copyright protected   Published by Gabrielle Anderson in the International Notebook of Poetry LiterArt XXI

Kriemhild (NibelungenNot)

From the depth of crystal and thorns

I remember of Worms.

There was love in the air and a dagger in Siegfried’s heart….

For a start

I’ll remember the flames and return to the Thames

and the Tower

and the time for a flower from love in the heart of a knight….

I’ll descent from the isle.

From the top of Versailles

I will seek the serail in the heart of Byzantium’s garden

and the love that would harden

the escape down the Nile.

There was love in the air

every night I would stare

at the moon of crystal and flames….

It was cold in the Tower,

death in the night at Versailles…

a spook…

I won’t reach the Nile

and I stagger

from the fright of a faithless serail.

In the depth of the game of chess cruel was the fight —

but I’m holding the flower

and hiding the dagger

I took

from the heart of a knight.




Today I fell in love again,

love opened itself like a fan

dropped on my knees,

(if you please),

by one of those gingerly-snow hands

from lost centuries.

Something ends and I can breathe again,

I look in the eyes of a man,

he shows his teeth,

moves towards me


like a cheetah sniffing the breeze.

I can see the night in his stare,

the stars break out in a flare,

my heart springs up like a cart

rushed by a zillion horses

fed on remorses

from the start.

It becomes dangerous as it is

loaded with gun powder and the vow to release

without waiting and please.

The vow torn apart

from lost centuries.


Daphne (Romanian spring, for the students who died in 1989)

Along the streets

lamps died out in a row.

The trees

jade leaves and twigs

smell May-fresh.

In the shade of a van

a girl’s thin body is becoming a bough

in the arms of her man.

Tall gables and dust


one – two – three…

memories and rust

camps of despair.

one – two – three…

“The Royal Palace Must



In the shade of a tree

a girl’s body grows flowers

in the arms of her man.

Kiwi and French pie, pieces of exotic dreams

still lie

on stone market stalls;

a beggar falls

under the soft hymns

of the jurnalist’s pen;

in the garden of whims

a girl’s body is buddying

in the arms of her man.

“Our Father will pardon…”

(candles – one, two, three….)

The cupola covers

a long “Testament”

the greysuits’ debates…

the air vibrates

from bullets


In the Botanic Garden

The howl of a dog intonates

an old Byzantine lament.

White lamps are dead in the sky.

In the dim halls of fears

a girl’s body drops petals

like tears.