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Monday, February 1, 2016
THE CHILL OF THE WIND
The soul of this wind needs
But only desperation for a crushing blow.
He blows and blows and blows
Over the life
Of the seeds in the fruits,
And blows again
Over the purity
Of all the creeds.
Much more, he blows
Until everything around bleeds.
This wild wind needs to feed
His inner fire, which is a bloody furry
For a sunless time,
And fights an uphill battle
Against any existence.
His chills gather speed
While coming down from the hills.
He's wild enough
To get the naked trees riled,
He has been blind
But never mild.
This wind has never been a child.
'I' FOR AN EYE
An all-seeing eye of cosmos opened
within me, having an epistemic sense of
power. The rain trickled down the oval-shaped
wet window. 'Twasn't a blue eye, yet 'twas bluing.
The blues of the stars
out of their core. Over
your tasting part of the tongue full of sensations,
struck the silence between us. I could not
comprehend their sense- their meaning
sank in the sadness of the rain.
The blues were absorbed by this rising dreariness.
I couldn't see you. Nor could I
achieve the tranquility of my mind. However,
I might presume that God might see this.
Poem by Marieta Maglas
There are hues of
blue embracing those of red
to vibrate in harmony.
There is a sense
of their movement above
There is ceaselessly a feeling in the sense.
The feelings can be objects.
Conceivably, the things have a beginning,
because we believe it,
there is neither beginning nor end.
In the spring rain,
there are kissing statues.
In the lulled lodgings
shadows of shabby objects
on the walls,
there are lonely people
meditating about their life.
There is a measure of vulnerability
For everything that is good
and for the starving birds
in searching for seeds everywhere
as for those cancerous youngsters
having unimaginable pains,
still yearning to be cured not till experience.
In the coverings,
there are riders of the history
dressed in armor
to enter the mind's imagination and
all that is not the mind's imagination.
In the spring nights,
there is a moon becoming a curtain
for the great vaudeville
of the stars
formed from the other stars,
no two alike,
like charming women
wearing masks and
wide necklines, nor
like those ballerinas that like to costume
in lactate white to suggest
dandelions dancing to spread their seeds.
In the luxury shop windows,
there are gems looking like flowers
and flowers looking like gems.
In the Sisyphus dimension,
there are tired eyelids in abeyance.
Nothing bends from above, everything falls down.
There are emerald northern lights.
In a puddle of sun,
There are emerald green, tattooed bodies
There are cubic dragons,
and there are things that have been taken apart
to be put, then, back together in a wrong order.
So, there is self-loathing,
and there are feelings of worthlessness
in a life spent earning filthy lucre.
There are resentments to destroy the lives.
There are the wrong things that fall apart and
the wrong things that fall together with those that are right.
There are words coming out in a wrong comprehension
to be incorporated into bad memories.
There are wrongly imagined riders of the history.
Uprising dove feather and prying eyes
get at the meaning of the truths in the uprights (there are many
truths left) .
But there will never be...
And eternal corpses.
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