Thematic Poetry Previews (1)

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All poems © Marie Faverio

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*Confessional and Feelings*

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Eternal Queen of the Night

 

The morning greyness surrenders

to the ecstasy of colours,

exiling the moon

to the land of poetry.

but the darkness in my mind

stays –

 

inflexible, intractable,

eternal Queen of the Night

raising her arms in victory

on the throne of ice,

thin as her wicked whispers.

 

The greyness in the sky

dissolves like mist in the sun,

nature’s backtalk starts,

casual intersections,

events like primary colours,

while my mind keeps asking why

like a broken record.

​

 

Unsung Song

 

The song is still unsung,

even unwritten,

the notes loose on the tongue

like kitsch or cheap sequins,

unable to soar.

 

The song wanted to be,

but the heart was bleeding

and forced music into silence.

 

The song is still unsung,

even unwritten,

each unsung note

cutting the heart

with the pain of the terribly

unspoken.

 

Nobody knows.

Nobody cares.

They hum their own song

and keep minding

their business.

​

 

Give Me a Song

 

The journey of the scared soul

through the desert

is daunting,

and the blue of the sky

does not smooth the pain.

 

Where are the birds?

I need a song to find the way.

The only sounds here are the moans

of my own mind.

 

I need branches to toss up their blooms

to remind me that I am alive.

I cannot compromise with fata morganas

any more.

 

This hushed perfection

has the imprint of death.

Give me relief from the merciless,

uninterrupted sun.

Give me a song.

 

Give me a bird with hope.

Give me a hallelujah.

Give me a vision

to clutch.

I need to know

I am alive.

​

 

Another Lady Lazarus

 

I am not a copycat.

It just happened that way.

Maybe we are kindred spirits,

maybe Fate likes to torture

competitors in fame,

force them under the buzzing bell jar.

 

I am not a copycat,

but if someone thinks like me

I won’t say I don’t agree

just to be “original”.

It just happened that way.

 

I am not a copycat,

but I know there are things

that just have to be –

because happiness counts,

and it counts big time.

 

Resurrecting is an art,

like everything else.

Peace destroyed,

you start again

from scratch,

fist in the air,

a walking miracle.

​

 

My Epitaph

 

Here lies someone

whom Life refused to love,

someone who was forced

to keep going with a shrug

and a puzzled expression on her face.

 

Here lies someone

who was shunned by the masses

for yelling “No!” to Life,

someone who was disrespectful of nemesis

and the unfair consequences

of disobedience to tyranny.

 

Here lies someone

who hallowed difference

and condemned banality,

someone who refused to conform.

 

Here lies someone

nobody will visit

because this someone

was not a hypocrite.

​

Here lies Marie.

 

Here lies a poet

with tangled hair.

​

 

Let Me Fly

 

Let my body bleed

until my soul is free

and pain crumbles

like a parched leaf.

 

The lie of “you are here for a reason”

has been exposed,

the key of the jail found.

 

Let me fly, or even crawl,

away from here –

the light is out there,

not here, not now.

 

The palm’s lines

have joined into a circle,

destiny’s whip is silent.

 

Let me fly, or even crawl.

Let my soul

be free.

​

 

The Clouds Don’t Care

 

The moon unloads her grief on me.

We are both ghastly, shallow,

but I don’t shine, not any more.

She wins, she always has.

I am weak,

and transitory as a happy thought.

My relationships don’t last,

but hers earn immortality

through poetry and art,

the prickling aura of saints.

But she is not a saint,

her mouth bloody as Mary’s,

her dark side hidden to inattentive eyes.

She shoots arrows of disappointment

on my bruised body

and yells at me like an angry mother.

The clouds don’t care

and never stay long enough

to efface her iniquity for good.

She smiles behind them,

knowing she will win,

her grin shining through them

like an omen or a revelation.

​

 

The Black Vacuum

 

The black vacuum

wants to suck me in,

alluring me with fata morganas,

nursery rhymes that don’t stick.

 

I know better.

The tiger’s roar is my mantra,

the lightning bolt my beacon.

I am no bunny.

 

Big careless vacuum,

twiddle your thumbs

while waiting for the next victim.

I am out,

running somersaults

on the unmown lawn,

 

gloriously ignoring

normality,

improvising nutty poems

for deviants.

Good-bye.

​

 

The Child

 

The child whispers.

The child is afraid.

The world around her

is big and scary,

full of sleepless

laughing clowns.

The child can’t sleep

either.

 

The child cries,

but mum doesn’t come.

Shadows grow longer

and engulf her fears.

Shadows yawn

and swallow her dreams.

The child is getting

a taste of life,

but she doesn’t know.

 

The child cries,

but mum doesn’t come.

The child will still

be alone

when she grows up.

​

 

Teachings

 

What life taught me –

                              not to trust.

What the mind taught me –

                              give it back.

What the heart taught me –

                              love is still an option.

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I Shall Not Care

 

I shall not care –

I shall be free.

I shall not care

if you don’t care

or if you just pretend to care.

 

I shall not care.

I shall feel the kiss of the earth

on my skin

and forget all past cares.

 

I shall feel the gentle touch of the sun

through the earth

and finally breathe,

though not where you breathe.

 

I shall not care,

and if you care I won’t know,

so do what you always did –

do not care.

 

I shall not care

if you don’t care.

​

 

My Prayer

 

My prayer is not the prayer of hope.

It is not the prayer of faith.

My prayer is the prayer of despair,

the prayer of tormenting questions.

It is a red prayer,

not a blue prayer.

 

It is a prayer full of earth and possibilities,

full of growth,

but with no flowers in it.

It is a raw prayer

that would be mocked or rejected

in churches.

 

It is rough, real, tangible.

It is not a prayer

for faint-hearted people

or hypocrites.

My prayer is a beginning,

not an end.

​

 

The Bell Does Not Toll for Outsiders

 

My battling wings

are getting tired of nonsense.

They know the anxiety of rising

without the certainty of the goal,

and the panorama from above can be scary,

the all-engulfing whole

unsoftened by casual details.

 

My battling wings

are bleeding,

exhausted with existence,

the big joke that doesn’t

elicit laughter

but tears.

 

My battling wings

keep flapping

irregularly,

almost frantically,

until darkness sneaks in

and the bell tolls.

 

If you asked

for whom the bell tolls

they would tell you

it’s for me,

and that the bell doesn’t

toll for everybody

when it tolls

for outsiders.

​

 

Tree of Swords

 

Tight in your embrace,

Life,

I fear your bruises,

the “Jetzt Du” order,

the slap that sends the meek

into uncouth unconsciousness.

 

Tight in your grip,

Life,

I fear your logic (or lack thereof),

the messed-up beads of the abacus.

 

Your hands on my neck,

Life,

I surrender in my body,

but not in my mind.

 

My corpse will rot,

but my mind will blossom

into a tree of swords

with the word Victory

engraved on the blades,

shimmering in the midday sun.

​

 

A Thought Called Love

 

There once was a Thought

who wanted to reach through

to a sad child to brighten her life,

but the sad child

had closed her mind and her heart

to the external world.

 

But the Thought didn’t give up

and patiently waited in front of the door

of her mind and her heart.

Until one day

the door of her mind opened

just enough to let through

a pale beam of light.

Then it closed again.

 

But the Thought didn’t give up and waited

even more determined than before.

He waited and waited,

but neither door opened,

although he could see

that the light was on inside.

 

Then one night

he suddenly heard a celestial music,

and the door of the girl’s heart

sprang wide open,

and light and music

streamed out in unison,

 

and it was just beautiful,

and the girl cried for joy

and hugged the Thought,

who became one with her,

and they never parted again.

​

 

Eclipse

 

Sisyphus has found a buddy.

How many times have I stitched my masterpiece

just to have it unstitched

by the careless hand of life?

I can’t keep the count.

 

The light bulb is turning black,

my eyes are burning,

but my fingers do what they have to do.

The stitches march into the fabric,

 

ein zwei drei,

ein zwei drei,

neatly disciplined, brave

little soldiers.

 

Even Penelope

looks up in wonder.

The last stitch is in.

The fabric shines

in the morning’s sun.

 

But the huge hand is swift,

and the stitches are gone

again –

ein zwei drei

ein zwei drei.

 

The sun is gone too.

The huge hand now points

at the lonely spool

in the creepy soundless twilight.

 

The stitches march in,

brave little soldiers.

Ein zwei drei

ein zwei drei.

​

 

The Last Accomplishment

 

The hand followed the decree

of the bleeding heart,

the grin shone in the darkness,

the sabre clicked.

The Greek necessity had been fulfilled,

perfection engraved into peace.

The door slammed shut,

and the wind stopped blowing.

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Night Musings

 

Sitting here

at 4 o’clock in the morning

under a mangrove tree hung with stars

and insomniac birds,

I surrender to light

in spite of the early hour,

bargained into shape again.

 

You are not here,

you unnameable one,

but it is not a loss –

barbed-wire passions have never

excited me too much.

 

But the pitted moon –

what a beauty!

I could fall in love with it

like Li Po,

hug it,

 

then feel the compelling

kiss of the earth

and discover the working of things,

their dour splendour.

 

I could make earth my womb

and untie poems

like birthday presents.

 

You are not here.

It’s not a loss.

​

 

The Search for Happiness

 

I searched for happiness here and there,

but I didn’t find it here, and I didn’t find it there.

I searched for happiness in the depths of the ocean

and on the highest mountains,

but I just ran out of breath.

It was not there either, not even a hint of it.

 

Tired and disillusioned

I searched for happiness in a library

so huge and old and full of wisdom

Borges would have danced with joy.

But I got lost in a labyrinth of ink and paper

and was mocked by grimaces

on the crumbling pages.

 

I searched for happiness here and there,

but happiness eluded me,

and the reason why it eluded me

eluded me too.

 

Evening descended quietly, on tiptoe,

and I approached the window

with childlike wonder,

my heart beating fast.

And there, against a backdrop of stars,

I saw my face reflected on the window pane,

and I suddenly understood.

 

I walked away

with a smile on my lips

and chunks of happiness in my pocket

and had a good night rest

unhaunted by nasty dreams.

​

 

Jumbled Rainbows

 

She lives in the land of jumbled rainbows,

and her task is to fit them together

to please the Great Ghost who never gives hints,

the Ghost who looks away

while she is sweating her neck off to please him.

 

Days and nights curl out of the sky,

bubbling their colours

in the never-ending cycle of omens,

but the rainbows still go their way,

and the souls are stranded

on the other side of the river,

waiting for the ferry that never comes.

They clutch visions that don’t come true,

their eyes turning opaque

as their hope’s ardour is tamed.

 

She is still struggling,

her hands are shaking

like glasses on an Ouija board,

thundering the terrible message

nobody wants to hear.

Her battered look reflects

the unsmiling faces on the other side,

waving goodbye.

 

The broken rainbows drip colours

into the earth hugging bodies,

nurturing the hope of resurrection,

like an ancient radiance

finally set free from the snarling cycle of ifs,

but that’s really all they can do.

​

 

Recognition

 

She hurled a mantra into the air

glowing with the ambers of dawn,

her face flooded with light

and awful recognition,

the shock of the truth.

 

Feeling a surge of strength inside

that reached far beyond

the far side of the fading moon,

she seized her hoarded sorrows

in a straight shot

and hurled them into the sea,

 

watching them drift away

into terra incognita,

gracefully accompanied by the first sunrays

skating on the water,

rearranging waves on the retina

past the slippery slope of fantasy,

then gleaming into nothingness

like a Sufic regret.

 

When she walked into the water

she had forgotten why,

but kept going

undaunted by the violence of growing light

and the gulls’ dervish dance

in the air fraught with colours,

watching clouds rub themselves up

against the invasive blue,

shrugging at human frailties and stupidities.

 

All rumours of mortality

were shattered with a bang

when she disappeared

into the light.

​

 

Being a Poet

 

Juggling light and darkness

in the mind,

images bouncing off the high

wall of separation,

of what you will never be

because you are different,

because you are a poet

and won’t let the hooded knights

entomb your visions

 

Fighting against all odds

to accomplish your mission

off reason’s stiff raft

up into the white boat

that doesn’t need wind or sails

to drift through the waters of imagination

and orchards of memories

distilled into a song

 

Savouring the stare

that grows into radiance,

wabi-sabi,

fingers unlocking into direction,

a road laid bare to the sky.

​

 

And If

 

And if one day they will forget me –

at least I loved what I did,

and the passion in me was so strong

it could have shattered crystal

with just one syllable.

 

And if one day they will deride me –

at least I dared to be different

and scuff the edge of consent

for the sake of art.

 

And if one day the worms will dance in my grave –

I will dance with them

because there are situations

when you just have to ask yourself

“why not?”,

and this is one of them!

​

 

Memories Etc.

 

Memories float back

to the surface of her mind,

zombies hissing ruthless syllables

into seditious ears longing for oblivion.

 

Memories hoodoo her

with choked good-byes,

redeemed from silence,

a neon party on a bruised sky.

 

Memories walk off again,

leaving behind

the great scars of wrong,

and a great deal of loneliness.

​

 

The Gifted Child

 

The gifted child

       doesn’t play.

The gifted child

       doesn’t laugh

                or smile.

The gifted child

        doesn’t skin her knees

                 biking.

The gifted child just stares –

        at other children

                 taking life by the throat,

                        fingers miming victory;

        at adults harrowed

                 by love’s limpets,

                        enjoying stupidities

                                (or so it seems);

        at common people

              addicted to the weird habit of happiness,

                      living in subtopia.

The gifted child

        is a miniature adult

              who never smiles.

The gifted child

        doesn’t have a gift

                for life.

​

 

Gifted Girl

 

She sits in a corner

staring at the other children,

estranged from their rompish-roguish world

of games full of marrow-bones, cleavers

and mechanical nightingales.

 

She doesn’t understand why

they chase each other laughing and screaming,

their ruddy cheeks betraying health,

the quick of life beyond heaven’s slipstream.

 

She stares and doesn’t understand their simple joy

free from the millstone of circumstance -

she, the poor girl trapped in a red-light world

full of barbed-wire visions

and questions eliciting other questions - or a shrug.

 

She has been deprived of her childhood

by her intellect, the curse of difference -

different in a world of average people

pursuing average goals.

 

She looks at the other children sweating with life

and goes back to the Fisher library

to sit in a corner behind a pile of philosophy books,

hidden from the curious eyes of University students

still believing in that strange thing

called life.

​

 

The Song of the Sea

 

I will sing the song of the sea

here, on this shore awash with light,

this shore that urges for a purpose

in the mind’s grey ward,

the empty ward of inattention.

 

I will sing the song of the sea

and listen to its echo

shatter on the cliff of reason,

where time joins hands with eternity.

​

I will sing the song of the sea

and then be silent

when there is nothing more to say

but a snap-tight good-bye,

​

when light fades out

behind the collapsing horizon,

and the hour of cicadas sets in,

and a skull-bright moon dominates the sky.

​

 

From My Shelled-In World

 

From my shelled-in world,

a glimpse of eternity,

eternity caged in the instant,

a knob of blue pushing through a grey tunnel,

blitzing towards the light.

 

From my shelled-in world,

a storm of colours

joining into a gigantic rainbow

mirrored on the ceiling of my cell,

engulfing darkness and thoughts.

 

From my shelled-in world,

the ancient murmur of the sea

in a perfect conch culled by time,

joining a blizzard of blossoms outside

to celebrate the arrival of spring.

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The Other One

 

The other one never whinges

nor does she hunt for ailing images

in frail lines of verse.

 

The other one is not clever

and finds strains of happiness

in a horizon shaded with wings,

in a sky marching headlong towards sunset,

in simple ideals like running out in the street

in search of colours.

 

The other one doesn’t have a fear of edges,

but throws herself into life

ignoring flashing stop signs,

unbothered by uniforms.

 

The other one is not haunted

by ominous shadows

arching over nasty memories

or by the dark dangling of the scythe.

 

The other one gets all the attention,

avoiding the avidity of silence.

The other one is so terribly human.

The other one has defeated me.

​

 

The Horse

 

The horse took her

where she was supposed to be,

the land of the never-ending sun,

the land of giant butterflies and cyclamens,

the land where nobody ever has to say

“I’m sorry”.

 

The horse rode her home

because her time had come,

and Penelope’s cretonnes

showed the end of the story

in the warped wheel’s frame.

 

The time had come

because labour and leisure

didn’t appeal to her any more,

because she longed for eternity,

because she longed for a whiff of real life.

 

She rode the horse

and waved at the world

she left behind,

but didn’t turn back.

​

 

Absolutely Nothing

 

There are no fireplaces here,

no fairy tales,

no trim children

pricking up their ears

in wonder,

nothing.

 

Nothing but effigies

in the cellar of memory,

figurines shadowed by time,

stiffly horizontal,

singing the last broken notes

of the chant du cygne.

 

There are no smiles here,

no soothing hand

or understanding nod,

nothing.

 

Nothing but a hall

of dark mirrors

mocking fear,

lips sundered by a scream.

 

There is nothing here

but my shadow,

tired to follow me

as shadows do,

nothing.

​

 

The Road Taken

 

I won’t sing of the road

not taken.

I will sing of the road

taken,

which was a thorny one,

lacking the simple comfort

of an unclouded horizon.

 

I will sing of this dreary road

flanked by walls

opening up into darkness,

walls chafing in the wind of uncertainty.

 

I will sing of this road

overlooked by others

- or totally disregarded,

the road of proud diversity

and the non-acceptance of deception.

 

- Where did the road lead? -

- What was at the end? -,

some indiscreet reader may ask.

To such a curious reader I’ll simply say:

- It led where it had to lead.

What was at the end

is written in the Book of Life. –

​

 

The Song and the Scream

 

I have a song inside,

I have a scream.

The song borrows hope

from the sunlight stippling the trees,

the branches heavy with huge ripe apples,

the scream worships

the Khazars’ varieties of darkness,

the shadow play of memory.

 

I have a song inside,

I have a scream.

The song sings of the Six Harmonies in Hang Chow,

of plains unribboning into unfaltering light,

the scream tries some bon-mots,

pays homage to the intractable mind,

bullied into disbelief.

 

I have a song inside,

I have a scream.

The song rejoices in the infinite jest of life,

finding infrequent meanings in commonplaces,

the scream laments the spoils of time,

unable to surpass the known world’s rim.

 

I have a song inside,

I have a scream.

​

 

The Young Woman and the Sea

 

She was not like the other women.

She loathed idle chatting,

the fetters of family,

rootless as an orphaned star

or a naughty thought

kicked out of the mind.

 

After years and years of wandering,

she had put her seven-league boots

on the top shelf

and had settled down by the sea.

She had slowly forgotten

the anguish of windscreens

and winding stairs

and let uncaged time

run free in her hut.

 

They had eased into a new identity

crowded with details

exiled by the retinas of the masses –

chance encounters of cloud and sunlight,

white processions of gulls

remindful of priests in sultry countries,

and other funny features

that so gaze through creation.

 

They stripped bearded clichés of their dullness

and enjoyed the eloquence of the unsaid

and the bidding touch of the invisible,

counterpointing nature with an inner melody

only freaks and angels could hear.

 

Until one day time said:

“We have to go now.

Let’s go to the land

of the uninterrupted sun.”

She put snatches of verse

and scattered colours

in her backpack

and followed time,

peacefully strolling

into the ocean

without looking back.

 

There was a sudden

stroke of wings,

then silence,

and a giggling

in the distance,

far, far away.

 

 

Behind the Mask

 

Blank eyes

behind Greek mask,

eyes staring at hands

petrified

by the beauty of necessity,

composed hands,

hands that beg no more.

 

Pegasus has folded his wings,

quietly,

serene as faith.

The pen lies on the desk

like a smile,

tired, untouched.

 

These tiny hands

are white roses

among black orchids,

splendid outsiders.

 

Pegasus doesn’t need to fly

because he has reached the top.

​

 

The Angel’s Wings

 

Face to face

with the Way and the sky,

and time hanging by a thread

as thin as the air carving her skin

in the ascent,

 

she felt the shroud of death

drape her in primary colours,

the wings of the Angel,

the last shadows of sorrow

 

becoming smaller and smaller

down there, in the place

where Wrong wears a heavy

crown on his head.

 

She caught a quick

snap of heaven

and was gone

for the real thing.

​

 

Just Like That (2)

 

The grass tickling her ankles

urged her to leave the place with no sun

and run headlong into the light –

just like that,

not because she was looking for something

or expected what others

expected her to expect.

How the clouds

yielded to the light!

​

 

A Dirge for My Illusions

 

My illusions have fallen down

a winding staircase.

            They stumbled and tumbled,

                        toppled and tossed,

                                    plunged and crumbled,

                                                deeper and deeper,

until they reached

the dim bottom of reality,

            bruised, wounded, slashed,

                        leaking blue blood,

fallen aristocrats

too proud to cry for help,

too dignified to admit their misery.

            I called for an ambulance,

            but it was too late.

So I composed a funeral song

in their honour

 

and had them buried

on the hill.

​