après la tempête -
le bébé mène à la bouche
quelques grains de grêle
Rodica P. CALOTA, Roumanie
accord de paix
sur la ligne de front
la première neige
Mirela BRAILEAN, Roumanie
grand-mère porte
du basilic à l'église -
il neige à gros flocons
Maria TIRENESCU, Roumanie
des rafales de vent -
les ruines de la forteresse
lavées par les vagues
Mihaela COJOCARU, Roumanie
very few left
to hug on New Year's Eve -
two white reflections
in the same cracked window,
Mt. Fuji and the old man
あとわずか年越す抱擁ー白ふたつ映す割れ窓に、富士と老人
Lavana Kray, Romania ルーマニア
*
from my window
cherry trees in full bloom
and snowy Fujisan…
in vain my longing
it calls you incessantly
窓飾る満開桜と雪の富士 憧れむなしく君を呼ぶひたすら
Dale Magdalena, Romania ルーマニア
de la fereastra mea
cireși înfloriți
Vasile Moldovan, Romania
limbing the mountin
to the realm of the gods
all of a sudden
I feel the illumination
how comes right from my own soul
山を攀じ神々の境 ゆくりかに光差すまさに吾の魂より
Dan C. Iulian, Romania
the silence
echoing on the autumn alleys
in the paving stones -
at our feet stretched out
the mountain paths
静寂の木霊す秋の石敷の小径は足もと延びる山道
Cristian Matei, Romania
Cherry blossoms fall
along the trail to Fuji ‒
with every step
my dreams soar toward
the lofty peaks
富士山の小道に沿って桜の花が散っている
歩を進めるごとにそびえ立つ峰に向かって私の夢がふくらむ
the howling of wolves
the old hunting dog’s paws
move in sleep
the way Grandpa
folds the world map…
postponed dreamSteliana Cristina Voicu
Ploiesti, Romania
From this poem there is a sense of hesitation and regret. I can imagine a heavy sigh. Most parents and grandparents that I know put the welfare of their young ones ahead of themselves. The sacrifice ‘Grandpa’ has made for us to enjoy a better life, reminds me of my own father, who unlike myself having played frequent concert tours, has never really travelled the world but has been dedicating himself to working hard for his children and grandkids’ sakes. I hope all grandparents’ postponed dreams in this world get fulfilled, and that their offspring will help them in realising these.
lumina zilei
strecurându-se-n palme -
atingerea ta
încă-n lumea viselor
îți compun primul poem
the light of day
slipping into my palms –
your touch
still in the world of dreams
my first poem to you
Ana Drobot, Bucharest, Romania
strugurii zdrobiți -
toată dulceața verii
în vinul cel nou
squashed grapes -
all summer's sweetness
in the new wine
photo&haiku: Mirela Brăilean, Romania
lumină coaptă
frunzele cad
una câte una
mellow light
the leaves drop
one by one
Mona Iordan, Romania
mergând spre școală –
lumina zmeurie
a dimineții
walking to school –
the raspberry light
of morning
Maria Tirenescu, Romania
în altă lumină -
îngălbenit după brumă
bătrânul ginkgo
in a new light -
yellowed after the frost
the old ginkgo
Mirela Brăilean, Romania
lună plină
deasupra orașului –
paznic de noapte
full moon
over the city –
night guard
Carmen Duvalma, Romania
Liman de liniști -
lin din lacul domolit
licărul lunii
Border of stillness -
smoothe from the calmed lake
the spark of the moon
Vasile Moldovan, Bucharest, Romania
lumina vieții –
răsfoiesc din nou
vechiul roman
light of my life –
I read again
an old novel
Ana Drobot, Bucharest, Romania
porumbei în zbor –
lumina aurie
a amurgului
pigeons in flight –
the golden light
of twilight
Maria Tirenescu, Romania
portail grinçant –
je vais voir, peut-être
ce n’est pas le vent
Lavana Kray
Third Prize
Christmas dinner –
in the grandfather’s hair
all the tinsel
Mirela Brailean, Romania
The effective use of humor in haiku is rare and, when done well, deserves to be rewarded. The poet’s choice of coupling the word ‘tinsel’ and ‘grandfather’s hair’ is highly innovative. The best haiku allow the reader to complete the poem, and in this sense, I too was a guest at the Christmas dinner. Finally, each reading of this haiku brought a smile to my face.
Commendations
night vigil…
listening to the rain
turning into snow
Cezar Ciobica, Romania
Line one’s ‘night vigil,’ often results in a sharpening of the senses. Portrayed in this poem, both through the use of sound and, paradoxically, its absence.
Rustling shadows
Day after day, after day, after day, until one day...
And then, not even a day goes by and someone
(someone else) comes to clean up the place...
Few garbage bags: our memories.
rustling shadows –
an origami crane
through the shredder
Lavana Kray
FLORILÈGE
THÈME : L'EAU
le sol fissuré
sur le visage sillonné
rivières de sueur
Mirela BRAILEAN
jardin du palais
la naïade se regarde
dans le miroir d'eau
Mona IORDAN, Roumanie
café de l'aube -
dans la goutte de rosée
la lune tardive
Mircea MOLDOVAN, Roumanie
saule pleureur –
sur l'eau de la rivière
vieilles lettres
Mihaela COJOCARU, Roumanie
ruisseau de montagne
avec de l'eau trouble –
un lézard sur le rivage
Maria TIRENESCU, Roumanie
moineau caché
dans le hall du jardin d´enfants –
pluie d'été
Maria TIRENESCU, Roumanie
eau minérale –
ma ville toute fraîche
sur la terrasse
Ana DROBOT, Roumanie
porteurs d'eau
les nuages souffrent
d'incontinence
Rodica P. CALOTĂ, Roumanie
change of season -
children planting cherry trees
in the scorched orchard
the rain is over -
children playing badminton
over the barbed wire
air raid siren -
unfinished chalk pigeon
in the schoolyard
war orphan -
searching for a kindred spirit
in the woods
Lavana Kray
first snow –
no trace of smoke
from my mother’s houseL’HIRONDELLE – HAÏBUN
Une vague d’air saharien a fait sortir bien plus tôt les êtres endormis sous la couverture de neige. Fraîcheur du ciel, déjà le parfum d’un lilas. Et un vinyle : Jacques Brel, Ne me quitte pas. Une hirondelle a heurté une vitre. Elle gît, inerte, sur le rebord de la fenêtre, dans une douce lumière.
oiseau mourant
un papillon dans son bec –
aigle en piqué
LE CHAMP – HAÏBUN
Quelques kilomètres de marche. Me voilà à l’orée d’un champ d’herbes aromatiques constellé de rares pétales colorés. Aucune abeille, que des rats déchiquetés par les oiseaux. Contrariée, je lève les yeux au ciel. Un avion s’approche en répandant une bruine laiteuse.
pesticides –
un enfant dessine
un papillon sur une fleur
Lavana Kray
Editor: Strider Marcus Jones
The poet
A flock of sheep crosses the orchard, mashing golden overripe plums under their hooves. It smells like grandma's old hearth boiling jams. Ahead of me, a convoy of villagers meanders on the path without horizon, waking the ancestral dust from its numbness. Some people complain about the hard times, some say jokes. They know a lot about all things, and next to nothing about the man they follow on the last road, except that he roamed the hills and wrote poems...
the leaves no longer fall
at the poet's house –
excavators
Shadows
The hand that used to rest on my shoulder, no longer opens the door. No one waters the flowers and dreams anymore...Even this fuliginous cloud spreads its shadow and moves on. How desolate our walnut tree swing is! Now and then only a snail swings, or this fog, which can’t be waltzed away by wind. Some twigs snap under imaginary steps, or maybe not. I watch obsessively the barren land, letting only a shadow rise. Always the same...
deep mist –
the bitter taste
of aerial roots
Fragility
The inclement weather has ruined my plans of mountain hiking. The path turned muddy. Wet birds watch me sliding towards the yellow water while trying to get hold of branches. The nenuphars make place for me. Daylight only flows into the stork's eggs. Perhaps, it’s not by chance that I’am here. I could find out how long it takes for indifference to become concern. People pass by, engrossed in their cell phones.
falling stars –
equally vulnerable
the sky and man
Lavana Kray
