In the Palace of Lady Eden

As the strange purple darkness
claimed its aftersun light,
and the dense woods changed its mood
from the green friendly to the mischievous dark,
I soon found myself wandering
in a desperate search for a place
where to finally lay my arms.

Yet the forest seemed to have no mercy,
not for drifters nor misdirected foes,
and before I could realize
I had surrendered far into the dusk
of my own weakness,
my own brutal and lethal wounds.

And in my dreams I saw casted
a beautiful woman of infinite might,
who in her walk, appeared to bend the trees back
blinded by her light, her brilliance,
so particularly expected from the midday sun.

And thus, amid this blazing light,
a group of dwarves and elves and men,
carried me up and healed my marks,
taking my cries to the now destroyed dark.

In the most beautiful palace I woke,
Lady Eden now sat beside me
and she spoke and filled my mind.

‘It is your duty now to be my man,
and from now this shall be your house’.

‘And you shall dwell with me. Forever.’


(Happy 22nd Birthday to me!)


New on Blackprint Poetry: Blog Recommendations


Today's recommendation goes to my favourite poetry blogger on the web: Splmartin and his beyond-incredible blog Read between the Minds. Make sure to check his incredible work at:

http://slpmartin.wordpress.com/

See you soon!

Endless

What's the time again?
The tender light through my shades
defines the hour, timeless.
Once again, I'm caged in infinity.

And the sacred silence
doesn't help. Where are
the children, why have they ceased
their playing in the streets?

Where are the murdered
and the sick and the deceased?
Where are the fumes and the deadly sirens 
of grief and endless fatigue?

I need a sign, a whisper in my ear,
a gentle touch of defined light
to cast an hour on my clock
and turn oblivion into night.


-Thanks to ShadiatiQue for the beautiful picture. Make sure to check out her blog.

After the war

By the ruins of the church

the soldier looks up to the sky

waiting for the time in which

his brother might stand by his side.

Across wasteland and bodies

fifteen holes dug up by the men

entrenched down into the earth

cover the shame brought upon them.

Never again will he stand,

or gaze into his child’s eyes of life

and he crawls into the trenches

hoping to be buried when he dies.

Fear

Again these endless nights:
who knows what awaits
in the smoke-infested corridors
that lurk behind
my old clay doors.

The fear returns
(to what? - I doubt)
and is my only friend.
Lazy steps, and racing cars,
in my brain, (by my side?)
Who hides in that empty space
between darkness and my flesh?

Shadows breeds tiny monsters,
a shaman said. But wait!
I cast no light:
Maybe I'll find
that I am the grander menace
that devours their heads.

A Fellow of Infinite Jest

It's on again:

flashes ups

and down

your mind,

mixed,

crazy,

on fire.

It began

again

with the lights

that numb

the rest

of your heart,

your mind,

yourself.

It's on again,

and will return

again,

every time

your hand

presses "on"

and you let

your mind soar

away.

Farewell

These words aren't that hard
like sacred closet sounds:
merely unrelentless.

I am done with the
whispered dreams that aren't true.
The silver turn in view
pursues endless time.

We saw the colors
where love happened
Our minds reducted,
and soared together.

But we no longer
speak the language
of the beautiful people:

All the things you meant from me
the person we waited for
stuck together on the lock
of my heart and the faith
that dwelt inside of you.

Even when there was nothing
as full as yourself
you fought against my heart
taking cover, running away
taking one more fight
one more crazy dream
and left my naked body
drenched in your blood.

The road

An infinity of plains, barely stained by a lonesome lagoon over there and a group of trees on the other side… and slashed through by an endless snake of grey tar, that twists and coils over its everwet tail. It’s been imprisoned by the wires that somebody settled to its sides, and will never be able to escape.

The road, no one’s land, always waits to be traveled, always waits for somebody to stroke its back and rescue her from her solitude. But the scorching sun of the midday makes it an inhospitable place, only to become sorrowful during the afternoon, and dreary at nights. Nobody stops to ponder on the colours of its dusk, or the thousands of stars that light up when the sun decides to hide out.

We approach the city lights. Behind unfolds the road, with its beauties and its tedium, waiting for someone who finally uncovers the thousands of secrets it still has to offer.

Burning plains

The dry feet stumble

across the scorched earth

and with every step dust rises

turning harder every breath.

Offerings to the clouds and sky

circle the mud huts of the town;

in vain, for the gods refuse to cry

and allow their tears to come down.

And the heat gets stronger

with no relief to be found

not in the shade nor in the dark

and on the old Death is soon bound.

The eldest man finally collapses

and enters fiery Hell on Charon’s boat,

but soon the weather discomforts him

and heads upwards to get his coat.

(A small tribute to Juan Rulfo)

The Girl in the Linen Dress

The golden light of dusk,
fed her eyes, her face and hair,
and turned on fire
the most beautiful linen dress.

Not the sand under her feet,
nor the sea to which she gave warmth,
could keep me from gazing,
at such a wonderful sight.

And she turned on her dance,
the welcomed marine breeze,
to which her sacred white dress kept beat,
channeling my every sense into the deepest bliss.

Yet, my every intent to approach her,
were desperately vain, as she followed
to turn and turn, fading out, growing pale,
turning my sweet princess, into a forgone tale.

(Happy 21st Birthday to me!)

Faces in the Sand

I.

Whether it had been
the shining round Moon,
the eye of light in the starless night
or rather the freezing touch
of the golden gentle sand,
I could not realize
which had found me
softly dragging my feet
in that majestically desert beach.

Desert! Oh Lord, how I wish
the place had truly been so.
For anywhere I looked
there was no one to be seen
neither gently lit by the cold white light
nor casted from the shadows of the darkened sea.

II.

Yet, my mind, my soul and ears
crumbled into agony upon the sound
of voices of despair, crime and lust,
as whips punished with threshing hand.

Cries, oh terrible cries!
but still no dying one – not around.
No one but me and my soul which,
stabbed, bled for these terrible howls.

And the misery finally won,
and I crumbled: my knees,
on fire, yet numb, I couldn’t hold straight
and I collapsed, never finding defeat so bright.

Relief cooled my body with an intense wave,
as ice – which never lacks its thaw. 
For I saw, but couldn’t describe
what laid before my unbelieving eyes. 

III.

From what I before thought was
a gentle coat of beautiful sand,
an endless army of cursed faces emerged
devouring my every step into the Palace of Death.

These figures rhythmically danced, changed
and in their stillness, shared their place,
generously trading an eyeball, a mouth
and voice, in despair to form a face.

Shrieks. Bellows. Laughter caused by sorrow.
Screams and sighs of agony. Misery.
A whole world of torments had found its owners,
which, crumbled, desperately clanged to the sand.

And with every step,
a new mercy cry seemed to take shape
trading its rueful sound of pain
for a voice claiming its wishes in vain.

Heard I did, as one cursed soul,
merely the remnant of a lover’s memory
swore and spat its foul damnations and hopes
proving his life had truly been low.

IV. (A lover’s tale)

“Loved I did, and love was all I knew,
for years and years, my mind drifted aloof
as moon after moon, night after night,
only her voice could bring me back to the light.

Well, she truly was mine, merely for a kiss,
and instantaneous eternity of heavenly bliss,
in which our lips met, and darkness came
for the light we caused, dimmed Heaven’s flame.

Yet, Darkness forgot that single day,
to blind Tragedy’s vengeful eyes,
claimed my love’s shining future
and pushed my heart into everlasting torture”.

The Fall

The shadows crept upon my sheets
and forbade the sweet sleep to close my eyes,
to release my gentle soul from the gloom
and the dark melancholy of those fearful nights.

For eight days I had dwelt
in the majestic manor of my sick friend
settling his angst, his fear of death
and burying his undead sister into a maze.

But that night the whirlwind unset me
and my host's mind broke apart,
as he whispered in silence the secret:
Madalaine's was still a beating heart.

And aghast I fled from the rotten mansion
and saw through the moon and the thunder
how the winds broke through the growing crack
and caused the fall of the House of Usher.

(A small tribute to Edgar Allan Poe)

Leaving

In a crystal palace
or through the cutting wind
that bleeds my lips
I drop a tear.
Everywhere
I’m lonely,
for you are far,
so very cold,
and in the dark.


I miss you,
your warm hands,
and sweet smile,
the silly games
just running around.
Why did you leave?
I see now,
you are underground
but I’m in the dark.

Relentless

Across dark alleys I soar,
through the sharp chill that cracks my wings
and witness always the same:
the lust and crime, the excesses of men
and the cruel, relentless pain.

When the greedy, the criminals
and the corrupt take their last breath
and the city wipes itself of the soot
that stuck to the sweat of its walls,
a new age shall dawn for Men.

Liebster Blog Award

I'm honored to announce that Blackprint Poetry has recieved the Liebster Blog Award, which is passed on by fellow bloggers to recognize the recipient's contribution to blogging.
Thanks to Nomar Knight (and his beyond excellent blog Knight Chills) for the award! The prize should be passed forward to at least three blogs with less than 300 followers, so here it goes:


1 - "I write what I feel, I never worry what others think."
Definetly my first choice, I just love the irrevent (but optimistic) poetical style and themes. Always looking forward to more poetry from his author, Ackeem Russell.


Check him out at: http://a-poetsjustice.blogspot.com/


2 - Read between the minds
A beautiful poetry blog, complete with cool pictures that match the topic of the post.  Slpmartin's deep poetry surprises me with fast-paced rythm and witty denunciations of political wrongdoings of our time.


Check it out: http://slpmartin.wordpress.com/


3- The Guerilla Poetess
Skylar Smythe offers us some of the greatest erotic and romantic poetry to be found on the net. She is currently on the process of writing 30 poems in 30 days for National Poetry Month.


 Be sure to follow her at: http://guerillapoetess.blogspot.com/
Thanks to all, and hope to hear from you soon!

Remember to live

Remember to live
and grasp every second of life
Climb the colossal heights of night
and never forget to paint the colours of dawn.
And like a pioneer never cease
to make your way through forests
and walls of rock and fear.
Do not tremble at the callings of life
for they shall take you far beyond you’ll ever thought
and they will find your own true self,
down inside the carcass of your mortal skin.
And as the sun rises and falls,
your path shall meander so,
in glorious days and wicked times
life will not seldom find you
but the overwhelming grace of a fulfilled soul
shall cover the pain for the luxuries lost.

The Ordeal of Love

Why should I even try,
If it merely consumes my me,
Crashes my heart on lonely pressing nights,
When you seem far, very distant apart?

I know how this should work,
You in my mind and nothing else…
But how’d you expect my jealous heart,
To see my love near some reembracing arms?

And my tastes are far from my control…
So I came late, what else should I do?
I can’t turn the hearts of my near around,
Change their lives, when I am so far from that.

So I will turn to bed tonight,
Maybe furious, confused and tossing throughout,
Things will stay the way they are,
And I will think around and smell beside,

And remember once again,
That I love you.

On Dreamland

This place is mysteriously bizarre,
like in a midnight rush hour
thousands pass and come by,
uncontrolled laughter, and
bellows of excitement (or pity?)

Yet everybody is doing something,
things I can’t really figure out
hazy blurs of running men,
skirmishes and dancing tribes.

But none of this unfocuses me.
As I glide towards my orange sign
and I stand beside her
and she takes me away.

The Game of Fire and Feathers

Amid the blaze of fire,
she dances alive,
bowed down upon the presence
of fiery creatures,
which, casted, burn and smoke
and cry their spirits out
majestically following the music’s flow.

A feathered mask hides her face,
and conceals more than a girl’s game,
for, yes! she dances alive,
but in her steps she carries
the whole weight of the World
finely woven in the colours
of feathers of dead ancient birds. 

Highland cries

A ray of light breached the clouds
and blinded my sore eyes
and on turning I saw the tall
valiant figure of a Highland man.

Not perceived by his sight
and sneaking through gentle grass
I silently followed this fierce lad
and saw there was nothing he could lack.

The long red squared kilt was crossed
by a leather coated maze and spear
and drops of blood of unlucky redcoats
dripped through savagely wounded legs.

And the clouds dispersed and I saw;
behind the hill, a vast army of clans
had gathered in this year of Our Lord
seventeen hundred and forty five.

Highland warriors held their stand
urged by the call of Stuart’s House
to claim their rightful throne, once
bitterly torned clans joined in arms.

The Cadence to Arms, the final Albion
shout and the valiant first strike.
Rivers of redcoat blood now drown
the injured and deceased alike.

But Bonnie Prince Charles wished more
and seeked only his Kingdom come.
And spirits and ideals left aside
the Stuart House shows Scotland his back.

Alone, unprotected, forsaken and betrayed
hundred of Highland warriors offer their lives
bleeding and hurting, crying for a cause,
an idea that, for a few, could be left to die.

(This was the first poem I ever wrote. Be merciful :) . Sorry to the Scots for any historical inaccuracy.)

For shattered dreams

Our muse is over and gone,
and the chosen one feels
as no inspiring hope
onto which cast our dreams;
and we are left to hurt and cry
pointlessly unravelling blue
as lines are filled with no bright
a path straightened to our dark doom.

Irony stands seemingly on our way
when we hope to fulfill our dreams,
as they head for turning points of life,
and allows us not to split our time,
our mind, our soul or our heart,
and shatters one merely for the sake
of feeding and nursing the next.

And this is how true love,
not seldom our ink’s stroke
fractures eager hands with swift blows
when once in the crossroad all’s been said and done.

Thus, Justice’s scale balances oneways
and we laugh and are merrily satisfied
but still up in our crimson plate,
one of us weeps for the brother sacrificed.