Posted by: tsopr | January 17, 2009

Dumitru D. Ifrim, Romanian Poet

Dumitru D. Ifrim, a jurist, essayist, translator and award winning Romanian poet. He was the vice-chairman of the Romanian Society of Haiku 1993, a member of the Romanian Union of Writers, member of the International Law and International Relations Association, and once was the Director Counsellor at the Senate of Romania.  The Author of many books such as «The Plum Line», «The Book of the Roses», «Parallel World», «Shadow and Light», to name a few.


                                Featured Poetry of Dumitru D. Ifrim

The Passion After Vincent Van Gogh


Turning in your light—

A same stiletto tries

My soul.

Even if all my colour are well-founded,

How draw it

From my soul

When the canvas of the time

A crust so thick is

That the knife and diamonds

Hardly can scratch it?


Your boots—

O, how many times I also returned home

And set them

In their corner

With the same meekness

Soothing them.

They, my only friends

Who silently are waiting for me

At the entrance!


Why do you not sleep

You, the child of the light?

Who always cast you among us?

Why do you live in our anxiety?

I make a resolve to take you with me

At the end of that sea

Where fever-hearted Annabelle Lee is waiting for.



The Others


You, the ones who from love

Like the angels or more heavenly

In my soul, are as a floating flower…


It’s not necessary the saints in the world to be

But just to have the people their high of power!


Oh, why not spiral in the logos of deed

like Vincent Van Gogh in his colour?

And in part always, always undivided—

And without escape, saved by the Father.


The cypresses and ocean— urchins only—

Some in the air, some in the water—

And the dream, and the yellow sun melancholy

And my neighbor, more and more brotherly


You are so very near relations

That sometimes only you are

And I’ve lost myself, I’ve forgotten for your need—


What happy to be the other!



When You Have Lighted Yourself


When you have lighted yourself

in the world

you have already burned down in a flash


You have revived

from your own ash—


Ah, how steps as a long flight

in the open sky


And what the light

beyond of any door, it is ay!



The Word Gathered As A Holy Water


It is possible the river beds

that I see in the depth

to find their rest somewhere in a sea,

unknown yet—

I see on its bottom

tables with unknown marks.

Like in a dream I distinguish

a word— but when I try to pronounce it

my lips are silent.

I would like to write it

but my hand

doesn’t know to write it.

I say this word with my eyes

but to receive it

nobody is.

And yet, the tablet there is

on the sea bottom

and it plays in a strange light

and reveals its word.

I lean to gather it—

I’d like to drink it

as a holy water.



Like An Ocean Evaporating


Where do you in me come from, spring running,

Beginning wave of the springhead time,

Wave of yond, genuine fond undying

beyond the time belt and the brine?


What harmony gave you, full of fruits

from my simple life turned into the air art?

Is it the falling word, absolute

to the silence and to the rose heart?


Where do you come from dream cell

that for a second you’re slow-acting,

and then anew lost in the sky well

like an ocean evaporating?



Moon Beauty Singer, I’ve Forgotten To Ask Thee


Moon beauty singer, I’ve forgotten to ask thee,

If you hear the blow of the wind in my tower

And how one of my old folk at home, with the sea

On the shore murmurs the sough of wind flower?


Do you hear how the bulwarks in their blinding

Have a same voice like the night birds without lid?

And don’t you see in our time childhood thing

Full of white, like a birthday of a kid?


All these you have, when we are like a single dove,

Receive them, like you give me your ether love.





He left home at dawn—

In the nest under the eaves

swallows were at the end of their sleep.

He took the way going in the life

on a simple path.

He has a lively stepping and a pure heart.

He didn’t look back

But searching of the heart came soon.

When he passed beyond the hill

very much he would have liked to return home,

to stay for another on the veranda—

Does he not too young to leave home?

And how will the left ones fend for themselves?

His stepping slowed down.

The power of a thought pulsates in him—

he will return home village

but in the other part of the earth’s sphere. 


Poems translated into English by Clelia Ifrim from the book «The Plum Line», 2004.


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