED IN contemporary poetry, reading poetry, Stories January 11, 2015
Hypocrisy
She’s dressed in black with white high heels,
A designed dress her ways reveals,
She fakes some tears with mini skills,
She hides her face and what she feels.
She wants to say: “I am a saint,
I can’t bear badness, I do faint,
I talk to angels while I paint,
I am suave, fragile and quaint”.
Her voice is calm, and kind, and deep,
Her head inclined in little weep.
She’s got style, poise and sex appeal,
One may think she’s the real deal.
She hides her face, her eyes, her truth,
She fears to be perceived in sooth.
She knows: in a photography
One can’t see the hypocrisy.Maria Magdalena Biela
