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

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

Sweetness #prose poem #poetry #short prose

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is shutterstock_603319382-300x200.jpg
IrenaStar; Shutterstock

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?

=

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

Thank you.
Gabriela

@Gabriela Marie Milton

My Poem Fight Published by Kashmir Pen Newspaper #poetry #published poem #prose poem

Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock

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.

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

Creation #poem #prose poem #short prose #book manuscript

How beautiful you made my loneliness with your love letters and your ceaseless colors that burn my eyes every time I look at them.

I am forever in your power because I was brought into this world by your imagination. I am your creation.

I feed on the same sea that nursed us when we were children.

I am the glue that holds together the baked sands stuck on your skin during torrid endless summers.

Sometimes I look like a four-leaf clover sitting on the lapel of your black coat on the 15th of every month.

Other times when it is dark you call me Selena and you make my twelve fingers knead your ecstasies and plant them in whispering tombs.

Your desires are the stage on which I dance, my hair unbraided, my first youth gone, my death date undetermined yet.

I thought nothing was about me. Everything was about you and your mind with its powerful sounds of rapid waves and its one thousand boats anchored in the same port.

Yet at 9am in the morning you said something that made me believe you became possessed by your own creation.

Green deep waters.

Is that true?

 

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.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

If only.. Autumn #poem #prose poem #short prose

If only I could put my palm into yours for one single sunset

when the autumn’s fingers smell corn silk,

and the eyelids of the sea cast spells on the cheeks of the stars.

Bathe with me at the end of the shore

where milk foam washes the feet of the children

and leaves traces of white shivers.

A pink conch tolls the waves announcing the homecoming of the chrysanthemums.

The pain of birth leaks prayers on your lips

like half naked Sundays leak monotony and coolness

on the yellow walls of the old city.

From the other side of your naked eyes,

I gather your tears in a wicker basket.

Laurel leaves hide under your pillow.

If only…

Autumn…

 

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: Velenty, Shutterstock, oil painting.

@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)

The Violin of Love #poem #poetry #prose poem

The air is still like the minutes before confession.
The cloak shrouds me.
On the second breath of the Easter of Roses I walk to the outskirts of your love.
A violin exults fires upon darkness.
In one single stoke your passion consumes and shuns me.
The chambers of my heart resound.
Reds prevent you from understanding how much I love you.
Double stop.
Movements.
My eyes are the eyes of the Sphinx 
I wait.

My book, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, can be ordered here.

Thank you.
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

Of light and darkness #poem #poetic prose #prose poem #poetry collection

He stepped into a space governed by love and hate at the same time. He did not understand how these two concepts melted into each other by means of interplay.

Light and darkness adorning the shoulder of the woman who wakes up in the arms of her lover. There is no distinction between the two. Both mold the roundness of her shoulder with its naked softness and its distinct sharpness. During the nights in which the moon is glossy and crisp like the crust of a country bread, the woman’s body gives birth to mountain chains and fragrant valleys.

The world remains the same as two lovers riveted onto themselves.

I know he loved me. Yet his mind was too pedestrian to understand.

excerpt from my book in progress: Remembrance of Love [working title]

 

My book, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, is available on Amazon here.
Please read my 2019 Author of the Year Interview at Spillwords Press here.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

image:  Agnieszka Barbara; Shutterstock [link]