DIANA MARIN

Tag: poetry

  • Nausea

    When the whole world is drenched
    in performative glue,
    you feel everything’s tainted
    still, you want your mind re-painted
    so you can try to pursue
    the myth that it’s all about perspective:
    treat it like a tool or an ordeal, right?
    it doesn’t always hold up,
    especially at night
    when you try to untwine
    your hair and your spine
    when one insight
    can incite a riot inside
    and you are so tired-
    you know the tiredness I’m speaking of-
    that of piercing through the sickly sweet
    glue that ties people together
    when they should be apart
    unwittingly toxic,
    such entanglement ensures
    a removal from any ounce of
    authenticity
    your pathological detachment
    from genuineness
    is the source of my nausea.

  • November light

    Dark November, darling November,
    my birth month, a glorified time
    of contradictions,
    of re-emergence from dreams,
    wearing adornments
    and smiles of
    miss “seen it all, heard it all”
    Scorpio depth,
    shrewd intuition,
    and inner power-
    It’s nature and nurture
    even when the nurturing is done
    in a glass castle
    it is said that art is life intensified,
    heightened experience
    is this what it was, an artistic process?
    all-consuming, delving deeply into
    my life force, the closest I’ve ever got
    to a spiritual experience,
    however demonic,
    in all its ambiguity and uncertainty-
    was it but a psyche glitch?
    is that what it takes, a cognitive distortion,
    to erode the pillars holding up
    a self-concept, a world,
    in a most magical way-
    heaven knows no human could do it-
    aren’t most, if not all spiritual beliefs
    a coping mechanism against
    cosmic futility?
    Here I am, inevitably returning
    to the eternal question
    that injects everything I do and feel;
    Surrendering to Phoenix wisdom-
    with my Eagle’s eyes,
    fresh perspectives materialising
    from the flames of the opposites
    inner chaos leads to stillness
    leads to outward ascension
    from a special hell-
    the tension of the opposites
    within;
    oblivion is laced with sweetness
    it’s a universal truth: life is escapism,
    just like wearing a tiara on your birthday
    to forget about the flow of time
    Although shifting from limbo
    to a personal dystopian hellscape
    and then into whatever followed
    (labels have become frivolous)
    has made me revere time,
    realise I’ve had a coddled existence
    for the most part
    You can’t write words revealing
    you are convinced of
    your innate grandeur anymore,
    without being deemed narcissistic
    A good night kiss bearing all
    the gentleness and sacredness
    of a celestial being
    should be a tell-tale sign
    that it’s not pathological
    but it’s hard to understand
    a moment of uncanny ecstasy,
    an awakening, how deeply moved
    a sceptic can be, on a soul level.
    Pour your life source into me
    and lift me up
    I am trying to be authentic
    but I am not estranged from
    the light and darkness of ego
    something tells me ego
    has shaped you in my mind, too
    Whether external forces were at play
    or you are just a part of me,
    I have to say
    thank you and
    no, thank you.

  • Her Rebirth

    Haunted by Ophelia’s phantom,
    enraptured by vernal murmurs,
    she succumbs to dreaminess
    lost in the stream
    of consciousness
    carried away by Woolf’s whispers
    and echoes of myth from
    a scent of white Narcissus-
    fluid nostalgia in full bloom-
    she remembers her touch
    before the plunge;
    the sacred memory shatters
    underwater-
    her pale skin resurfaces-
    she is beaming;
    her alter ego withers
    underwater
    Nature witnesses
    an act of self-love.

  • 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: Sakura season

    The world was sick – physically, mentally,
    we were part of the minority left uncontaminated.
    My calcified shell unravelled
    down by the river
    among sentient trees,
    shimmering shrines,
    underneath celestial splendour,
    next to your magnetic presence;
    Bonded by the common revulsion at
    destructive forces, we were here for the art
    of letting go, unburdening the heart,
    re-emerging from ourselves,
    this arcane ritual, this sacred moment,
    this hallowed place-
    I let it permeate me with light.
    Enraptured by hanami,
    I shed my outer skin
    and drank in the beauty of the instant
    until I was intoxicated;
    I let myself feel instead of thinking
    because life was safe here-
    I felt tingles that were going to reverberate
    throughout decades.
    For the first time, I believed in something
    other than myself:
    you, the radiance of the moment,
    the glimpse of eternity
    in a landscape filled with
    reminders of mortality.
    I had witnessed too many shared delusions
    to fall for them,
    but this wasn’t a fall-
    it felt like ascending,
    like a slice of life that’s borrowed from heaven-
    a strange view coming from a secular soul.
    Your wisdom was gonna stick to me
    and I would wear it like armour
    in times of hardship;
    I could tell you shared what you believed in
    and felt religiously-
    you exuded your truth
    through all your pores
    and it resonated with the murmur
    of my soul,
    of the river, of the petals;
    now every time I find myself
    at the crossroads, this mantra
    is loud and clear in the midst of chaos
    “Look, we are what we believe
    and nothing else truly matters
    except that your heart is invested
    in the right thing. See how that light
    travels across the river?”
    I will always see the light.

  • 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.