Author: Marieta Maglas

Book online «Bleeding words - Marieta Maglas (new reading .txt) 📗». Author Marieta Maglas

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This rain is not a tropical one, and I cannot care less.

There is something moving toward. It's my body. There
is something having no beginning and no end. It's the
movement in losing time. Rain and snow need time

to prove their similar personality and their different
appearance.Time is existent. I'm not existent in another
particular time. I can't come into existence twice.

Summertime

It's summertime. The saxophone jazz
sounds are pirouetting the waves
to find their own balance. It's a mauve

inner dance in almost everything around.
More exactly, the melodious movable
sounds become a soundable movement

needing a reverberation time to dissipate
the energy. The movement releases its own
purity to become simple fecundity. The pulsed

sound waves are also old memories lost in the
natural green. The saxophone looks much
more like a Tahitian prince dancing his love

on the sand. The singing mauve sea waves
have a sadness taste at sunset. The last one
is a watery mermaid and he embraces her

while searching the high. The sounds need
touch and life. They need to dematerialize
and to disappear into the universe. The

saxophone remains a solitaire keeping
alive his evanescent hermetic equilibrium.

Odd Sensation

I heard your steps.I had a feeling

that red leaves knocked to the
ground while falling from an imaginary
tree. I simply knew that they became
frightened in the fall. I had the feeling that

I heard your steps, I had that odd
sensation that you were still alive.
But, in the next moment, I was sure
that I didn't really hear any step.
I saw my Ligustrum vulgare losing
its leaves. I saw myself in the mirror.

I couldn't hear your steps.All I knew was
that I loved you. All I could hear was
the fall of the leaves.But in the next
moment, I felt your kiss on my incurable
and irreversible wound.

I heard the church bell ringing.

The Stone

A stone rolling herself from a mountain peak
apparently falls. Actually, she seeks the deep
meaning of life. She ends by sinking to become
river rock memorizing the history in her fossil.

This stone has feelings. She feels the tears
of time, and the drops of rain. A river rock is
cheerfully shining in the sunlight, but she's
sad in the shadow of the mountain, melancholic

in the moonlit, and dreamy at night, especially
when the river embraces her with his waves.
This rock remains lonely in the dried up
riverbed for a very long time to reflect on

her own existence. She is the same stone
cracking, staying in the altar of sacrifice or
becoming the head of the corner, as Jesus
said. But, sometimes, she may become a

symbol as a philosopher's stone or she
may be the top of a pyramid. Regardless of
her structure, she will never bend, and she will
never change her being because a stone will

always remain a part of the mountain from
which she was detached.

Natural Thrill (Alexandrine Poetry)

The sun can rise again, the moon bitterly sleeps.
Nor friend nor foe tonight, the day merrily calls.
The trees, the grass, the lakes, their lip tenderly keeps
The moonlight kiss, when a night in dreams carefully falls.

The stars still dance all dreams with grace in their light twist.
In trees, the wind may swing the truly changeable greens
To shake and wake the flower buds' murmuring mist,
When to love as a sense of self for him turpitude means.

Clinical Death (Ottava Rima Poem)

Scrapin' along long bars, her cup of tea
Was sweeter than honey and the honeycomb.
There were gleams in her eyes and her esprit.
A breeze was comin' from a funeral home.
The Moon's hollow eyes climbed the night to see
The ashes of dead and the fire filled with foam.
From dawns o' hope to sunsets o' despair,
The leaves were shadows dancin' in the cold air.

Her rigid body was a glassy slight.
Ne'er dying white lilies threw one off the scent.
Tearin', roarin', she felt her soul in light,
In a sweet, pink death with pitiful lament.
Her soul had terrified wings for her flight.
She was confin'd, lagged in fears by devil's night.
She bestrode the abyss holdin' the pain.
She could 'scape of whippin' memories in vain.

She felt a scent of garbage and perfume.
The fog was in her eyes; she wheezed in fear.
She searched the Heaven to dispel her gloom,
But she couldn't overpass her last life frontier,
More than real, o'er her new returnin' doom,
She lost her happiness, but she felt her tear.
She was aware of all she had to leave
Through her hellish paradise startin' to reeve.

The Roses' Scent (Sonnet)

The rose's scent for the royal highness
Is like red for the York running away
Forever to live in his white blindness
His throne being lost in the spring of May.

In oblivion, Elizabeth had bent
Her strange memory, while wanting to cry.
Don't blush her shame and the white rose's scent
Don't stir the scent of any open lie.

The indifference and the hatred twist
The power of the queen into a pawn,
'Cause the tear of the roses still exist,
When we search for it early in the dawn.

The cruelty of any slick black heart
Is to make a blame of any work of art.

The Blue Cafe

In the blue that becomes palpable,
only words can separate the happiness
from the unhappiness such as the finite
is bounded in the infinite. We touch our hands
and a tear stubbornly stops to run on the
face. We touch our bodies on the petals
of time. A baby bird is learning to fly. I
remember the first night on that white
bedsheet, I remember the flight and those
two chandeliers lighting on the table, while
we were searching for the lost paradise
like Adam and Eve while feeling the passing
of the seconds. I remember that the moon
shone too high to illuminate us. I remember
the trembling stars in the black universe.
I remember us making love until everything
inside became God, until our awakening.
We had something special inside, but we lived
our days as nothing had happened. In the
same blue cafe having the same shabby
tables, we used to drink the same coffee
as drinking water with a bitter pill, while
trying to find a meaning in life. I remember
the same empty, invisible, and apparently
absent space, where our words used to
remain for a node and complicated dance
in our absence. I remember the same
narrow street, on which we used to go home,
that apparent paradise, in reality, an illusion of
happiness and an evidence of our existence,
where we loved each other in despair hoping
that someday we would be able to sense a
new life. I remember that the same people
were around us being more or less indifferent.
I know that what will survive of us is love. Baby,
love me one more day, love me one more night,
love me one more farewell. I want to feel again
that divine infinity, which is included in the
finiteness of life, which is included in the
the infinity of the universe until I become as you...

God Breaks the Chains (Sestina Poetry)

Even when nothing ever goes my way
I try to keep my goals within my sight.
I hope that they can lead to joy someday,
While overpass this metaphoric night.
Among those crazy things leading to doom,
I am quite melancholic in the gloom.

My life may be infected with the gloom,
When darkness spreads its wicked wings on the way.
In waiting for the approach of next doom,
I am the girl in search for nature's sight.
When jagged rocks pinch and stick me over night,
I search that something lifting me someday.

My faith grows stronger, and I hope someday
That winds of change will enlighten the gloom.
Faith, love, and truth will be like stars at night,
Life will be as bright as the Milky Way,
As long as rightness will be brought to sight,
And lie will be a sticky bomb of doom.

I utter an impending sense of doom
Like poison killing everything someday
Or wet flowers shaking at the wind's sight.
We end with hope, and we begin in gloom,
While we're changing our lives along the way.
We're making sense of all from day to night.

As fears are left unspoken in the night,
We feel this ending as a latest doom.
Sad minds still try to find a living way,
Hoping that they will save themselves someday.
They make important changes in the gloom.
Religious leaders teach Christian sight,

When wisdom is the synonym of sight,
And blind guides are to lead the blinds at night.
Some begin with the hope to end in gloom,
Between those sinful acts leading to doom,
Praying to God to save their souls someday.
Against all odds, they try to find their way.

At Siloam, the blind received his sight.
In working faith, the blind could leave his night
God breaks the chains, we need to leave the gloom.

The Shadows of The Trees (Kyrielle Poetry)

Ships at the horizon look black-white in the game
Wet rocks through the crisp air reflect the sunset light.
The sky painted in mauve spreads foamy clouds in flame
The shadows of the trees remain forever white.

In searching for the sea, which is so far away,
And running over rocks, the river holds the night.
The man is standing guard in waiting for the day
The shadows of the trees remain forever white.

Behind the horizon, the sun is red like Mars.
The moon embraces life, which looks like anthracite.
The ancient years of light are coming from the stars
The shadows of the trees remain forever white.

Some crackling, popping sounds are coming from a fire
Sparkles shine in the deep pitch black sky of the night.
The man makes his woman burn with true desire
The shadows of the trees remain forever white.

A river full of feelings flows in their embrace
Illuminates their souls to reach the divine height.
Lovers swim in their sea of happiness with grace
The shadows of the trees remain forever white.

Confusions, fears, knowledge, courage, and wisdom are
The threads of the couple in weaving thoughts to fight.
The image of the town seems to rock very far
The shadows of the trees remain forever white.

Out of this world of madness, searching for the day,
Never finding their way back in the lost moonlight,
Letting their mind be free to reach the milky way,
The shadows of the trees remain forever white.

This Universe

I want to describe this universe.
I want to say that I found it absolutely useless,
More useless than the hidden green
In the fecundity
Of those flowers without petals,
More frightening
Than a snake
Uselessly writhing
Near the petrified image
Of the Medusa,
And more painful
Than any frightening funeral kiss,
But much higher
Than my thirst for knowledge,
And much deeper
Than the whole ignorance,
And much more profound
Than the whole existence,
And much more real
Than all the truths I know,
But never much brighter
Than the Divine Knowledge,
And never missing much more happiness
Than sadness misses.
And never much more fundamental

Flamenco Dance (Mirrored Nonet)

A 'juerga' with flamenco guitars,
With fires blooming like red flowers,
Corpses dancing in moonlight
The dance of wounded souls,
Vibrant red dresses
White shirts like birds,
Falling shawls,
Dancers,
Sky,

Claps,
Cubic
Movements of
Color, music's
Seeds, hands being wings
Shadows on the white wall,
From soul detaching passion's
Lights, motion vibrating the string,
Resonance for a new dimension.

Bible, Franz Kafka and Mayan Popol Vuh

Drinking wine, because the
Wine is for the spirit, eating
Bread, because the bread
Is in the flesh of the

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