who are you? #poem #poetry

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who are you?

which gale winds have blown you here?

which fallen saint showed you the way?

besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries

lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece

virgin thighs ferment inside your blood

scared azaleas tremble on my pillows

step in my room

and know no fear

unravel poems from your battered heart

scent the roses with my fantasies’ Levant

weave lies into the brocade of my sofas

make those satyrs with horse ears to shut up

*

let’s dwell in silence for a minute…

then tell me how you landed here

and who are you

my darling sonneteer?

 

draft

@short-prose-fiction 

at the edge of winter #poem #poetry

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at the edge of winter

bridal chambers cry

roasted chestnuts crack

in the frigid streets

days inside my soul

come and go like ships

broken hearts lament

right at my front door

did i leave you there?

see,

i can’t remember

what i’ve done with you

at the edge of winter

a tree is sick with flu

 

@short-prose-fiction

landscape #short prose #flash fiction

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“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”

Lawrence Durrell,  Justine

*

Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.

During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.

Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.

A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view, like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.

*

In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn. We tried to satisfy our egos.  We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.

*

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)

@short-prose-fiction

i miss you #poem #poetry

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i miss you

like a little poor child

misses his home destroyed by war

like giant wounded albatrosses

miss their flights above blue oceans

like thirsty Bedouins miss water

like ancient swords miss their masters

like in the days before the resurrection

his followers missed Him

i miss your eyes

i’ve never seen

 

@short-prose-fiction

FIND ME! #POETRY #MUSIC #VBLOG

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FIND ME! POETRY AND MUSIC 
*
My Dear Readers, 
*
I am delighted to let you know that my unbelievably talented friend Ankit Thapa and I just finished our second online collaboration: poetry and music (vblog)  
lyrics and recitation: short-prose-fiction (me)
music, production, and arrangements:  Ankit Thapa 
*
“moons illuminate your skin…” 
@short-prose-fiction

rapturous love #flash fiction #short prose

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He looked for life in the long, ecstatic nights of our love.

I thought he did not understand that the frenzy of flesh always ends in death; that my body stood between him and heaven.

On the other hand, he argued that my body was his gate to heaven, his branch to eternity.

Ironically, it was the juxtaposing of our thoughts that made love so intense, so rapturous that we could not distinguish anymore between reality and fantasy.

 

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” 

@short-prose-fiction 

Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead) #poem #poetry

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sugar skulls sigh at my feet

lonely candles shed wax tears

Aztec winds cry on my body

swollen lips hide in the shadows

covered by the smell of pines

he was here

and you know it

yet

your body craves my touches

your love branches over me

gold marigolds are turning red

pianos scream notes of desires

wait!

till priests will say the mass

and Día de los Muertos will pass

 

@short-prose-fiction

i am the one #poem #STRAW zine #featured

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My Dear Readers,

I am delighted that my poem  “i am the one” was featured in the STRAW zine, a London based magazine, which launched its website today.

Thank you for the love and support you’ve shown me since I began blogging!

*

i am the voice of your past loves

resounding in your wildest fantasies

dressed in roses at the altar of your dreams

i am the one you’ve never had

my soul flows from the tears of the Nile

from the hands of children who still beg

through ruins, darkness, and deep pain

through wars which they will never understand

i am the last who will be saved

for i have sinned under the shadow of your cross

when Spanish fountains cry in the sunset

i am the Desdemona who you’ve never met

today Granada’s just the place

in which Garcia Lorca once was killed

i am the feather of a gold macaw bird…

continue reading here 

 

@short-prose-fiction

love letters #poem

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i am looking over your love letters

my hands are shaking

winds are trying

to take them away from me

bury them

into the depths of the roiling ocean

 

i am fighting the winds

i am back with you in that place

palm trees born from violet skies

white drapes covering adrenalized lovers

i am laughing

follies of love

your teeth leave painful marks

on my shoulder

 

winds funneled through my heart

push me into the ocean

salty waters corrode my nostrils

stingrays puncture my arteries

a church bell tolls

your letters

where are they?

 

@short-prose-fiction 

i will walk on Via Dolorosa #poem

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i’d like to be the sounds of waves

which crash into a mountain on an island

i want my pain to wash ashore

a naked pearl extracted from its shell

still agonizing in your soul

i’d like to be Cassandra and like her

to utter prophesies that will come true

in times of war and of despair

i’d like my voice to rip the sky

to shutter our world of luscious mud

 

love me for a single night

like you’ve never loved before

bite my wrists and tear my clothes

and in the morning

i will walk on Via Dolorosa

my feet will stumble on a cleat

my lips will kiss dried blood

from a handkerchief

forgotten

in the in the middle of the street

 

@short-prose-fiction

in the season of my sorrow #poem

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in the season of my sorrow

barren branches cry like birds

scrolls verse desperately something

who cares about verses anyway?

the hands of an old city clock just stopped

violet hills are raped by bullets

children are not told bedtime stories

hungry eyes aimed at my dress

you say i’m not the one

i’ve always been

i cannot see new moons

which bathe my skin in gold and coriander

you’re right, my love

for in the season of my sorrow

something’s old

and something’s borrowed

 

@short-prose-fiction

melt me #poem

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my love,

dawns are breaking in your eyes

virgins with unplaited hair

climb the mountains to the cave

where your songs

the fortunes tell

ah,

how your fingers touch the chords

how my heart swells at your sight

how your kisses burn my neck

how the mountain splits

the sky

walk the roads with your guitar

spread your fingers on my skin

i’m the part you’ve never played

i’m the one you’ve never had

find me

in the solstice of the lovers

in the breaking of the bread

lock me

deep into your body’s scent

melt me

in your tears of despair

and our love will never end

 

@short-prose-fiction

Destinies #flash fiction #short prose

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Our destinies caught in the deep lines of my left palm.

*

With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.

*

None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.

*

One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.

*

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers (draft)

@short-prose-fiction

you love me #poem

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you love me

like dolphins love to swim in warm and shallow waters

luscious humid silhouettes of the aquatic world

your fingers touch the texture of my silky skin

like priests in darkness the new testament

solemnly touch

 

you love me

says the royal palm tree in the garden

which every morning waves to me

i lost my golden earrings and i found them

among the crushed carnations spread on our bed

the night in which Mendoza wine fermented our destinies

into its scent

 

you know

i’ve never understood why you love me

the Howard Miller mahogany grandfather’s clock has stopped

somewhere it’s winter on the mappemonde

lost paradises hide in stones of silver bracelets

why did you come?

and if you came

why did you leave?

 

@short-prose-fiction

in the city made of stones #poem

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in the city made of stones

winds play chords of violins

thighs made of Carrara marble

yearn the flesh of the young girls

tired lizards climb a wall

the forgetfulness of time

your hands bury in a rock

my warm body

my bright eyes

i go down with a long moan

in the marble’s ebb and flow

 

in the city made of stones

the next morning

grass has grown

 

@short-prose-fiction

neuroses #poetry

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your eyes are young

my breath is heavy

sunflowers vanish in the frost

the tea is boiling

and the cat is purring

it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere

while summer comes on Rio de la Plata

 

i knew a poet who once said

i want to die unknown on Rio de la Plata

his eyes were old

his arms were strong

i ran to you deep in the northern hemisphere

and autumn came

to bury me into its neuroses’ mold

 

your body’s hot

my body’s cold

the room is quiet like a tomb

a nun is kneeling in the street

it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere

while summer comes on Rio de la Plata

 

draft

 

@short-prose-fiction

i’m coming after you #poetry

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i’m coming after you

my nails will scratch your shoulders

when sunsets fall over the Taj Mahal

that’s when you first will feel my soul

that’s when

the goddess once dethroned from our earth

will make you feel the pain

of those whose dreams were planted

in an empty bowl

 

i’m barging into memories of your past loves

my breast heaves under my silver armor

my lips shiver on your naked skin

my eyes bite from your blue veins

poems which you wrote in other lives

lined up like soldiers ready for the battle

against the Hellenistic decadence

which creeps into my laughter

 

there are no stars to help you

the moon is turning blue

you think you’ve ever loved?

i’m coming after you

 

@short-prose-fiction

Fires of the Mind (revised) #Flash Fiction

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First, one’s mind catered to the other.

Then, they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.

By the time physical love came into play, they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.

In the end, a lonely man found a mound of shattered glass on a back alley.

It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate.

Yet they didn’t.

 

@short-prose-fiction

don’t wait for me #poetry (revised)

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don’t wait for me

please find another lover

i’m riding camels with the Bedouins

watching the golden sunset coiling in the desert

i’ll enter Alexandria by morning

the day Mark Anthony committed suicide

 

don’t wait for me

go find another lover

i’m in the Île de la Cité on Friday the thirteenth

the Friday which forever will be feared

the smell of burning flesh is choking me

the Knights Templar are shedding tears

 

don’t look for me

until I’m writing you again

past sunsets murmur in gray fumes

and in the night before His resurrection

like Mary Magdalene

i’m looking for a tomb

 

@short-prose-fiction

passions #poetry

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i seek you

like roots seek water

the thirst which blasts into the rhythms of castanets

in Andalusia of the flamenco dancers dressed in red

i see you

the face of the lost stranger

dissimulating grief in autumn shadows

killed by the aurora borealis in the southern hemisphere

i feel you

dreams of wild young tigers

ravaging the flesh of prey with their teeth

in the Sahara of my burning suns the fate plays games

i chase you

blue hands of nightly ghosts insinuate onto my skin

i’m dragging you into the lands of spells which crawl

passions strike till all is left from us

are ashes in a bowl

*

draft

@short-prose-fiction  

Featured

Scents of flowers and of salt (Poetry and music collab) — Despite my deepest thoughts

 

My Dear Readers,

Poetry and music: a collaboration with my dear friend Ankit Thapa.

Title: “scents of flowers and of salt

Music, production, arrangements: Ankit Thapa

Lyrics and recitation: me (short-prose-fiction)

*

I would be truly grateful to you if you take 2 minutes to listen to our work.

Very few of you know that I am not a native speaker of the English language. I ask for

your understanding.

Thank you!

*

Lyrics:

pain is dripping from guitars

into sunsets with no end

pigeons guide ships lost at sea

tears drop from plumy skies…

love is blowing in the wind

scents of flowers and of salt

*

listen

to the night of oleanders

to the magic of the key which turns

take me to the kiss of no return

when the sky is turning blue

and we’re centuries apart

let me kneel in front of you

 

Very happy and excited to present you guys my/our first collab of its kind. Working on this project with Short prose-fiction was such a great experience. I hope you’ll enjoy our combined efforts. Music, production and arrangement – Ankit Lyrics and recitation – Short prose-fiction Lyrics Pain is dripping from guitars into sunsets with no end […]

via Scents of flowers and of salt (Poetry and music collab) — Despite my deepest thoughts

find me #poetry

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find me

inside the majesty of time

among the gestures of demoted lovers

winds are pushing boats to shore

letters written now by others…

into the lacy folds which your hands touch

kisses fall on golden strips

the sensuality of swans which float on lakes

yours lips playing from old scripts

 

find me

inside the hearts of sailors who will not return

among the brides left lonely at the altars

Mount Everest is gathering its clouds

twilights sink into red moons

choirs sing on lively tunes

 

find me

in the letters of your name

scents of tangerines perfume my hair

my body speaks of silk and cries

for centuries have passed

since I have seen

your darling eyes

*draft

@short-prose-fiction

in the between of yesterday and of tomorrow #poetry

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on my skin

the saps of lonely moons are flowing

your kisses turn and toss into the wind

my silky dress is ruffled on the bed

my stockings sigh in your wild dreams

 

the lovers of Verona are a myth

a flower fantasizes in my hair

in green the trees design the sky

and lassitude is hanging on the leaves

 

in the between

of yesterday and of tomorrow

the tempo of your kisses slows

in red your blood colors my veins

somewhere under this world of ours

we’ve learned the secret trapped

in earthen grains

 

@short-prose-fiction

The Chronicle of a Disaster Foretold #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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“Stop it, Angelo, stop it! What did you want me to do?

Wrap myself in the in French flag and sing La Marseillaise?

Write a book called “The Chronicle of a Disaster Foretold” and let the entire world know that Jacques was going to fall in love with me?

I am telling you that no matter what things would have happened the way they happened!”

I was enraged: my lips cracked, my body tensed, my dress pinching my skin like I was attacked by an army of red ants.

*

Miguel entered the room.

For a moment his green eyes reflected incredulity. He looked at Angelo, eyebrows raised, his left index finger pointing toward me.

“Why is Clara standing on the middle of the table?”

Ah, Miguel and that dreamy quality of his voice always bringing back our non-ending nights of love.

Angelo tried to put a rebel lock of his black curly hair back in his ponytail.

I did not move. Miguel did not take his eyes from him.

I do not know how much time we stood like this.

Finally, Angelo spoke: his voice raspy like he was awakened from a dream.

“Oh, Clara? Clara is just being Clara.”

*

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.

Draft

@short-prose-fiction

forever love #poetry

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my love,

receive my spade and take my cross

my heart will always be with you

i’m going to the realm of the unknown

remember me from time to time

on torrid nights

when conjured Spanish fountains

softly moan in pain.

 

my love for you will shine in every star

and it will be in every cloud you see

now time has come to swear to me

my beauty from the lands i’ve never known

that you’ll remember

stars are far

enemies by you

*

@short-prose-fiction

hello miss (hola señorita) #poetry

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travelers in colored carts

head to roads of no return

a fortune teller speaks of love

milk and honey wait for me

mama’s young

the lilac is in bloom

the hands of the rose garden

wave to me

i turn the key of the blue room

 

the time leaps forward

and i walk the streets of old Granada

swollen dreams of paintings and guitars

i stumble on your body’s heat

your arm rises in the air

your eyes gleam cinnamon and green

your laughter cracks the galaxies

“hola señorita

you grew up

just to meet me”

bullfighter (matador de toros) #poetry

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my dress is red

your heart is pounding

the passion of all matadors de toros

is bleeding from your arms into my veins

your eyes flame every soul in Salamanca

your fight is dance

your body burns

the bull is raging

flesh is cracking

roses from my hair fall on your wounds

stars are deaf

eternity is stopping

now i scribble words in lonely Sundays

echoes of bullfights in Salamanca

in the bells’ tolling was our beginning

and in your fight was our end

*

first published in The Literati Mafia 

imagination #poetry

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imagination

fecund dance

his shirt is lying on the floor

my thigh caught in the wilderness of love

his dreams rocked by the ocean’s breast

imagination

let my hands

harvest the fruits

which bloom into the estuary of his heart

let his teeth bite once again

from my fantasies tonight

 

imagination

fly blue kites

soak my body into vibrant notes

of juicy mangoes’ repertoires

imagination

heal the shadows from my neck

raise red poppies from the death

rain with sounds of crickets and guitars

for we are the children

of your breath.

i can’t win #poetry

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i hang flowers in the trees

i grow hands to heal all wounds

at my feet the forest sings

naked love from Saturn’s rings

rains on poppies in the fields

i move forward

and i mix

boiling teas with saps of passion

i coil laurels on your body

I knit kisses on your lips

yet…

fruits are bursting into blood

winds are choked by mounds of pyre

you’re not here

i can’t win

for the rifle will still fire

The Woman Before Me #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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“Clara, I did not tell you about the woman who Miguel loved before you.”

“Go ahead Angelo, I can’t wait to hear.”

My eyes pierced into his; in the streets an orange sunset was fighting for its life like a deer caught in the jaws of an enormous anaconda; tired bodies were floating in the middle of the fight; ships on an angry sea.

“Clara, Miguel was in love with a girl born in Buenos Aires. Her name was Helen.

Can you imagine that? Buenos Aires!

The city of Rosas, red ribbons hanging on military uniforms, people screaming death to utilitarianism on every street corner, telluric pampas striving to conquer the city, biting from it…

Ah, I can’t remember the name of the building from which Perón used to speak every year!”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“Angelo, what does Helen have to do with all this? Everything happened long time ago.”

“Oh, but she had a lot to do with…”

*

The sunset lost the battle; the night was breathing satisfied; stretches of a full anaconda digesting its prey.

“Clara, you are not listening anymore!”

“No, I’m not. And if Miguel is not here in five minutes I’ll start singing Don’t cry for me Argentina and strangle you in the middle of the street, Angelo!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t do this, Clara!”

“No? Watch me!”

*

I shivered.

There was no Helen.

Miguel never was in a relationship with a woman named Helen.

What was Angelo trying to tell me?

And where was Miguel?

*

draft

Love Call #morning fantasy

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I awake under the cap of a mushroom.

Its spores surround me like stalactites hanging from the ceiling of a cave.

Rubbing his forewings, a cricket chirps.

Is that you calling for me?

I know it’s you. You must be hiding in the grass!

Come out!

Every evening I’ll bathe your body in milk and honey.

Every morning I’ll dress you in a cloak woven from mulberry silk. I’ll grow wings around your ankles, so you can fly above the Himalayas.

Late night I’ll rub ginger oil onto your skin; every stalactite will fall in love with you.

At midnight when the Siamese purrs on my left thigh, I’ll dip my fingers into rose oil and mend your wounds.

We’ll kiss in the fragrance of leaves, roots, and ripened berries.

Why aren’t you answering?

Where are you hiding?

Come out!

Lonely Sundays #midnight fantasy

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Tears from the ankle of an iceberg fell on my body.

They crust on my skin like cold wax on a rack of votive candles.

Seconds hurt like lonely Sundays.

I lie in bed.

A canopy of wild roses scents the air.

My dreams burn like your body used to burn in our nights of love.

I feel you.

The pupils of my eyes dilate under the gravity of time.

Mercury and Venus turn the wheels of love.

Crusts of wax melt on the silky sheets.

Your kisses bloom violet waterlilies on my skin.

I taste figs and wild forest.

The wing of an egret covers us.

The room moves on another parallel.

Is it morning?

Is it Sunday?

Where are you?

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Love in blue and black – A collab — Despite my deepest thoughts

 

Poetry and music: a collaboration with my dear friend Ankit 

my love,

i speak to you through centuries of pain

trees are spinning barren branches in the air

when loneliness rains on blue hills

i crush my heart

so yours can still beat

listen

ocean waves embrace the moon’s pale chest

instead of tears

i shed naked pearls

so i can wash the effigy of your acoustic agony

and mend the painful scratches from your skin

with my imaginary fingers

in blue and black the time i bend

and no matter who i am

a human or a spirit

i swear to you

i’ll love you till the end.

 

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Untranslated Love — Vita Brevis

 

My poem “Untranslated Love” published in Vita Brevis

give me the stars

that shine under the bridges

where poor children spend their nights

the blood that leaks from wounds of war

when the last piece of bread is turned in tar

 

give me the language of your alabaster gestures

the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde

the mystery of painted nudes on walls

the cries of nuns under an angel’s lacerated wing

your untranslated love coiled in a tarnished ring

Submitted by short-prose-fiction give me the stars that shine under the bridges where poor children spend their nights the blood that leaks from wounds of war when the last piece of bread is turned in tar give me the language of your alabaster gestures the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde the mystery […]

via Untranslated Love — Vita Brevis

 

the dance of Isabella #poetry

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come and watch the dance of Isabella

the rhythm of castanets awakes the moon

her body tilts the oleander axis of the wind

her hips rotate into the autumn of the fires

 

an iguana stumbles on profuse desires

opening her eyes on Isabella’s chest

your forehead sinks into the sweat of lovers

who step onto the boats which never will return

 

watch how Isabella dances

wreaths of conquerors at her feet gleam

lizards from forgotten winters

tattoo her body on your skin

 

and in the shadows of the lips which spin

locked in the mansion by the lake

i love you more than anybody else

yet you don’t know

because for you i’m just a dream

*

first published in The literati mafia

i am a woman #poetry

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i inhabit the dance of bears on moonless nights

the moves of acrobats in crowded circuses

the fairy-tales of your childhood

the memories of your past loves

the cavalcade of soldiers

who fight forgotten wars

i breathe the sound of flute played by the satyr Pan

the scents of lonely islands where philosophers write

the swirls of ballerinas in mid-air

the mangoes which in nights of love i bite

 

bathed in rose oil and coriander

lost in the anarchy of flesh

i am a woman

and for me

the nights of passion

are still fresh

the fruit of love #night fantasy

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the juicy fruit of love lies open on a heavy silver tray: its pulp is orange, and its seeds are red

under the alabaster moon, like in the mist of secret sermons, your humid fingers design blue petals on my fragile body

drapes made from the feathers of forgotten purple honey-creepers sleep virginly into the breeze coming from the west

on checkered marble tiles cicadas sing the first Chopin nocturne in B minor

little fairies with big eyes dance tarantella in the air

i see into the purple of your lips the shadow of the woman you will love

don’t move

let me watch the little fairies eating from the fruit of love

when they are done we’ll run into the meadows where trees sleep, and rivers stretch like cats

there on the silky grass will bite together from the alabaster moon

and our love

into another century will bloom

Featured

The Garden of My Youth #Guest Post

 

A beautiful poem written by one of my friends, Virginia. I hope you enjoy it!

 

The Garden of My Youth

by Virginia Mateias

(translated from Romanian by the author’s daughter)

*

With barren feet I step on withered roses.

Out of warm blood-drops,

Memories will bloom

As I walk in the long since deserted house

Straining to hear

My grandmother’s echoing chants,

My earthly father’s forgotten voice.

From specks of dust and wind

I shall reassemble my Mother`s smile,

As my eyes dance away from cracked walls

Then turn to the sky above;

To the aloof,

Benevolent,

Nostalgic sky.

Sunset to sunrise,

I will walk the gardens

Till sleep comes for me and finds me

Hidden In a deep fissure

Near a tall window

Because, you see,

I have always needed high, large spaces.

Afterwards, my child will come

In search of me and of a smile

Embedded in bricks and mortar.

The house itself shall fall apart,

Cars will enter the rose garden,

And a new highway will be built over it;

Only then, will my family and I, utterly freed from space

Will move to the sky,

To the best place to look upon

Strange people we have never met

With detachment,

Condescendence,

And nostalgia.

*

In the spring of 2000 the poet, actress, and journalist, Virginia Mateias published her first literary work: a poetry volume in Romanian entitled “Persistenta Memoriei” (The Persistence of Memory). Virginia was acknowledged by her literary critics as “an authentic and spontaneous poet.” “The Garden of My Youth,” translated in English by her daughter, is a poem from her new book “In Umbra Ingerului” (In the Shadow of the Angel). 

Virginia’s biggest passions: nature escapades, and travelling with her daughter on the footsteps of lost civilizations.

i want to die alone #poetry

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i want to die alone

on a dark pebble shore

a thousand frantic seagulls

will sing my mass

seahorses

(my gravediggers)

will exult

the gravity of nonexistent stars

will bury me

into the scents of salt and fruit

and when my fearless Spanish angel

takes me to the altar of the moon

i will forget the misery i’ve lived

and never be reborn

paradise #poetry

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the southern cross shines on my chest

Moorish patterns verse on silent walls

kisses spin on opal rings

like birds into the winds

which force the sailors

to anchor their ships in unknown lands

 

my body twists in perfumed coriander air

the Hand of Fatima takes off my veils

 

i’m falling naked at your feet

your lips entangle in my bracelets

Tchaikovsky’s hitting a crescendo

i toss into the smell of apricots and spice

don’t stop

for Michelangelo has never painted

any expulsion from the paradise

geisha’s pleasures #poetry

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it must be January for cherry blossoms open their wings

and melt into the pleasure quarters of your dreams

my face is painted in the purest white

carnations are my lips grown in the dark

my ornaments are birds of paradise

my body sleek

my eyes unspoken fantasies

oh, how well i know your eagerness to bite

you roar and toss on purple sheets

like tigers kept in cages for too long

don’t you know

that in the month of January

the earth cages the sun

my skin remains untouched

my joy is unconfined

and all I am is art?

i’m smiling…

what pleasures do you think that a geisha has in mind?

*

note: on Japan’s southern, subtropical islands, cherry blossoms open as early as January.

Love in Venice #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”

He looks at me. His eyes green, his hair dark like the depths of the tropical forest in inky nights when the moon never shows.

I bite my lip.

“Oh, no, but someday I would love to live here for an entire winter.”

“And what would you do?”

“I will walk every night in Piazza San Marco, at that very moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. I will look for a new love in the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival: changing mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain. Every morning I will mix secret essences of perfumes, seeking for the one that could revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic sea; my body shivering, my soul revived. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”

I stop.

I look at him. His eyes engulfed by passion, his dark hair touched by a mellow breeze.

The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.

He whispers:

“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”

“I am not going to parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”

For a moment he looks flabbergasted.

His lips try to bite into mine. In a flash, I avoid them.

*

draft 

purple autumn #poetry

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this autumn

let’s bathe naked in the purples

of neurotic symbolistic poetry

let’s burn tree leaves

into the tongues of our passions

the cries of birds

the colors of sunsets

the spleen

lost in lonely parks in other hemispheres

let’s imitate the gestures of rejected lovers

and when the last repudiated poet feels the bliss

let’s disappear forever into the fumes of our kiss

no one’s world #poetry

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i can hear the rifle firing

i’m trying not to think

i’m counting empty chairs in a small bar

the polish on my nails is red

my lipstick must be red

i don’t have a mirror

the rifle fires again

i can hear the screams of children

i can hear the screams of brides

it smells anesthetic

death sounds like newborns

 

bartenders polish glasses

I’m trying to remember where exactly

i belong…

 

in no one’s world…

lamentations tear at my soul

the hunger games are heating up

and your coffee’s getting cold.

Love #excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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A sky of gray and pink tones was descending upon us. The ocean was petrified, its agitated face morphed into an immense silent mirror. A heavy silence was flowing between the high clouds and the water, meandering like a black venomous snake in a humid jungle.

Sitting on the shore, bewitched by love, none of us moved or spoke.

After a while, Miquel said:

“I stood up to my own God for you, Clara. When I will leave this world, I want you to know that will not kneel in front of Him to beg for forgiveness. If I have to burn in hell, so be it. Love has nothing to apologize for.”

He felt silent.

His green brilliant were eyes scrutinizing the horizon.

For some reason he looked to me like a new version of Columbus determined to reach the East Indies, and instead ending up in San Salvador. Was it better?

I turned toward him. Drops of water were trickling on his neck.

Was it raining, or was I crying?

the naked maja #poetry

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i waltz into an empty ballroom

like the ghost of Maja haunting Goya’s dreams*

aquatic lusts fly in the air

(the desperation of the birds caged in your soul)

i follow their music

i choke

where are they coming from?

through the cracking floors

you blow erotic tongues of fumes

i am not desnuda anymore

around my body

yearning cobwebs bloom

 

*Reference to Goya’s painting La maja desnuda (The Naked Maja)

i will fight #poetry

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look for me i’m in the ships that sink

into the waters of the blue Aegean Sea

i’ll be right there when grim bodies wash

at night on its etiolated shores

i’m hidden in the forests which are cut

into the dirt that’s always left behind

child brides are crying terrified

their skin is showing purple marks

a Stradivarius which was never made

plays the tunes of your own mind

the boarding passes that brought us together

are now long gone, the room was cleaned

and if you think that all i am is cloying love

i’m telling you to think again

for tomorrow I will raise my spade

and i will fight

fated cravings #poetry

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i was born under the salty light of underwater stars

the air was filled with songs of yellow chrysanthemums

when autumn leaves were burning

the neurotic passions of forgotten lovers

three fates surrounded silently my rosewood cradle

the Spinner threaded all my life from purple silk

her fingers soft like autumnal blisses

her lips a nest of loving birds

the Allotter gave me the sensuality of painted nudes

which interrupt the sanctity of times when church bells toll

the Inevitable fated me with your aquatic soul

and since then I have been craving for your body

liked wisdom craves for ancient scrolls

midnight prayer #poetry

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give me the power to endure

the wind that’s blowing from the oceans

its colors mixing earth and sky

with magical, erotic potions.

 

give me the power to surrender

to violent, burning rain of kisses

under forgotten constellations

to understand what your soul misses.

 

finally now when I’m leaving,

 

give me the power to survive

the pain of Mary Magdalene

in the three days of agony

before the playing of last scene.

Hurricane of Love #Midnight Fantasy

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The soil feels like wax.

Memories of you model the landscape.

On my left mountains of passion lost in a pale lunar light.

On my right cascades of your poetry ravishing the jeweled silence of the blue lagoons.

Caught in the middle, I start rotating like a hurricane.

My winds feast on the warmth of your body.

I dig into the dark ocean.

I gust through colonies of fish.

I thunder with desires.

My humid dreams spiral on your fingers like algae on red coral reefs.

Your past loves try to stop me. I roar like a lioness defending her cubs.  I gust through them. They run like birds at the sound of cannon.

Can you feel me now?

Answer me!

untranslated love #poetry

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give me the stars

that shine under the bridges

where poor children spend their nights

the blood that leaks from wounds of war

when the last piece of bread is turned in tar

 

give me the language of your alabaster gestures

the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde

the mystery of painted nudes on walls

the cries of nuns under an angel’s lacerated wing

your untranslated love coiled in a tarnished ring

Marigolds #Morning Fantasy

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I run into the garden of my dreams. The sky opens, the marigolds yawn, and then change colors.

Silence. The silence of the night when my head rested on your shoulder; the night in which the North Pole caught fire melting like a piece of butter on a heated pan.

An African violet beats her eyelashes at me. A second then she shrinks into oblivion. Her memory floats on my retina.

Spanish moss lingers on the murky waters of the Bayou.

A purple honeycreeper starts singing.

Smell of fresh cocoa penetrates my nostrils.

Old wounds crawl on my skin; columns of ants locking for honeydew on a tropical tree.

I fight back.

Your eyes turn from black to blue as they always do in the heat of passion.

Wait… I am not with you anymore. Who is with you? Sheets of time undulate; lonely drapes in the ocean’s breeze. I cannot see who is with you!

My breath accelerates.

I start running.

I hit a tree root.

Pain.

Millions of colors burst into my eyes; pieces of time flow over the forest.

The sky closes. Marigolds cry.

Where are you?

i am the wounded healer #excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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We were standing in the middle of the street.

The wind was blowing, cooling my skin, drying my lips, undoing my hair, unraveling my colored dress, melting away the earth tones of the afternoon air.

I looked at the buildings around us. Instantly they started deteriorating under our very eyes. They were growing older: channels entrenched into their facades, channels left by painful tears on wax faces.

Wet leaves caught in Miguel’s hair; the old laurel wreath of dead heroes.

*

Miguel stared at me believing that my love would save him.

I stretched my left arm and touched his cracked lips.

I whispered:

“I am the wounded healer who does not heal anymore.  I cannot save you. Go away, go to the end of this world, and wait for me there. Between two lives, between two centuries, between two sufferings, I’ll look for you. I’ll find you, and then I’ll heal you. Now, I am just the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. He who touches me dies.”

Tears were falling from his eyes.

Around us mounds of ocre humid sand.

No buildings were left.

*draft

I will wait for you #poetry

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i will wait for you inside the garden of my dreams

knitting scented flowers in the loops of time

rivers of sweet memories will flow

onto the grass which grows on our past

every morning the fresh song of nightingales

will braid white roses in my silky hair

brought by the winds of the Levant

delicious smell of mint and honey on my skin

as years pass my suitors will leave

in precious vases i will soak

the words that you and I have shared

my fragile hands will build a bed for us

mixing aromas of sunsets and grains

and when in the arms of other women, you will be

a tear i will shed and then i’ll wait…

it rained sweet raspberries last night

and in the island of Barthelemy

somebody said my name’s Penelope*

 

*reference to the wife of the legendary Greek hero Odysseus

i want my body burned #poetry

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i want my body burned on pyre

a Viking boat will take me far on the cold sea

i want to leave my grave goods for the poor

and take the pain which branded their souls

into a bursting aurora borealis fire

i want to feel the sobs of the North Pole.

 

i want to burn inside the rhythms of the flamenco

flame in the dancers’ passion in the streets of old Córdoba

i want to entertain rich masters for a piece of bread

drowned in the silent cries of those who are misunderstood

i want the desperation of the dancers dressed in red.

 

and you, the one who always claimed to know

what powers lie inside the jungle of my soul

you’ll fade into your own acoustic lamentations

the fated day when i, the queen of sufferers, proclaim

that in the sanctity of the mandala

i want to disappear without a name.

conquerors #poetry

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the boat is shaking, and the wind is coiling

far is Phoenicia and its glassware

aromas of old cedar trees and wine,

silk, pomegranates, and dyes

the salt encrusted on your naked body

it hurts my lips

my nostrils flare

stop touching me!

into the dimmest light

my eyes can see the land that we will conquer

let’s anchor our boat

unload the cargo

and then let’s rest under the starry sky

 

tomorrow morning

rip the Tyrian purple from by body

make love to me like you have never done before

forget the hunger for the shores now left behind

we’ll build a home

we’ll mix the copper with the linen yarn,

with melons, and with apricots

we’ll sink into the fantasies

of all the conquerors who came before

we’ll light in silky skies the brightest sun

we’ll never die

for our children will be here

when others just like us

will come

and call this land

Costa del Sol.

she is just eyes #collaborative poetry

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“she is just eyes,” a poem in collaboration with bogpan. You can find more of his wonderful poetry on his blog.

she is just eyes

tonight
the moon rests on her neck

i write with a black feather her words
fragile lines on my palms

a sibyl prophesizes

a buzzing bee

reaches out like a cat

above the hills of Florence
like Galileo Galilei I exclaim
“And yet it moves”

the bee lands on her shoulder
my eyes are burning blue

marry me #poetry

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when clocks announce mid-night

and lovers fall into a mystic scented sleep

run with me and let’s get married

in the blue forest of my dreams

let’s walk barefoot in the middle of the glen

look, frantic butterflies entangle in my hair

whispering fresh daisies drape my body

green leaves dress quietly your naked shoulders

the moon sets our altar among trees

crickets sing the symphony of love

like church choirs in the dusk

steel a star and set it on my finger

on the cobweb of yellowish moon rays

tree sap seals our union forever

your soul starts flowing into mine

let’s not move until the morning

when we will witness our bodies

merging into a fascinating cosmic tree

marry me!

*******

inefficiency does not inspire me. 

i am the one #poetry

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i am the voice of your past loves

resounding in your wildest fantasies

dressed in roses at the altar of your dreams

i am the one you’ve never had

my soul flows from the tears of the Nile

from the hands of children who still beg

through ruins, darkness, and deep pain

through wars which they will never understand

i am the last who will be saved

for i have sinned under the shadow of your cross

when Spanish fountains cry in the sunset

i am the Desdemona who you’ve never met

today Granada’s just the place

in which Garcia Lorca once was killed

i am the feather of a gold macaw bird

and in the city where bells toll

i am the one whose cries you’ve never heard.

Shadow Boxing #Glass Lovers

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Glass of tequila in his hand, white shirt half open on his chest, raillery in his powerful voice, Jacques’ eyes pierced into Miquel’s:

‘Salud Conquistador!’

Miguel laughed, handsome as sin, wind in his inky hair, flames in his green eyes, hands caressing my hips.

‘A votre santé, mon Maréchal de France!’ 

His laughter resonated in the depths of the night. A shrill echo came back through the cool air.

*

Jacques’ blue eyes fixed into mine. My eyes flickered into his. He spoke:

“Sin takes place in the mind not in the flesh.”

Shock. Jacques was forcing me to fight my own shadows. My hands pressed on Miguel’s; my body tensed. Miguel’s lips shivered.

Knifes were out. All bets were off.  One of us was going to break.

*******

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

Photo credit: Pixabay

The Purple Lotus #morning fantasy

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I open my eyes.

Shimmers.

Over the night an enormous spider transformed the canopy of the bed into a cobweb made from white diamond dust.

I can see you through it.

You are by the lake.

My royal purple lotus floats silently on the surface of the water.

Morning dew adorns the grass.

In the music room the piano starts playing.

A bunny jumps on my bed. Is that one of your tricks?

Indelible memories of a night in which your hands touched my body come alive.

Silk embraced by skin.

You dive and swim toward the purple lotus.

One of your fingers touches its petals.

My pupils dilate.

No!!!!

I didn’t tell you. There is a love curse. He who touches the lotus…

I can’t hear my voice anymore.

The music hits a crescendo.

The lake freezes.

It’s over.

Through sheets of ice Merlin, the Wizard, smiles.

sail me in your boat #poetry

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i smell salt and mangoes

algae float on lips

humid sunset juices

linger on my body

sheets are soft like grass

in the breeding season

of passions made of glass

 

sail me in your boat

neurotic waves

washing on my breasts

when fires burn old altars

verse for me a moon

to wear it on my finger

breathe with me the waters

where love forever lingers.

death in june #poetry

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it’s june

and cherries ripen

under the burning moon

erotic pollen settles on the books

young girls are tossing in their sleep

 

and in the kingdom by the sea

there is no sign of Annabel*

the symbolism of the great poet dead

the verse a sensually braided thread

 

the grass is shedding tears

on my naked body

loneliness is weeping

at your feet

and in the kingdom by the sea

i’m slowly dying

longing for your kiss.

*

Reference to “Annabel Lee,” by Edgar Allen Poe

Aromas of Love #night fantasy #Ragtag Daily Prompt

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A full moon weeps cold fragrant oil on my face.  I shiver.

The cicadas’ song penetrates the ethereal membranes of the space.

On one of my thighs a purple mark sighs and then falls asleep.

Looking for prey a snake’s tongue splits the time in two. I feel the bite.

*

The gallop of your horse on one side of the time.

Echoes of febrile nights of love invade my body.

I can smell roses.

I can hear the song:

Ay, ay, ay, ay
Ay, ay mi amor
Ay mi morena de mi corazón

 *

On the other side of time a church bell tolls.

Silence and sanctity carved in wood.

Roots.

Lingering in my nostrils fragrances of white ginger flowers overpower the scent of the roses.

Humid fingers caress my lips.

Ay, ay, ay, ay
Ay, ay mi amor…

Hidden in oils aromas the end waits to be written.

 

 

The Beginning #Glass Lovers (excerpts from the introduction)

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Our story began in France. From there it took us to the United States, to Mexico, to Canada, and back to France. On the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. Our future, heavy darkness starring back at us from a white abstract past:  like Malevich’s famous Black Square hanging on an indifferent wall.

*

Who was to blame for all that happened? As the story progresses I invite you, my dear readers to be the judges and the jurors. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.

*

There were four of us:

Miguel, my mirific Conquistador: Moorish passions bursting from his Mediterranean skin, gleaming green eyes only half open in our nights filled with lust. His eyes look almost white in the dark. Oh, those nights when after making love he used to hold me in his arms against the window of our condo watching the lights of the city reflecting into the sky. He used to murmur rhythms of Mariachi songs while kissing my neck. Miguel, and his love for me. Miguel, my mundo nuevo.

*

Jacques, a Norman knight at heart: blue eyes cold like ice, expensive, impeccable shirts.  Jacques, in love with the complicities of the smiles that one only finds in the streets of Paris. Jacques and those cuff-links of his made from gold, and encrusted with roses.  Oh, how I remember Jacques’ laughter! It sounded like the reverberations of an iceberg falling into the sea.  Jacques, who used to say: “The beauty of this city creates us, for we cannot create beauty anymore.” Was he right?

*

Miriam and that seraphic face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns.  Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching silently Rodin’s Gates of Hell. I always wondered what she thought about it.

*

And then there was me: Clara. Who was I? We have time for that later.

*

How could four people who tried so much not to hurt others, end up hurting each other so deeply? How could we let all that happen to us?

According to our dear friend Angelo, a Greek born in America, it was my fault. I was the one who mistook reality for my imagination. I was supposed to know better.

Oh, no, Angelo, no! It was not like that! It was more like the Billy Goat curse. We were not destined to win until the curse was broken.

********

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

destiny #poetry

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your poems tattoo

new destiny lines in my palms

i bleed scented roses

colored in Pompeian red

my hair entangles in hibiscuses

stolen from the tropic of cancer

the bed grows thick aerial roots

the wind plays an archaic song

i toss and turn in silky sheets

it smells pines and dark ocean

your heavy kisses fall on my palms

my destiny lines lead to your soul

i wake up

where are you?

a lonely verse sleeps on my pillow

a rose sighs

bleeding love

romance of the rose #collaborative poetry

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“romance of the rose,”a poem in collaboration with bogpan. You can find more of his wonderful poetry on his blog.

the river runs and
washes the shadows from under your eyes
it turns you
into the goddess of roses
now you do not need makeup
lipstick
not even a mask

without them you are magical

i just have to touch you
with the flames of my heart

soft fingers
of the forgotten winds of Levant
will bury us
in magic and roses
the milky color of your skin
our lips in the wind

fragrances of love
bloom in the river

flames of passion #poetry

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flames of passion engulf my body

i walk barefoot in the corridor

Spanish tiles melt under my feet

i dive into the salty ocean

its white spumes catch fire

seagulls cry

palm trees bend

clouds writhe

where are you?

ice my heart

snow my skin

you laugh

your teeth bite my left wrist

your kisses water my neck

spring flowers grow on my skin

my hands explore your face

you rock me in your arms

from a faraway taverna a song spirals around our bodies

we’re both of us beneath our love, we’re both of us above

my fingers touch your lips

I catch fire.

*

do not assume anything

come back to me #poetry

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come back to me my prince from unknown lands

where orange suns flame tops of granite mountains

your pain will disappear into the néant

i’ll read you ancient legends on the beach

in nights when mermaids’ voices crave lost heroes

for you I’ll stop the ebb and flow

i’ll make the sun to set on eastern temples

i will transform my body in a flame

in moonless nights like shooting stars

your hidden passions on my skin will glow

 

come back to savor ripened mango from my hands

when the piano plays nocturnal rhythms of love

when purple jacaranda is in bloom

and fresh hibiscuses sleep on my pillows

we’ll wait in silence for the skies to open

the waves will build an altar on the ocean

gold fish will crown my head like precious diamonds

in ocean’s spumes my body will be dressed

come back to me my prince from fragrant dreamy lands.

Desert Love #Flash Fiction

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He once said: “A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.”

Well, I would like to know what makes a desert a world.

Once one steps in a desert one understands that the only love that can make the desert a world is the love for the desert itself.

*

It’s cold. It rains dry frozen stars.

There is no world without you.

The camel looks at me awkwardly.

*****

Lawrence Durrell, Justine: “A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.

bedroom tales II #poetry

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lay in the bed, my king

the night is deep

narcissi are in bloom

and aromatic wine long went to sleep

enclosed into the amphorae’s hips

cross your hands

under your head

let your liquid soul

meet mine into my estuaries’ dreams

i will make sure

the moon rises in sky

i will anoint your feet

with heavy scented hip rose oil

and like Scheherazade

i’ll spend the night

whisperings tales that have no end

now listen

my eyes are heavy

my love is in humid bloom

and far in the horizon

between the earth and sky

breathes an orange moon.

*

Narcissism is not inspirational. Narcissi are.

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There are no complications in the color of the summer — bogpan – блог за авторска поезия

 

I was delighted to work with bogpan, a fabulous poet, on this piece. The credit goes mostly to him.

“she will pass by me
carelessly
and summer will become better,
hot
with raspberry taste
and salt

maybe she’ll look at me
the color of her eyes
enigmatic….”

To read the entire poem, as well as more of his own poetry, please click on the link below.

collaboration with short-prose-fiction https://shortprose.blog/

via here are no complications in the color of the summer — bogpan – блог за авторска поезия

 

 

 

sacred love #poetry

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among the mystic folds of the ancient night

a sacred empire of love waits for us

you kneel:

“your crown, my queen”

i kneel:

“your spade, my king”

white drapes float in the wind

the eyelashes of a red evening close upon the heated desert

scents of sandalwood linger on my forehead

i grow upon your body

like flowering Spanish moss

upon a tree

under the naked stars

your skin taste myrrh

wild roses crawl on my left arm

a silver cross sleeps on your chest

i touch it with my lips

the ring on your finger tattoos my thighs

sacred love.

*

no inspiration from today’s daily prompt

 

Crux #Flash Fiction as Poetry

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Whirling winds threw the North Star into a bed of roses.

You took it and hung it on my hair.

Polaris.

Guided by the poetry of its thin sacred light your ship navigated into my soul.

My body trapped you into the ethereal crystals of the Nordic sky.

When I woke up the Southern Cross was shedding tears on your pillow.

She was looking for you.

I hung her on my chest, so she could hear the beatings of your heart.

Roses bloomed on my skin.

Crux.

gardens of love #evening fantasy

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The night was black.

The moon was white.

Between the night and the moon, the prismatic membranes of my soul played the cords of a lyre.

Diaphanous tones kissed the air.

The moonlight passed through my soul.

I heard the aromatic pulse of the earth.

I lay on the ground.

Rays of colors played on my shimmering body.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet:

*

my rebellious red blood – contaminated with verses – ran from my heart to yours;

the smell of orange trees bloomed in my hair like in those forgotten Sunday afternoons in which we used to make love;

i saw the eternal pregnant egg yolk – heavy as the promise of a tropical passion night- the imperishable yellow from around your finger

a green iguana blinked and opened its “third eye” inscribing on my thighs the fairy-tales of the women you loved.

a bird gave me the evil eye: children’s fingers colored in blue hung on the Hand of Fatima trying to protect me;

it smelled violets; caressed by languorous leaves i fell in the autumn kiss in which we first met.

*

Moonlight

I turned around.

My naked body touched yours.

Between your skin and mine the sensuality of colors grew aromatic gardens

Gardens of love.

Fathoms of Kisses #Evening Fantasy

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Last night it rained ruby wine on the white roses in my garden

In the dim moonlight a small orange bird told me I cut myself

I looked at my thighs

Translucent chantilly lace silently hugging my skin: slight marks left by your teeth

I looked at my palms

Fathoms of your kisses floating on my fingers: violet water lilies sleeping on hidden emerald lakes

The night was ripped by the gallop of an Arabian horse: the painful beatings of your heart calling for me.

I ran toward you: thorns scratched my skin, dry branches blocked my way

I felt pain

I kept running from one century to another

Smell of scented candles flickered on the heavy silver of the icons

I trapped you in my humid dream like a naked pearl trapped by a shell

We made love in silky sheets of poetry

I could hear the purr of pharaoh’s cat…

What century was that?

Picasso’s Rose #poetry

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you meet me in your dreams

i feed you bread

your lips taste sweet grains

my lips taste ambrosia

around our bodies

silky white sheets

your palms touch roses

my palms touch snow

a door gets slammed

the room is dark

the music stops

the forest cries

you wake up

from inside a frame

i look at you

all silent and all rose

signed

Pablo Picasso

with love enclosed.

anchor me #poetry

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i am a ship lost on the Danube’s blue waters

i navigate your love

dark waves get jealous

laughingly they hit me

i keep moving

ancient myths float above the water

they entangle me

i hurt

my left arm bleeds

save me

your touches drip sweetness from the Milky Way

i hit a rock

your violet passions blow waves

they lift me up

your fingers spread rose oil on my skin

you waltz me on blue waters

the night is young

the spumes are white

the stars are far

another hundred yards

till my body reaches the harbor of your heart

pearls sigh

pull me

anchor me

love me!

on my fragile skin #poetry

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the bed grows fragrant roots

the night flavors mango juices

candles flicker on yearning bodies of fated lovers

centuries pass

drought

riverbeds of dry wrinkles

cockfights

no one writes to the colonel

in a corner

from a cacti’s areola a flower grows

the night whispers rapid drops of rain

“i don’t have a throne, my queen

or somebody that understands me” *

over and over

your voice plays

on my fragile skin

*

“no tengo trono ni reina

ni nadie que me comprenda

Luis Miguel Gallego Basteri, “El Rey

night-time ecstasy #flash fiction

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The lake was hidden in the middle of a secret cherry grove.

For thousand years its face silent; its beauty unknown; its deep desires unspoken.

One night a magic breeze blew above its waters.

The lake and the breeze fell in love.

*

Waves and tongues of air caressed each other

Flames of passion lit a violet sky

Whispers of occult desires made the cherries blush

Bubbles floated in the air

Murmurs of love filled the universe

Fire

The ecstasy from the beginning of the world

*

In the morning the breeze died. The magic lake shed dark tears.  Inside its heart the breeze’s memory gave birth to spellbinding aquatic flowers.

help me #poetry

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my body weak

your love afar

from the abrupt chagrin of the mauvais poète

who put on paper all his ails

when spring sheds tears in the fields

help me to start a novel tale

 

my pulse is weak

your pulse is fast

trade winds are crying in the room

when fresh carnations our pillows stain

and shadows come my blood to drain

tell me the story of the magic dragon

who loved a princess from a fairy tale

and with the noble tones of your deep voice

help me come to life again

cupid’s bow #poetry

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cupid shoots his bow

i hide behind a wall of scented memories

then I run

tens of arrows follow me

i stumble upon the root of a banyan tree

it smells sap and salty air

a Spanish guitar vaguely murmurs

i remember dancing in Santo Domingo

arching my back

moving my hips

i still run

arrows follow me

i can see Granada

i can see Pompei

agonizing pain in my left arm

i fall into a bed of violet azaleas

there is no air between your skin and mine

you bite my lips

your hands press on my thighs

passions burst on my neck

in a million of silky butterflies

i can’t breathe

the die is cast

tomorrow’s salvation

is yesterday’s past

*

astonish

maritime lovers #evening fantasy

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your arm rises from the middle of a colony of orange fish

a Portuguese man o’war stings my arteries

purple venom changes the color of my skin

the ocean holds you back

a red coral hurts my right thigh

my blood attracts sharks

i want to reach you

i dive deeper

phantoms of your love words spread on the surface of my brain

green ivy on a wall of bricks

seahorses show me the way

i see you

you swim with a yellow-edged lyretail

you turn around

your eyes pierce into mine

don’t speak!

if you speak we’ll die!

wait!

*

your “i love you” cuts the ocean in two

silence

avalanches of water fall from the sky

stars shed tears on the forgotten tomb of maritime lovers

why couldn’t you wait?

why?

you smile

your kisses caress my lips

yellow angel fish surround us

humid silent touches

*

notable

steal me #poetry

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steal me at midnight

the jasmine is in bloom

tulips shed their virgin looks

my body craves your unknown touches

wolves are howling at the moons

 

run with me in our cherry grove

make for us a bed from lilac blossoms

make pillows from the scents of violets

with drops of shooting stars paint our tears

woven from a peacock’s feathers coverlets

 

voice your desires like you utter a confession

tell me what you have never told to other women

redeem yourself in my eyes’ lagoons

let my cherry lips caress your wounds

it’s midnight

and wolves are howling at the moons

***

it takes work to transform a cur into a wolf

meet me tonight #poetry

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meet me secretly tonight

on the island of eternal springtime

moonlight shines the pebble beach

poncha craves your humid lips

 

your body warm

my body cold

let’s melt together

in the lava pools

and when transformed

into a single heated glass

in aromatic wine we’ll cool.

 

let’s bite and savor silently tonight

the juicy pulp of passion fruit

like in elaborate temples lost at sea

let’s be one tonight in Madeira

and then from there

let’s forever be.

Barista Favorite: i am your soul/short-prose-fiction — Go Dog Go Café

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I am honored and delighted that my poem “i am your soul” was acknowledged by Go Dog Go Café. For more beautiful poetry please visit Go Dog Go Café.

 

look for me my love

my body shines like lightening

striking down from Mount Olympus

i’m in the tremble of each tear

that poor hungry children shed

i’m the prayer of the lonely

the garden where the virgins blush

the mystic bite of occult ecstasies

i’m hidden in the Sistine Chapel

in haunted graveyards at midnight

i’m bursting from the keys of the piano

which plays alone Beethoven’s  5th

now call for god and breathe me in

for i am your soul.

 

We are pleased to announce the Barista Favorite from March 19th’s Promote Yourself Monday at Go Dog Go Cafe. It is short-prose-fiction’s poem i am your soul. You can read more of short-prose-fiction’s writing at Short Prose look for me my love my body shines like lightening striking down from Mount Olympus i’m in the […]

via Barista Favorite: i am your soul/short-prose-fiction — Go Dog Go Café

Pedro di Santa Fe #evening fantasy

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a sunset dressed in purple royal palm trees

folds of white drapes move like courtesans in a hot humid breeze

an open orchid falls and gently rocks my drink

your poetry stains my soul with red carnations’ ghosts

i dream of you…

*

he moves

somebody calls him Pedro

his eyes two abysses filled with desires

his body flames the tunes of Spanish songs

his passion makes the scented tavern swell

the white drapes cry and fall in love with him

he slowly sips my drink

i want to touch his lips

the ghost of a carnation pulls me back!

you!

your poetry!

i will wait for an eternity…

*

i laugh

i leave

an old song hunts me

Pedro, Pedro, Pedro, Pedro, Pedro, Pe

Bellissima Aventura di Santa Fe

i leave

i laugh

the purple palm trees wave at me.

*

partake

our night of nights #poetry

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i land on your soul

like a butterfly on a tiny flower

the sky rains stars

on wounds dressed in velvet gloves

from the middle of the earth

a blue tree branches

heated arteries overflow with Spanish music

your hands caress my thighs

you’re melting in my kiss

i taste the depths of the forest

it smells ambrosia

cinnamon and anise

a nude by Pellison-Mallet sleeps

your spade flickers

the candle murmurs with delight then goes out

i am one with you

covered by the sheer splendor

of our night of nights.

*

give me one more night!

Mallet

make me immortal #poetry

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sing me the romance of the lovers

who in another century have met

in evening gardens shadowed by purple violets

and rained with pastel painted butterflies

 

i’ll live like Venus in Botticelli’s primavera

touched by a gentle wind born in the west

watching the dance of the three graces

with virgin eyes picked from your sweetest dreams

i’ll spring into an evening late in autumn

like Cleopatra under Caesar’s heavy eyes

coiling my naked body into ropes of fire

until i’ll melt like wax the pride of an empire

i’ll live in your words forever

like Mary Magdalene between two worlds

feeling the darkest desperation

when blood was flowing from His wounds

 

sing me the romance of the lovers

when the first morning washes our sins

make me immortal with your words

when between pearly silky sheets

two fragrant flowers gently dream.

*

genie

 

Astral Mandolins #poetry

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Play in your room the mandolin tonight

Painting the air with aurora borealis’ verses

When arabesque designs awake my soul

The shining sound the time reverses.

 

Play in the streets your mandolin tonight

Into the touching of the cords your love for me

The beatings of my heart choreograph the scenes

Making the aurora australis never flee.

 

When you are done, come to my room

We can unmake the bed, and lie in silence still

Immersed into the sounds of astral mandolins

Watching hermetic lovers dancing the quadrille.

*

song

rain of love #poetry

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i’ll give you vestal virgins who will guard

your deepest mystical desires

i’ll bathe you in the ecstasies of the first sin

and resurrect the shyness of the bridal night

i’ll dress a million skies with new bright stars

to flame the oceans from within

my body now transformed into fresh grains

so you can feed all children from my palms

i’ll order our naked goddess to surrender

to kisses that you dream of in the night

i’ll make red roses bloom on Himalayas

and teach you to collect gold honey from their cliffs

i’ll give you all you craved for in your ancient lives

just come and rain your love on me.

*

no depletion 

spring dream #poetry

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i can’t see you for the spring’s gold light

showers flowers in my eyes

yet I can hear you in the nightingale’s night song

in the cries of Isis by the Nile

somebody plays the violin in the blue room

you toss and turn in my soul

like a flamenco dancer in Seville

your breath lingers on my neck

i stretch my arms to harvest cherries

tongues of fire from your eyes

linger hungrily on my skin

i fall

thorns of blooming roses rip my dress

it smells earth and grass from a forgotten spring

the violin plays now in our purple bedroom

i close my eyes

i breath you in

and i can see you.

Shared Pain #Glass Lovers

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“Shared pain bonds acutely. So, Clara, tell me how acutely shared love bonds?”

Miguel turned his luminescent green eyes toward the Basilica. I did not answer. I thought of Jacques and Miriam and the pain that we all shared.

It felt like some cosmic ritualistic initiation in which the protagonists had their hearts taken out every evening, only to be inserted back into their empty chests early in the morning pumping despair and agony instead of blood.

 

Wasn’t there any salvation?

*

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.

Minoan Fresco # Glass Lovers

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“Clara, your eyes are burning! Ha! It is precisely this fighting side of you that Miguel loves so much. On the other hand, it is Jacques who loves the soft, dreamy, imaginative part of you. For Jacques, the fables of your mind are as real as the buildings on Saint-Germain-des-Prés!”

 

“Does that mean that I should put them together and make one out of two?”

“Clara, you’re impossible!”

“Ha! That is exactly why we are friends, isn’t it Angelo?”

 

He laughed and turned his head toward the ocean. His black curly hair was in a ponytail. His profile silhouetted against the sky like a Minoan fresco on a palace wall in ancient Crete.

I made a rush toward the ocean.

Angelo and the role he was to play in our lives. How little I knew then.

*******

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

remember when #poetry

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you don’t remember that

some centuries ago

i used to be the feather

which chased the demons out of your soul

the only wind which flamed the fire

that dried your tears shed in lonely nights

the goddess Ceres who fed you

those April mornings when white birds were quiet

and hungry demons haunted you

i was the dance of Shiva swirling around you

in cosmic sheets of deep desires

in nights of passion when old mirrors blushed

and silk was crushed under your steps

don’t cry

just wait in silence

you will remember everything

when harvesting the grains

which soon will blossom in my eyes

when you will touch my lips again.

*

the wind spread its wings thwart the shore

remember when?

know thyself (2) #poetry

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know thyself

and you will know

the side the moon

has never shown

sparkling rivers

running through wild forests

sounds of shooting stars

in nights of bloom

the shy tremor

of the marble arches in Verona

when Romeo was serenading Juliet

remember how in other lives

your eyes shed tears

in blue lakes

recall each magic move

your body knew

 

do not betray yourself

and you will know

why i love you!

 

i’m not the first #poetry

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tell me that tomorrow we will meet

don’t tell me where

the frantic beating of your heart

under the linden trees

will show the way

like pebbles

in a story written

by the Brothers Grimm

 

in the first night

that we will spend together

tell me we’ll drink ambrosia

and feel immortal

like some Greek gods

carved on the frontispiece

of a forgotten Parthenon

 

when morning comes

kiss me good-bye

and leave

i’m not the first

i’m not the last

who comes into your life

and then becomes the past.

blissful love #poetry

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palm trees bend under the weight of heavy coconuts

an albatross rotates purple clouds above

i run into the warm ocean

its foaming waters recognize my body

dolphins come to me

luscious skin on luscious skin we float

time stops

trade winds do not blow anymore

blissfulness

sunset

*

a nostalgic cry of an ivory seagull changes something

i want to rest against a dolphin’s skin

the dolphin disappears

i am resting against the humid skin of your left shoulder

your arms wrap around my waist

it rains eternal, blissful love

*

micro-cosmos

worlds of fantasies #poetry

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my tropic grows an ocean

spumes drip on my skin

cyclones are my kisses

spiraling your trees

rolling on your touches

like snatched leaves in the wind

galloping your dreams

through worlds of fantasies

where little magic fairies

crave your naked body

under umbrous trees

my hands drag you with me

in a humid sleep

a thousand times deep.

*

foreign

i am your soul #poetry

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look for me my love

my body shines like lightening

striking down from Mount Olympus

i’m in the tremble of each tear

that poor hungry children shed

i’m the prayer of the lonely

the garden where the virgins blush

the mystic bite of occult ecstasies

i’m hidden in the Sistine Chapel

in haunted graveyards at midnight

i’m bursting from the keys of the piano

which plays alone Beethoven’s  5th

now call for god and breathe me in

for i am your soul.

i want your love #poetry

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i want your love tonight in Madeira

to touch my skin and incubate my dreams

in Paul do Mar the hour when the water

metamorphoses boiling in red wine

 

i want to dive with you in subterranean desires

the minute when the breezes unveil me

i want my skin to flare under your kisses

your heart of gold forever to be mine.

Viking virgin #Glass Lovers (excerpt)

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She looked like a Viking virgin: long blond hair, tense body, steely look in her blue eyes.

There was a wild quality of a hunted animal about her.

*

Men were attracted to her, precisely because she was unattainable.

**

Jacques spoke:

“Ah.. how the impossibility of possessing a woman provokes some men, makes their blood boil more than the lascivious glances of an entire harem!”

Miguel said nothing.

*****

Excerpts from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

burning desires #poetry

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let your exquisite words

desperately paint

the noise and dangles of the shining earrings

the latent movement of the luscious thighs

the passions flowing through rich waters

of humid estuary nights.

 

come to me so you can burn

your deep desires in my arms

and let your longings roll and roll

don’t be afraid I am just the mirror

that always will reflect your soul.

The Memory of Flesh #Glass Lovers

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“I want your flesh to keep my memory, and your soul to forget me.”

*

Well, Angelo, crucify me! I said that because I did not believe at the time that flesh has any memory. Now, I do not know what to believe anymore!

***

Every night the wounded blue of his eyes haunts me. At the crack of dawn that splendid voice in which he used to talk to me tolls like morning church bells.

*

Are we going to haunt each other forever?

Are we going to meander in each others’ thoughts eternally?

*****

Excerpts from the manuscript Glass Lovers.

forever at your feet #poetry

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take me out of my ancient prison

during a windy moonless night

suddenly break the wooden door

cut the heavy rusted chains

linked to my flesh

stained by my blood

take me in your arms and run with me

into the morning gardens of your soul

where children play and flowers sing

and I will be forever at your feet

waiting for your love touches to be born.

tango me #poetry

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tango me through wars and tears

until you sew my wounds and crack my lips

until children running in the streets

touch my body with their fears.

 

tango me through narrow hidden alleys

in which eternal lovers passionately kissed

against the coolness of gray walls in summer nights

play with my dreams like children play with kites.

 

tango me into your battered soul

until we feel the pain of ancient knives

teach me the moves of mystic loves

and tango me until the end of life.

*

wonder

flamenco #poetry

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listen to steps of the flamenco

in old Córdoba at sunset

feel the passion of the heated bodies

the beating of long lashes on your skin

sense the desire hidden in red skirts

flowing in the shadows of palacio episcopal

my love, please kneel

into the ardent sound of the guitars

which are announcing the prelude

of our first and only night.

*

For more info (facts) about the flamenco dance click here

adiós #poetry

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the orange sunset when you’ll leave

do not forget to take with you

the boat lost in the vastness of the ocean

in which you kneeled

and swore forever love to me

kisses you painted on my neck

hibiscuses in which you draped my body

the love of Esmeralda for Phoebus

gnostic prayers murmured hugging me

the moment that you leave

don’t say adiós mi amor

for I know well the next sunset

you will return to me

now if you don’t mind, my love

please slowly close the door.

purple love #flash fiction

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His dreams blossomed inside me like jacaranda trees in April.

His exquisite poems – written in purple ink – adorned my skin.

In the dim moonlight lying in bed – all scented in lavender – I ruminate.

A great poet once said: “Extract the eternal from the ephemeral.”

While reading his poems I tried to do just that.

Between lines I found only one thing: love.

*

Charles Baudelaire: “Extract the eternal from the ephemeral.” 

 

Chimera #Glass Lovers

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At that time, I began to understand how much Miriam suffered. I thought that the only thing I could do was to take myself out of any encounter with Jacques. And so, I did.

*

Looking back, that was the first mistake I made. I forced Jacques to transport me from the realm of the real into the realm of his imagination.

With my whole being out of his sight, I freed him to fall in love with me. More precisely to fall in love with a chimera resembling me; a chimera born from the richness and depths of his soul. I became his dream woman, precisely because I was not his woman.

*

I remember Angelo’s words, one warm autumn evening while we were walking through Place du Tertre watching the work of amateurish artists:

“My dear Clara, your cloistered behavior is ridiculous. It’s not helping at all.”

 

I retrospect I wish I would have listened to him.

*

Well, but later Miguel would say:

“Jacques fell in love with you the moment he saw you, Clara. Remember his words that winter evening…”

*

I remember the words that Jacques uttered that winter evening when we first met him. I always will.

I had a premonition

*

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

tattooed love #poetry

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on my right arm

tattoo your love

insert the pigment of the legends

under my skin

battered by oceans

color my arm

in scents of red

snatched from Pompei

when the sun sets

insert my soul

with violent gusts of pain

that Lancelot once felt for Guinevere

so, every night I cross myself

i’ll put that love and pain

into the hands of my own god

and then i’ll sleep.

*

constant

OpenLinkNight #214

encrusted

link 

fated loves #poetry

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remain with me tonight

when books surrender

their wisdom to the deepest sleep

i want your palms to feel

the purple of the jacaranda in the room

i want your eyes to carve again

old mysteries on naked shoulders

on your white shirt

now laying at my feet

i want you to rewrite in red

the Celtic ancient root

of fated loves

like that of Tristan and Isolde

love without compromise.

Fires of the Mind #Flash Fiction

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First, one’s mind catered to the other.

*

Then they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.

*

By the time physical love came into play they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.

It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate. Yet they did not.

you are the only kiss #poetry

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do not disturb the hidden shadows

which costume the corners of my room

let them sleep in deep lavender scents

do no weaken them from centuries old dreams

and do not ask forgotten loves

how did they passionately used to kiss

 

deep in the orange silence of my room

into the mist of butterflies which crown my hair

touch me with a dream I’ve never dreamed

for you are the only kiss

which preys upon my mind

and not my lips.

*

costume

Greek Chorus #collaborative poetry

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a voice says

to begin again

another voice says

there is no beginning

caught between

the two insistent voices

the Greek chorus stops.

 

into the purple autumn

of your heart

i cry

i wait

for the Greek chorus

to murmur

something must end

then I will

love you forever.

*****

Thank you to Grabbety Covens, (Surviving the Struggle to Success), for leading this instance of collaborative poetry.

Please find more poems written by other authors here

insist 

Destinies # Glass Lovers

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Our destinies caught into the deep lines of my left palm.

*

With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.

*

None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our profuse tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.

*

One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.

******

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

tend

Battlefield #Glass Lovers (excerpt)

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I can still hear that deep voice of his and see his striking profile against the walls of the Chartres Cathedral: tormented French Gothic autumn; agonizing blue eyes; gelid rain lingering on stained glass, trickling on my face like liquid wax at the feet of saints.

*

“Clara, please! This needs to stop!”

We have judged ourselves so many times that the space around us metamorphosed into a battlefield packed with carrion birds.

We became Don Quixotesque characters battling windmills.”

*

Oh, how well I understood Jacques! Yet, he could not understand that no matter what I was going to say or do, Miguel would not give up. The verb “to give up” was not part of Miguel’s vocabulary.

Miguel was not General Santa Anna who lost the Battle of San Jacinto. Miguel was Cortés who conquered an empire; Cortés who enrolled god to help him; Cortés who destroyed the Aztec temples and raised the flag of Christianity.

Jacques had no chance.

*

Now, when I look back, alone in the mist of those haunting memories, my eyes lids heavy, my hands trembling, my lips cracked by fever, Angelo was right when he said:

“Wait, Clara, wait, you do not know Jacques yet.”

Oh, how right he was! In fact, none of us knew Jacques.  Not even Angelo.

****

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.

enroll

The Other Man’s Woman #Glass Lovers (excerpt)

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“Clara, Jacques is in love with you!”

At 4 am in the morning calling from Bruges Miguel was beyond angry when he spoke.

*

“The entire evening Jacques talked only about you!  It was like Miriam and I were not even there!

Clara, do you have an inkling how it feels to listen to another man, describing for hours the women that you love? Your dress, the violet one made from taffeta, your estate diamond ring, the way you turn your head, the flares of your eyes, even your knees a bit closer than they should be when you walk, the fullness …”

*

I did not listen anymore. A pale moon was shedding its poisonous light on our bed; ghosts of Miguel and I making love still buried in the warmth of the peachy sheets.

*

I walked to the wardrobe. I took out my taffeta violet dress.  I started cutting it furiously: bit by bit, piece by piece.  From each piece the perfume that Jacques bought me for my birthday was permeating my lungs, crawling on my skin, poisoning my eyes.

Why did it happen? Why?

**********

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

i wish #poetry

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i wish

i had the talent of the poet

who once wrote

Calm down, my Sorrow,

We must move with care.

instead

I’ll have the shadow

of the autumn

when you’ll

leave

like a seagull

heaving upward

an aching

lonely

choking call.

 

prompt: inscrutable

*

“Calm down, my Sorrow, We must move with care.”, Charles Baudelaire, Meditation

Painting: Paul Delaroche, The Young Martyr