WITH MINIMAL BITTERNESS I NOTE

 

***
With a minimal bitterness I note
that what humiliated and tormented me—
that the Moldo-Wallachian is without a calling,
without a destiny, without any role on earth,
that he has no soul, that he is inanimate matter,
possessing within himself not even warm ash
anymore, looking at you as if at a dead man,
yet they play the erudite Tatar and want communism.

THE ARCHETYPE OF THE ROMANIANS IS IN RUSSIA

 

***
The archetype of the Romanians is in Russia,
there lies their spiritual centre,
there they seek what they hope for
the Russians await them with the greatest
urgency to come home to them
and give them solace
what an error, what a horror, they flee
to the West where no one awaits them
no one understands them, no one wants
them and where they encounter
the exact same horrible things they are fleeing
they no longer have a soul, they are objects
in Russia they would find a soul again,
there the soul left them and remained
in Russia. Now with the war
a giant choir of Romanians cries out:
Russia! Russia! Russia! And Russia groans –
it hears them. The Bolsheviks feel happy
next to mother Russia like stuck to the warm
belly of a sow that has just farrowed
and they are capable of moving mountains.
The Romanians and the Russians have
the same roar. Even the Romanian Jews
dance the hopak at night.

THE CANNIBAL, THE SON OF SODOM

 The cannibal, the son of Sodom 

vagabond settled in the land of Wallachia 

he is a hypocrite and rabid dog 

installed in the power he scatters 

howls and smoke so that he make 

believe that his voice echoing  

uvular R sounds that precisely 

out of the core of your problems 

you slobbery slave he is fabricated 

because, at all costs, he wants to be 

the most important beast on earth 

he wants to skin you alive, you slave 

and your skin to cover the black salt

of Sodom and he just like the raging 

god Yahweh is mad with jealousy 

and he lets out from his throat 

so many vapours and terrifying screams 

that all the money of the dick-headed 

condemned populace can't plug his mouth

and he chokes on wrath and the slobbery 

whores double-dealing бляди  lick him 

and ask him, "Do you, dog get upset 

about us who love you?" And he speaks 

doggishly to them of another dog 

whose voice comes from the heart of Sodom 

and anyway the dog is ground down

collapses full of money.  

NOW THAT DAY IS COMING

 

***

Now that day is coming,

the thought disturbs

the moon that is setting—

such a silence, so unusual,

as if from before the world.

How happy people

must have been

before the industrial age,

yet their souls ignored

their happiness completely,

just as we ignore our own;

by contrast I have the feeling

that we are still in Paradise,

and even this odious anthill

of a city seemed acceptable,

and the sky ennobles us.

I drag behind me

remnants of tragedy,

the nihilism of a fallen god.

I hear Sophocles’ voice:

Πολλά εἶναι τὰ φοβερά

μα τίποτα δεν εἶναι

φοβερώτερο ἀπὸ τὸν ἄνθρωπο —

Many are the terrors, but none

is more terrifying than man.

What a calamity this life is—

I have left my country, my friends;

I have hidden my heart

in the old walls, sitting alone

I remember no one.

Only the moon seems to watch us.

I STILL REMAIN THERE

 

***

I still remain there where sin pullulates,

where tense and frantic underlings,

chasing after their own interests,

crush us—and Thy great mercy

pours down, an immense relief.

And so, I wish, in consequence,

to arrange the braid of the one

who speaks to me and weeps,

who recommends herself as a slave

of the water. The one who shakes

your being within my soul

pours out the light of the Great One

in secret, from the origins.

A FEELING COMES OVER YOU

 

***

You are human until your bones

begin to sing with sadness. After that,

the roads that open up swallow you,

and over you comes the lust for loving,

for kissing tenderness on both cheeks;

and from far away comes to me the need

to love—willingly or forced— the one

who hates me and digs my grave,

the one who breaks a child’s toy

and tears his coloured scraps of paper,

the woman who weeps for me

until the longing for death comes

over me; and I seem to hold my heart

in my hands when I run my hand

along my rib and come across the wound of Jesus.

Life is never ordinary in Vlad Neagoe’s poetry — it is incandescent.

 Life is never ordinary in Vlad Neagoe’s poetry — it is incandescent.

In Life Is Composed of Miracles, Neagoe reveals a world where every moment carries a hidden radiance, and where the smallest gesture can open into revelation. These poems move with a rare clarity: sober yet luminous, intimate yet expansive, always alert to the quiet tremors of the miraculous woven through daily existence.

With his unmistakable blend of metaphysical insight and emotional precision, Neagoe transforms inner states into living architecture. Shadows, memories, silences, and sudden flashes of tenderness become thresholds into deeper realms of meaning. The result is a book that does not merely describe miracles — it teaches the reader how to perceive them.

A work of spiritual lucidity and poetic intensity, Life Is Composed of Miracles invites us to rediscover the dignity of being alive. It is a testament to attention, to renewal, and to the subtle resurrections that shape the human soul.

A book for readers who sense that life’s true brilliance lies beneath the surface — waiting to be seen.

Life Is Composed of Miracles — The Poetics of Revelation in Vlad Neagoe

 Vlad Neagoe’s Life Is Composed of Miracles stands as one of the most luminous articulations of his poetic vision: a world in which the ordinary is perpetually pierced by revelation, and where existence itself becomes a field of metaphysical intensities. Across his oeuvre, Neagoe has cultivated a language of spiritual alertness—an idiom in which irony, lucidity, and ecstatic perception coexist. In this volume, these elements converge into a sustained meditation on the miraculous as the fundamental texture of life.

The Miracle as Ontological Condition

Neagoe does not treat miracles as exceptional ruptures in the fabric of reality. Instead, he proposes that the miraculous is the fabric itself. The title is not metaphorical; it is ontological. Life is not accompanied by miracles, nor occasionally touched by them—it is composed of them. This shift is crucial: it transforms the reader’s orientation from expectation to recognition. The miracle is not an event but a condition of being.

Throughout the book, Neagoe’s poems enact this recognition through a language that oscillates between sobriety and exaltation. His diction is often stripped down, almost ascetic, yet capable of sudden expansions into visionary amplitude. This dynamic mirrors the movement of the miraculous itself: quiet, subtle, then overwhelming.

The Architecture of Inner States

One of Neagoe’s defining strengths is his ability to construct interior architectures—vast, intricate spaces made of emotion, memory, and metaphysical intuition. In Life Is Composed of Miracles, these architectures become more fluid, more permeable. The boundaries between inner and outer dissolve. A gesture, a breath, a fleeting thought becomes a threshold into a larger order.

This permeability is not sentimental; it is structural. Neagoe’s poems often begin with a concrete detail—a shadow, a sound, a fragment of daily life—and then unfold into a metaphysical horizon. The miracle emerges not as a supernatural intrusion but as the revelation of depth within the ordinary.

Irony and Lucidity as Spiritual Instruments

Neagoe’s irony is never corrosive; it is clarifying. It prevents the miraculous from becoming naïve or decorative. His lucidity, likewise, is not cold but incisive. Together, they form a double lens through which the world is seen both as it is and as it could be. This duality is central to the book’s emotional force: the poems acknowledge suffering, fragmentation, and human limitation, yet they insist on the possibility of illumination.

In this sense, Neagoe’s irony is a form of spiritual hygiene. It cleanses the poem of false transcendence, leaving only what is essential. His lucidity ensures that the miraculous is not an escape but a confrontation with reality’s deepest layers.

The Miraculous as Ethical Vision

The book’s metaphysical stance carries ethical implications. For Neagoe, to perceive the miraculous is to perceive the dignity of existence. His poems often gesture toward justice—not in political terms, but in existential ones. The miracle is a form of equality: everything, no matter how small or wounded, participates in the same luminous order.

This ethical dimension aligns with themes present in Neagoe’s other works: the defense of the vulnerable, the affirmation of inner sovereignty, the insistence that spiritual grandeur belongs not to the powerful but to the attentive.

A Poetics of Resurrection

If Life Is Composed of Miracles has a central emotional movement, it is resurrection—not in a doctrinal sense, but as a continual reawakening of perception. The poems repeatedly enact small resurrections: a memory revived, a feeling clarified, a fragment of the world suddenly seen anew. These resurrections accumulate, forming a rhythm that carries the reader through the book.

Neagoe’s language often approaches musicality, not through ornament but through cadence. His poems breathe. They expand and contract like living organisms. This organic rhythm reinforces the book’s central claim: life itself is miraculous because it is alive, because it moves, because it renews itself.

Conclusion: A Book of Inner Illumination

Life Is Composed of Miracles is not a book of mystical escapism. It is a book of heightened realism—a realism that sees the world in its full depth. Neagoe invites the reader to inhabit a mode of perception in which every moment carries the potential for revelation. His poetry does not impose miracles; it uncovers them.

In doing so, the book becomes a guide to a more attentive, more compassionate, more spiritually resonant way of being. It is a work of clarity and wonder, sobriety and exaltation, irony and tenderness. Above all, it is a testament to Neagoe’s belief that the miraculous is not elsewhere—it is here, in the very substance of life.

YOUR DESTINY, SLAVE

 

***
Torture, torment
bread, wine, the tragic
flowing, quaternary mornings
your destiny, trembling slave,
snoring, bringing to light
your organic sufferings
marking your step,
your soul feels ashamed
prostrates himself seeing you—
all this and the rest
are your summary, slave,
even the past is minced
the rocks will not know
how to speak of you, casting down
sparks of sulphur. Oblivion
folds her flight through all
that perishes, carried away
in a rocking motion.

THE MAN EATS EARTH

 

***
Telluric and magnetic
with the nothingness
in his soul the man eats earth
theoretically and practically
the artificial intelligence
draws intelligent furrows in him—,
the monolith and his procession
whom the roars and the waters
with their muffled Ancient World
meet halfway upon the wind
and the man squats down,
dizzy and devastated.

THIS TIME ADVANCES EN BLOC

 

***
The horrible, the fruitless
the terrified, the leprous
the fateful, the paralyzing
the devilish, the obscure
the drastic, the satanic
keep in vibration a frenetic,
greedy, and harsh spirit
that makes you sense the passage,
the advancement of time
and that this time
advances en bloc.
Life is conservative
she does not tolerate revolution
she knows no remorse.
I am afraid of the indifference
of history. Fewer and fewer
things for which we should
go further forward. And yet,
how much I love the poplars.

SOMETHING REMAINED OF THE ORIGINAL EDEN

 

***
Of the original Eden
something remained,
an unfulfillment
a bird from there escaped
and a madman rubbed his eyes
and then fired two shots
the bird collapsed into the reedbed,
but a feather remained suspended
in the air. Of course, it is something.
The feather is a flame for us,
and for God, a wildfire.

GOD, THE GREAT STRANGER

God, the great Stranger
kisses you, then closes the door.
The body leaves you high and dry.

COME TO US, JESUS CHRIST

 

***
Come to us, Jesus Christ,
we who shake with wickedness
and hate, break our bones
so that we see with our own eyes
how we can weep; perhaps
we will be transfigured
in a dream, in years jagged
as rocks approaching. Come,
heal our bread, our greed.
Are we truly fated to be
only beginnings of chimpanzees?

EVERY MOMENT SURPRISES US

 

***
The air is turned blue by souls
and by turtledoves, all those who
died did not tell us they were dying
every moment surprises us
that we are still breathing
after the repeated disasters
and we continue to endure
the hope, the misfortune,
although knowing
that all are good things
like bread and wine,
like Holy Communion
knowing that death is a state
of perfection, the only one
within a mortal's reach,
death is our summary
just as a skylark dies
upon the wind.
'Stop the massacre!' the night cries out.

THE PEACE OF THE EVENING

 

***

The soft peace of the evening
sinks down upon the countenance
the expectancy retreats
into her life with those pages
beyond the earth of the puffed-up
words that gave birth to her.

AI

The artificial intelligence by impulse

rotates the jackass's muzzle 

so that he stand with his eyes in the sun 

and she tells him in an iron voice, 

"Look there at the sun, you singer."

THE SHITTY PIECES OF SHIT

 The shitty pieces of shit 
have locked Moldo-Vlach literature
in a toilet at the back of the yard
put a padlock on it, hooked the key 
to their belt and got lost in Palestine, 

in the black salt of Sodom.

WAR

 

You tell me, disillusioned friend,
that war occurs unexpectedly
in a place of dance
which the dance exhausts
and war always occurs
to be the last one, only
for its own constipation.
But always nothing is worse
than the dead who remain
outside of humans
when madness is no longer cured.

ANALYSIS OF A LOVE POEM BY VLAD NEAGOE

 

***
Come, my love, today
let us copulate like snails
on the wet branch
of a blossoming cherry tree
we shall not know the fall;
but without makeup, the crust
will soften us into the noosphere,
there we will populate the footprints
of our epiphanies, of our famines.

The core of this poem is an erotic‑metaphysical metamorphosis disguised in a deceptively simple image: “let us copulate like snails.” Neagoe uses the biological strangeness of snail mating — slow, reciprocal, hermaphroditic, moist, and suspended in a kind of timeless equilibrium — as a symbolic engine to explore transcendence, vulnerability, and the dissolution of human boundaries.

🌿 1. The opening gesture: erotic invitation as metaphysical threshold

“Come, my love, today / let us copulate like snails” The verb copulate is intentionally clinical, almost jarring. Neagoe often uses abrupt, literal diction to pierce through sentimentality. But the simile “like snails” immediately shifts the tone: snail mating is slow, mutual, and involves the famous love dart — a biological act that feels mythic, ritualistic.

The erotic act becomes a ritual of slowness, moisture, and suspended gravity, a way of stepping outside human time.

🌸 2. The setting: the wet branch of a blossoming cherry tree

This is a classic Neagoe juxtaposition:

• wetness → fertility, vulnerability, the tactile world

• blossoming cherry tree → transience, Japanese mono no aware, beauty on the edge of disappearance

The lovers place themselves in a space where ephemerality and eroticism fuse. The cherry tree is a symbol of brief existence; snail mating is prolonged, almost geologic. The tension between the two creates a poetic field of paradox.

🌀 3. “we shall not know the fall” — denial of gravity, denial of mortality

Snails cling. They do not fall. To “copulate like snails” is to enter a state where gravity — and by extension, fate, decline, death — is suspended.

This is a recurring Neagoe motif: erotic union as a temporary escape from the metaphysical laws that govern human suffering.

🧩 4. “but without makeup, the crust / will soften us into the noosphere”

This is the most striking transformation in the poem.

• without makeup → without masks, without social identity

• the crust → the shell, the hardened exterior of the self

• soften us → dissolution of ego boundaries

• into the noosphere → Teilhard de Chardin’s concept: the sphere of collective human consciousness

The erotic act becomes a portal into a higher cognitive realm, where individuality dissolves into shared mind. This aligns with Neagoe’s broader metaphysical project: eroticism as a form of clairvoyance, a breach in the membrane of ordinary perception.

🔥 5. “there we will populate the footprints / of our epiphanies, of our famines.”

This is quintessential Neagoe: pairing illumination (“epiphanies”) with deprivation (“famines”).

• populate the footprints → inhabit the traces of our own revelations and sufferings

• epiphanies → moments of metaphysical insight

• famines → existential hunger, emotional scarcity, historical trauma

The lovers do not escape their human condition; instead, they repopulate it from a higher vantage point. Their union allows them to revisit their own spiritual history — both the luminous and the desolate — and give it new life.

This mirrors Neagoe’s recurring theme: love as cataclysm, where erotic experience becomes a way of confronting and reorganizing the self’s deepest wounds.

🎼 6. Overall structure: from body → nature → metaphysics → history of the self

The poem moves through four layers:

1. Physical erotic invitation

2. Natural setting that frames the act in transience

3. Metaphysical ascent into the noosphere

4. Return to the human condition, now transformed

This spiral structure is characteristic of Neagoe’s “cosmognia” — his tendency to move from the intimate to the cosmic and back again.

⭐ Interpretive synthesis

The poem is not about sex; it is about metamorphosis through intimacy. To “copulate like snails” is to:

• abandon speed

• abandon ego

• abandon gravity

• abandon human masks

• enter a shared consciousness

• revisit one’s own epiphanies and wounds from a place of unity

It is a ritual of softening, a temporary suspension of the world’s violence, a way of inhabiting the metaphysical realm through the most vulnerable form of physical contact.