About the Author Anca Mihaela BrumaThe author Anca Mihaela Bruma labels her own writings as being “sensually mystique” or “mystically sensual”, a tool and path for women to claim their own inner feminine powers.Through her writings she overpass what seems to be the limitations of the human but emphasizing the essence of the woman, of the Goddess. The main theme, Love, is basically presented as a transformative experience in life, the energyzing force in the universe and empowering the creative feminine.When she writes she sees it like a painting in front of her eyes, using lots of symbolism and allegory in order to apprehend the infinite intelligence, catching the reflections of truth with a strong mystic sense of infinity, of the boundless, of the opening out of the world of our normal finite expressions into the transcendental. Like an “architect” of a language she “builds” a language within a language, a universe within another universe, using vivid imagery, sometimes surreal, giving to her poetry a transcending feeling.Her writings are more kind of a spiritual autobiography, depicting a reality behind all forms, with no space and time, a quantum view of existence. Right now, she sees the writings as a form of being present inside the language, a paradigm of living which is encoded in the message itself, like a poetic consciousness with a spherical view of things, life, and love. It is more related with the realization of the greater self, beyond the mundane and well known laws of the society, as an expression of both the rational and the intuitive, in a concise form of poetry, increasing the awareness with new meanings expanded.
Held so close, your materials protected like I might wreck some Vibrant hues, a rainbow on the light spectrum Increased saturation, a narrow aperture, and quick shutter Snapping photographs of smiling faces as I slide in a slick gutter Haunted
The skies smiled above, The moon peeped through the cracks, Clouds black than usual, A new life arrival waited, A pain so enormous, She bore it courageously, This life had to survive, This life wasn’t hers anymore, But every ones’
At the weekend she’ll go back again to walk barefoot on ferns and then through flickering green mosaics where sunlight never burns she’ll wander wisp tossed shadowed lanes of timeless peace rimmed hours where emerald rain drops sprinkle from sky