It is my pleasure to introduce you to The Sound of Brilliance: The Short of It by Susi Bocks. In Susi’s words the anthology features the brilliant work of 41 poets and writers. I know some of them and I truly look forward to reading this beautiful collection.
Furthermore below is the link for Poets Coffee Table Chat- April 5. You can listen to Susi talking about the anthology, and to various poets – Joni included – discussing multiple issues and reading their poetry. I hope you enjoy.
I am thrilled my poem On Sacrifice and Meaning was included in Vita Brevis Anthology: Sight & Swept Away. Congratulations to the editor – Brain Geiger – and to my fellow poets who are published in this anthology.
On Sacrifice and Meaning by Gabriela Marie Milton (snippets)
Because I love you, I learned the meaning of sacrifice. …..
It is autumn; an autumn that came too soon and whose suicidal breath brought dust and diseases. The lamb will be born in the spring. …….
I try to advance but the liquid silver pulls me back. I cut its hands with a knife. Every cut fulfills the dreams of the knife; my dreams are still in the waiting room. …..
I rub my cheeks with rosemary and wrap my body in the alphabet of love. On my lips the unspoken words shine. How beautiful they make me look.
I restore the degradation of our myth to its rightful fecundity. The sacrifice becomes a festival, and the festival turns into creation.
If you missed yesterday’s anthology announcement, you can find it here. Today, your poetry ranked as the #2 bestseller in the new release poetry anthology category!
I can’t thank the Vita Brevis community enough. This type of performance is what keeps Vita Brevis reading-fee free. Thanks for making poetry publication accessible to everyone, and for keeping this little publication running.
And congratulations on almost becoming bestselling poets — let’s get up to #1!
The builder of all things lives in me along with the seven disoriented ships he anchored in the port last spring. The summer dried the sea. The wood of the ships got rotten. The masts got buried in the wickedness of empty sunsets. It is winter. It is Wednesday. I was in the washing room. I saw you folded my laundry. In the library the Orphic Egg suspends itself from the ceiling fan. Under its pale light I study my hands with the same precision the child studies his. I shed my clothes as snakes shed their skin. I feel your index finger contouring my spine. One by one your writings penetrate my mind. The dimorphism of your poems spiral in two directions: torrential love and logical deductions. They are both the product of your brain. I cannot kill them. I must allow them to exit. The object of my poetry? Not to concede…