DIANA MARIN

Tag: poems

  • By the riverside

    Your hand over mine, over emerald grass
    Our fluid reflections in the river
    under a glowing willow tree
    Suddenly you are holding a mirror and
    I see my expression change
    as you relate to me
    Now the mirror is suspended in the air
    Something else… an invisible force sustains it
    I wonder where you are, still hoping
    that you are the force behind the mirror
    Days pass and I can no longer tell
    if the shimmer belongs to water or glass
    I wonder if you are there,
    if you ever were.
    Roots are growing around my legs,
    binding me to the earth

    Meanwhile, something dark and vast approaches
    I see its reflection, too scared to look at it
    directly, lest it becomes real

    I hope you will make the dark shimmer again.

  • Notes on Selfhood, Consciousness, and Other Matters

    The lights: clinical.
    The feeling: mythic.
    The moment grows a halo.
    Even doubt turns ceremonial.

    ~

    I watch thought
    rise like sea-foam
    and vanish
    into the blue work
    of mind.

    ~

    Silver logic
    with a bruise of snowdrop feeling.
    You call it composure.

    ~

    my mind builds altars
    to clarity
    then sacrifices clarity
    to the altar

    ~

    in the cave of the psyche
    every echo is a message
    from a self
    still alive
    still waiting

    ~

    I looked for truth
    like a needle
    in a myth
    and found only
    the thread
    I was using
    to sew myself together.

    ~

    the feminine psyche is a forest
    you enter slowly
    until it recognises you

    ~

    the wound became
    a doorway

    ~

    I am the shimmer
    between two meanings
    that refuse
    to hold still.

    ~

    Transcendence arrives
    quietly:
    a shift in perception
    the earth still here
    but my way through it
    suddenly wider—
    identity unfurling
    into starlight
    into resonance
    into astral drift
    into afterimage
    into splendour

    ~

    I read the air
    like augury—
    and it keeps spelling
    your almost

    ~

    the path isn’t linear
    it’s lunar
    it circles back
    to the same pain
    with more light in your hands

    ~

    The self is a fever
    that dreams itself well
    and calls it healing

    ~

    The mirror keeps asking
    what I’ve done with her—
    the girl I used to be.
    I tell her she’s sleeping
    inside a poem.

    ~

    I built myself
    from the ache upward—
    each bone humming
    the memory of before.

    ~

    reality feels agreed-upon
    until a dream
    unthreads the seams
    and the world
    breathes wider

    ~

    consciousness:
    a syntax of noticing
    that cannot stop
    editing

    ~

  • Obsidian Dreams

    I had a dream where obsidian figured extensively—
    even in holy places.
    The dream said: your boundaries can be holy,
    keeping yourself can be sacred,
    your silence can be medicine,
    and you don’t have to translate yourself
    into something digestible.

    Obsidian is the kind of guardian
    that enforces healing
    and swallows the noise
    of energetic attachments.

    Remember that survival
    can be a black gleam.

    I woke up with the taste
    of illuminating darkness in my mouth
    and the sense that somewhere
    inside me
    something had been sealed
    safe.

    The dream said
    here.
    carry this.

    a shard of truth.
    a mirror without mercy.
    a protection shaped like night.
    And I did.

  • Before the clipping of wings

    Once, I felt the stunning, stunning, kaleidoscopic
    World
    was made of doorways to glittering realms—
    a thousand skies
    waiting for my astonished feet to enter.

    The future sang
    in wild colours I didn’t know the names for—
    a language of rivers splitting open,
    of moons rehearsing their silver scripts behind clouds.

    Then came the shrinking—
    the narrowing corridors of days,
    the blue-edged hours
    that bent under the weight of time
    like flowers strangled by frost.

    My heart became a room
    with locked windows,
    dust gathering in the corners
    where sunlight used to kneel.
    The future—a startled bird
    I dared not wake.

    Because whether I choose the quiet field
    or the whirlwind-life,
    the clipping of wings folds the sky in on both—
    and it aches.

    and yet—somewhere under this ribcage,
    a throb of fierce music remains,
    a tide climbing the ladders of my spine.

    I want the old hunger back,
    I want, I want, I want
    the dangerous dreaming,
    the beauty of fearlessness
    that burned in my marrow
    before the clipping of the wings—
    whose triggering memory I have worn like iron.

    I want to be light again,
    to fling the windows of heaven wide,
    my idea of heaven,
    to let the earth feel my pulse until it trembles
    to walk straight into the wind,
    scatter every feather of fear
    until even the dark forgets my name.

    to lift my face like a dare
    towards whatever storm waits—

    I want to be, at last,
    the one who walks
    with re-attached wings.

  • Beneath the Ritual of Suppression

    Memory has teeth, a hush,
    A chamber built of breathing wallpaper,
    Peeling, alive. I enter it daily.

    I step through, barefoot,
    into a corridor lined with mirrors,
    with versions of me as reflections:
    a girl in pearls and incense smoke,
    a woman swallowing her name,
    a mouth sewn shut with ribbon.

    A silver-flecked box beneath my tongue,
    its hinges rusted shut with prayers.
    No one sees. The wound wears pearls;

    I dressed it in silk,
    set candles beside the wreckage,
    and called it sacred.
    I spoke only affirmations,
    like spells, sweet words
    I fed the universe like seeds,

    my throat full of snowdrops and ghosts:

    Please grow me a life
    that doesn’t shiver in its sleep.

    But the ripple moves. It always does.
    Through time. Through space. Through me.

    I tried to frost the wound in light.
    I hung dreamcatchers like talismans,
    whispered mantras into tea.
    I spun silk out of lavender oil
    and rose quartz,
    lined the ribcage of my life
    with glittering distractions.
    I painted over the cracks
    with angel wings and moon phases.
    I made altars out of dissociation
    and called it healing.

    But silence echoes.
    Even in temples.
    Even in rooms where everything smells holy.
    The unspoken grows legs,
    wanders through the years,
    flicking switches I didn’t wire.
    It calls to me in mirrors:
    “I am you.”

  • Act of Worship

    We are here hunting haunting paradigm shifts
    while our exquisitely glistening unreality spills
    softly into the night in a secret shrine somewhere;
    seraphic dreams (holy, profane, & tender) merge
    yet meanings are not alike, they have multitudes,
    nuances, that are tied to dreams, tastes, & neuroses
    even when we strive for transparency,
    while we cling to a fairy‑tale sense of identity
    amid turbulent scenes, a delicate, fleeting glance
    reveals a much needed allegory of sweetness, of
    shadows redecorated by light beams, strategically.
    I’d like to fathom you as more than a projected inner ghost or
    an angel-minded muse or a presence enclosed
    in a cage of their own making or a synthesised archetype,
    I know you are real, but at times, for my own sake, I forget.

  • Her

    in her soul-healing era
    she is
    a magnetic muse
    her aura
    (mystical and rare)
    breathes in
    the soft spell of becoming–

    she moves through dimensions,
    vibrating at a
    dream-born
    frequency where the
    cosmic
    folds into her hands,
    pure-hearted (she loses no one,
    they lose her; their hands cannot
    hold the sky)

    her dreams are fragments of soul medicine;
    her whispers no longer embody
    the ache of the ephemeral.

  • Angels

    We will survive
    in spite of everything
    by birthing ourselves
    as many times as we need.
    We are the women who dare
    to dream and create
    in spite of the eyes
    of an empty world
    We are the snow angels
    flying away before
    they can clip our wings.
    Lustrous,
    our transmutations,
    our rich inner lives,
    our unbreakable spirit.
    We shall create our own meanings
    we shall write our own narratives
    we will find our voices again
    after the countless attempts of others
    to reduce us to silence.

  • 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.

  • Enchantment

    A girl, woven from stardust and daydreams
    whispers in the wind, moonlight-drenched,
    a constellation stitched into her skin,
    pulsing to the rhythm of celestial secrets.
    Starlit revelation, a gift draped in nebulae,
    her name an incantation, floating between realms,
    a spectre of enchantment

    in sync with the harmony of the universe.