i can’t win #poetry

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i hang flowers in the trees

i grow hands to heal all wounds

at my feet the forest sings

naked love from Saturn’s rings

rains on poppies in the fields

i move forward

and i mix

boiling teas with saps of passion

i coil laurels on your body

I knit kisses on your lips

yet…

fruits are bursting into blood

winds are choked by mounds of pyre

you’re not here

i can’t win

for the rifle will still fire

 

The Woman Before Me #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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“Clara, I did not tell you about the woman who Miguel loved before you.”

“Go ahead Angelo, I can’t wait to hear.”

My eyes pierced into his; in the streets an orange sunset was fighting for its life like a deer caught in the jaws of an enormous anaconda; tired bodies were floating in the middle of the fight; ships on an angry sea.

“Clara, Miguel was in love with a girl born in Buenos Aires. Her name was Helen.

Can you imagine that? Buenos Aires!

The city of Rosas, red ribbons hanging on military uniforms, people screaming death to utilitarianism on every street corner, telluric pampas striving to conquer the city, biting from it…

Ah, I can’t remember the name of the building from which Perón used to speak every year!”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“Angelo, what does Helen have to do with all this? Everything happened long time ago.”

“Oh, but she had a lot to do with…”

*

The sunset lost the battle; the night was breathing satisfied; stretches of a full anaconda digesting its prey.

“Clara, you are not listening anymore!”

“No, I’m not. And if Miguel is not here in five minutes I’ll start singing Don’t cry for me Argentina and strangle you in the middle of the street, Angelo!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t do this, Clara!”

“No? Watch me!”

*

I shivered.

There was no Helen.

Miguel never was in a relationship with a woman named Helen.

What was Angelo trying to tell me?

And where was Miguel?

*

draft

 

Love Call #morning fantasy

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I awake under the cap of a mushroom.

Its spores surround me like stalactites hanging from the ceiling of a cave.

Rubbing his forewings, a cricket chirps.

Is that you calling for me?

I know it’s you. You must be hiding in the grass!

Come out!

Every evening I’ll bathe your body in milk and honey.

Every morning I’ll dress you in a cloak woven from mulberry silk. I’ll grow wings around your ankles, so you can fly above the Himalayas.

Late night I’ll rub ginger oil onto your skin; every stalactite will fall in love with you.

At midnight when the Siamese purrs on my left thigh, I’ll dip my fingers into rose oil and mend your wounds.

We’ll kiss in the fragrance of leaves, roots, and ripened berries.

Why aren’t you answering?

Where are you hiding?

Come out!

 

Lonely Sundays #midnight fantasy

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Tears from the ankle of an iceberg fell on my body.

They crust on my skin like cold wax on a rack of votive candles.

Seconds hurt like lonely Sundays.

I lie in bed.

A canopy of wild roses scents the air.

My dreams burn like your body used to burn in our nights of love.

I feel you.

The pupils of my eyes dilate under the gravity of time.

Mercury and Venus turn the wheels of love.

Crusts of wax melt on the silky sheets.

Your kisses bloom violet waterlilies on my skin.

I taste figs and wild forest.

The wing of an egret covers us.

The room moves on another parallel.

Is it morning?

Is it Sunday?

Where are you?

 
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Untranslated Love — Vita Brevis

My poem “Untranslated Love” published in Vita Brevis

give me the stars

that shine under the bridges

where poor children spend their nights

the blood that leaks from wounds of war

when the last piece of bread is turned in tar

 

give me the language of your alabaster gestures

the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde

the mystery of painted nudes on walls

the cries of nuns under an angel’s lacerated wing

your untranslated love coiled in a tarnished ring

Submitted by short-prose-fiction give me the stars that shine under the bridges where poor children spend their nights the blood that leaks from wounds of war when the last piece of bread is turned in tar give me the language of your alabaster gestures the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde the mystery […]

via Untranslated Love — Vita Brevis

 

 

the dance of Isabella #poetry

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come and watch the dance of Isabella

the rhythm of castanets awakes the moon

her body tilts the oleander axis of the wind

her hips rotate into the autumn of the fires

 

an iguana stumbles on profuse desires

opening her eyes on Isabella’s chest

your forehead sinks into the sweat of lovers

who step onto the boats which never will return

 

watch how Isabella dances

wreaths of conquerors at her feet gleam

lizards from forgotten winters

tattoo her body on your skin

 

and in the shadows of the lips which spin

locked in the mansion by the lake

i love you more than anybody else

yet you don’t know

because for you i’m just a dream

*

first published in The literati mafia

 

i am a woman #poetry

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i inhabit the dance of bears on moonless nights

the moves of acrobats in crowded circuses

the fairy-tales of your childhood

the memories of your past loves

the cavalcade of soldiers

who fight forgotten wars

i breathe the sound of flute played by the satyr Pan

the scents of lonely islands where philosophers write

the swirls of ballerinas in mid-air

the mangoes which in nights of love i bite

 

bathed in rose oil and coriander

lost in the anarchy of flesh

i am a woman

and for me

the nights of passion

are still fresh