DIANA MARIN

Tag: lyricism

  • Ice princess

    She walks barefoot through a haunting dreamscape,
    tear-stained by echoes of forgotten prayers.
    A snow princess with a gown of starlight
    and a crown of insight, glowing, nocturnal.
    From her heart, something crystalline, ancient,
    emerging–
    whispering secrets of lives half-remembered
    etching memories into the ether of her soul.
    She rises, as if part of a song,
    as if she is both the seeker and the found,
    the dreamer and the dream,
    a solitary note in a phantasmagorical harmony.
    The wind speaks in tongues she seems to understand,
    while she pierces through it as she crosses
    bridges she created above chasms
    within the labyrinth of being
    she reclaims words and concepts
    piece by piece, entering the puzzle of her nature.

  • An allegory

    Let your mind paint a rainy cityscape. A girl dressed in black, with a mask and noisy heels steps on the sidewalk. Her tears merge with the raindrops. Each tear encapsulates an entire mini-universe, lingering on her cheeks, like undetectable tokens of fluid vulnerability. A stranger passes her by, closely. His slightly curious, slightly worried gaze briefly meets hers. That’s when she remembers she’s in a public space: Maybe the distress in her eyes was visible, after all. His face doesn’t show pity, which is fortunate, for she hates pity – she’s always been too proud for it. But maybe she misinterpreted his facial expression and it wasn’t really concern. Maybe he misinterpreted her expression as something else too. He reminds her of someone – someone kind, sweet, wise, and very dear to her. Someone who knew how to unleash her vulnerable and dreamy side simply by being himself. The rare realness of this person was always rewarded with the privilege of meeting all the facets of her personality.

    What her expression conveyed was grief. All-consuming grief, manifested as an affliction of the mind and the body. The inner chaos-intense, the body-tense, during the painful procession. Towards the funeral of the distilled dreams of being. Still alive are the hopes to resurrect the dreams the next day. Another dream, of inner peace, is born. She is wondering when it will materialise. Meanwhile, sweet echoes fill the mind as background music, sung by the Light Beings, ‘Talent. Creativity. Intelligence. Beauty. Resilience. Strength. Kindness’ This is not your typical funeral song. This is one of those days when the melodic discourse is played like a mantra to assuage the mind, to overpower the inner wailing from the funeral rite, to self-induce good vibes, in order to help her keep putting one foot in front of the other foot instead of collapsing. Like an incantation, to banish other toxic thoughts. It’s one of those days when other aspects resonate too strongly, sucking the power out of the good ones, and releasing dark energy. These other forces are not as clear. The noise they express themselves in is a sort of gibberish, a chaotic, harmful nonsense, inducing a heaviness of the heart.

    There are rooms she doesn’t unlock in her mind, because she doesn’t want to let the poison out. She wants to stay pure. Untainted. One room contains dusty effigies of blacklisted figures. They’re not distinctive or intelligible, they’re merged into each other, shape-shifting embodiments of damaging thoughts. They are all locked away together in a claustrophobic space, drenched in darkness. Poison drips from their mouth as they breathe in the poisonous atmosphere like zombies. Meanwhile, The Light Beings roam in their perfumed, elegantly decorated chambers inside the mind, as companions and guardians. The Light Beings are personified thoughts, but also real-life people. When she dissociates, it’s probably so as to stay away from the poisonous atmosphere when the forbidden door malfunctions. That poison rarely affects anyone else, besides her self, it is confined within her being.

  • 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: 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.

  • A poem: November

    The vanishing words,
    the vanishing images,
    the shedding
    of selves like autumn leaves;
    of withered lives on wrinkled paper,
    dust off the treasure chest
    in the desert, next to a snake
    regenerating its skin
    polished,
    your porcelain appearance melting into
    the undefined-
    does the new verse annihilate
    or build you?
    perhaps it is the fading portrait
    either that, or the smile in between
    either that, or the infinite encounters
    with the ineffable

    You write, you cross out
    another identity and over to
    another vision.

  • Poetry

    Awaiting ❅

    Butterflies spiralled in silver –
    petals sleeping on the floor
    Eternally moved, I quiver-
    Tenderly pressed against the door.

    Of the senses ❅

    Nostalgia persists
    soft as velvet,
    sad as lace,
    sweet and intoxicating
    as your scent sliding down my spine.

    The fragrant city ❅

    Through the alleys,
    scents of old seasons
    scatter in the urban rain.
    Guided by our roots,
    the long-withered dreams of being
    seem to be reborn from pain.

    Midnight ❅

    Weak,
    gently wrapped in white
    I seek
    a cure for the night.

    Purgatory ❅

    I feel
    I love
    and then I hate
    my fire and my demons,
    just before I see your celestial smile,
    you icy devil
    bringing me back to life,
    to an illusion of life
    which I knowingly accept as truth.
    My complicity – dispersed in time
    until it is forgotten
    The world – no longer in black and white
    it burns
    I am only ashes.

    Identity ❅

    Fragrant relics of the heart
    crown you as the faerie queen over
    the land of forgotten whims
    with a rose delicately smothered in your hands
    and pearls hanging from your pale thin neck
    A down-to-earth Snow White is what I see in you
    when all that matters is how you see yourself.

    Elevation ❅

    When the past smells like dust,
    its enchantment is upon you no more –
    The future glows in sight
    on the island of apples
    where you dwell feasting upon eternity
    and upon everything born out of a lavish ground.
    everything – corporeal and incorporeal gathers up
    and you find yourself among nymphs, dryads, witches,
    heroes, mad men of both virtues and vices,
    unearthly fruits and singing crystals,
    air and waters sprinkled with glitter,
    and a crystalline laughter travelling with the wind.

    Memories of snowdrops ❅

    The snowdrop-scented incense extinguishes
    It smells like childhood dreams
    It smells like us
    in a cornfield
    or in our garden
    laughing and uncaring
    just before I went on the hill
    with my kite
    laughing,
    uncaring.

    Carved ❅

    Red wine, dripping down your lily flesh
    like paper tingled by tears of blood
    from the wounds of your carved spirit.

    Pulse ❅

    You lay on the river shore
    Half awake and spellbound
    by the water flowing
    rhythmically,
    echoing the flow of blood,
    mirroring the flow of time.
    Illusions bewitch your mind and body into acting strangely-
    The past creeps up and there you are:
    Standing still in the infinite white space
    of children unborn.

    As below, so above ❅

    This place is a crypt and, while you’re all waiting
    to go on a long journey,
    you admire the countless tiles
    bearing the scars of the bodies in front of them-
    their motionless, diffuse shadows
    never making you wonder what they hide
    for, as you see their faces, you can tell
    you’re all made of the same substance
    and that’s all that seems to matter down there,
    on the Underground platform.
    No mystery in your flesh and bones,
    no light at the end of the tunnel,
    no heaven to dream of inside the collective tomb,
    you are in this together.

    Addiction ❅

    My shadow on your wall, crumbling
    as you wake up from the shivers
    entering you like poison-
    slowly, from your mouth
    passing through your stomach and
    limbs in silence,
    then back to the skull
    By the moon, my black hair
    is cast behind you,
    Your sickness now caught in my spider web.

    DM, 2014-2017