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 a feeling in the sense.

The feelings can be objects.

 

Conceivably, things have a beginning,

because we believe it,

and maybe

there is neither a beginning nor an 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 on 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.

 

On spring nights,

there is a moon becoming a curtain

for the great vaudeville

of the stars

formed from the other stars,

no two are alike,

and being

like charming women

wearing masks and

wide necklines, nor

like those ballerinas who like to costume

in lactate white to suggest

dandelions dancing to spread their seeds.

 

In the luxury shop windows,

there are gems that look like flowers

and flowers looking like gems.

 

In the Sisyphus dimension,

there are tired eyelids in abeyance.

Nothing bends from above, everything falls.

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 the wrong order.

 

So, it is self-loathing,

and there are feelings of worthlessness

in a life spent earning filthy lucre.

There are resentments to destroy 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 with a wrong comprehension

to be incorporated into bad memories.

There are wrongly imagined riders of history.

Uprising dove feather and prying eyes

get at the meaning of the truths

in the uprights (there are many

truths left) .

All of these things exist, 

yet there will never be blue trees 

or everlasting corpses.

 

The Flamenco Dance

In a juerga, there's nothing around

But voices, flamenco guitars,

Dancing bodies in moonlight,

Vibrant gypsy dresses,

Passion, obsessions,

Bullfighter's blades,

Silky shawls,

Dancers,

Capes.

Old men have faces scorched and cracked,

Flamenco women to attract,

Like barks of olive trees at night.

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

 

Girls have boot heels and the roses,

Men clench their teeth, step opposes,

Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

 

Guitars are beaten at high speeds,

Castanets scratch the music's seeds,

Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

 

Old men have faces scorched and cracked,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

 

Hands becoming wings

In their shadows on the wall,

Red becoming black and

Black becoming white,

Motion vibrating the guitar's string,

Cubic movements of colors,

In their dance,

Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,

Flamenco woman arching her body,

Showing her passion…

 

From the soul to dissolve

The dancing sounds detach

From the soul to dissolve

 

When the movement they catch,

They may change all around,

The dancing sounds detach.

 

Drums and tambourines sound,

Exotic wrists and swirls,

They may change all around.

 

The weightless grace makes girls

Steal treasures from the air,

Exotic wrists and swirls.

 

With beautiful black hair,

Rise like birds, fall like leaves.

Steal treasures from the air,

 

Having tricked up their sleeves,

From the soul to dissolve,

Rise like birds, fall like leaves

From the soul to dissolve.

 

Spicy slippery steps

Waiting for a clue,

Picking up portions of pink hues

For the essence of womanhood,

Surging twisted melodies

In deep chromesthesia,

Transforming into dazzling,

Scarlet feminine gestures,

Every man resembles a living marble figure,

Seemingly cracking.

Gradually fading their rhythmic dance,

Steps cutting sweet sounds

To catch the echo of some lost happiness.

 

Note: This poem consists of a Nonet, a Kyrielle Sonnet, a section of Free verse, a Terzanelle, and an additional section of Free verse.