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
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
you cut a piece of my hair it curls between your index finger and your thumb in the distance silhouetted against the snow knotted kerchiefs the dress of a woman who insinuates herself on people’s skin like mold on walls in the little house hidden by oak trees in the unmade bed where every night you sleep alone I listen to the mineral eyes of a saint while between your palms the Little Prince plays with white plumes signs that birds exist the winter buries us deep in the ground dissolved our bodies gestate until the birth of spring when on the top of an unspoken hill you and I will bloom into two trees whose fruit will feed the children of the world
Happy Holidays to all my followers. May your 2021 be fabulous. Love Gabriela
love strikes like the Mistral in Saint-Tropez winds, hallucinations of pianos, decide to howl in D major enigmas move inside the wombs incubations murmur under the phases of the moon bewitched, allegories of love raise odes to exasperated nudes a prophet gazes at a virgin sybil whose liquid eyes foretold our love in gold reflections, lava of our souls, a mirror hangs itself onto the wall in the red room a phoenix rises our bodies drown into the liquid time of the Mediterranean amor, amore, mon amour the splendid flesh of a gestating poem washes our singular and frenzied souls
amore colpisce come il maestrale nei venti di Saint-Tropez, allucinazioni di pianoforti decidono di ululare in re, enigmi maggiori muovono dentro l’intimo: mormorio, incubazioni sotto le fasi della luna stregate allegorie d’amore sollevano ondine a nudi esasperati un profeta guarda una vergine sibilla i cui occhi liquidi predissero il nostro amore nei riflessi dorati, lava delle nostre anime, uno specchio appeso al muro nella stanza rossa una fenice solleva i nostri corpi affogati nel tempo liquido del mediterraneo amor, amore, mon amour la splendida carne di un poema in gestazione lava le nostre anime singolari e frenetiche
My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie. Nobody understood why. Mama believed that Marie was the secret name of his mother who was an actress. As far as I know my grandmother’s name was Lucrecia, and she was no actress. She was born into a religious family. Her uncle was a bishop. I have no idea how Mama came up with this story about my grandmother being an actress and having a secret name.
I cannot write anymore. If you want me to do it, you will have to lock me in the library. Only there silences become words, and words become soft and puffy like two humongous winter breasts glowing in the last rays of a sweet and sticky sunset.
Yesterday, I got lost in the sacrality of the winter carnival with its colors and aromas of musicality, and its hands of poetry extended to the moon and beyond.
Oh, no, you locked the library door.
I start knotting the thin rosy bodies of the quiet words that make the four thousand volumes that reside in here. An aerial bridge extends over the world. Dressed in a full-moon regalia, I walk on it. Around me birds amalgamate the winds of the North with those of the South. I see stars floating on the seas. Blue meadows wave to me.
I cry. My tears reach the earth, and each and one of them grows into a new poem.
I am grateful to Mushtaq Bala – the Editor-In-Chief of KASHMIR PEN – for inviting me to publish my work in his newspaper.
Purple roots cover all trails that go to the foothills. Veins that the earth pushed to the surface. I smell lavender. Your words grow in the breeze like a dough under the whispers of the moon. For three thousand years, sung by the poets of this land, the naked shoulder of the mountain reigned in stillness. The sky made itself invisible into a wooden box where my grandmother kept her rings: memories of loves that now fit in a small chamber. The sea and the afternoon’s breaths eclipse the taste of your colors. The blue that slipped between the same branches of the old poplar tree stares me in the eyes. Clouds ossify the fight of the earth against the earth. Between my palms the body of a thin yellow candle. I remember walking on a street where children were hungry and had no shoes. I took my shoes off and wiped my tears with the back of palms. Under my eyes the skin became red and rough. I wrote I love you on your left cheek. I threw all the silver coins I had onto the dust of the street. They were meant for the dead. Let them help the living. I remember your hand caressing the silk of my dress. I purge all memories except one that belongs to the future. You and I chanting to the incarnation of love under a tree on the island where I was born. The island where it is always spring and the earth that does not fight against the earth. Did I tell you I was born on an island?
Fight was published together with If Only … Autumn in the 19, 2020 November edition of KASHMIR PEN.
Thank you to Flavio Almerighi for the beautiful Italian translation of my poem The Ides of October. Grazie di core, Flavio.
I paid for all the happiness that was bestowed upon us by the Ides of October. I used to feel the presence of the child all around me. A woman said I should pick a piece of slough cast by a snake and wear it against my skin. I did it. Flushed as a young peach every sunset became a resurrection. Roses wrapped around my waist and later in June the child was born.
A new October sets our pictures on the Spanish chest. Emotions animate your cheeks. Every night above the trees the moon nurses the stars. When I see cocoons of the larvae, I think silk as soft as the hair of the child. When I say I love you, I think death as the harbinger of birth. Your lips tremble and your voice flattens. I know you love me. With nude fingers the Ides of October betroth us again.
[Ides as the 15th day in March, May, July, and October according to the Roman calendar]
Ho pagato per tutta la felicità che ci è stata concessa dalle Idi di ottobre. Sentivo la presenza del bambino tutto intorno a me. Una donna ha detto che avrei dovuto scegliere un pezzo di melma lanciato da un serpente e indossarlo sulla pelle. L’ho fatto. Arrossata come una giovane pesca, ogni tramonto diventava una risurrezione. Le rose si avvolsero intorno alla mia vita e più tardi a giugno nacque il bambino.
Un nuovo ottobre pone le nostre foto sul petto spagnolo. Le emozioni animano le tue guance. Ogni notte sopra gli alberi la luna nutre le stelle. Quando vedo i bozzoli delle larve, penso che la seta sia morbida come i capelli del bambino. Quando dico che ti amo, penso che la morte sia il presagio della nascita. Le tue labbra tremano e la tua voce si appiattisce. Io so che mi ami. Con le dita nude le Idi di ottobre ci fidanzano di nuovo.
[Idi come il 15 ° giorno di marzo, maggio, luglio e ottobre secondo il calendario romano]
My Dear Readers, My pieceDematerialization (by Gabriela M) runs first for Publication of the Month at Spillwords Press. Will you please vote for me? You do not need a Spillwords account to vote. You can vote using your Facebook or Twitter account. The window that opens below allows you to do so.
I paid for all the happiness that was bestowed upon us by the Ides of October.
I used to feel the presence of the child all around me.
A woman said I should pick a piece of slough cast by a snake and wear it against my skin.
I did it.
Flushed as a young peach every sunset became a resurrection.
Roses wrapped around my waist and later in June the child was born.
A new October sets our pictures on the Spanish chest.
Emotions animate your cheeks.
Every night above the trees the moon nurses the stars.
When I see cocoons of the larvae, I think silk as soft as the hair of the child.
When I say I love you, I think death as the harbinger of birth.
Your lips tremble and your voice flattens.
I know you love me.
With nude fingers the Ides of October betroth us again.
[Ides as the 15th day in March, May, July, and October according to the Roman calendar]