ditch,

the poetry that matters

Mihaela Tudor

Mihaela Tudor is from Romania but at present she works in Saudi Arabia as an English lecturer. Previously she published flash fiction on www.orionheadless.com (“The Rhapsody of Thoughts”) and in The Battered Suitcase on www.vagabondagepress.com (“Les Reveries d’un Promeneur plus Solitaire”). Some poetry has been posted on Little Episode writers' blog.

 

Summer return

 

She's sitting on his bed,

Can't remember the deaf or the blind,

The souvenir of illo tempore is lost

With her once at his forgotten side,

Holding hands

Like marbles trying to sculpture fire

within the sleepy wind…

She's now in the dim light,

Drinking a summer transgressed return.

 

Do you remember? Once your words dropped silent

And eyes drew wings,

Acoustic honey strings

And purples of wine

On this skin;

Do you remember? Once you made love to the mirror,

Emerald scent burning my breast

While nailed in the corner…

Do you remember? Once you played the Alchemist,

Turning me into an ephemerid

Feeding her the never coming morrow…

 

She's sitting on his bed,

 hands frozen in frames,

She can't remember the deaf or the blind,

Acoustic honey strings

Flowing onto the skin;

 

Solitary violin on a shelf;

Naked,

in a transgressed summer return. 

 

 

 

Anti- U

 

I was fantasizing tonight….

Had I danced with him

Within purple shades scented with dreams,

Although he s not the dreamer;

He's not the lover;

He's not the dancer.

Forgot the steps,

Came tumbling on the floor,

holding the body of evanescence.

 

Had I marbled all frames with him,

To have something at least,

And don’t feel like a thief,

Or a beggar,

But he s not the giver,

He's not the hand holder,

He's not the always present,

 

I feel stolen.

 

Had I surrounded him once with my arms,

This time I can’t let you go,

Just once had I broken that door,

Disturb the mania of recurrent regrets, sighs and frustrated attempts,

Step on the courtesy of the moments,

In Now,

Me into the lottery

Of warming up these freezing cold of silky skin

Shining and burning my hands,

Untouched,

My hair,

Uncovered by his breath,

My image,

Unseen by his eyes,

 

I feel stripped of my flavor.

 

I feel the incessant struggle to keep whispers away…

Where is he in the end?

Relying on Never….

 

I feel split by a thunder.

He's not the giver;

He's not the lover,

He's just somehow the everything.

 

 

 

Arcadia

 

Ballet on a plum;

I've chosen you as a purple land

Of Uroborus dances,

I've had you within me,

The rest

Is a tiny member left aside,

too lost in you.

 

Swallowing circles and sparrows.

 

Lay down… skin creating those invisible arms

which grab my wrist sometimes

in a deprived of awareness thought…that could be mine…

that could be the “me” in you

Let’s do it again; rewind of the scene,

Preserving the intact,

Swans in my mind,

Balancing wings between abstract spinning

And real absurd that falls as common hail from the sky

in a stormy day… but you are here.

 

Herd of unicorns raining through the split ends of my hair

their crystalline presence,

Lay down…

Surround system of eloquent marches

through the spoken thoughts and the silent.

 

 

Lay me down…

Rewind rivers of dark chocolate

and gems wandering along the skin…

Shhhhhhhhhhhh…

“Just wanted to hold you a bit”

Wish you could hold me within…

 

Riding the unicorns

With swans on the shoulders,

Within the spinning of a purple plum.

 

Uroborus distilled.

 

 

 

 

Portraits

 

It was part of his world
This capsule of sequential times,
Since there was never nothing else between a and b,
the drawers with carnival masks,
A feast of disguised breakdowns,
Or spoiled ups by fearful looks
So that he could emerge from polished ways
To split to an end imperfect facades;
I loved him with imaginary wings.

It was part of me
To push open windows toward limitless ends,
And edgy crevices beyond our loving nothingness,
So he loved me
with imaginary warm winds.

It was part of ecstatic coming and going
To feel naked, move naked
And chase naked thoughts along the mirror,
So I loved myself
With imaginary touches of fingers,
His,
Damped in warm painting oil.

 

Around it was silent.

 

A glamorous shisha

sparkling emerald shades in candle light

When nights were burning whispers,

Or whispers were burning under my skin…

Around, the world was silent,

Feverish…

Harder.

 

Smoking flavors of solitude,

Raising into the air like amber,

I was dancing with serpents

Like an Indian master,

Around, the world was silent,

Tantric…

heaven.

 

Burning coal at the touch of words,

Alighting wings, shaping thoughts,

“I want to have the world”,

Around, the world was silent.

 

The desert came,

Ate the snakes,

and left in shades of amber.

Around, the world was silent.

 

Too close to you.

 

 

 

10 minutes

 

The door opens,

a few welcoming words

and a squeezed smile

between the trap of the hasty thought

of his 10 minute visit

and my wish of having him longer

with me;

 

While sitting on the sofa

Words do their round,

starting with the flow of the day

and reaching that very moment.

Beyond this,

with every minute going on,

my retreat in sadness

seeing his hand

resting on a cushion,

his eyes with the look

given to any other person

and my attempt

of resting my head on his chest,

or touching his hand,

thinking I shouldnt do it…

I give him what I would like to have

but never comes to me spontaneously,

or just as a normal thing…

I hate the silence after he leaves,

or the glimpses of those moments with him

when nothing happens,

as if they are all, always,

an anticipation of the next ones

I hate the silence

after he leaves,

unbearable chain

becoming tighter

at the thought

of the possible impossible change,

here again tomorrow,

and the day after tomorrow

and so on….

I dont know why it always hurts,

I should have got used to it,

accepted it…

It just stays there,

in my heart,

a knife going deeper

and the heat of the blood,

an equivoque between the weakness of being in love,

rebellion tracing last drop of dignity,

absurdity in counting time

for a nothing-like rehearsal,

which is neither routine, nor anything new,

sometimes achieving the climb of one step,

sometimes falling…

all the way down,

until I become crushed,

wishing I could be one with the dust,

the most infamous person in the world,

who s not worthy of his own wishes,

love,

but at least left alone,

a beggar,

an ignorant,

a woman without anything,

instead of having it all

and feeling this emptiness,

a gambler,

playing with fate…

in all these always alone,

with him or without,

in tears or in smiles,

in dreams, hopes and plans,

everywhere, anywhere, nowhere,

words of despair,

possibilities,

corrupted thoughts,

a mix of decadence and flight to above,

or downwards…

So much silence around,

Him near;

Me far,

or the other way around…

The opposite

would not make a better sense,

”You are too artistic for me”

his escape,

”I m too artistic  because of you”,

because of the so many times I die and come back,

that even the Phoenix

would get into the exasperation

of so many sudden changes,

for you….

A scent of perfume…

I dont want to live on reflection,

you think I m good to fantasize,

when these fantasies

are just feelings,

instead of blooming with brightness in my eyes,

killing the life

of what is left in me

after you leave,

look behind with a smile

and send a wish of goodnight.

 

 

 

 

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                                                                                                  January 31, 2013