DIANA MARIN

Tag: writing blog

  • 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

  • A poem: Wither

    I gather tokens of death
    in appearance fragile-
    with thorns hidden
    underneath.

    A hand reaches out…
    Blood lingers
    on thin skin.

    Petals burn,
    Smoke intoxicates:
    you breathe it in.

    Funeral words carved
    in marble skin-
    paralysed,
    you listen blindly
    as they inhale life.

     

  • Transcendence

    Red cheeks and fairy dust in her hair.

    Fragile lips and bones, pointy ears, rosy shiny skin.

    What is our purpose, Magna Mater? What is it with all the human images flashing in my head, leaving this bittersweet feeling in my body, just before they transcend it? I feel the chaos of the sea, the murmur of the trees, the warmth of a sweet dog’s coat, the loneliness of the ruins. I feel all this – it seems to have happened centuries ago.

    The aftereffects of the trip…You shouldn’t fear. What is left now is to revel in the delights of the present – to lay on the soft warm bed of leaves, gazing upwards while the clouds become stars. I am telling you this because there is no purpose, not in the way you think. The effects of hurt and human agony are latent – they will remain concealed within you until they lure you in their net once again.

  • The suffering of the ancient

    She awakened only to realise that the echoes of the past were still there. She got up and ran towards the end of the hallway, where she used to tell jokes and laugh with her sisters. The statues were staring at her, from both sides, from above, through hollow, yet somehow luminous eyes. These eyes, both demonic and divine, had been following her every move ever since she was left alone in the house, years ago – centuries ago in her mind. She never knew their verdict. She found herself in front of the back door, never the front door, never on the way out. The garlic was hanging above the door as ever, next to the artificial withered-looking flowers. She never understood why the lord insisted upon keeping such strange, unwelcoming decorations. They used to have many unpleasant visitors lurking around the house indeed, but they were the kind that fed upon her happiness, not upon blood. And the flowers… what was the point? Artificial flowers looking withered – how peculiar!

    There it was. The garden where they dwell. Their souls were entrapped in the past – they succumbed to a dreadful repetition of agony; an eternal reenactment of their fate. There was something tragic about the way in which they were displayed: each in their own place, yet all bound by the obligation to keep the Show going beyond time. Like pieces of a living puzzle, or fragments of a graphic novel, or carvings in the Cave of the Making, each depicted one sad episode. They were surrounded by glittering blues – portals through which M. could relive the suffering of the ancient.

  • Diary entry: library

    The pleasure of feeling beams of light piercing through tired, stained windows and caressing the air impregnated by particles of dust. The pleasure of being inside, away from the unbearable, threatening sunlight. Expressionistic shapes are formed on old grey walls holding Pre-Raphaelite portraits of mythical women. A shuttering of a window, a shuttering of a book, a shuttering of a mouth after a hasty yawn. Steps – some confident, some shy, some confused or determined, intermittently disrupting an enchanting silence. Wings cleaving the warm air surrounding a five storey building populated by anxious or dreamy souls. A crow gazing straight into the eyes of a figure that returns the gaze, seemingly bewildered. The sound of the wind shouting at buildings. The sound of nature against architecture. The sound of destruction, the sound of collapse.