On Poetry and Daffodils

Piraeus, Greece

My poetry is neither the chronicle of my sufferings nor the chronicle of my loves as many seem to believe. It does not contain the description of my marital status nor that of my accomplishments. It does not record my joys or my passions with the precision of a timeclock. It does not dwell in my sadness. Sadness is the place where I dwell when I write the word sea and I cannot understand its meaning the way Elytis understood it. I was not born in Hellada. I can use that as an excuse for my poetic inadequacies.

My poetry is that which comes from the realm of the unfulfilled.  It is the echo of the waves that you can guess but cannot see because they are not born yet. It is the voice of the blood that dries on the feet of the prophets. It is the dream of my cheeks that you will never touch.  My poetry is the body of a Sunday that forgot to put walnuts and cinnamon in its baklava. It is the promise of tomorrow.

Three years ago I bought a silver icon at an auction. The icon belonged to the M. family. They used to be one of the most preeminent families on the island of Crete. Hellada was tattooed in my non-Hellenistic soul by the will of my parents, not by mine. You cannot stage a coup against your own baptism when you are four months old.

I was in love in Hellada. So much for “Let’s fall in love in Spain.” Every time the church bells tolled, he, the one who loved me, used to bring me daffodils.  One daffodil for each bell toll.  When the church bells stopped tolling I had so many daffodils that I could not carry them anymore. I had to let them fall on the ground.

 I ran and I took the first ship out of Piraeus.

Until this day he – the one who loves me – still waits for the girl that will keep his daffodils and marry him.

 Of course, he does. There is always the promise of tomorrow.  There is always my poetry and there is always one more night of passion.

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.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Professions #poem #poetry #love poem #poetic prose #poetry collection

Motto
I get drunk on love, charity, and passion. These are my professions.

*

I walk into the three days we spent together.

On the first day, a nude silence wraps around my lips. Shortly after I can hear the noise of wine poured into glasses.
The hour to get drunk on love has come.
I touch your skin and another you is born.
Birds invade the sky.
A banquet of candles floods the streets.
A white thread ties my blood vessels at the exact moment when a religious procession walks by.

 

On the second day, drunk on charity, my sights descend upon the earth.
The dirty hands of the woman who owns wells touch my skin.
I hear your voice.
I will not counsel her or belittle her desires.
All she will do is sell her fake dreams in the corner of an empty street for her entire life.
I forbid you.
By punishing her you would have ruined the very thing you set out to safeguard: our love.

 

On the third day, stars melt in our palms like soft grapes in winepresses.
The intimations of you and I, with their smell and softness of grass and late autumn roses, invade the room.
A convulsive joy impregnates your eyes.
Words have no pigments and no form. Their register sinks in gravity, shiny coil by shiny coil, musical key by musical key, sleepy touch by sleepy touch.
The perfection of the afternoon’s poplars blesses the air.
Possessed by passions, under the wing of a bird, we died three days ago.

 

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.
image: Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Feminine Submissiveness #prose #short prose #excerpt #book

Feminine sexual scars: real, invented, and in some cases only dreamed. Wounds exposed in plain view in order to obtain something in exchange. If not justice, then sympathy. If not sympathy, then the attention of a certain male prototype.

A desperation to direct the masculine imagination toward the submissive feminine with its painful blows; blows exacerbated by the brutality of our patriarchal society. Yet something more was added to that:  female purple skin calling for the asperity of males’ touches, abandon, suggested nudity, swollen lips, tons of adjectives filled with a sickening excess of sweetness.

I remember him saying.

An entire arsenal of attraction built on wounds that should be sanctified not used to incite maleness. Those women hang their sexual lesions like paintings on walls for the sole purpose of giving males glimpses under their underwear.

C’mon. You know it.

I did not. However, he was a man of high intellect. It was difficult to go against him. I had to wait. I had to outmaneuver him.

So, I played my feminine submissive part. Add some madness to that and I am quite sure I looked like Ophelia running from room to room dressed in black negligees incapable of understanding my own distress.  What a nightmare.

Was he right?

 

excerpt from my manuscript Remembrance of Love (working title)
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.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

My piece “Dematerialization” published by Spillwords Press #prose #short prose #Gabriela M #Gabriela Marie Milton

It was a sort of dematerialization that left behind the scent of orange blossoms and the vague memory of sultry afternoons growing by the margins of the pond: those afternoons in need for seed germination. I am sure you can remember them.

You and your love for me which have always looked for my blood. I told you I am air and therefore I do not have a body. I fill the space in which other bodies manifest themselves.

I am every breath you take in your nights of love when …please continue reading here

You can read my Spillwords Author of the Year Interview here.
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.

Thank you.
Love.
Gabriela.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]

My new piece “Exiled” published by Indian Periodical #poem #prose poem #short prose

You, evening of ours, how beautifully your lips tasted; stars in your unbraided hair spread over still waters like lily pads; rosy skin like the flesh of a pink grapefruit freshly open.

I still can breathe in your aromas of cherry flavored cigars and sleepless expectations.

Exiled under this oak tree…

Please continue reading here.

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.

Thank you.
Love.
Gabriela.

image:  Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

the child to be #poem #prose poem #short prose #short story

I cut my hair.

I put it in a bag made of white silk.

Skies succeed one another.

The third one descends upon me.

It’s Wednesday; the day of red carnations.

Your blood vessels kill my dreams like algae blooms kill fish.

From Thursday – why are you one sky ahead of me? –  your voice curls in every cell of my body.

The child will be born face up. He will watch the stars on their way to nowhere. 

I shudder. My breath heaves. Milky moonlight descends upon my breasts.

What child?

On Friday you reply.

The one we’ll make when we meet on Sunday.

My nails dig into my left thigh. My blood smells like carnations.  It ought to be still Wednesday. It can’t be Friday. Friday smells like Rose de Grasse d’Or.

What are you talking about? We do not meet on Sundays. I sew clothing on Sundays.  In fact, we never meet.

Your voice comes from Monday.

Our child to be. The one who has a bishop as a grandfather. The one you know no other love but ours can bore. The one who will contemplate the stars on their way to nowhere.

I take my hair from the bag.

I start placing it back on my head.

It must be Tuesday.

 

excerpt from my manuscript Remembrance of Love (working title)

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

image: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock; [link]

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

Summer Love #poem #poetic prose #short prose

That summer love burned us until our skin became tranquilized.

We were ready to receive.

None of us cared about the danger of the thousand apples from which we bit.

Poetry?

Oh, poetry was too good to be read.

We tasted it and ate it with silver spoons.

All filtrations of the mind and senses hid in small apple bites and scented flowers.

By dusk we exhausted everything with our breath.

The children’s voices vanished into the dark.

The doubt of too much spilled between us like ashes from a broken urn.

Summer love.

 

featured image: Separisa; Shutterstock; [link]

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

My Poem Dark Love up at Vita Brevis #poem #poetry #published

My poem Dark Love is now up at Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine.

green, you smell with your tongue
your thoughts pollinate mine
your fingers endanger the sailors
a water which opens its lips and drinks them
ah, hour of man
when did you become the hour of horrors?
a book cover reads: Dictionary of Superstitions
I see the girl who tears out…

continue reading with WP here.
or
at Vita Brevis Press here.

Thank you.
Love.
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

featured image: Dmytro Vietrov; Shutterstock; [link]

My Book, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, featured in San Francisco Book Review #book review

We desperately want to love, to possess each other, caught in a perpetual rush to justify our existence.
Yet there is no love that can fully satisfy us. The passions of the flesh get exhausted in bed. What is left is exhausted by our imagination.

Excerpt from my book Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings [on Amazon here].

My Dear Friends,
Thank you to everyone who reads my work. Your support means the world to me.  Below please find the review of my book, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, in San Francisco Book Review.

The series transports us on a journey of love as much as it delivers us a thematically diverse set of emotions. This is a superb collection.”
Bobbie Peyton

Please read the entire review here.

Thank you.
Love.
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

image: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock; [link]

Indulgence #poem #poetic prose #short prose #review #poetry collection

Skeletal fragments of coral and mollusks glued by calcite.

Limestone giving birth to grays, beige, and blue.

Your eyes as green as the grass on the dewy morning when slithering snakes were driven into the sea.

Tears on your cheeks. I wipe them with my palms.

The desire to rebuild your soul. I cannot stop it.  I am like those women who think that their naked thighs and transparent negligées can fix a broken heart. In fact, I am worse than them.  I think I can fix your soul.

I love you. Yet, my instincts are those of a simple worshiper of reality. There is no sanctity in them.

Oh, indulgence of the self, how ignorant we are.

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings featured in San Francisco Book Review. 

Love.
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

image:  Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]