The Orphic Egg – poem by Gabriela Marie Milton up at Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine

 Philipp Tur; Shutterstock

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…

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My book Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings featured in San Francisco Book Review and Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Daughter of This Earth poem by Gabriela Marie Milton

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

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My book Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings featured in San Francisco Book Review and Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Two Poems Included in Issue I of Free Verse Revolution: a literary magazine #poem

 Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock

I am thrilled that my two poems Prayer and 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

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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

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You can download the entire issue for free here

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Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings featured in San Francisco Book Review and Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

I want my body burned #poem #poetry #poetry collection

 Fernando Cortes; Shutterstock

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

Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings featured in San Francisco Book Review and Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Neurosis #literature #fiction #prose poem

 Kiselev Andrey Valerevich; Shutterstock

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.

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 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.

Your fingers contour the back of my neck.

My eyes catch fire.

Night, have mercy on us.

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excerpt from my upcoming collection of poetry

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My book Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings featured in San Francisco Book Review and Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

The Promise of Us #poem #poetry #poetry collection

The three days that we spent in that city.

The evenings, intoxicated by the smell of linden trees and the intimation of grace, entered our imaginations as the air fills a restless balloon.  

Under the 7am cold shower the first morning blossomed into layers of rose and gold; shivering skin hoping for the warmth of a kiss.

The afternoons grew childbearing hips and spun them in the soft air; the floreo circularities of the flamenco dance. 

Our candlelight dinners with their buttery taste, creamy textures, and oaked aged incantations.

The shell of our nights broken by mental possessions in front of which any other type of possession becomes superfluous. 

I remember you holding in the air an unopen bottle of wine. Then, head on my knees, you cried. 

Your tears trickled from my legs on the floor. The bed grew aromatic roots.

The promise of us, with its infinite ambiguity, spread through our bodies. 

The city, like a gigantic swan, deserted its breeding nest.

It left us to the mercy of an inexplicable love. 

Oh, yes, my love.

Oh, yes.

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My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

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@Gabriela Marie Milton

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Bewitched #poem #poetry collection

 ch123; Shutterstock

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

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

On Women’s Writings #poetic prose #feminism #literature

 artellia; Shutterstock

On Women’s Writings

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

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton