Marinela Christel (Lonely Wolf)
I met Lonely Wolf on a poetry site in 2004.
We became instant friends and she began sharing her poetry, some of it truly brutal and horrifying with me.I had never read anything like it and it haunted me.
Book Cover Art by Lonely Wolf
‘In 2006 Marinela (Lonely Wolf) published “Communist Baby”
It contained some epic poems she wrote about being orphaned and surviving in Transylvania Romania and her forward she says:
“I was born in Transylvania, Romania, in a town surrounded by the Carpathian Mountains, named Sibiu. I spent my childhood in a childless environment, dodging the communist regime, successfully most of the time. I lost my parents and most of my relatives by the time I was a preteen, and my poetry and paintings back then, and even now, reflect the pain and longing for the missing loved ones. At the age of 18, I got married and was whisked away to America while communism was at its height in Romania. My experiences in two distinct cultures gave me a view of the world that at times might seem biting, but it is as honest as I see it. Memories linger, return, and disappear, yet I have learned a very precious lesson; we are survivors many times over. I want to thank you for reading my verses, and if I inadvertently offended anyone on my way to freedom of thought, I apologize.
Lonely Wolf ”
I only have this verse of hers, from the Surrender Series that I can share …. her book is out of print and I lost touch with her. over the years.
SURRENDER TO HATE
a little one in a communist country
Months passed and daddy didn’t shout.
Mom had no bruises, I went back to school.
Peace didn’t find me, I knew what’s all about.
Daddy had many women, behaving like a fool!
Communist slogans flying, sung in one loud voice,
First of May, parades to watch, yet not march in.
Daddy was questioned; at school I had no choice
But to stand in corners, not show my face, my sin!
I hated all his women, I hated all my schoolmates!
I hated empty bottles that mom left all around!
I hated all my neighbors who locked me out of gates,
I couldn’t reach my cot; to hate I did give ground!
My body shaking, cries muted, they shaved my head!
Hospital staff forcefully fed me, upon daddy’s request.
Saturday May morning, they found my father dead!
Mom cried, I cried for her; perhaps now we can rest…
No husband, no more father is such a crying shame!
Dressed all in black and starving worse than before
Mom met a widowed man; once more I was the game.
Pawn to be shifted, here and there; hate to the core!!!
It didn’t last too long before this dad was killed too.
I held his bloody neck and tried to pull the knife.
I woke up two days latter, washed off the sticky goo
And mommy was in black again, nobody’s wife…
No one set home, no school, no mates; a crazy kid!
Math teacher feeling my budding tits and skinny ass.
Please, help me God, no more! Whatever that I did
Don’t make me suffer longer, I’m just a scared lass…
I hate my body, just bluish skin and jutting bones!
I hate my mind, too petrified to say another word!
I hate my days, my nights, all filled with moans
Red, hazy lights, spread all around my gourd!
I hate this hate! I long for peace and gentle love…
Sleep won’t come, fear covers me in a frozen sweat.
That knife is big, I’ll fall and it will surely shove
Through hateful heart I’ve grown. That was my bet!
by lonely wolf
“I am sorry if this is disturbing to some. It is the purging. To this
day nobody really knows who killed my father. He was found incoherent
in his hospital duty room on May 6th and the idiots took him to
another hospital to save him . He died on route. We lost the
government subsidized housing and ended up living in the streets,
under bridges. Mom met a very nice man while working. They got
married. He was killed by someone in his native village. Mom and I
went there in the middle of the night, in time to say goodbye, I
fainted and didn’t wake for 2 days, forgotten in a corner by the
grieving family.Mom started to drink just before daddy died. She was
never sober after the second husband died and never wore anymore
color, just black. My father had many mistresses he used to bring home
and kick me out when mom was at work. I never said a word, because I
didn’t want ,Mommy to get mad and get beat up again by him. My eyes
grew hooded, my trust diminished to zero. An unmarried or widowed
woman, back then, was a disgrace and something to be spit upon. Never
mind a child without a father!All the adults were nuts, the communists
were nuts and because of my father who was anti communism I was
ostracized. I was living in a world of nuts and they were calling me
nuts. A 9 year old. I had to live up to labels, so my stepfather’s
knife was the solution. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, still
don’t… Now, they were right! I was nuts! To be continued…”
In 2005 I wrote this poem Nightmare in Yellow” I share it with you now, because I have never written anything like it before or after. I literally felt almost possessed by her history when I wrote it. I gave it to her and she was very moved.
Nightmare In Yellow
for lonely wolf
Now, a child’s point of view
I peer out from deep inside
stricken, numb, impotent, dumb
for I am not a child
and these are not my eyes.
If I had a box of crayons
the only one I’d chose,
is the sunlight stick
with small black bands
to draw her as she grew
Yellow is the color of the cowards
certainly she is not among them.
Her hero’s gait against her fate
gives witness to her strength,
the skinny posturing bold and straight,
her tight lipped gaze not winsome.
Yellow is the color of the foil wrap
which held the lilacs tight inside their vase,
and from that child’s weeping rims,
I see my mother’s saddened face.
Her mothers broken limbs produce in me,
confusing imagery of time and space.
At her hapless mother’s breakdown,
baton twirling guards march with the band,
while my mom makes a leap from her wagon,
scotch and water with ice in her hand.
But we are still a long time away from
the Gypsies helping hand
or the straggly girl lifting weights
and drinking booze
a knife held tight,
as protection in her land
I come alone to hug her,
to quash the memories of lunatic nights.
Staring from her upstairs window
she paces back and forth,
the yellow in her eyes now waxing bright,
from so much misfortune,
locked inside uptight.
Back and forth her bony haunches lead
her pacing moves her out the door ,
I’m there too her glitter eyes hook
mine to hers and she to me
and we proceed to scratch and pick
our scabs and open sores
I am now in an unwanted sequel
to a terror tale I’ve already seen
and there’s nothing normal about this film,
forming on the dishes to be served,
horror at its crudest and most real,
like the film that forms on the deadened eyes
of the more than one unfortunate
whose soul now in its hell- hole
rots and squeals.
what’s hers what’s mine
who even cares.
We hold hands to authority’s sneers
while we’re being beaten and rebuked
We swim breast to breast
upstream then down
and comb each others hair
Brush the longs strands, vigorously
separate the satin from the puke
and now we stop and rest and then we share
dead father’s who winked from beyond their graves
A book of Edgar Allan Poe
for these little mourner’s hands
stolen swigs of beer
by a nine year old who shudders
While the poor fat rabbits and sheep
of her yellow-jaundiced nation
bleed in the flooded streets
another trick gone bad
in the hands of the crazed magician,
Surreal it’s so unreal!
Yellow flags adorn the palace wall
too much heartbreak
too much drain
abuse, then rebirth
from childhood’s pain
I am not sure what visions are mine at all!
As I crawl through her grey days
her fur now surrounds her,
the communist hallways
no longer compound her
she roams poetic country sides
speaks out, a must, no muzzle she abides.
Beautiful face, her purge of soul, God’s grace
In many ways always alone
I whisper, “Destiny,”
Angry yellow eyes that linger long into the night,
Read to me your poem at this bedside,
come and haunt me”
*Dedicated to my fellow poet Marinela Christel (lonely wolf)