MARIETA MAGLAS

MARIETA MAGLAS

THE CHILL OF THE WIND

The soul of this wind needs

No rainbow

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

were trickling

out of their core. Over

your tasting part of the tongue full of sensations,

suffering words

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

CUBIC WORDS

There are hues of

blue embracing those of red

to vibrate in harmony.

There is a sense

of their movement above

the limits.

There is ceaselessly a feeling in the sense.

The feelings can be objects.

Conceivably, the things have a beginning,

because we believe it,

and maybe

there is neither beginning nor end.

In the spring rain,

there are kissing statues.

In the lulled lodgings

emblazoned with

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,

and being

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

Dancing tango.

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...

Blue trees

And eternal corpses.

Marieta Maglas