ARTELLA'S POETRY GARDENS OF FAME
for May/June, 2007
Silver bells
I am sending you a box made of rainbow's
light shaped after my heart and inside you will find dried freesia
flowers, a barefoot gypsy girl with silver bells around her ankles,
a piece of silk cloth, of flowery design (to dress her, or maybe not),
a pebble from the crystal pond and one blade of grass from its shore.
A tambourine for merry music, and my voice to sing to you. My palms to
feed you honey and wine, fresh baked bread and pieces of cheese, one
apple and two oranges. Red lipstick to write a poem for you on the cloud,
my kiss scenting of mint, butterflies to build you a waterfall of love,
a garden full of pansies and lilacs, violets and wild strawberries,
necklaces of dew and a dove with her soft amorous coo. And a lock of
my hair, tied with our dreams.
I saw it on the shore washed and kissed by the silvery illuminated
clouds, fed with salt, silent and always hungry for much more...
Like an open mouth, it was a leak, on its surface, and water dripped
out - Cold night, soup of life.
My feet hurt with its bite,
blood, absorbed and gone deep, cold pierced surface, with water
elusive whisper and wind’s high, laughing scream. Then I add just one
lonesome, unfaithful tear.
Nothing was there in the night, people
had gone but I wasn't alone. Ocean was mine I had my own scare,
I had my own leaky gray stone.
With calm dawn and lights it
becomes a book of time.
Window.
Wooden wings keeping the grey sky framed within square
patches of wet glass. Evening. The silence following the
rain brings me the smell of salt and whispering sea voices
with a first star's light. Eyes. At the edge of view I
saw you sitting, then your feet moving on the red carpet.
With you I rolled under the blanket.
When
the mind drifts to trace the wild plum blossom’s scent and thoughts
ramble between wild never severed branches I come with the sweet
springtime air to set on your palm white petals and promised kisses
with the sweetness of ripe indigo fruit.
Gold
grapes trapped within your mouth, sweet smells of childhood summer on
your fingers.
The narrow place between market benches.
Scents
in the air... With eyes closed I can see spots of sweat on your
t-shirt, in the basket
onions between spices tied with white
strings, five tomatoes, garlic, dill, parsley and thyme...
carrots, only two.
In the pot, chicken soup.
Two of us
connected like Lady and the Tramp with
the
same
soft
noodle
before our lips touch.
Just a dream...
Depression
hard, dense and hot like dark summer clouds entered the windows in
the middle of the afternoon.
Between my fingers mashed potatoes,
my revenge on innocent vegetables.
I miss you.
Feelings like the sacred oil on water, never fading never ending always
growing, like grape-clusters on the golden grape-vine at the entrance
to my sanctuary.
Finalist 2008 - 2009 The
12.th International Poetry Competition
The child in me still lives
the magic of it, my green, barefoot dancing walk red spirals and
circles, ballerina style alongside the poppy fields.
Hush... don't touch the soft trembling petals, let them bud,
breathe,
blush their springtime red inside the ripening
autumn, let them drink the dusk, the sun into their velvet
hearts and dance with me because poppies are red in the night
too.
I was trying to write you a poem,
to impress you with my words.
...
Along the river's foaming crest
dancing sparklets lay imprisoned
in the droplets,
waves dandling them like a mother’s arms.
Fractured light from sky and clouds
crawled on the strand
touching it with broken fingers...
What are you doing?
I am writing you a poem. About me?
No, it is about a river. And about a girl. Oh, I thought it might have been a love poem.
But, it is a love poem. I can't see...
Wait...
There was a girl on the shore, singing songs of desire
drawing hearts and writing her lover's name on the sand,
while the wind was following her voice like a choir,
barefoot she was standing on the river’s strand.
She was feeding ducks and frogs and fish
thinking only about the time when she will meet him,
her eyes gleaming, in her heart a wish...
the sun floating over the water like a gold burning Seraphim.
At night, warm sand was her pillow,
with morning her soles kissed by the river's billow...
While stretching her arms to hail the morning sun
she found on her finger a ring made of wet river's spear,
she was licking her lips before breakfast,
her teeth sunk deep in a fresh pear...
...
Pear? Where does the pear come from?
And where is this river now?
This poem is not consistent to your promise...
But it is. Everything is at the same place.
At the beginning and at the end of the poem. And where is love?
At the same place. At the beginning and after the end of my life. Wait... wait... you are teasing me, how to read your poem if it is
endless?
From the beginning to the end of my love.
FINALIST 2009
The 13.th International Poetry Competition
In the air
the scent of salt,
white jasmine
and oranges in bloom.
Slowly,
I emerge out of your wishes,
out of the cradle of your palms.
My skin smoothed by your touches.
You created
the sound of my sighs.
The warmth of your breath,
your strength and gentleness
are consonant
to my body’s light
and shadows.
After you
nothing can change
the curves of my flesh.
Here I am,
every day you call me
to be born again.
