On Winning and Hate By Gabriela Marie Milton #poetic prose #short prose

Amazon Bestseller, bestselling author, Gabriela Marie Milton, literature, poem, prose poem, short prose 2 Minutes

On Winning and Hate

The afternoon smelled of brick; the wall I used to scratch with the knees and the nails on my way to the sea.

My blood stained my socks and fed the roots of the orange tree mama planted one spring before my seventh birthday. Soon after, the tree grew blood oranges.

I used to dream I would reach the port before crickets would serenade the white cement between the bricks, and the evening wind would sew the wounds from the face of the wall.

I needed a God to lead me to the sea. In Mama’s stories, there were too many Gods leading souls to heaven. I did not want to go to heaven. I wanted to go to the sea.

I used to fail.  I did not understand what failure is. The next afternoon, little ducks embroidered on the rim of my blue dress, I would start climbing the wall again.

One day I thought I would get to the port and run straight into the sea.

Little did I know that day came when I first looked into your eyes. The sea inside your eyes like laundry left to dry on a wire. Long red poles floundered left and right like the wings of a moribund bird. The body of a boat eroded by salt, and by the kisses of the women of your past agonized in green and blue.

The sea inside your eyes: on the right your love for me, and on the left, your hate for the world. 

Did I say your love for me? You see, over time, I had to reconsider that formulation. Your feelings resembled more a never-ending animal magnetism than love.

Let me make one thing clear. No one person is sufficient to drive all demons from another one. You can think Goethe’s elective affinities if you wish. I cannot save you from you. You need to help me.  I can carry this conversation into the night and win.

Ah, winning! The day I understood I can win, I stepped into hell.

That day was the day I lost my innocence and with that the paradise. Since then, my blood has never stained my socks anymore. The orange tree has never grown red-fleshed oranges, and Mama stopped telling stories.

featured image: Gabriela Marie Milton, Greece.

Included in my book Woman: Splendor and Sorrow

 

Gabriela Marie Milton
2022 Pushcart Prize Nominee
Publisher, Editor, Award Winning & #1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:

Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology (ed.), Literary Revelations, 2023
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020

Published by Gabriela Marie Milton

Gabriela Marie Milton #1 Amazon Best-Selling Author, 2019 Author of the Year at Spillwords Press NYC; internationally published poet; poetry collections Woman: Splendor and Sorrow (Vita Brevis Pres, July 27, 2021); Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings (Vita Brevis Press, April, 2020)

Published

67 thoughts on “On Winning and Hate By Gabriela Marie Milton #poetic prose #short prose”

      1. I have the tendency to be able to read something by someone else and mirror their style, so I printed this wonderful poem and I’m going to try to write something that mirrors it on my two hour commute to work. It will take me a few days to edit.

    1. Thank you Tim. I am glad you enjoyed it. I hope everyone is well. Sending treats for the cats.

      Reply

      1. Besides it being super dry, we are plugging along. How about you? I hope you are well.

  10. what a beautiful dive into your amazing prose today dear Gabriela. Always rich with deep lessons of love, the sea,your mamas lessons of story; love the blood orange metaphor!!!!💞💞💞

    Reply

  25. As I promised you, I took your piece, read it on the bus, and this is what came out (I would appreciate feedback that would make it better):

    You’re quieter than you used to be,
    and you look like you haven’t slept,
    for seventeen years.

    I’m here for you, mama…

    You were wise,
    not to buy me that Superman suit,
    because I was planning to fly off our roof,
    with the rest of those Arabian birds you disliked so much.

    I’m here for you, mama…

    Do you remember the first time our eyes met?
    You probably didn’t realize it,
    but that was the first time,
    you taught me how to see,
    the dignity that God had placed,
    like a precious pearl,
    in the depth of every human soul.

    I’m here for you, mama…

    I’m so sorry I didn’t listen.
    They clipped my wings,
    and threw me down a bottomless well,
    in which I kept descending,
    for six thousand days,
    and six thousand nights,
    until the earth itself inverted,
    and every will below,
    gave way to the only will above.

    I’m here for you, mama…

    Does it matter that my eyes are swelling up with tears,
    now flowing down my face,
    unto this page,
    making these words blossom,
    into sad willow trees,
    gently swaying in the wind?

    I’m here for you, mama…

    Reply

    1. Exceptional poem. It touched my heart. Thank you so much for sharing and lots of apologies for my late reply.

      Reply

      1. No problem at all. I really love your style. Am I wrong to detect some Gabriel García Márquez influence in your work? I never what surrealism was about until I One Hundred Years of Solitude.

      2. Thank you so much for your kind words. I do not feel his influence when I write, but who knows? Congratulations on your achievements.

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