abandoned home
through its ruins
morning glory
Ana Drobot
anairina
Born 1983 in Bucharest, Romania. Studied English and French at the University of Bucharest. Awarded a PhD from the University of Bucharest in 2014, with the thesis "Virginia Woolf and Graham Swift: The Lyrical Novel". Started writing haiku in August 2014.
hour thirteen
the empty place
in the armchair
everytime I drink
my coffee
the missing minutes
of our talk in the morning
the silence
in your room
nobody turning on
the laptop
at midnight
so many white nights
after you are gone
my face has gone
pale white
I feel this life
is a ghost
not a dream
hour twelve
the moon looks
into the lake
checking
something
I also check
in a ladies’ room
at parties
a morning glory
climbs the fence
in a panic
someone has a spare
tire
to give me
hour eleven
You told me you were a traveller
alone on your road
from time to time
from gig to gig
you’d make new friends
then lose them
then make others
I wished I coul accompany you
but I had some other life
held back by it
I wanted you here
to give you a home
you just wouldn’t settle in one place
hour ten
I see their grace
in every step
the way they glide
along the streets
in town
the way they walk
across the fences
and jump over
on my windowsill
the cats in town
never sleep
at night
hour nine
I wished I could walk
on the sky
slowly gliding
on its blue
without glass
there are many bridges
from where we could jump
and dive into the blue water
just like into the sky
hour eight
I could nou reach Carl Jung’s house by the lake
when in Zurich
I wished I could find him
and get closer to him
when in Zurich
I watched the swans floating on the lake and I hoped to find him
and get closer to him
and his symbols and archetypes
I watched the swans floating on the lake and I hoped to find him
I could not reach Carl Jung’s house by the lake
and his symbols and archetypes
I wished I could find him
hour seven
I wonder
what will happen
in a few years
in this house
we were told
we’d become more and more
like our parents
hour six
In kindergarten we’d crawl through the lavender field to pick up some other kind of flowers that would grow only there. We wouldn’t pick up lavender. We would pick up, if I remember correctly, some flowers we would call stars. They were white and with sharp petals. The guard would blow his whistle, thinking we were picking up lavender. We had no way of explaining him what we were doing. Our nanny would also not believe us. Those starry flowers became a rarity and a treasure among our group.
lavender field –
the way we are scolded
out of the blue
hour five
I see the sky
moving on my
smartphone screen
transcendence