DIANA MARIN

Tag: free verse

  • A poem: The ark

    I dream of emerald grass,
    sapphire waves,
    idle legs shimmering on marble,
    crystalline laughter
    I miss this-
    Do I miss myself-
    this self?
    let's enjoy it while it lasts
    before the tide of darkness floods
    our frail world
    I want a fresh view:
    we unfold - the tides unfold
    we walk on water
    we get to the ark-
    how do we lift the anchor?
    it's so heavy, heavy, reflecting
    the heaviness of the hearts
    the veil over the ark protects
    the sanctuary, meanwhile
    our dreams function as fuel
    to get us there
    What about the iceberg? 
    beware of the iceberg,
    the way it shines, the way
    the part submerged in the dark 
    knows more than you and I
    combined
    ever will, 
    it's a point of reference
    shrouded in an aura of mystery
    which seems to whisper:
    abandon all hope
    before you penetrate the mind
    obliterate preconceptions
    sometimes we are water, 
    sometimes we are stone.

  • A poem: Velvet glove

    An iron hand
    in a velvet glove,
    soft veils over roots
    unwavering- your core,
    honey-mouthed- your discourse,
    your silence.

     

    Within,
    there is the hibernating
    alpha-serpent,
    awaiting resurrections-
    you bathe in the light of
    her uttered incantations.

     

    You spot the red flags
    of the dark triad,
    you never wave white flags,
    for there’s no fire in your soul-
    not the red type that burns,
    and destroys the self, no,
    only blue flames that glow,
    soothe, and create the selves.

     

    What about the heart-
    underneath the layers- is it
    iron laced with velvet or
    all velvet beneath armour;
    is it slippery?
    What about the flesh?
    the snow melting under the skin
    until it gleams?

  • A poem: Freesia girl

    I am intoxicated
    with the saccharine mystery
    in your warm gaze,
    your sylph-like appearance-
    a misty dream haunting
    idyllic paths
    inexorably, I find myself
    in the same spot
    under the tree archway
    as much as I try to escape
    how sweet-
    sickeningly sweet-
    my suffering,
    the uncanny feeling of being
    hypnotised to return,
    to haunt and be haunted
    I feel masochistic urges
    to re-enact scenes of
    long-lost delights
    of the senses
    delicately,
    then vigorously
    wistfully all along
    You never wither,
    I decay in the scent
    of nostalgia.

  • A poem: Snowdrop girl

    Snowdrop girl,
    I can feel your presence
    in the first whispers of spring;
    I can hear your breath
    in the windy corners of life-
    it’s my favourite lullaby,
    it makes me cold sometimes-
    you could be cold sometimes,
    in a scintillating way that
    I never wished to oppose
    or even dared to question-
    my fear was not of
    your reaction,
    but the possibility of
    your contamination
    on some elemental level
    Beneath many layers of
    innocence and frivolity
    and even more layers of
    impenetrability and frostiness
    I know what lies, I know
    the substance, the kindness,
    the taboo dreams,
    the sweet desires-
    and that makes me smile
    you opened up to me
    in the still wintry light in
    a moment of rare vulnerability
    I am thankful to have been
    entrusted with.
    The world may have seen
    your masks, but who else
    has recognised the rarely-resurfacing,
    pearl-like gleam
    in your eyes?
    I have and I enveloped it in
    my spirit shell
    where it shall shimmer forever,
    even after our farewell.

  • A poem: Heavenly aspirations

    I want to purify my body and soul
    to reach my version of
    blasphemous heaven.
    I want to summon the stillness
    of the dormant light within
    to exorcise all feelings
    provoking inner conflicts.
    To become an empty vessel
    for a moment,
    penetrated by light
    no longer dormant,
    now shining so bright.
    Such cravings are born out of
    a darkness
    with the power to enslave
    any spirit
    and yet, I am its conqueror
    I have tamed it and moulded it
    into something beautiful,
    fulfilling, ever-growing, and hopefully,
    ever-lasting.
    Once you taste this version of
    inner freedom, untainted,
    it’s the only nurturing addiction,
    the most welcome overindulgence,
    the most heavenly sin.

  • A poem: Evocation

    There was nothing left
    except her orange blossom scent
    in the air,
    her skin cells
    on the conspiring blanket,
    the energy he was feeding off
    and her seraphic aspirations,
    elegantly penned
    in a forlorn diary
    before her concept
    of the world expanded into
    postmodern depths and
    her self-concept became
    a liberating fluidity
    of thoughts and impulses.
    She’d been through a lot of
    symbolic suicides before
    deciding to resort to
    serial homicide.
    She loved herself, yet
    with every touch
    there was a numbness-
    perhaps in her multiple deaths
    she was seeking
    life,
    perhaps in her metaphorical murders
    she was seeking an escape from
    pseudo-life.

  • Various poems

    Catatonic state

    I feel your ashes
    like quicksand
    I’m sucked into
    so I’m standing still
    trying to enjoy the view.

     

    Your faith

    I never confessed this but
    your faith helped keep me
    anchored in myself
    whenever the currents started
    hitting from all sides.
    I just wanted to thank you
    for still existing in my mind.

     

    Extensions

    Extensions of me
    are ramifying under
    your skin.
    Does it hurt when
    I unravel your bloody
    nightmares?

     

    Discrepancy

    As you weed them out,
    slowly, the space between
    you and the other you-
    both mental concepts-
    will become smaller
    and smaller
    until they merge into one
    at which point you will look
    around, filled with life,
    no longer tainted, you will
    open your eyes and see
    the discrepancy is abolished
    but so is everyone else.

  • A poem: A smile among ruins

    All dead things are
    resurrected
    by the phantom smile-
    you conjure it
    when the world collapses:
    that lovely,
    foreign yet familiar
    equivocal smile
    your mind translates into
    life and pure hope
    stays engraved in your memory;
    through mirroring,
    you borrow it
    and unknowingly pass it on
    to someone else-
    that is the sweet beauty
    of connection.
    –

    Alternative ending:
    that is the bittersweet beauty
    of apparent connection.

  • A poem: The Rite

    Her face aglow,
    she performs her rite
    gracefully, like the snow
    in the silver lunar light;
    deathly hair, startling eyes,
    soul-enhancing
    white night purity, necromancing-
    nude porcelain skin,
    beauty within
    whispers of sin;
    knowledge sought after
    flirting with disaster
    secrets held in astral shells
    uttered in diffuse spells
    the occult- her only master.

  • A poem: Face to face

    Face to face:
    eyes locked,
    staring into each other;
    seeing your reflection
    in the dark lake of her iris.
    Hand on hand,
    praying together-
    not like those bible verses preach-
    no, praying to the abyss,
    hoping it won’t swallow you whole;
    understanding at first the irony
    and then the futility
    of your act.
    The abyss has wet black lips,
    kissing you to compensate
    for chewing pieces of your soul
    and spitting them out
    because they were bittersweet.
    Now they are soaked, slippery,
    no longer sticking either in or to the puzzle,
    which is why you don’t make sense
    except in the silver,
    face to face,
    where your soul is pure, whole,
    and wholly unleashed.