A Slice Of Life - Hello Poetry

May 6

irinia

her/him

when I closed my eyes I saw her,
the woman traversing his dreams
like the verticality of forests
the one breaking into many
she knits the storms in his fingers
keeps the poems of dawn composed
like the sea keeps the horizon folded into itself
she wears different densities of perfume or none at all
the intensity a mirror, the warmth tangible
and unsure like a velvet smile
her bodies a road map into the serenity of clouds
she is hot like the sand - it is always wild in the light
she fills his skin with her everything again
blackness collapses into wonder
she keeps piercing the name of pain
the semiotic self is rippling into the clarity
of clay

when I close my eyes I saw him
the man traversing her dreams
the one breaking into many
echoes fractals aches &
the vitality of blues

#poetry

Apr 25

irinia

encounters (6) a tale of two shoes

"Today I didn't think..." she paused without breathing, "I took the shoes today... to get comfortable..." A monalisa smile on her beautiful face, as if happy to get lost into an unseen dimension. Her body was cuddling on the sofa like in a fresh nest. Silence was spinning softly around us. I stared at her shoes emptied on the floor, I entered their dream. Minutes passed or half minutes, they felt years.
Years of hope and heaviness, ambition and laughter, ignorance and bliss. They looked helpless, tired, used against their vocation by a stern pace. " My skin is itching... again...." Her skin doesn't want me to see through her, I thought, her skin doesn't want anyone to see what she saw, to feel what she felt. I looked at her in silence, I waited for the shoes to unfold their poetry. I hoped for a smile to slide on her skin one day

#poetry

Apr 23

irinia

escape

How many rythms we are and who listens.
We are inaudible.
No body can escape history, only in dreaming.
The dreams dream the missing body.
The mind escapes in its architecture, an unstable jungle.
it evades in dreams too
The dreamer dreams what one cannot think.
Concepts are birds on wire or double edge swords,
one edge cuts the density of the world, the other one cuts the body away. The body is the musical canvas of the mind.
Ideas don't exist without a hand, without a tongue.
Everything transforms into other than itself,
the body becomes mind, the mind becomes body.
Thoughts turn into motion, sensation into image, images turn into words, colours, noise, an eternal hum,
we are the toys of a god of life.
Everything vibrates in a potential field of meaning.
Every tribe of cells has its own sense of time and grammar,
In between the empty space improvises.
The mind is a martial artist, it rehearses its moves with conviction and pathos.
The body absorbs reality and feeds the mind, it is an amplifier of life.
These words are passing through my mind, my chest, my eyes, my hand,
I don't know exactly what they mean.
How much sense there is in a touch,
how light or rushed or heavy or shy or joyous or furious or screaming or ardous or defeated or uncertain or afraid.
I carry the other in me when I dream their bodies.
Then you move away, stay or dissapear, who knows.
Communication moves through the body.
Everything that is alive finds a way to be.
Everything that is alive finds a way to destroy its aliveness.
The body resonates inside the body of the world.
The nuances of light gives the eye its intensity,
the movement of darkness moves the mind to fill the blanks.
A shared chemistry binds us and how much effort we put to disentangle.
Full succes is impossible.
There is no escape from being alive until we greet the great unknown, I suspect death is alive too after all.
we already know many ways of dying, we pretend not to know how life can render us lifeless.
Frozen, constricted, unflowing, circling, dying bit by bit.
Nowdays we die with speed in our eyes, with surprise.
What do words dream and who dreams the words?
Who dreams the world and who shares the dream?
I don't want to be captive in anyone's dream.
Let's share the dreaming,
from some dreams
there is no scape.

#life #death #dreaming #body #mind

Apr 9

irinia

who

the mind needs to repeat this journey
into the clarity of fruits/glasses/doors
they used to talk with voices without tears
they used to speak without tongue
we are pedestrians into aerial dreams sometimes
we live in this density of meaning too complex for a circle
an uncoscious trajectory so precise & mysterious
I throw myself into the pool of time,
in its seeds, dangers, spirals,
into the unseen in my eyes
who I am is a destiny

#mind #dream #meaning #time #destiny

Apr 7

junipercloud

flies on the antlers

i saw a bluebird
and a cardinal
out the window
and i thought of
my mother’s many
miscarriages
i imagined her
weeping, kneeling
over her womb
laid out on a stretcher
above her
no longer feeling
a small heartbeat
bouncing around
the silence of
her tongue
i saw a bluebird
and a cardinal
out the window
and i thought of
the fact that i was
sitting here looking
at birds
as my mother’s
daughter flew
as if there
were a sun in the room
and i cried
as if she could
feel my tears inside
of her
like my tiny fingers
and feet
when i was in
her beautiful
stomach
i saw a bluebird
and a cardinal
out the window
and i thought of
the event
of being born
i do not remember
my birth
nor does
the doctor
whom i cannot claim
to have never met
hands scored
with disinfectant
touching my newborn
body
delicate
i grew up to
tell people i
was born in texas
and they tell me
all about texas
and i learn more
than i would had
i not been born
there, had
i not lived elsewhere
a box
of tissues on
the nightstand
i saw a bluebird
and a cardinal
out the window
and i thought of
how i was a
completely new
person to her
(my mother)
when i was born
and does
a parent ever
truly know the
stranger they created?
so i sat
and wondered
all the while
my mother
in a car
reassuring my every
turn, dodging roadkill
flies on the antlers
more carcasses
than yellow lines
on the road
i saw a bluebird
and a cardinal
out the window
and i thought of
my mother and i
and how are we?
and how many?

Apr 3

irinia

no surprise

no surprise we collide with the future
the great avenger invades our fiber
the old method of collapsing the future
still in the cards. how many cards are there?
the world a stage for mindlessness
ideology more powerful than reality
complexity will have a say in the tale of chaos
misread victimhood to put on a show
the tyranny of dark ideas uncontainable
number pi is missing from the formula but
penguins are resilient to shock therapy, lucky them
we'll hold our breath and see the world anew
no surprise we are inclined to run away from our contribution
to reality, a deeper wound is perhaps
the dark matter of history

#future #ideology

Apr 3

irinia

time

the rulers of time must be blindfolded
they invent voidless words, old eager hands
in this time without dimensions
in this space devoid of meaning
they delete their mothers from themselves
the warmth of bodies is imprisoned in anguish
the body invades the mind, and the mind replies,
it invades the body, an impossible conversation
thoughts are transitional landscapes
but thinking might rebell and fragment into a standstill
time filled my mind and stuffed my throat
to tighten the unthinkable pain
on days with thick blood and stagnant winds
no words to fill the void, the unbearable hopelessness
the letters got destroyed by the gastric acid
and so I became... the reflux of pain

#time #history #pain #hopelessness

Apr 2

irinia

movement

this intensity: I rediscover
the edge of falling into oneself,
reinventing reality,
pain, blind feathers, sharp teeth, limits
this deficit of whispering
thoughts can see their end, their imaginary double
the roots of words translucent
their feedom released
they dismantle non words,
half-truths or nontruth
birds are free to be birds
or dreams of the air
hunger for connection is a hunger for creation
this feeling a vital movement, an undercurrent hallucinating forests
a delicate complexity of vulnerability and necessary innocence
the forgetting is colourless, as a matter of fact
there is no true forgetting, but nature itself invented
a God of mercy

#poetry #feeling #forgetting

Apr 2

irinia

poetry

words are embryos of some thoughts,
it must be said they were arbitrary were they were born
their calling as deep as the alphabet of time
in a preformed space it was already there
the force that keeps a me apart from we
my mother fed me with words day and night
in a time when the word Babel was so tall

is poetry a shortcut or a detour into the unthinkable?
a compromise with the death of language
we anesthetize the dawn getting rid of memory
we ventilate emotions through our muscles
but the Carnot cycle keeps spinning
an emotional engine escaping precision, not questions
unsaturated images in our stories, an unruly body
suffused with misery and dreaming
I will write an endless poem till darkness exhausts itself
as a diver who runs out of oxigen

when sand storms are triggered in my hands
black cloths cover the mirrors
I have died an unfelt death

#poetry