Poems of Romania		by JoAnne Growney
	Looking for Words Our land and words are one, Romania explains. To help me understand, friends take me through Transylvania, land of Dracula and ancient painted monasteries. To help me understand, friends take me in a van with sleeping bags, a store of food, to visit ancient monasteries painted with sacred stories to last forever. We travel in a van, carry picnic food, marvel at unfading lapis on concrete walls— sacred stories saved to tell forever— pastel lift to heaven, red descent to hell. We marvel at unfading lapis on concrete walls— spiritual instruction for those who have no books: pastel lift to heaven, red descent to hell— and, at the nuns’ clear windows, bright geraniums. Instructing those who have no books— through Transylvania, land of Dracula— nuns brighten clear windows with red geraniums. Our land and words are one, Romania explains. Return to Romanian Poetry Page Return to JoAnne’s Home Page	Letter from Romania I must write before I once again forget all this: concrete stairways—broken, steep, unlit— bare, grey entryways to homey flats. But for a daybed near the door, Ana’s flat’s the same—its twice-locked door, fragile porcelain on the shelf, curtains drawn, dripping bathroom tap. Each night at nine we sit on Ana’s porch, with tuica—toast her, the night and day ahead— I tell of marriage, children, and divorce, see pictures of her family. Her husband’s dead; she worries over Nic, who loves money, shrinks from work. The city’s pale concrete glows red from sunset’s slant across tile roofs. Day’s done— heat lingers, lifts to us the roses’ rich scent. Hear me into understanding. I own a home and have more wealth than these can dream to spend, yet they fete me with delicious, ungrudging spreads— each day I follow some parent to the end of a dark stairwell to a room where narrow beds make benches beside a dining table. Through the meal we smile our lack of common words— in classrooms with the children I am able to speak my English and be mostly understood. We read verse by Whitman, who took a full deep breath of freedom and wrote it, who could contain multitudes. But these prefer Dickinson, whose careful, stingy lines show she also stood behind fences and locked doors. Jobless inflation flattens hopes—though children see a television world they want, timid dreams meet daily life and run. To balance drab Deva with a fuller impression of Romania, Ana finds a driver and a van to take us north from city heat through mountains of Transylvania—legendary homeland of Dracula—to monasteries painted and ancient. Stories on concrete walls teach man to know his God. The patriarchs and saints in regal colors, sinners’ banishment to hell in flaming reds, Christ in mild blue tints. From the monastery nuns our hosts buy prayers. I don’t voice my doubt. This land has my heart; this twin of my childhood Pennsylvania—after so many years.