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 her dust is freely flowing, its smell overpowering 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.
The city’s decrepit buildings are haunted, and ghoulish masks are worn during its carnivals.
In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to quickly 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.
“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
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 will 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.
The green forever living in your eyes
Adumbrating shades of earthly lust
White amphorae still hoping in a corner
With shining greens to be encrust.
The blue forever living in my soul
Eons ago got mesmerized by green
The game of chess which your eyes played
Eternally forged me into a queen.
Caressed together by the waters of Corinth
Into the darkest forests chasing statuary nymphs
The decadence of Hellenistic love
Blissfully raining tears from above.
“The condo of the virgin” sitting empty
The goddess long dissolved into the néant
You softly reading Hebrew texts in Greek
The painful comedy of life on sale this week.
“The condo of the virgin” refers to the Parthenon, temple dedicated to Athena who was a virgin goddess.
The echoes of my footsteps living
Into the silence of the corridors in which Vlad walked.
Caresses of my hands impressing
The church’s door which the Impaler blocked.
The touching of my lips embellished in the icons
In front of which Vlad often murmured prayers.
Into the orthodox exhilarating morning’s noises
Vlad’s enemies were killed and piled in layers.
And no more tales in this archaic night, my prince
The oath which I have taken in the Balkans is a bond
Vlad’s story is more terrifying than you think
No changes can be made by any magic wand.
That said, my darling Western prince, this night
Let’s live in the imagination of an Irish writer!
Bring costumes, lanterns, castles, and vampires,
Don’t be afraid, come to my room, I’m not a biter!
Or, am I?
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.
Watch the breezy silence of the tree of wisdom
In all its richness rising from your soul.
Sit down and think together with the tree of knowledge
Read good and evil from an ancient, dusty scroll.
Then close your eyes and visualize the tree of life
The splendor of the universe for you to mathematize.
Don’t touch the lavishly elaborated tree of pain
Your blood and humid lips perpetually will stain.
Stay still, don’t blink, don’t let its scheming roots
To penetrate your body, grow there, and bear fruits.
A slightly modified version of this poem appeared in The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch.
Come with me to the Mediterranean
The highway of ancient world
For in the silence of its eye
Still lives the infinite of number Pi.
Climb with me the Mount Parnassus
In fall when Dionysus’ priestess will arrive
Their souls immersed in subterranean desires
Into the burgundy of wine, let’s dive.
Metamorphose me into Cleopatra
The tragic queen of pyramids and lust
Just for one night,
And when the dawn will break
The innocence of our love recast.
The sensuality of your first kiss
Designing circles in the autumn sky.
Impressions of your fingers on my pillow
Expressing passions hidden to the eye.
via Daily Prompt: Express
Come, red carnations stain the sheets
And candles flicker in the heavy silver
Red wine is breathing in the crystal glasses
Fine lace is flowing in the alcoves like a river.
Come, watch the shadows playing on the wall
When aromatic air is resting on the pillows
The Siamese is pouring in her basket
And bowls are filled with reddish tamarillo.
Now, please, don’t move, the cat is sleeping
And dreams of guarding pharaoh’s tomb.
Don’t talk, you’re here just to listen
The jacaranda’s magic bloom!