Mistrust #igpoetry #short prose #flash fiction

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Bewitched #poem #poetry collection

 ch123; Shutterstock

Included in my poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings.

perhaps I was bewitched by the North Star
or by a ballad as dateless as my blood
geography of feelings populates unwanted interludes
my eyes, the nests of dewy grass and leaves
emerald eyelashes flaunt
black taffeta chirps between my fingers like piano keys
inside my soul your kisses soar
soft lilac tones like prayers of the youngest nun
perhaps because I read your poetry last night
and cut my soul between a stanza and a strife
perhaps a child played with a kite
a kingdom for a sup
maybe it was the wind
that woke me up

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

On Love and Novels #literature #prose #fiction

He was a great novelist. He avoided the big juvenile traps: on the one hand, repeatedly writing about one’s childhood and one’s limited experiences, and, on the other hand, confining his characters to slogans such as do good or better days are ahead.

He knew he went against the grain of what was considered acceptable in his country; a country in which the novel frequently used everything from camaraderie to horror, and from war to sex, in order to avoid the birth of a new Emma Bovary. Emma’s sensuality would have scandalized a society in which some, if not most, deified violence and crucified sensual love. Should I mention The Scarlet Letter?

He loved me. In his last note to me he wrote:

“Love and sensuality include divination: a thirst for deciphering the signs inscribed in the sacred area of our subconscious, a craving for knowing what the future holds, and the supplication that providence or god will fulfill our desires.

How much we want that which is not only given to us but that which we create too: Mircea Eliade’s homo religiosus, that alter-ego who lives inside us and conjures the meanings we create in sacred times and spaces.

Love and sensuality are the well of eternity.

Will I advise you to write about love? No.

Yet I know you will do it.”

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

On Women’s Writings #poetic prose #feminism #literature

 artellia; Shutterstock

On Women’s Writings

I do not like women’s writings. They talk too much about their bodies.

Notice the negative connotation attributed to the relationship body/femininity construed as an obstacle to the evolution of the spirit?

This man’s feeble mind confined women to lands of sensuality, magic, swamps, and mud: in short, to categories related to the carnal. Women can only be aware of tumultuous feelings that erupt inside their bodies. Nothing else. There was an implicit juxtaposition between body/femininity and spirit/masculinity, the latter understood as superior.

I navigated the incredible writings of women like Virginia Woolf, George Sand, Marguerite Yourcenar, and many others.

I became a mirror. I produce images of the spirit and of the body.

I play with them. I absorb them. I devour them.

I am the same with the richness of the intellect and the opulence of feelings.

My body is the alphabet of a language spoken at the exact hour when the sunset rains its cherry blossoms over the laughter of children.  

I love the frenzy of the 1920s. Oh, les années folles

I am the quintessence of that which you will always desire.

I am a woman.

I am not made in your image.

You are made in mine.

Happy New Year to all my followers. May 2021 bring you happiness and success. May you be forever loved.
Gabriela

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Bloom #poem #poetry

 Suwan Wanawattanawong; Shutterstock

you cut a piece of my hair
it curls between your index finger and your thumb
in the distance
silhouetted against the snow
knotted kerchiefs
the dress of a woman who insinuates herself on people’s skin like mold on walls
in the little house hidden by oak trees
in the unmade bed where every night you sleep alone
I listen to the mineral eyes of a saint
while between your palms
the Little Prince plays with white plumes
signs that birds exist
the winter buries us deep in the ground
dissolved
our bodies gestate until the birth of spring
when on the top of an unspoken hill
you and I will bloom
into two trees whose fruit will feed the children of the world

Happy Holidays to all my followers. May your 2021 be fabulous.
Love
Gabriela

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Sweetness #prose poem #poetry #short prose

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is shutterstock_603319382-300x200.jpg
IrenaStar; Shutterstock

Scents of linden trees illuminated by an old oil lamp.
The night is me.
I am the night where love delights dwell.
Shed you skin and come with me where minutes melt like chocolate on the tongue of a child.
You, sweetness from beyond the body, what can one say about you?

=

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

Thank you.
Gabriela

@Gabriela Marie Milton

On Life, Love, and Literature: Collage

AZdesign; Shutterstock

How beautiful this winter would be if the sky were the color of your eyes.

A naked night knocked at the door. She wanted to buy love.  I sent her away.

If I must pick one type of love it wouldn’t be eternal love.

Every morning I wake up to a list of things “to do.” I hate things. I love only their meanings. 

If heaven were hell what would you do?

I do not speak anymore. Since I read Camilo José de Cela’s Cristo Versus Arizona I decided silence is the only thing I should practice.

*

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Amor, Amore, Mon Amour – A Poem From My Poetry Collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings

 Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock
amor, amore, mon amouramor, amore, mon amour
love strikes like the Mistral in Saint-Tropez
winds, hallucinations of pianos,
decide to howl in D major
enigmas move inside the wombs
incubations murmur under the phases of the moon
bewitched, allegories of love raise odes to exasperated nudes
a prophet gazes at a virgin sybil
whose liquid eyes foretold our love in gold
reflections, lava of our souls,
a mirror hangs itself onto the wall in the red room
a phoenix rises
our bodies drown
into the liquid time of the Mediterranean
amor, amore, mon amour
the splendid flesh of a gestating poem
washes our singular and frenzied souls
amore colpisce come il maestrale
nei venti di Saint-Tropez, allucinazioni di pianoforti
decidono di ululare in re,
enigmi maggiori muovono dentro l’intimo:
mormorio, incubazioni sotto le fasi della luna
stregate allegorie d’amore sollevano ondine a nudi esasperati
un profeta guarda una vergine sibilla
i cui occhi liquidi predissero il nostro amore
nei riflessi dorati, lava delle nostre anime,
uno specchio appeso al muro nella stanza rossa
una fenice solleva
i nostri corpi affogati
nel tempo liquido del mediterraneo
amor, amore, mon amour 
la splendida carne di un poema in gestazione
lava le nostre anime singolari e frenetiche

Italian translation by Flavio Almerighi.

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

My Name Is Gabriela #fiction #short story #poetic prose

 asifakbar; Shutterstock

My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie. Nobody understood why. Mama believed that Marie was the secret name of his mother who was an actress. As far as I know my grandmother’s name was Lucrecia, and she was no actress. She was born into a religious family. Her uncle was a bishop. I have no idea how Mama came up with this story about my grandmother being an actress and having a secret name.  

I cannot write anymore.  If you want me to do it, you will have to lock me in the library. Only there silences become words, and words become soft and puffy like two humongous winter breasts glowing in the last rays of a sweet and sticky sunset.

Yesterday, I got lost in the sacrality of the winter carnival with its colors and aromas of musicality, and its hands of poetry extended to the moon and beyond.  

Oh, no, you locked the library door.

I start knotting the thin rosy bodies of the quiet words that make the four thousand volumes that reside in here. An aerial bridge extends over the world. Dressed in a full-moon regalia, I walk on it. Around me birds amalgamate the winds of the North with those of the South. I see stars floating on the seas. Blue meadows wave to me.

I cry. My tears reach the earth, and each and one of them grows into a new poem.

My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie….

*

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

In Defense of Emma Bovary

 Stanislaw Mikulski; Shutterstock

I love how you dress for weddings: the repetitive movements of your fingers when you knot your bow-tie and that splendid nakedness of the white rose on your lapel, a true nuditas virtualis that makes me dream of the birth of a god in the zodiacal sign of Virgo.

I miss the glow of your face in the candlelight, the vibration of the wine glass’ crystal stem between your fingers, the memorable tunes of the waltz coiling around your senses.

It is dark. I lay on the sofa and the smell of pain killers and sedatives dwells in my nostrils. I can hear the noise of the withered leaves coming from outside. It frightens me.  The sweetness of the nuditas virtualis fades away. I think of Emma Bovary, the so-called narcissistic self-deluded character, the adulterous woman, the daydreamer, the nuditas criminalis par excellence.

How pathetic and enslaved by time our judgments are.  If Emma were a man, she would have had the masculine license to thirst for the feminine. No judgements would have been passed. There is no masculine equivalent of Emma Bovary in literature.  Profoundly telling, don’t you think?

Emma committed the mortal sin of having affairs.  She killed herself as self-punishment, we are told. How ignorant people who think so are. Turn the page and think of Emma as the woman who pitied the birth of her own daughter. Have you ever stopped to think why she would do that?

Those winds and the frightening noise of the withered leaves.

Where are you?

You do not visit anymore. You forgot your white rose on the head on my sofa.  I need to tell you again. I love how you dress for weddings.

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton