wooden bed (rewritten) #poem #poetry

 

I know some fields
in which the poppies smile
when blonde sunsets play classical guitar
I know the coffee shop in which you stop
the gypsy lady who foretold our luck

I love you
and I’m sorry that you fell in love with me…
now please listen,
I do have to go
remember our waterfall we liked so much
don’t sell the wooden bed in which we first made love
the dress embroidered by my mother’s hands
save the letters that my father wrote before he died
and do not cry

I’m rushing
guards are coming
my wrists will be soon stamped
yours forever,
from a concentration camp

 

please read my Spillwords Author of the Year (2019) interview here 
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

My poem “the biblical sense of to know” published by Spillwords Press #poetry

 

the biblical sense of to know
born in a summer that never existed
nailed to the cross of your poems
I’m losing my mind inside the blue night
I reach you in dreams you do not understand
It hurts when I’m there….

Continue reading here

This poem first appear on this blog (slightly modified).

 

During my two and a half years of blogging I’ve been nominated for numerous blogging awards. My most sincere thanks to everyone who nominated me. My life is extremely hectic. I deeply apologize for not being able to reply to your nominations.
However, if you want to know more about me please read my Spillwords interview “Spotlight on Writers- Gabriela M

Here is an excerpt from the interview “…most fascinatingly America is a country of dreamers. We are all dreamers.”

Thank you!
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  Anna Ismagilova; Sutterstock; [link]

Love games #flash fiction #prose poem #short prose

 

I strolled along that large corridor whose walls were decorated with portraits: trophies of your love games.  You fed on those loves, didn’t you? You overextended. Overextension kills empires. I bet you didn’t think that it could kill real love too.

Every night the fleshless arms of your love games crawl on you like fire ants.

I know misfortune when I see it.

I know it because I am not a saint.

Hope? If there is any left it must be on another corridor.

Follow me.

read my 2019 Spillwords Author of the Year interview here
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

 

seduction #poem #poetry

 

the rhythm of castanets awakens the moon
on opal rings your kisses spin
a cricket’s hitting a crescendo
waves tattoo dark shadows on your skin
sonority, you who vibrates the souls
of those who haunt at night the Port of Cartagena

I toss in smells of apricots and plumes
the Hand of Fatima takes off my veils
your forehead sinks into the sweat of lovers
who sever their veins
oh, dream of the unknowns,
you, latency,
the sigh of blood which flows
in spring both mud and flowers grow

didn’t you know
that when you said I love you
you stepped on roads of fables and folk tales?
you glued your heart onto a purple sunset
smells of lilac and of roses, impregnated strolls,
seduction,
it wasn’t me
it was you who stole his soul

 

Published by Spillwords on June, 4 2019;
included in my upcoming poetry book Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings
Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings also includes several poems translated in Italian by Flavio Almerighi. I am most grateful to Flavio for his magnificent translations. For more poetry in Italian please visit Flavio’s site here

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]

“the night of candlelight and wine” a collaboration with Francisco Bravo Cabrera #poem #poetry

 
My Dear Readers,

the night of candlelight and wine a collaboration with Francisco Bravo Cabrera, an artist whose work I admire tremendously. Please visit Francisco’s site here

A rose with thorns you wrap around my wrist
I tie your eyes with scents of mandarins
your heartbeats spiral red Cabo de Palos winds
your touches gallop on my wildest dreams
Valencia, garden where the lovers meet
where statues chant the prayers of the hours
and where some other winds,
perhaps the winds of Lent, not ours
will lift Mediterranean sands so we can’t see,
sighs of the future that the two of us could be …
 
Their hands clap bulerías por soleá 
you and I, the same passion, we move to the same rhythm
your eyes undress a Carthaginian fountain 
my hands undress a shadow, is that you? 
we die in love as we had died before
in photographs that are not ours
in the port of Cartagena where we’ve never met
blindfolded looking for each other 
like hedonistic lovers in the nights of carnival
we speak in languages known only by the flesh
this is the night of candlelight and wine
the night of gaps between the piccolos and tubas 
you touch me with a branch of olives
I mark your skin with colored glass
until the morning rises from the sea
and thus… 
Valencia, look what’s happening to people like us

read my 2019 Spillwords Author of the Year interview here
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Eki, by Francisco Bravo Cabrera, oil on canvas, 40x50cm

the miracle of you [included in my upcoming book-Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings] #poem #poetry

 

the moon’s right-hand
pours soul into my flesh
pigeons’ wings bring scents of lilac blooms
the air gets drunk with poetry
statuary women of the water
flaunt their hair

within the loneliness of you
my heart
rotates five equinoxes on a wooden spindle
your eyes pour flesh into my soul
my body germinates the sounds of growing leaves
I wash my hands into the waters of Guadalquivir
in the scented night of those who never sleep
I say
I love you
and in one single breath
our wedding is transformed
in an enraptured death

was it the moon?
was it the morning dew?
perhaps it was the miracle of you

first published in the KashmirPen Newspaper, April 2019 (slightly modified)
included in my upcoming book Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings 

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Maria Okolnichnikova; Shutterstock; [link]

The fabulous art of Francisco Bravo Cabrera #drawings #guest post

 

My Dear Readers,

It is my pleasure to introduce you to the fabulous art of Francisco Bravo Cabrera.
[site]

Francisco Bravo Cabrera’s  drawings are done with different kinds of pencils and China ink on paper. On occasion Francisco creates a jazz band and gives his drawings a name.  His drawings are approximately 24×30 cm in size.  Francisco feels that in order to be true to his commitment which he calls “Jazz Art” he must follow the rules that the great Jazz masters of New Orleans came up with at the beginning of the XIXth Century.  Those rules are: you have to use improvisation; you have to let the performer be the creator; and finally the work (song) must swing, in other words, there must be rhythm. For Francisco to draw and to be faithful to this definition, he must be able to improvise most of the composition, which usually begins from a thick/thin black line that guides, the line turns into aspects of the composition and then the composition creates itself and to make it swing, he has to provide the rhythm.  Francisco thinks rhythm can be gained by what the composition represents, the dynamics between the parts of the composition and their perspectives.  It helps him if he makes them play jazz and dance.

I trust you will enjoy Francisco’s drawings: Cuban Son, Iberian Confusion, and Orujo con Ainhoa

 

 

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

Glass Lovers [Miriam] #short prose #flash fiction

 

We sat there in the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. A heavy darkness was staring back at me from a white abstract past, like Malevich’s Black Square hanging on a cracked wall.

Who was to blame for all that happened? We had no answer. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.

God did not promise us anything before we were born. He did not promise us anything even after we were born.

Miguel and Jacques looked petrified.

I gazed at Miriam. She spoke.

Miriam and that beautiful face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns. Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching Rodin’s Gates of Hell for hours at the time. I always wondered what she thought about.

Now I think I know.

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Lana Tikhonova; Shutterstock; [link]