ISSN 1551-8086
return to home search for a contributing writer

seach for poems by title

archive of previous issues submissions information mailing list online store links to other interesting sites contact us  
  November 2004
volume 2 number 4
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Matthew A. Barraza
  Tom Berman
  Jack G. Bowman
  Quiana Briggs
  Tony Bush
  Joseph Camhi
  Velene Campbell
  Michael Ceraolo
  Rosemarie Crisafi
  Dan Danila
  Francisco Dominguez
  John Feins
  Daniel Garcia-Black
  Ursula T. Gibson
  Larry Jaffe
  Donna Kuhn
  Marie Lecrivain
  Sharmagne Leland-St. John
  Laura A. Lionello
  Harold Lorin
  Rick Lupert
  Stosh Machek
  Kelly Ann Malone
  Terry McCarty
  Tim Peeler
  James Pinkerton
  Beverly J. Raffaele
  E.W. Richardson
  Ken Scott
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  Rev. Dave Wheeler
  Robert D. Wilson
  mailing list
Dan Danila
November 2004



Theo Diamantis

    Dan Danila is a poet and painter who has lived in Leonberg, Germany since 1990. He was born in 1954 in Romania, where he graduated from the Arts High School of Sibiu/Hermannstadt. His poems, short stories, translations, and graphics have been published by leading literary magazines in Romania, Germany, Denmark, Canada, and the United States.
    Dan has published five books of poetry in Romanian. He has also translated into Romanian five book-length selections of French and German literary works by Franois Villon, Rainer Maria Rilke, Wolf von Aichelburg and Georg Scherg.
    In 2000, he won the LITERART XXI Award for his translations of Rilke's poetry. He is a member of the Romanian Writers' Association.




Her best one cannot be captured on a canvas,

her finest will never hang in museums–

for Autumn is by far the greatest painter:

the winds over desert or snow,

and flames are her most skilful brushes.

Such an ephemeral picture like a shimmer–

how to capture it, how to keep that haze

on a dark mirror, or in the purple clouds

over the forest, or on the inside of your eyelids–

views of yellow rocks washed by the sand.

A thin black widow in her eighties,

my moon-eyed grandmother, told us

(the circle of kindred spirits and grandchildren

almost jealous of her blindness) about

the most wonderful coloured dreams-

her long, countless, unbelievable visions-

as she grew smaller and smaller,

ordering the pictures of her youth

beneath her forehead, again and again,

smiling girlishly on her white deathbed.

The most wonderful is like memory:

there is no frame to contain that

landscape lasting but one wink or less.

copyright 2004 Dan Danila