Tuesday, December 1, 2015


“I have . . . noticed in myself certain states which I may well call poetic, since some of them were finally realized in poems. They came about from no apparent cause, arising from some accident or other; they developed according to their own nature, and consequently I found myself for a time jolted out of my habitual state of mind”.


Poetry is the art by means of words. The word itself is of Greek origin and its etymological meaning is "making” so a poet is actually a person who creates. This oldest of the human arts was born in song and dance. Rhythm and rhyme go hand-in-hand when it comes to poetry. Though the language of poetry is the language of emotions, it is not devoid of rationality either.

We like to define poetry as we like, but trying to define poetry is probably a waste of time and energy. Yet thinkers and poets alike have tried to define it down the ages.  Poetry is a state of mind and feelings we try to visualize through our own words. The essence of it comes from our emotions as well as rationality. It may be a matter of the overflow of powerful feelings; emotions recollected in tranquility. To someone; poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. We may even go further to believe; in writing poetry the human mind imitates the divine mind in a god-like act of creation.

Poets use new metaphors, putting things in new perspectives in an attempt to make us see and feel things as if for the first time. They renew the old in their own styles to keep us attached with our traditions and heritage only to create a new dimension for the future, paving the present in a continuous manner.

So here we are with the 9th issue of the 1st volume of the monthly online poetry journal: “Our Poetry Archive: December 2015” Like all our previous editions this number also presents poems of thirty-six poets around the world. We feel proud to announce that our viewership is growing fast. And this puts more responsibility on our shoulders. So we would like to have your regular feedbacks to evaluate our endeavor in a constant manner. We remain ever grateful to our poet contributors for their constant support to make this journal resourceful. And as usual  we would like to ask you all to keep on sending your poetical creations to our mail address:<ourpoetryarchive@gmail.com> on and before the 25th of every month. Thank you all.





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Marieta Maglas


The defined and the undefined truth,
Endowed with knowledge or without knowledge,
Sometimes real or unreal,
Certainly including being and nonbeing,
Accepting that being is true,
Accepting the nonexistence of being
When the absence of existence means the negation of being,
Accepting that truth did not exist,
And that it would have been true that it
did not exist, at the same time,
Understanding that truth is eternal,
Imagining the idea of a nonexistent world
Before its own existence,
Accepting the universal and the immortal truth
So interchangeable with the existence,
While the universal never ceases of itself,
Recognizing the truth always existent in an eternal intellect,
While the created truth is not existing,
Understanding the created truth as not existing,
Remaining truth, when the true things have been destroyed,
Or remaining truth, when all true things can be destroyed,
Or remaining truth, when our minds cannot see the truth itself,
The truth is, in a sense, always being as a consequence of its act,
Truth being not in the sense because
The sensor does not know the truth, it truly judges,
Even if it judges truly about things and about
The existent and the nonexistent truth.


I am transformed
from my ego into your ego.
I am passive
while existing outside myself.
My ego is also my nonego.
I am only a part of you
insofar as
I am a part of you as your sensuous being.
I am your idea,
taking on sensuousness,
when nothing is permanent.
I am here for
the realization of your aims
in Omniscience,
in Omnipotence,
and in Omnipresence.


If we combined
The perfectly good and the perfectly evil,
We would obtain imperfection.
If we took a piece of paradise
And a piece of hell to gather them together,
Our souls would become less beautiful
Because the truth would swallow the lie, and
The absolute truth would become relative.
If our love swallowed our hatred,
We would love each other less than usual.
If we formed an amphora
While trying to find the absolute truths
In a new and perfect love for Him,
We would need all our faith to remove
All the lies and all our hatred of us.
If we lied and our hatred
Became two trenchant weapons,
And if we chose Lucifer for hitting
Our relative truths,
They would mathematically fall to become
Downright uncertainties.
The wounded love would disappear from us,
And we would turn into new salt stones,
As Lot’s wife turned while seeing Sodom burning.
If the truth was equal to the lie,
And our love was equal to our hatred,
We would become absolutely nil persons,
While dying slowly and while melting ourselves
Into nothingness,
While the absolute truth or the absolute lie
Was in no touch.
The reason to save the self
And to search for the purity
Is that their arguments are always perfect.

Marieta Maglas


Anca mihaela bruma


I wrote a poem on a thorn,
let my words fall
on the other side
of who I used to be,
who I became…

My journey is on your skin
and my hand’s hollow
carries the ashes of
of a once warm embrace.

A cold emptiness where once your head lay.

I built mountains of days
where adagios mused in green
and where silver shone through
the rush of my rhapsody

The virginity of my snow,
the senescence of your smile.

I brought you to Life
on my pages,
arched rainbows into your very being…

I wander endlessly in your maze,
symphonic tears
soaking my skin.
greetings and farewells but falling leaves I shed
at the onslaught of the bitter notes of a winter song…

Yet I have this recurring scent of belief
and a rhythm of my rhymes,
shimmering shades of life,
bleached summers,
the psalms of flowers.

You came to tears when my mournful adagios were composed,
my Reality dissolved into streams,
and the trigonometry of my Heart became sanctified.

No more this unbroken Time
with declarations expired!
One glance once cast a shadow over my eyes,
to blind my everyness,
sing my fading symphonies.

My Time,
Your Space
in Silence…

Anca Mihaela Bruma