I am an external representation I ask questions about the internality of things the sweetness of berries on my tongue the anarchy of flesh during torrid nights blindfolded by you I cry the rustle of fresh ivy the unspoken unbound in my blood mi amor turn around
It is my pleasure to introduce you to The Sound of Brilliance: The Short of It by Susi Bocks. In Susi’s words the anthology features the brilliant work of 41 poets and writers. I know some of them and I truly look forward to reading this beautiful collection.
Furthermore below is the link for Poets Coffee Table Chat- April 5. You can listen to Susi talking about the anthology, and to various poets – Joni included – discussing multiple issues and reading their poetry. I hope you enjoy.
I am thrilled my poem On Sacrifice and Meaning was included in Vita Brevis Anthology: Sight & Swept Away. Congratulations to the editor – Brain Geiger – and to my fellow poets who are published in this anthology.
On Sacrifice and Meaning by Gabriela Marie Milton (snippets)
Because I love you, I learned the meaning of sacrifice. …..
It is autumn; an autumn that came too soon and whose suicidal breath brought dust and diseases. The lamb will be born in the spring. …….
I try to advance but the liquid silver pulls me back. I cut its hands with a knife. Every cut fulfills the dreams of the knife; my dreams are still in the waiting room. …..
I rub my cheeks with rosemary and wrap my body in the alphabet of love. On my lips the unspoken words shine. How beautiful they make me look.
I restore the degradation of our myth to its rightful fecundity. The sacrifice becomes a festival, and the festival turns into creation.
If you missed yesterday’s anthology announcement, you can find it here. Today, your poetry ranked as the #2 bestseller in the new release poetry anthology category!
I can’t thank the Vita Brevis community enough. This type of performance is what keeps Vita Brevis reading-fee free. Thanks for making poetry publication accessible to everyone, and for keeping this little publication running.
And congratulations on almost becoming bestselling poets — let’s get up to #1!
and you my love who know that spring has come peaches grow on one side of the moon injured lambs scream on the other taste of strawberries my hair freshly cut herds of feelings return in the night from the waters possessed by new ghosts we look for each other the baptism of rain and thin yellow candles a verse from Seferis bites from my lips the Easter of Roses with its cold morning showers never to sin your hands nailed in white marble the rode of your anchor my love it’s spring it’s me free your hands from the marble
The builder of all things lives in me along with the seven disoriented ships he anchored in the port last spring. The summer dried the sea. The wood of the ships got rotten. The masts got buried in the wickedness of empty sunsets. It is winter. It is Wednesday. I was in the washing room. I saw you folded my laundry. In the library the Orphic Egg suspends itself from the ceiling fan. Under its pale light I study my hands with the same precision the child studies his. I shed my clothes as snakes shed their skin. I feel your index finger contouring my spine. One by one your writings penetrate my mind. The dimorphism of your poems spiral in two directions: torrential love and logical deductions. They are both the product of your brain. I cannot kill them. I must allow them to exit. The object of my poetry? Not to concede…
inside the altars of the churches with blue cupolas he recounts the spring cuckoo’s notes his cries strip him of himself modify his flesh until the days are born from the wounds of his feet daughter of this earth I can hear his bones cracking with love for you his voice made from curses and myrrh his body stretched between heaven and the bloom of the olive trees his retina caught inside the limonite of the yellow marble everything speaks of the impossibility of tomorrow daughter of this earth you who travel in the lands of the snakes with no name and shed your skin and your beauty in every sunset you are the virginal sin in the nights of the hyacinths show mercy go back to him the resurrection is near
I am thrilled that my two poems Prayerand A Night of Marble and of Gingerbread were included in Issue I of Free Verse Revolution: Hebe (the fountain of youth)
Prayer by Gabriela Marie Milton
you, fountain of youth, forgive me I am the one made from mud and from the skin of Attica’s flutes at night, my existence feels like an impertinence or perhaps like an interlinear a language half-imagined half adulterated by the bloom of the olive trees under the sticky wing of an angel I was born in the swamps where the tombs of the prophets sunk I am blood and bones when I smell the sea and the meat from the grill church bell toll and speak of death, and of the mystique of oblique winds you, goddess of youth, source of life from where four rivers flow your child-like body stands some days on the top of the mountains and others on the top of the fountains your skin is dewed and flowered with love my skin haunts the night of the deserts your destiny is that of the innocents mine is that of the sinners forgive me, you, Hebe that I do not ask for the gift of youth give it to the children give it to the sick and throw what is left into the sea the fish will be happy
A Night of Marble and of Gingerbread by Gabriela Marie Milton
on the top of the mountain the pines silhouette against the whisper of the rocks the night is cut from marble, and from gingerbread the wind stops on a branch touched by a naked star I take the measure of that which forever youth gives red poppies that never wither seeds that never impregnate the ground a love that still plays with toys, and lights candles in a Christmas tree in the middle of summer the moon is mortal and concerned with trivial matters and so am I Hebe, how many know that you are the bud of incest and patricide? how many know your child’s eyes witnessed so many crimes? filled with pain, you stop growing up, isn’t it so? oh, don’t cry here is my impermanent heart wear it for one day in the morning you will see the old oak dying in the rain at noon butterflies will sit on your hair in the night a Lethean forgetfulness will lecture on the beauty of transitory love kisses will feel like honey on the tongue the breath of love will rest on your skin you will grow up what? you do not want your forever youth back? dream it’s spring