her poetry squeaks:
it is hate,
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
There is a rainbow
crossing the midnight sky
and the colors spread against
the walls, enveloping
the silent flowers peacefully.
the halo of the moon
call many things to my mind
as i sit cooling beneath it
to be lulled by the sound
of the night.
alone i remain;
my shadow walking home,
looks back, penetrating
the now as if
it could survive eternity
and for a couple of minutes,
the midnight sky
listens to my tears
accumulating the things
of the past.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2014
I recover your details,
caressing the small wonders
beneath our inglorious satisfactions
and contradictions,
thinking less about
our violent peace
when it was impossible
to escape each other.
It is with comfortable certainty
that I am breathing.
I did everything Poetry
taught me when our silence
was a long interval between
the sun and the clouds.
My tight eyelids
just wanted to be discovered
by your fair pretenses.
My hands needed to feel
the vibration of the air.
But some blood types are
irreconcilable and
tomorrow shall be today
as "Adios" plays again
and I dance with my hands
embracing myself
and my loveless truth.
The moon slid between us.
We can search for ourselves
now.
Karla Bardanza
caressing the small wonders
beneath our inglorious satisfactions
and contradictions,
thinking less about
our violent peace
when it was impossible
to escape each other.
It is with comfortable certainty
that I am breathing.
I did everything Poetry
taught me when our silence
was a long interval between
the sun and the clouds.
My tight eyelids
just wanted to be discovered
by your fair pretenses.
My hands needed to feel
the vibration of the air.
But some blood types are
irreconcilable and
tomorrow shall be today
as "Adios" plays again
and I dance with my hands
embracing myself
and my loveless truth.
The moon slid between us.
We can search for ourselves
now.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Gonca Yengin
She ain't gonna tell you the whole story
because it hurts to look back in anger again.
It was a subterranean experience.
It is a salty story.
What happened, she buried between
her legs and sleeps with one eye open
but she doesn't complain, she never
complains about it. She is liking herself
more these days. It's better not to smell
what stinks.
But if you ask she's gonna say
she isn't a victim. She doesn't like
when people give that profane stare
at her. Nah, she doesn't like when
people think there is no fixing:
She's an unafraid kind of woman.
She was not happy in her skin
but now she is cured.
You ain't gonna make her
remember what made her
so violently small.
The wolf is half-dead now.
Karla Bardanza
because it hurts to look back in anger again.
It was a subterranean experience.
It is a salty story.
What happened, she buried between
her legs and sleeps with one eye open
but she doesn't complain, she never
complains about it. She is liking herself
more these days. It's better not to smell
what stinks.
But if you ask she's gonna say
she isn't a victim. She doesn't like
when people give that profane stare
at her. Nah, she doesn't like when
people think there is no fixing:
She's an unafraid kind of woman.
She was not happy in her skin
but now she is cured.
You ain't gonna make her
remember what made her
so violently small.
The wolf is half-dead now.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Rodney Woods
Save me
from my sleepless dreams
when sunburned
pregnant fears tear the sky,
discovering
the secrets of her wounds.
Save me
from the forgotten arms of time
as I ran
fast into my own woods, looking for
the steps
of my mistakes.
Oh! Save me…
She opened
the window today
but there
was no horizon sleeping anymore.
She refuses
to weep and I only weep
when those eyes
are blind.
Save me as I
repeat the same words,
inventing new
meanings to my foreign world.
Oh! Save me…
Save me
from my trembling hands
when I see
her pain, when I am weaker
to fight against
my deformed self.
My present
spills my blood carelessly.
Oh! Save me…
Life pretends
to be alive.
She is my
breath, she is my voice.
(can’t you
see that?)
Oh! Save us…
Save us…
Karla
Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Remember when
you said
there was a
dream inside my eyes?
How many
moons ago was it?
When was
love a constant disorder?
Was it when
a melody dissolved your eyes
in mine or
when your flesh was my tears?
I am old.
I refuse to
mourn happiness.
We bled
more when our flowers hid from
the future
and there was no medicine
to save me
from the morning glories.
I am old.
The secrets
of my past
were usurping
by an old box
in my
closet
and I am
too weak to find our laughter
wrapped in
crystal.
She is
still crying in the cradle.
I am still frozen
sitting against the footboard,
weeping and
you…
I see you
watching us under the binds
when the
wind calls me and the spirit
of poetry
seeks refuge in me.
I am old.
Too old to
touch that closed wound again.
Karla
Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Painting by Ekatarina Panikanova
The cruelest moment is now
when truths are spit
and words are like sharpened knives.
Seconds bite me:
the clock is striking again
in my angry minutes of dejection
and madness.
My red mournful lips don't regret,
don't tremble.
I have dishevelled my pain
and unbottoned my chest tenderly,
throwing all my dices
in a last attempt or maybe scorn.
Another hourglass has been inverted
to begin timing life as
the sands of time
run out sadly.
I count each grain,
listening to the White Rabbit:
"It is too late!" He says.
Can't follow him
to his hole anymore
for I am tired of unlocking doors.
Can't swim through my tears like Alice,
as I try to shrink my bastard days
and window nights.
I am not Lady Lazarus:
can't be your opus.
I can only rise
and watch carefully your dissolution:
an antiacid tablet in water.
It will be faster
than the next grain falls.
It is not revenge.
I know your wounds
will ache in me anyway.
It is love and hatred,
jealousy and sorrow.
While life follows its flux,
coaxing The Moon to wane
and waxe, I host the air,
thinking about nothing,
being nothing but at least
I am free.
I am free.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Painting by Amina Broggi
I watch your vulnerability
cracking your scales
as you run on adrenaline,
immersing yourself
in trepidation and pity.
I wonder where your inner being
might be after the last war
against your own army.
There is no victory for the doomed ones.
You were born of some powder when
Neptune was retrograde.
Will you ever understand your
soul mission as a Piscean?
She has no time left to save you.
You should have completed
your major cycle of existence
but the wheel of fortune carried
you away to the underworld
and Hades doesn’t want you
to come back.
Your life has become
a ctonic rite and I can only
see you drowning
in waters of yesterday.
And while you solidify
nothingness, breathing
a lie, she cries in my trembling
hands again.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Painting by Yoko Tanji
Yesterday my past I drew
on a canvas of silence and torment
when the Moon was so blue.
What happened? What did fate do?
Life only taught me to lament.
Yesterday my past I drew.
If I could only have a clue,
despair wouldn't be my scent
when the Moon was so blue.
Tears stained my night's dew
and the stars cried without my consent.
Yesterday my past I drew.
Sadness is nothing but a tender tattoo,
an unforgettable mark I did invent
when the Moon was so blue.
What I feel, somebody feels too.
I need some time to be content.
Yesterday my past I drew
when the Moon was so blue.
Karla Bardanza
Villanelle
A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem consisting of a very specific rhyming scheme:
aba aba aba aba aba abaa.
The first and the third lines in the first stanza are repeated in alternating order throughout the
poem, and appear together in the last couplet (last two lines).
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Painting by Stanley Meltzoff
She planted you,
expecting to see a small plant
like maidenhair or a potted ivy.
……………….You were not prepared
to be a rosebud or maybe she wasn’t prepared
to see something outgrowing uncontrollably
behind the fragile surface of the words.
You could never appreciate
a rainbow tattooed under her skin
for you yourself don’t know your own true colors
and ignored dimensions.
She glued stars on the ceiling,
wrote messages with her favorite red lipstick
on the mirror, spoke the language of the flowers.
She had thirty hours, thirty days, thirty minutes,
thirty silent seconds to tell you about Tarot Cards,
Astrology and the immutability of fate.
Did you listen to her hoarse voice?
She was l’amore crocifisso.
Your blue eyes creep as you smoke away
your life and last possibility of happiness.
You said you had asked your God for guidance
but life is an eternal dance and you can’t
understand her steps as she moves her hands
in a tender choreography:
she is a zingara.
People clap their hands
and sing: “Mira la gitana, mira…”
But she is a zíngara, her blood speaks Italian
when L’amore weaves stelle and lune
in solitudine.
She cursed you.
“Strega” the crowd shouted at her.
She cursed love.
“Strega” you said.
What is love but a knife in the chest?
Every day you thrust it deep and deep
till nothing hurts anymore.
She doesn’t need what she can’t have.
For me she will always be a zingara
dancing, with a shawl and a red rose
in her black hair.
She shall be the magic lost, The Empress,
The Priestess, The Star, The Divine Feminine
drawn on my cards.
Karla Bardanza
For J.G
L’amore crocifisso – crucified love
Zingara - gypsy in Italian
Gitana – gypsy is Spanish
Mira – Look at
Stelle – stars in Italian
Lune – moons in Italian
In solitudine – alone in Italian
Strega – witch in Italian
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Painting by Carole Wenig
If I were a dewdrop
running
aimlessly
on your lame corners
running
aimlessly
on your lame corners
as the kids play with iridescent bubbles,
if I were...
...all those things have no name ...
If I tell why, would you ever forgive me
for my careless cruelties when I was afraid?
These days my life has changed.
My old crimes are precious gems under my skin:
emeralds, sapphires, diamonds...
They are...
... shells of silence,
disheveled rainbows,
tantalized flowers...
They are...
Elizabeth Bishop and Marilyn Hacker
writing poems for an unknown face .
I proved Venus and Mars
in conjunctions, sextiles and trines.
I proved the Sun and the Moon was mine.
If I were a dewdrop two Novembers gone...
...would you catch me in your hands...
and forgive me for being so fragile?
But I am strange to my life
and there is no story of return
for what lasts shall never last
and I struggle with devotion
to forget...
...my contours made of water
and grief...
...are immense dewdrops running aimlessly
as I cry in your hands, skinning our hearts.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
I put love in my mouth
and I swallowed it.
It'll never desert me again:
It is within.
I ate it with my trembling hands
and agonizing body.
I won’t lose it anymore
when the treacherous rain destroys
the sky.
All the beauty loves
hides is mine now.
What was just outside,
is inside too living in
my tormented corners haunted
by nostalgia and by the blind time.
I put love in my mouth
and it rests in my bowels.
I ate every bit of it so gently.
I feel that my soul doesn’t fit
in my gaps muffled by pain any longer
after this surprise.
Love (who would ever guess!) tastes
like watermelons, dreams,
poetry.
Love is still the raw material
that only children and poets understand
when they talk with stars and light up the words.
It's here in my mouth
every time I am naked and crazy
shouting that I am never tired of watching
fireflies courting the night
suspended between those who love
and those who wait to be loved..
I put love in my mouth
and I ate it:
I am enlightened now.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2011
The wind beneath the moon draws invisible patterns,
stabbing the back of the night with its bitter breath.
Flowers shiver: petals of ice recoil from my hands.
The stars darken my eyes as my tyrant heart crouches
to wait for the future.
Far off an undiscovered face gazes at my whipped soul.
The blandness of the moment erupts in a blizzard.
I can't see what lies ahead:
flocks of despair fall from my mind, covering my way.
stabbing the back of the night with its bitter breath.
Flowers shiver: petals of ice recoil from my hands.
The stars darken my eyes as my tyrant heart crouches
to wait for the future.
Far off an undiscovered face gazes at my whipped soul.
The blandness of the moment erupts in a blizzard.
I can't see what lies ahead:
flocks of despair fall from my mind, covering my way.
Vague tragedies wrap me in thorns.
I am immobilized.
My blood stains my words, clearing the tops of my grief.
The night can't contain my sorrow.
Who will remember my name?
I was the muse, I was the clown.
Somebody used to read enigmas in my eyes.
Now look at me while I offer my submission to the wind
I have no power.
I am outside life.
I am immobilized.
My blood stains my words, clearing the tops of my grief.
The night can't contain my sorrow.
Who will remember my name?
I was the muse, I was the clown.
Somebody used to read enigmas in my eyes.
Now look at me while I offer my submission to the wind
I have no power.
I am outside life.
Karla Bardanza
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