Between the bed and the window, in that space that smells roses and rien que pour toi, the morning let’s her hair down. She is so close that I can reach her skin with the tip of my fingers.
I know, his book and the fame it brought him. The book in which he made me — the me that he imagined — the main character.
He was fascinated by the purple of my makeup and the yellows of my cobra who used to erect the upper portion of her body to greet him every time he visited.
I do not know what demons he tried to exorcise. In the heat of those summer afternoons, he used to sip his sangria and attempt to find almost religious justifications for what he called my ecstatic existence; an existence populated with the richness and succulence of the Mediterranean literature and void of bullet points.
His acute shyness and his need to overcome the incapacity to love beyond nightly adventures used to ring in my ears like some unhinged marimba lamenting the loss of a pipe.
The dress that I wear in page twenty-seven. That dress and the heart-shaped red stone pierced with a hole for suspension I used to wrap around my neck. I found that stone in a church yard. I was too young. Perhaps an older version of me would have made him a better writer. Do not laugh. You are too handsome when you laugh.
In the end he managed to do something special. He invented the name of a perfume and made me wear it in every page of his book: rien que pour toi.
I hid his book somewhere in the library. Yet, every morning, in the space between the bed and the window, it still smells rien que pour toi.
Excerpt from my new manuscript of love poems and short prose.
I was not going to post today. However, I am humbled beyond words that my poem, If I say I love you, is in the running for 2020 Publication of the Year at Spillwords Press. To everyone who has supported me in my writing journey, my deepest thanks. May your days be filled with love and success. May you be inspired and may life shower you with happiness.
The voting for Spillwords Press annual awards is now open. Congratulations to all nominees. All of them are wonderful writers. They deserve plenty of recognition.
My poem, If I say I love you by Gabriela M, is under the rubric Publication of the Year (Poetic).
If you do not have a Spillwords account, you can vote with your FB or Twitter account. When you click on the poem, a Spillwords window will open. You will be asked to enter your username and your password. Ignore that and click on the FB or Twitter icon to vote.
Update: One of my followers pointed out that there is actually a WP voting option too. You can click on the WP icon, instead of FB or Twitter, and vote with WP if you prefer.
Here is the link where you can vote. Voting is open till January 30.
Last February I was awarded Author of the Year at Spillwords Press. I told my followers one thing that will always be true: my award is as much yours as it is mine.
If you wish to read my 2019 Author of the Year Spillwords interview you can read it here.
If you wish to (re)read my poem, If I say I loveyou, can do it here.
Included in my poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings.
perhaps I was bewitched by the North Star or by a ballad as dateless as my blood geography of feelings populates unwanted interludes my eyes, the nests of dewy grass and leaves emerald eyelashes flaunt black taffeta chirps between my fingers like piano keys inside my soul your kisses soar soft lilac tones like prayers of the youngest nun perhaps because I read your poetry last night and cut my soul between a stanza and a strife perhaps a child played with a kite a kingdom for a sup maybe it was the wind that woke me up
He was a great novelist. He avoided the big juvenile traps: on the one hand, repeatedly writing about one’s childhood and one’s limited experiences, and, on the other hand, confining his characters to slogans such as do good or better days are ahead.
He knew he went against the grain of what was considered acceptable in his country; a country in which the novel frequently used everything from camaraderie to horror, and from war to sex, in order to avoid the birth of a new Emma Bovary. Emma’s sensuality would have scandalized a society in which some, if not most, deified violence and crucified sensual love. Should I mention The Scarlet Letter?
He loved me. In his last note to me he wrote:
“Love and sensuality include divination: a thirst for deciphering the signs inscribed in the sacred area of our subconscious, a craving for knowing what the future holds, and the supplication that providence or god will fulfill our desires.
How much we want that which is not only given to us but that which we create too: Mircea Eliade’s homo religiosus, that alter-ego who lives inside us and conjures the meanings we create in sacred times and spaces.
I do not like women’s writings. They talk too much about their bodies.
Notice the negative connotation attributed to the relationship body/femininity construed as an obstacle to the evolution of the spirit?
This man’s feeble mind confined women to lands of sensuality, magic, swamps, and mud: in short, to categories related to the carnal. Women can only be aware of tumultuous feelings that erupt inside their bodies. Nothing else. There was an implicit juxtaposition between body/femininity and spirit/masculinity, the latter understood as superior.
I navigated the incredible writings of women like Virginia Woolf, George Sand, Marguerite Yourcenar, and many others.
I became a mirror. I produce images of the spirit and of the body.
I play with them. I absorb them. I devour them.
I am the same with the richness of the intellect and the opulence of feelings.
My body is the alphabet of a language spoken at the exact hour when the sunset rains its cherry blossoms over the laughter of children.
I love the frenzy of the 1920s. Oh, les années folles!
I am the quintessence of that which you will always desire.
I am a woman.
I am not made in your image.
You are made in mine.
Happy New Year to all my followers. May 2021 bring you happiness and success. May you be forever loved. Gabriela