The Cheese, The Pastor and The Rock -Flower, by Lucia Daramus

I’m cutting the cheese …is so white, firm and smelling of milk
milk, milk, milk, thread of life like a baby’s skin smell
a milk drop from the cheese is falling on the kitchen pavement
as a tear. tears, tears, tears of an- ancient peasant woman
her wrinkles meander on her hands. work. hard work. poverty
famine. poverty. work. hard work and tears, tears curling on her face
in the middle of the night’s belly
I remember! the cheese milk is reminding me of that woman and her son –
in a corner of my mind a house, wooden ruin rusty house
rotten stumps , holes in the ceiling
the death screaming
and ruins , ruins , ruins, ruins in their musty house.
The son is picking up some nettles
a voice. more voices. and the broken fence of this place
” do you have fresh cheese? asked Cher in a peasant’s local language
”Oh, you like wild cheese” said very friendly the skinny man, the peasant.
‘ my friend, he is English”
the skinny peasant smiled ashamedly . never an Englishman walked his poor garden.
wooden ruin mouldy house. a window. broken window. only glasses shards.
a shadow behind them. the old-ancient woman with her wrinkles snaking her face
”oh, we have a piece, I will ask my mum, the cheese piece is only our dinner’.
the fence, broken fence. rusty. musty. ruins. poverty. famine. the hopeless and death…
death. death. death in old woman ‘s eyes …dancing
and a rock flower , me, in this group.
“Cher, ask about the price” I said
”What?” said Cher’s English friend. “Why are you so bossy ?” asked me
the Baptist pastor , Keith.
Ashamed, the rock flower looked to the skinny man
her blood sprang out through her petals mind
”He is poor, this piece is only their dinner”
”Why are you so bossy?” asked the Baptist pastor Keith
from his lavish life bothering the rock flower, me.
and….and….beyond this dampest place …. death’s poverty. flying.
scratching. digging. sharp claws of destitution.
”no, no, never am I bossy” shivered the rock flower
under the mauve – yellow sky everything is flowing and flying
into freedom. look at his poverty it’s biting from his skin.
scarcity . dearth. ending. death. death.. death
and two eyes behind the glasses shards ……away ..away
in our car smell of cheese and in my mind a trace of poverty
the poverty of human being. yes, human poverty of Keith, the pastor
”why are you so bossy? why are you against us?”
”I am not against nobody. but I am not a baptist, I want to be free
to fly, to think, to fly, sing, to fly, to fly in liberty” stretching her fingers
the rock- flower.
”If you are not with us you are against us. You must be like us,
you must think like us. You must look like us, eat like us, smell like us
if you are not, you are lost for ever” harassed psychologically
yelling at the rock flower
rock flower, rock flower, rock flower….was flying in her beautiful world .
Keith, the Baptist pastor asked again ”why your best friend is Elisabetha?
She was bothering my family , she, she…”
”her mind is a free ocean in which ideas are flowing,” whispered the rock flower,
you told me you never read a literature book, because it is
the source of all sins. You petrified in immoral act
the light festival of Indians, dancing in St. Michael Stroud Church
you petrified in immorality everything …love, love, love
your mind is seeing everywhere evil
everywhere fire of hell burning good people’s skin
you believe you keep in your hands the absolute truth
my mind is flying , is flowing in relativity
in colours and shadows, and shades
you manipulated Cher with your fossilized words
you entranced in each family business
because your interests are money, money, money
money in the name of your god, money and
manipulation of fragile souls ….money
your words leaping in Cher ‘s mind depression
your Baptist wives are sexual slaves
their wombs are only to carry babies
for the kingdom of Baptist, you destroy poetry
the flight of blue birds, the colours, smiles of liberty….”
I’m cutting the cheese …..the milk is flowing on the pavement
a street, milk street in my kitchen and a placard :
street holy drinking is prohibited in this area

I am not a silent poet, by Lucia Daramus

I’m not a silent poet…I’m not a silent poet

I’m not a silent poet…I’m not a silent poet

I am an immigrant , yes, I’m an immigrant

my skin is dark, yes, my skin is black -dark

it smells of smoke because I have no home,

no roof, no bedroom…I am an immigrant

my religion is not Christian

I believe in stars, in sky, in sun, in stars, stars, stars

but I have curiosity for all religions

I wanted to talk with Jesus, I wanted to meet him

I wanted to know about his life

I wanted to sing songs with him about my stars, and his stars

but my skin is dark- black -dark and it smells of smoke

You, Trump, you beat Jesus these days because of me

because my skin is dark like black holes , like falling comets

you, Trump, you spit Jesus’ cheek because my skin is not white

it smells of smoke like celestial bodies in flames

I am an immigrant, I wanted to dance with Jesus

I wanted to tell him my story about millions of bear souls

and himself to tell me about his soul, about millions of Christian souls

oh…my soles touched the immortality feeling eternal life

in water, stones, fire and air….

my child , oh, oh, my dear child smiled at the grass thread

oh, the dear child , the dear child romped around a wild garden

my child , oh my child smells of milk blushed of the smoke of tent

but now he is crying, crying, crying in a cage

you, Trump, you ripped of the child Jesus and put in a cage

you, Trump, you said zero tolerance for your dear Jesus

you, Trump, you made Jesus’ mother cry

she is mother of the whole universe

she is crying, now, she is lamenting, and moaning

and crying, and lamenting and moaning

because her pure child , her child unpolluted by the world,

is crying in cage

my dear baby, my dear, dearest baby is so , so alone

under the Trump’s roof, with shouts, with frowning

and hostility against baby smile

Oh, world, world, world….you shut up

but you have remember these day of tears,

yes, because, you world, will be your turn,

you will cry and lament, and moan and cry, cry, cry…..

my skin is dark, yes, my skin is black -dark

I am an immigrant , yes, I’m an immigrant

I’m not a silent poet…I’m not a silent poet

I’m not a silent poet…I’m not a silent poet –


Lucia Daramus is a Jewish Romanian writer who is living in England, in Stroud, and an artist whose works demonstrate her fascination with archaeology, history of antiquity, quantum physics, numbers, and philosophy. Daramus has obsession for philosophy, ideas, and religion, she has Asperger’s Syndrome. Her poetry reflects the deep meaning of the life. Her poetry is sometime sad, sometime ironic, or playful. She was published in some magazines in Romania, France, Germany, England, Canada, USA, etc. She has published poetry, essay, short story, play.
She has won same Prizes for Poetry, Romanian Prizes and International Prizes such as the Canadian Prize for Poetry (Gasparik.)