Lucia Daramus (Romania – UK)
Lucia Daramus is a British-Jewish-Gypsy-Romanian writer and poet who is living in England, a classicist, a linguist, a freelance journalist, and an artist. She has Asperger’s Syndrome. Her work has been published in various magazines in Romania, France, Germany, England, Canada, USA, etc. Recently she completed her course in Creative Writing (Memoir, Biography, Autobiography) at Oxford University. Her MA is in Linguistics, and BA in Ancient Greek and Latin, Babes-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca. She has published poetry, essay, short story, play, novels. Her recent novel is The Cortege of The Lambs, a book about Holocaust, and recent poetry book is Flying With Memories.
She won prizes for poetry, including Romanian prizes and international prizes like the Canadian Prize for Poetry (Gasparik). She has also won an International Prize for Poetry, 2018, at The International Book Festival Dublin. She has published ten books in the Romanian language and three books of poetry in the English language.
Aubout Lucia Daramus’ works wrote some British and Romanian Poets and Literary Critics.
Lucia Daramus’ work comes out of a liberated imagination; at turns visceral and visionary. She writes in the moment of inspiration as it flares, blazes, and carries her forward; each poem is a journey through the psyche from darkness to light, affirmation and celebration. As she says
I feel in images
full of colours, I feel,
and you….like you!
She’s an alchemist: nothing is excluded; everything therefore carries the possibility of transformation. What is also remarkable is that (as a Romanian) English is her second language, but that is part of her freedom of expression. She is emphatically ‘not a silent poet’: she is a highly intelligent one as her academic and critical work also demonstrates, and as an oral poet she needs to be read aloud. She will always have a surprise for you !
—Jay Ramsay, English Writer
Lucia Daramus’ recent collection of poems is powerful, often startling, always surprising.
– Rick Vick , English Writer
Lucia Daramus’s poetry is vivid and passionate, taking in her fascination with philosophy, religion and classical culture. She engages with the lives of women from Medea to Sylvia Plath, with angels and modern political figures, weaving poems of startling imagery. Her work is aptly described by the words of one of her own poems ‘I feel in images full of colours’.
– Penny Howarth, English Co-Chair, Gloucestershire Writers’ Network
With her poems in her minds , with the bright face all the time, Lucia Daramus does not let you guess what will be her next step. It is sure her work arouses the curiosity.(Irina Petras, Romanian literary critic, The Books of The Tens Decade)
A pleasant surprise. Lucia Daramus is a ludic poet, but she is not untrustworthy . She approaches the limit of the verbal delusion, but does not fall into their trap. Lucia Daramus is an intelligent poet and she will not be fooled by precious images of delusion. (Dorin Muresan, Romanian writer, in Tribuna)
The force of her poetry comes from the wanted innocent perspective as though a raw truth would have been told by a child. (Raluca Serban, Romanian literary critic, in Tomis )
Out of the cliché these works of the poet Lucia Daramus. (Mircea Popa – Romanian Literary Historian – in The Truth of Cluj )
Lucia Daramus built an unorthodox book. Lucia has a real innocence what conquers you after first pages of the book. She has gift of discovery , with sanctity, the things over which there is an ancient dust.
Each expedition, each reading is a personal experience, but her works are a very pleasant experience. (Victor Cublesan, Romanian literary critic )
Stars, stars, stars
and lanterns of fishermen
under the dark sky
flickering all night
on the gloss of the ocean
drops, drops, drops of light
romp in water and under water
fragile, fragile and shy gleam
quivers under the row of boats
as a silver castle.
The infinite is silent
in the ocean, dark ocean
only a thrill of life is moving
in the womb of vessels –
there are fishes, ocean fishes
which carrying the dream of Jonah
all beings are sinking in sleep
the fish net is full with stars
stars, stars, stars
and lanterns of the fishermen
beyond the night lights
a hope, a hope in the tunnel of life
Music of All Languages
I am from the East and South and North
when the wind dances so, so slowly
and is singing the story of its people
the fields, like in England, are green and shaggy
the clouds are whirling on the sky
and the sky is so, so fragile and blue
like my soul which is keeping the entire planet
But you, you don’t understand this
because of your inner deconstruction’s revolution
mister, mister Boris Johnson
I am just a woman
staying in front of a strong man
what can I do, what can I do, what can I do?
my powers are only my words! Words, words
what can I do, what can I do?
On the streets there are many conflicts
a special culture fights against another one
everywhere is a fight , yes a fight!
Mister Boris Johnson
I am not a terrorist, I am a European
domnule Boris Johnson, nu sunt o terorista sunt o europeana
Señor Boris Johnson, no soy un terrorista soy un europeo
Signore, io non sono un terrorista io sono un europeo
Κύριε, δεν είμαι τρομοκρατής είμαι Ευρωπαίος
I am from The East, and South and North
when lambs are jumping with happiness
and peasants knead ancestral clay
with their hands, worked hands.
The door of their soul is open
for each human ! – because
my country is Romania
when Brancusi crushed the stones
to make his Golden Bird flying over the world
my country is Poland
when Chopin touched with his
fragile fingers the sounds of our nature
my country is Germany, and Britain, and Italy, and Spain
Spain, Spain, Spain when Picasso
and Salvador Dali painted
my country is Denmark, and Greece
and, and, and….
because I am a Muslim
yes, mister Boris Johnson
I am a European, I am a European
and in my veins are flowing
the musics of all languages!
The Raven Soul
little by little, my nights become rife
a wind is blowing hard among the ravens
sucking the Elysian fields out of my chest
a wind is blowing among the ravens at dusk
my breastbone oozes blistering blood
like buds on an ice-covered bough
the Aquilon is howling its terror inside
in me, inside my chest
at the lip of my heart the cold is shrieking bitterly hot
mighty and blank, nobody’s voice shouts:
I don’t care I don’t give a damn about anyone!
die in your tears and the straws of your words
die! the void is your cradle
die! die you piteous poet!
No one will ever get what you mean.
My life is a serenade for the owl
My life is long, my life is
A long poem for the owl.
Love me! each and every word cries
Out at you. Love me, love me…
Until the earth sets down
Until the Aquilon is lulled
And the Crivetz fast asleep.
I will be good
I will be warm
When Jesus sets the dust alight
I’ll have this raging avid fire quenched
Like an excursus on the cemetery
With tears from the angels’ eyes
Hanged in the sky.
My fingerprints – fingerprints…
My fingers – fingers…
The fingerprints, fingers, hands and arms
Of thousands of emptied souls
Haunted by cold, ice and love unremitted
Hang aimlessly on the skinny scruffs
Of holy men just elevated to angels
Like a kiss deposed furtively on a lover’s collar.
Ah! If only you jumped out of my skin!
But you do not know that poetry is emptiness
That emptiness is death
That death is undeath
And undeath is its madness
Because it being unknown
Unnamed hence unknown
Is after me for a name.
This is bad, really bad
I’ve taken my soul out for a walk in broad light.
Without a word on. Not even one.
And this is bad, it really is.
Little by little my nights become rife
My breastbone bleeds buds
I am short of one word, only one
And it’s cold. It is death’s freezing emptiness
Death opening up into undeath
His hips offer my coffin
The quiet silence hidden nowhere.
A Landscape Of Summer
I remember, I remember
I staked on the bed. Iron rusty bed in hospital
eyes, many opaque eyes
on the fields around hospital
fields without soul
without mouths, without feelings
only eyes, blue eyes and hot yellow…and eyes
which entrance in my nostrils
the hot yellow is drowning me
is grilling myself, my intestines
the blood of the field is springing
on the grass. in my brain
is burning my skin–
it is summer, hot air
hot-yellow times and a smell of burning
on the field, designed by my mind,
a landscape of summer, summer, summer…
a summer of neural connections
and angels crowded in a room,
a hospital room
with iron, rusty beds
a burning-melting sky of a summer in my mind
my mind…mind –
away ….away…Lacrimosa by Mozart
pain, pain, pain, and death
‘Rises from the ashes
to be judged’
and demons, demons from dream
the demons count my dreams
I am in an abandoned hospital
the beetles eat from flesh of mentally ills
the ills are children
with crushed wings of angels.
The rats nibble the rust of iron bed.
God slept. He always falls asleep first
because he is tired.
The beetles with big and hungry mouths
gobble from body of little children
I am tied to the bed with rope
my eyes are fixed on the white ceiling
away, far away -Lacrimosa – a Requiem
maybe my Requiem
Qua Resurget ex favilla
(when from the shes shall rise)
Judicandus homo reus
(guilty man to be judged)
Lacrimosa Dies illa
(mournful that day)
Qua resurget ex favilla
(when from the ashes shall rise )
Judicandus homo reus
(guilty man ti be judged)
huic ergo parce Deus
(Lord, have mercy on him)
Pie Jesu Domine
(gentle Lord Jesus)
Dona eis Requiem
(grant them eternal rest)
My eyes, my eyes are fixed on the white ceiling
there it plays Medea
the winged cart is flying with her children to the inferno
the snakes smell her mind and red hair
the abandoned woman’s womb burns in godly flames…
the big, big mouth of God
bites bit by bit from me
the nurse brings another child
she ties him to the bed. I kiss him in my dream
my transcendental kiss.
God is very hungry
he breaks from me, from another child, other…
no one cries for us
I beat my head against the wall
to shake the Medea’s flames
the wall sounds like transcendence
I am number one
the number two strikes a match
his penis burns – the pink lotus flower
the smoke glides smoothly in a hospital room
everything is shiny
we are the children of God
who bites from us, and we bite from cesspit of light
….and Lacrimosa in our minds…
the sky, the wind, the rain paint
a new poem about a different world.
a world with fever, and fear, and anxiety
in which the fever has power
coronavirus – what a word with crown
name inside like a regal flower on our heads
but the reality, the reality is so, so undesirable
life’s rust turns to death…
I am in a coffee shop, in Stroud
watching to people and
the light is so yellowish like
pus in a sick tonsil
men no longer smile in a
a deconstructed painting
in cubism style with shadow’s death inside.