and you my love who know that spring has come peaches grow on one side of the moon injured lambs scream on the other taste of strawberries my hair freshly cut herds of feelings return in the night from the waters possessed by new ghosts we look for each other the baptism of rain and thin yellow candles a verse from Seferis bites from my lips the Easter of Roses with its cold morning showers never to sin your hands nailed in white marble the rode of your anchor my love it’s spring it’s me free your hands from the marble
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…
I am thrilled that my two poems Prayerand 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
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
I was not going to post today. However, I am humbled beyond words that my poem, If I say I love you, is in the running for 2020 Publication of the Year at Spillwords Press. To everyone who has supported me in my writing journey, my deepest thanks. May your days be filled with love and success. May you be inspired and may life shower you with happiness.
The voting for Spillwords Press annual awards is now open. Congratulations to all nominees. All of them are wonderful writers. They deserve plenty of recognition.
My poem, If I say I love you by Gabriela M, is under the rubric Publication of the Year (Poetic).
If you do not have a Spillwords account, you can vote with your FB or Twitter account. When you click on the poem, a Spillwords window will open. You will be asked to enter your username and your password. Ignore that and click on the FB or Twitter icon to vote.
Update: One of my followers pointed out that there is actually a WP voting option too. You can click on the WP icon, instead of FB or Twitter, and vote with WP if you prefer.
Here is the link where you can vote. Voting is open till January 30.
Last February I was awarded Author of the Year at Spillwords Press. I told my followers one thing that will always be true: my award is as much yours as it is mine.
If you wish to read my 2019 Author of the Year Spillwords interview you can read it here.
If you wish to (re)read my poem, If I say I loveyou, can do it here.
Included in my poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings.
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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
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
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Happy Holidays to all my followers. May your 2021 be fabulous. Love Gabriela
Scents of linden trees illuminated by an old oil lamp. The night is me. I am the night where love delights dwell. Shed you skin and come with me where minutes melt like chocolate on the tongue of a child. You, sweetness from beyond the body, what can one say about you?
I am grateful to Mushtaq Bala – the Editor-In-Chief of KASHMIR PEN – for inviting me to publish my work in his newspaper.
Fight
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.
