Karla Bardanza Poems: love

Showing posts with label love. Show all posts

If you could get out of your own light

for three minutes

and accept the burning words,

the implausible darkness

we all hide and hold,

you would forgive

my postmodern sexuality

and sunlit mind.

Continue Reading →

I hope you talk in poems,
touching my insides with
words painted in flames.
my sun in the glass,
the crystal of the hours undoning
my grief;
roses picked in small vowels,
the spirit of the letters lightening
my perpendicular urge for more.
i hope

to love with my palms open
as Vaults sing, as our reflexes

Continue Reading →

Draw me again
to nameless things
because they are the soft ones.
simple as a stone
simple as yesterday.

Continue Reading →

I look around

while everything sleeps.

still wearing you,

i get up and go to the window

just to be sure

of myself.

the universe is so generous:

it leaves me here a little longer

just to witness that

life goes on.

i wait silently

as time soothes the hours

because your Poetry still reminds me

of whom i still am.

and with eyes closed,

i make a great effort

to remember

how to be happy.

Karla bardanza

Between us mars and venus

and the virtue of wanting more

till the conditional "if" makes no more

sense as we theoretically touch

each other with our dark haired minds.

yes, i know i should be wandering

in another direction, holding just

pluto in my hands, prepared to destroy

or being destroyed, fading happily

when someone frowns or says

i am mathematically illiterate.

(why do we have to be measured

by our milestones of stupidities and joys?)

but i still long for small wonders

like unfastening my bra or taking off

my wristwatch after work and all

the complex things that

the whole world secretly understands.

-it is so subversive to feel.-

i look forward to large imaginary seasons,

transits of uranus and possible concepts

because i'm pregnant again and

i will give birth to myself.

it is my merry vernal celebration

of fertility and chaos.

look closer there is no blood here,

only stars singing around the corner of the future.

who should be blamed for that

but the retrograde planets?

i am malleable now, face to face with my inner flesh

and all i want is to see

the house burning to the ground

as i find myself in hell and heaven

again.

and yes, it is so good.

karla bardanza

Am i wrong when i seek your darkness,

writing my delirium across your frightened mathematics

as if you were ready to be free

like me

(like me)

am i wrong when i break you in two:

ego and id eating fast your insides

as if you were ready to be free

like me

(like me)

am i wrong when my words surround you

with verbs that expand and catch fire

as if you were ready to be free

like me

(like me)

am i wrong when our eyes see what

we can't, holding small truths with our tongues

as if you were ready to be free

like me

(like me)

am i wrong when i want what

you can't give because it hurts to be

free like me

(oh! you like me)

(oh! you lick me)

am i wrong to be free

if you hide two,

if we are three

karla bardanza

My transparent heart just wants

cliches, lies and the eternal abandonment
that consecrates the indelible "was-it-good-for-you?".
(just checking, dear!)

staring at you like Marlene Dietrich in Tragedy of Love
and with my hands half open
and my body more (in)tense,
i will say you are what "the night heard"
and "the wind stole"
and i know my ears will hear the same
from your lunar mouth.
your sleepy metaphors will crown
my tired innocence:
-i promise you i will believe (sic)
i am unique and absolute like
water, caipirinha and foam.-

feeling your skin scratching
my face, i won't say
yes or no
as my heart jumps
before your jelly words.
and my own cowardice.

instead, i will pretend for two days
this thing is going
to work out fine,
muttering only the necessary
to make our wrinkles happier
and our lightness almost
unbearable.

karla bardanza

You should stray from what I invent:
small clouds of sisal,
waves without sea, salt and tragedy.
this is me without lipstick,.

nothing is true:
nor the reverse of the moment,
neither the dizziness in this plot,
or even the gift of a spasm.

a dream supports the body,
and I defend myself from
the almost spoken words
while afflicted,
I seek your voice in my skin.

these are rarities
and ambition.
these things are hoarse rhymes
of your heart.

but tomorrow
only fever and
a quiet and brief space
because nothing should last longer
than a newborn poem.

karla bardanza

This is me
and i live behind
the eyelids of the night
like a poem you craved
when i wasn't myself
and you had plans
for your wild hours,

you know
life cried
beside me today
as i thought of us
and all the unreachable
mysteries we two hold.
it was sunny again
and it is unbearable
to contemplate this beautiful day
alone, longing for your hot heart,
for your patriotic heart.

but i do understand
the silence
and it pains me
because i can
only hear the sea
breathing.
yes, my love, this moment swallows me
and i can only love you
more,
and i can only go on.

Karla Bardanza

A heart touched my heart
with some smooth red wine words
and sixty-two lies
and it is with some disdain
i look at the sun, protecting
myself from my own overflows
on this insane inglorious day
as you - who are you?
teach me a bit about
my incongruities and distance.

a body of water lies
between us and you swim
in my waterfalls and occasional
falls too but there is no witness
and even your eyes are not close
enough to contemplate
all my mysteries and ignored depths
when i'm not on duty, sir.

life evaporates
and little i have
apart from a handful of words
and sorrow for what i can't have.
i saw my old photos:
that pretty girl was still there
waiting for a guy like you.
she cultivated dreams as
i cultivate books nowadays.

this is the great absurd in
my life but i am doing
what Nietzsche said:
i'm trying to find meaning
in suffering and gratitude
in art.

one day i'm going to give
birth to a dancing star.
would you like to be the father?

Karla Bardanza

I wanted to blow the dark open
as the oceans mourned
and he stared at me, bleeding
more than he should.
It was too late to understand
your beauty or to wait for
a few words: we bent slowly
towards nothingness.

That book open on my chest
says things I hardly have to remember.
Love aged. I feel the wrinkles gloriously,
anticipating loneliness through
the stained black window.
A suicide note reads me every day
and it is illicit to pretend
I know what life is
after losing all my words
in front of the mirror .

Invisible days lie ahead,
shrinking words, hope and poetry.
When I turn back in anger,
I see you sinking bravely in injections,
telling me about the small things
I could name or forget.

I know somebody judged me silently.
Can't blame him: I was so afraid.
Time never renounced my past
and as something still holds me here,
I love you more than I can bear.

Karla Bardanza

As she unlocked the door,

a thousand black stars fell from her heart.

She couldn't

but she did.

Behind stained glasses,

he looked at her,

thinking less than he could.

Nothing would ever be said

about that day

and it would burn his sibilant heart

for the rest of his life.

She left as if she had never been there.

He stayed for some minutes,

gazing at the memories

that were already beginning to sprout without

his poetic license.

He thought about a word in English

to express what he was feeling.

Why was he thinking in Portuguese?

Words racing his mind.

Things he couldn't tame,

he would never tame.

A confusion under his skin.

Desejo, desire.

Sometimes he looks back,

and she is still there

weightless,

faceless,

wordless,

absolute.

Karla Bardanza

I am you inside of me

and the hunter and deer

are only one.

This heart here still belongs

to the one who conjugated

the verb in the infinity

when sighing was the right thing

to do before sleeping.

The hours fall fast:

my body crumbles

expanding memories,

perfuming the canyons.

I am lighter.

I am still possessed by the winds

and the rocks.

In this part of the world,

there is only silence

and I can hear better

when she cries:

-she is a fragile force-

She has learnt what patience is

and expects little because

expects nothing.

I married her

when he became the dream of the wolves,

the feathers of the grou.

It is not hard to breathe underwater.

It is not hard to be a metaphor.

Life dances in me every single day

and my nakedness opens closed doors.

When nothing I have,

I still have myself,

I still have our mountains and there

hunters and deers have only one heart.

Karla Bardanza

Today is Valentine's Day in my country and I couldn't resist my romantic heart. Love one another, please because it still is the most important universal truth whether we believe it or not.

Claire Price

The brute voice of the Atlantic
placed her among infinities.
She would stand at the window,
looking out, laughing at life's blame
when no cloud could be forgiven.

(Her soul was still full of him;
between her lips and his,
the waves fell and emotions stumbled
into words:
they were fragments of meaning)

She watched the elegant performance
of the sea endlessly repeated, thinking
love was a work of pure sorcery,
a mystery beyond metaphors.

In solitude complete,
she could hear the orchids growing:
a spring's last benediction
as he helped her to recognize
her own voice.

But love is a creature of seasons
and Winter couldn't be retarded
with gentle flowers.

After all this time,
she still doesn't know
what to make of freedom.
Her weary hands inherited
more lines than she can account for
and as the ocean dissolved
those memories to nurture her,
she was led unsuspecting
into poetry once more.

Karla Bardanza

by Sandorfi

I drag my adorable flip flops and half a dozen certainties
along the corridor as my self-esteem expands
and contracts the evening.
-It is our last class council this year
but I feel as if I am already enjoying my vacations:
-"NO SHOES REQUIRED"-

I sit languorously and open my green folder,
speaking little but when I put on my glasses
I become myself.
(it is hard to be myself especially in the end of the year,
It is almost counterproductive.)

On the other side, there is someone
who was my good and my bad.
I must admit there is no definition to do justice to him.
(Ahem
Maybe this momentary problem is caused due to
a sudden shortage of words, inspiration or labels.
The fact is:
ladies and gentlemen, he doesn't fit in my now anymore.)

We stare each other before everything collapses:
bricks fall, foundations crumble.
Derrida deconstructs you with gratitude.
It is late but I take a peek at my shattered heart:
what a ridiculous cliche!
(Do you like it? I love it!)

Anyways, love is ex and ex is just a prefix that didn't work out.
I am on the corner of the past but I like the tall tanned future
and its coward gentleness sitting next to me.
(wowwowwowwowwowwow)

And when everything ends, including the battle
of flunking
(tsk)
or promoting students
(ooh)
I stand up calmly, almost gliding across the room
(flap-flap-flap),
leaving all the heavy weights behind,
particularly the prefixes and suffixes of ingratitude
and it is with unspeakable pleasure
that I go away feeling I am
A
B
S
O
L
U
T
E

Karla Bardanza

"For apart from inquiry, apart from the praxis, individuals cannot be truly human. Knowledge emerges only through invention and re-invention, through the restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful inquiry human beings pursue in the world, with the world, and with each other."
Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed

"... Without a sense of identity, there can be no real struggle..."
Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed

Jean Monti

The pedagogy of the oppressed

"Let me tell you about ...well...er...er
The Pedagogy of the Oppressed"
"Wasn't Paulo Freire who wrote that mum?"
"Yes...Yes..."
"I know him mum..."
"Huh...close your eyes and listen to me.
Then tell me what you think about his ideas,okay?."

And as she theorized about education,
she would put ointment on her kid's wounds,
feeling oppressed by life, by her inadequate thoughts
of failure and resistance when she couldn't transform
reality or even make her own private revolution.

"Freedom is the most beautiful word
I have ever heard in life. Do you know why?"
"Because of the years of oppression mum?"
"Nah, because when you are truly free
according to Paulo Freire, you deal with
life in a creative way, changing what is around
you as you change yourself."

Deep inside, she was in labour work,
giving birth to her again. She was not a being
of accommodation. She had always been
what Paulo Freire dreamt: a being of transformation.
Why couldn't she cure her kid with those
words which were magical for her?
Why couldn't she set her free?

Love is a struggle for redemption.
Love is what she felt for her child,
for Paulo Freire, for freedom.

"I am giving you wings..."
"I will learn how to fly, mum.
I promise you."

It was a labour of love and rescue.
It was her adapted pedagogy of the oppressed.

Karla Bardanza

Slava Groshev

She was a strega:

I saw her making magic

in the kitchen, giving life to a tired dough

and to shy soap bubbles in the verandah.

I was 6 but I still can see her calloused hands

and long hair in a bun.

She didn’t have much when she arrived here:

just a suitcase crammed with memories:

she would never forget the roads to Paola

and the sunsets in Calabria.

I liked when she opened that magical box

and showed me my past with so much pride.

Those pictures are still the fire in my hands.

Somebody told me she married a man

who loved her deeply. He had deep green eyes.

When he died, she wore black forever

and let her hair grow.

She was already an old woman in her 30’s.

I remember she hid her wedding photo

in the closet. Whenever you opened it,

you would see her smiling.

Maybe it was there to remind her of whom

she once was.

When I think of her, I feel

I was loved.

I could never be as strong as she was

or have half of her brute tenderness.

When I am gone, I hope she can be

waiting for me with her ever open arms.

Grandma was a strega.

She bewitched me with her language

and light.

When I look back, I saw a young girl

running through the fields of yesterday

and I don’t mind telling you all

I am crying as I write this poem.

“Io ti voglio bene”

“Anche io amore mio, anche io”

Karla Bardanza

This poem is a tribute to my grandmother.

I am Karla. Who are you?

Hey there!

Share if you dare

Archives

Popular Posts this week

Labels

Featured Post

Post-Colonial Studies on her

Favourite blogs

Mother Moon

My Words

Take a stand

Always