inside the altars of the churches with blue cupolas he recounts the spring cuckoo’s notes his cries strip him of himself modify his flesh until the days are born from the wounds of his feet daughter of this earth I can hear his bones cracking with love for you his voice made from curses and myrrh his body stretched between heaven and the bloom of the olive trees his retina caught inside the limonite of the yellow marble everything speaks of the impossibility of tomorrow daughter of this earth you who travel in the lands of the snakes with no name and shed your skin and your beauty in every sunset you are the virginal sin in the nights of the hyacinths show mercy go back to him the resurrection is near
I am thrilled that my two poems Prayerand A Night of Marble and of Gingerbread were included in Issue I of Free Verse Revolution: Hebe (the fountain of youth)
Prayer by Gabriela Marie Milton
you, fountain of youth, forgive me I am the one made from mud and from the skin of Attica’s flutes at night, my existence feels like an impertinence or perhaps like an interlinear a language half-imagined half adulterated by the bloom of the olive trees under the sticky wing of an angel I was born in the swamps where the tombs of the prophets sunk I am blood and bones when I smell the sea and the meat from the grill church bell toll and speak of death, and of the mystique of oblique winds you, goddess of youth, source of life from where four rivers flow your child-like body stands some days on the top of the mountains and others on the top of the fountains your skin is dewed and flowered with love my skin haunts the night of the deserts your destiny is that of the innocents mine is that of the sinners forgive me, you, Hebe that I do not ask for the gift of youth give it to the children give it to the sick and throw what is left into the sea the fish will be happy
A Night of Marble and of Gingerbread by Gabriela Marie Milton
on the top of the mountain the pines silhouette against the whisper of the rocks the night is cut from marble, and from gingerbread the wind stops on a branch touched by a naked star I take the measure of that which forever youth gives red poppies that never wither seeds that never impregnate the ground a love that still plays with toys, and lights candles in a Christmas tree in the middle of summer the moon is mortal and concerned with trivial matters and so am I Hebe, how many know that you are the bud of incest and patricide? how many know your child’s eyes witnessed so many crimes? filled with pain, you stop growing up, isn’t it so? oh, don’t cry here is my impermanent heart wear it for one day in the morning you will see the old oak dying in the rain at noon butterflies will sit on your hair in the night a Lethean forgetfulness will lecture on the beauty of transitory love kisses will feel like honey on the tongue the breath of love will rest on your skin you will grow up what? you do not want your forever youth back? dream it’s spring
I am thrilled to have my piece Who Am I? published by Shabd Aaweg – A Quarterly Review of Literary Fiction, Politics, and Philosophy, Issue VIII
Here are some teasers:
“…floats above the water as innocent as the breast of a young girl… Soon the sun will try to catch her naked and burn her skin … Pigeons will carry her across…
… I can see no relationship between my destiny and that which I do. I am …
At noon, the sun kneads the waters with rapture … the movement of the water on my skin. Its cyclical quality sends me in a state of ecstasy. No, it is not the ecstasy of Saint Teresa of Ávila. It is something similar to a soporific trance. I am dead and I am alive at the same time. I come from the sea. I return to the sea.
In the afternoon, my rational self awakes… I get preoccupied with verbs. I set one triangle in the normal position and I invert the other one. I bind them together….. You are the goddess of vines, the mother earth, the chalice, the blood, the fertility of the womb. I mull over these desperate….
..I feed my iguana with cookies soaked in champagne… One kiss and you borrow my tears. One touch and I borrow your pain. A passage rite. I keep a coffin adorned with lilies in my bedroom. I sleep besides death like Sarah Bernhardt. Did you hear that noise? A rosary…”
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 inside 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
Included in my book: Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings
I suspect I suffer from an acute crisis of half-bloomed neurosis. My past emotions do not fully interfere with my current experiences. The converse is true too. No sophistry added. How boring.
I jump in the water dressed in black lingerie made from Calais laces and Lyon silks. I can feel the waves pounding my body while my mind drowns in the ambiguity of the French Nouveau Roman standing mid-way between modernism and post-modernism like a drunken sunset that cannot distinguish between yellow and orange.
The foliage of the sea turns burgundy. Your fingers contour my face.
I forget that my favorite poet is Arthur Rimbaud with his “A thousand Dreams within me softly burn” and “I shed more tears than God could ever have required.” All I remember is that once I wrote: “I’ve never existed outside of your obsession with me and my interpretations of you.”
There is something about these interpretations that make you burst in cascades of laughter and art your love for me with lust.
One morning, left by my pillow I found your reply written on a large index card: “I had to bury your existence inside my obsessions. If not, your love could have not been fully stabilized. You above anyone else know that an absolute correspondence in love does not exist. Love is mathematical singularity.”
A wet little bird shivers in my palms. The foliage of the sea turns darker.