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 has never been mild.

This wind has never been a child.

Poem by Marieta Maglas

ONE FOR MY BABY

His single-mindedness has been gone.

Became contradictory.

Relinquished to fight with

his chimera.

Now, he denudes, takes off his self.

Dismembers.

His lulls have to give shape

to his own abyss, as well as to open

the portal of enlightenment he does

not have without

identifying the image of his emptiness.

All his convictions are to be cut off.

Nor he is not inaudible while having to summarize

his own epic - a life being

not even wrong,

nor any sigh can be heard.

She is like no one else.

In the casino, the piano swallows all the heavy notes

instead of him, while

dropping them one by one into an

imperceptible mouth

until the culmination.

A quarter is lost.

She is forgotten.

She is no more

his mirror.

Her age is wrapped in wistfulness.

His robotic carrion needs

life for raising the balance of his money-

nickel rocking rocks to change the destinies.

He has never hoped to be a better one,

but he forced himself to become a true story

of life.

The entire life,

he has been a poetic dreamer

locked inside his oppressive subconscious.

He has never stopped questioning himself

about the world around him

while he was afraid to live.

Ceaselessly he has balanced his beliefs as he would

like to bend some sounds

for no more sadness about the true stories of life.

Now, she is no more his tomorrow,

albeit he is still in love with her

while trying to be

a compassionate one.

Poem by Marieta Maglas

Thoughts of Unknowing Ness (Complex Poetic Form)

Thoughts of unknowingness and you dance me

until I become the only movement...This tango undresses

my feelings, and I am stripped of all bad thought

to be enlightened. I am a Cartesian clear and distinct object

on this pyramidal peak of the mountain, where

the echoes trail off almost forever over the horizon.

Let's sing, either with power, or with angels, or with freedom,

naught else nor no more songs, but a swing song,

a prothalamium, which

clearly,

straightly,

rightly,

truly

expresses nothing less than the clarity of our true feelings

and nothing more than the rightness of our straight angles of view.

There is the fullness of our love, where

God is knowable, whether willful or involuntary.

We can neither see still,

solace still one another

in our sufferings,

unless we are smoothly stuck in His

unending love cycle. There is, in fact,

a cognitive itch

and a divination using the human form

while being alive,

when life is not alive in its own sense

except for the eternity.

We can be good people

through this consciousness of ours,

which is relentless and reflexive,

especially when it becomes an object to itself.

I am not myself,

I am only this reaction of mine

in front of others

like a doppelgänger in the mirror.

The more I feel the time passing

the more I understand the eternity.

Yet turn, turn to live each second of no return.

There is no yellow horse in our dreams,

neither is this golden ripe wheat field

our land of freedom.

The sun shines still for every still green sunflower

Following it from east to west each day.

I 'm spellbound by

the swinging sonorous cadence

of the birds chirping on the pyramids

and on the peaks of the mountains.

Poem by Marieta Maglas

KYRIELLE SONNET FOR GEORGE SAND AND FRÉDÉRIC CHOPIN

Searching for their love ideal

To plant there a dawn so real,

God gave them hope to go ahead

And palm flowers for their dream bed.

In their naked room without windows,

Not touched by the innuendos,

Music was their way to be wed

And palm flowers had their dream bed,

The cradle of their nascent thought

Could cut their main Gordian knot-

Baptism of freedom in the head.

Then, palm flowers had their dream bed.

Searching for their love ideal

And palm flowers for their dream bed.

MARIETA MAGLAS