The ocean hammers coffin nails into my bones The boat too small to carry all my sorrow I cannot fit into a single bottle the apple of Alcobaça Levante winds throw roses on my windows I want you now to save me from this hollow spleen The magical twelve strings guitar of Fado Português The twelve apostles of the unknown Christ To stretch my body till I fall asleep Between twelve apples And your lips
featured image: the initials of my first and middle name – Portuguese hand-made tiles
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 work my magic. 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.
Oh, you.
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 not have been fully stabilized. You above anyone else know that an absolute correspondence in love does not exist. Love is a mathematical singularity.”
You knew where the world began. I will find too. I will drown in the sea where olive trees end, and Rimbaud’s atrocious sunsets start. I will become the forget-me-not of the waters.
Do you remember when there were 14 days in a week, all of them Sundays?
My blood, first thought to be of a certain type. Now classified differently. In the entire world there is only a very small number of people that have the same type of blood as I do. It must be a mistake. Can we start over?
Sweet love don’t cry.
The 15th day of the week will be the day of mirth. Yellow laughter and photographs stretched from my soul to the ledge of the windows.
Waters.
Forget-me-not.
featured image: Claude Monet – Water Lilies
Reminders
Please do not forget our incredible collection Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology. You can buy it HERE.
As of this writing Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology is still running #1 on Amazon New Releases [poetry anthologies]. This is almost the 5th day. I cannot tell you how humbled and delighted I am. The poetry in this volume is fantastic. 150 poets wrote about their childhood. Joy and pain. Tears and smiles.
Today coming from childhood the voice of Vance Walker.
PAST AS PROLOGUE – VANCE WALKER
Under the old oak tree where they hung our swing we three would play till the bell would ring
and we burned our hands on the fisherman’s rope and skinned our knees on the fireman’s pole
In our big tree house with lights but no water we three played two sons and a daughter
Using cherries for blood our ammunition was mud squirt guns for rain It was all just pantomimed pain
And I could hold my breath much longer than you under the old oak tree when it was just us two
Except on that day on that afternoon when that rope around your neck turned your face bright blue
I didn’t know what to do under that old oak tree Hang on hold on I’ll get you free
We had our GI Joes up to their necks in mud and flying through the air and landing with a thud
And I could hold my breath much longer than you except on that day on that afternoon
when you banged to the floor when I banged down the door blood, not mud and your face bright blue
I didn’t know what to do tears coming down like rain you in your cherry juice you and your phone cord noose
Remember when we had to pantomime pain?
Well it was we three then it was us two now it’s just me me alone
using tears for rain and I don’t have to pantomime pain.
Vance Walker has been writing poetry since he was a little boy. Recent poetry published: When Smooth-Faced Wooers Woo, in the Wingless Dreamer’s Breath of Love, Poems for Global Poemic, Vita Brevis Press, and The Gay & Lesbian Review. His play, You’ve Got To Keep Mother Alive, was recently performed at Scribe Stages.
Updates:
My deepest apologies for not being able to return your likes. At this point Word Press is working to fix several problems that occurred with this site. I believe I can reply to your comments on my site, but I cannot leave comments or like other sites. I hope this problem gets fixed soon.
Gabriela Marie Milton 2022 Pushcart Prize Nominee Publisher, Editor, Award Winning & #1 Amazon Bestselling Author Books:
Thank you again to the contributors to our Literary Revelations Poetry Anthology Hidden in Childhood. I am truly humbled you trusted me with your magnificent poetry. Equally, thank you to everyone who has been supporting our endeavor. I am grateful for your shares, comments, and encouragement.
To the contributors: Please read your email. To celebrate our anthology you are invited to participate on Victoria Onofrei’s Show “Victoria in Verse,” [Radio Bloomsbury] this Saturday January 21 at 10 am Central Time (USA). The show will be recorded this Saturday and it will be broadcast on Sunday January 29, when we hope our anthology will be out (the exact release date depends on Amazon).
On the release date: I will keep everyone posted. Please stay tuned and check your email, my blog, my social media, as well as the Literary Revelations’ website for more updates.
Preface: If you did not read the preface to Hidden in Childhood please read it HERE.
Below please find my reading of my poem included in Hidden in Childhood. I hope you enjoy it.
A reading from Hidden in Childhood – a publication of Literary Revelations. Coming late January.
Oh, sublime morning of my childhood,,,smell of tea and fresh apples, my little frantic body looking for the mysteries from beyond naked provincial statues..
I read your words and a thousand childhoods burrowed into my heart.
Gabriela Marie Milton
My Dear Readers
Thank you to everyone who submitted to Literary Revelations Publishing House’s collection Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology, due to be released late January. If anything changes, I will let you know.
I am thrilled to release the full cover of the anthology and the preface I wrote. I have tears in my eyes. Here is why.
I am beyond humbled by the number of submissions. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for entrusting me with your beautiful poetry. Most important you entrusted me with glimpses of your childhood. That honors me more than words can possibly express. I rarely talk about myself. Yet, last night after 14 hours of work I was listening to the winter knocking on my windows and thinking of your poems. A sentence inscribed itself into my soul. It will stay with me forever. I read your words and a thousand childhoods burrowed into my heart.
We are looking at a monumental work of poetry; a work of breathtaking beauty and substance. I included over 150 poets and around 280 poems. The Word file I will send for formatting tomorrow has 456 pages. I suspect after the formatting the anthology will have over 456 pages. Congratulations to everyone who was included.
I wrote a good number of rejection letters and I am not done yet. To those poets who were rejected: please do not get discouraged. I am honored by your submissions too and ready to collaborate with you in the future.
One other important thing I learned by reading your poems: this collection teaches the reader about childhood perhaps more than an academic treaty could do it.
————–
Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology – preface by Gabriela Marie Milton
If you open the pages of this poetry collection, you will be mesmerized by the talent of the contributors, and by the range of stylistic approaches they use to recreate the world of childhood. It must be said from the beginning that this is not a poetry collection for children. The pages you will read memorialize the beauty and magic of childhood – remembrance of love and fairytales – as well as its ugliness – abuses, poverty – that unfortunately still exist in our world. Some of the authors of the poems included in this anthology were brave enough to talk about the pain they endured in childhood. I salute all contributors: those who tell the world that childhood is love, and those who still bear the wounds of a difficult childhood.
As the editor, curator, and publisher of this book, I am honored and humbled that so many poets entrusted me with their work. The poems I included in this anthology are stunners. They are magnificent in their wealth of emotions, and very diverse in style. It is the role of the editor to try – as much as she/he can- to stylistically unify the works included in poetry collections. To a certain extent, I decided against it. I allowed for English spelling, as well as for American spelling. I overlooked places where perhaps I would have used different words, in the interest of clarity. Why did I do it? Two reasons: (1) These breathtaking poems have their own energy, an energy that continuously echoes in one’s soul, and it sends shivers down the spine of the reader. There is a freshness about them, freshness in front of which the strive for better formulations ends up in patheticism. (2) Perfection is most of the time sterile. There are emblematic poets who sometimes consciously allowed for small degrees of clumsiness – here and there – in their poems in order to preserve the authenticity of the feelings. I hope I did that in this collection.
The themes and archetypes the contributors use are very diverse. You will find the father as the protector and/or as the abuser, the figure of the mother as the nurturer and/or as the monster, the loss of siblings, the heavenly paradise of grandparents, the fight with disease, and the list can continue.
To turn to a different idea, once Charles Baudelaire wrote, “The child sees everything in a state of newness… Nothing more resembles what we call inspiration than the delight with which a small child absorbs form and color.” No doubt, during childhood we are first and foremost the recipients of the sensory world.
The academic literature on childhood – as well as our common understanding – frequently defines childhood as a period of our lives that precedes adulthood. Whatever happens during our first years is formative and important to our becoming. However, we tend to dissociate childhood from maturity. Most people subscribe to the dichotomy of childhood/adulthood.
Indeed, the prima facie reading of the poems included in this anthology shows that the authors kept in mind the dichotomy of childhood/adulthood.
Yet, what strikes the reader during the second and/or third reading of these stunning poems is how present childhood is in the lives of the authors, now mature people. For these poets, whether they know it or not, childhood is not a simple memory filled with joy or pain. Childhood constitutes itself as an integral part of their poems, a part that continues to transform them as they write.
The strength of this poetry collection is the capacity of its authors to blur the line between childhood and adulthood. Whether the authors talk about joyful memories, or sadly abusive childhood, the effect is stunning. We do not know anymore where childhood stops, and adulthood starts.
Am I returning to Philippe Ariès and his Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family Life (1960), who put forward the idea – albeit controversial – that during medieval times childhood was not recognized as a distinct phase of human existence?
No. I am not. I merely claim that the idea of childhood is not as transient as authors such as Ray Bradbury claimed.
In many aspects, childhood never goes away. It stays with us forever.
This is what you will discover in this anthology, which contains the most beautiful, as well as the most heart-wrenching, verses one has ever read. And this is a phenomenal discovery.
I hope everyone is enjoying the holiday season. I am thrilled to share the front cover of Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology to be released by Literary Revelations Publishing House late January 2023.
Given the high volume of submissions only 75 contributors have received news from me. Please check your email. You may be one of them.
We are still working on selecting new poems so those of you who did not hear from me, please stay tuned. I will be in touch.
Remember submissions are still open until January 3, 2023. You can find the guidelines for submission Here.
I would like to share some of my thoughts on the poems that I have already read.
Thoughts on Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology
As the editor, curator, and publisher of this this book, I am honored and humbled that so many poets entrusted me with their outstanding work. I thank everyone from the bottom of my heart.
I am mesmerized by the talent of the contributors, and by the range of stylistic approaches used to recreate the world of childhood. I must say from the beginning that this is not a poetry collection for children. The poems selected memorialize the beauty and magic of childhood – remembrance of love and fairytales – as well as its ugliness – abuses, poverty – that unfortunately still exist in our world. Some of the authors were brave enough to talk about the pain they endured in childhood. I salute all contributors: those who tell the world that childhood is love, and those who still bear the wounds of a very difficult childhood.
Charles Baudelaire wrote, “The child sees everything in a state of newness… Nothing more resembles what we call inspiration than the delight with which a small child absorbs form and color.” No doubt, during childhood we are first and foremost the recipients of the sensory world.
The academic literature on childhood – as well as our common understanding – frequently defines childhood as a period of our lives that precedes adulthood. Whatever happens during our first years is formative and important to our becoming. We tend to dissociate childhood from maturity. Most people subscribe to the dichotomy of childhood/adulthood.
Indeed, the prima facie reading of the magnificent poems we selected shows that the authors kept in mind the dichotomy of childhood/adulthood.
Yet, what strikes the reader during the second and/or third reading of those stunning poems is how present childhood is in the lives of the authors, now mature people. For these exceptional poets, whether they know it or not, childhood is not a simple memory filled with joy or pain. Childhood constitutes itself as an integral part of their poems, a part that continues to transform them as they write.
The strength of this poetry collection will be the capacity of its authors to blur the line between childhood and adulthood. Whether the authors talk about joyful memories, or sadly abusive childhood, the effect is stunning. We do not know anymore where childhood stops, and adulthood starts.
[]
I look forward to reading the poems I still have, and I look forward to new submissions too.
To those of you who celebrate Christmas, a wonderful holiday filled with magic. A hundred year of love to everyone. I will update everyone after Christmas.
Please visit Literary RevelationsPublishing HouseHERE follow and subscribe.
I hate the order of things with its self-indulgent predictability.
The airport – the point of departures and returns – smell of food and disinfectant. Gray overtones.
This world would be a better place if we were more interested in others’ creations than in their personal lives.
I used to run away from home when I was a child. Every rose tore my soul. I picked up the pieces and wrapped the sick and the hungry with them. What’s left of my soul?
When my second novel came out, you said, “What a splendid tribute to your master.” I asked, “Who’s my master?” “Patrick Modiano.” I thought, “Who on earth is Patrick Modiano?” Yet I understood. The past. My obsession with the past. I went out and ordered every book Modiano has written.
I have nothing to say anymore.
featured image: Rising Moon, Karl Schmidt-Rottluff
I am deeply grateful to everyone who submitted to the Literary Revelations’ Hidden in Childhood anthology. You will hear from me soon. For those who still want to submit please remember that our deadline is January 3, 2023. We plan to release the anthology at the end of January.
Please read the Guidelines for Submission HERE. Do not submit before reading.
Visit Literary RevelationsPublishing HouseHERE follow and subscribe.
With stars in her eyes, the hour of the heart coils around my finger, iridescent scale after iridescent scale like the skin of a green Anaconda. I love you beyond the world of feelings, beyond the minutes of sands, beyond the unintelligible murmurs of night processions.
I can feel your fervor, your fingers unbraiding my hair, the aroma of chocolate kisses, the unforgettable texture of quinces – as you used to say the texture of carne de membrilllo – bitterness sweetened with honey.
The stairs toward the attic squeak under our steps, a few seconds and we are there, fresh lips, bodies glowing under the moonlight. Coming from nowhere an old song invades our skin. The ghosts of the Crescent Park Looff Carousel go mad: “And I’ll dance with you in Vienna.”
The next night, back in the attic, you shirtless, quoting Flaubert: To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost. I laugh. Forget about. I sharpen my nails on your back. I disappear in your arms like powdered sugar in the air.
Monday. Sun in your hair, eyes burning with desire, I see you running toward me, crossing the street a moment too soon, perhaps too late. The world flip-flops like a fish in a net. Dark.
No, it’s not Monday. Monday never comes. It’s Sunday. I am the forever Sunday. You smile. Can you hear the song my love? “And I’ll dance with you in Vienna.”
Announcements:
Literary Revelations Journal posted. An English Poet: Eric Daniel Clarke. Please read HERE.
I am deeply grateful to everyone who submitted to the Literary Revelations’ Hidden in Childhood anthology. We are looking forward to more submissions. Please remember that our deadline is January 3, 2023. We plan to release the anthology at the end of January.
Please read the Guidelines for Submission HERE. Do not submit before reading.
Please visit Literary RevelationsPublishing HouseHERE and subscribe.