Poetry by Marieta Maglas

Senbon Zakura Mirror Dance

I had closed the cracked window.
The gust of the first born wind
disappeared into the coming rain
together with the flute, the drums, 
and the fleeting nature 
of the movements-
explosions, distortions.

'Twas like dancing slowly with 
the image in the mirror
or like fragmenting 
the memories of love
to empty the minds-
emotions that were eaten by
the heat of the summer.

I took a seat near my neighbor
whose husband had been 
a soldier fighting in Asia
until having his half of the head 
removed by a bullet.
He had always been
one of the best.

Suddenly, the movement 
became very fast while continuing 
without music
like in a sequence of movie frames
that builds tension 
to enhance the consciousness-
euphoria, chills.

The dancers were, in fact, 
impair numbers having
their white sashes wrapped 
around their heads
while pirouetting
at a heightened tempo
to give this motion a sense
of living.

The window opened 
to bring the noise of the metropolis
and the smell of the twisting wind.
Well, it was not a killing one
like those coming from the polls 
and being filled 
with some tiny bacteria
that had been left by the meteors or 
by the lost civilizations.
'Twas only a rainy wind.
These bacteria are not fictions; 
they warm up to become 
real weapons, 
not Disney animations.

Life itself is not an illusion.
When life becomes hallucination, 
then, something else 
must be actual.

The hail hit 
the roof of silence.
The dancers 
were waving their arms above 
their heads while clapping wildly
their swaying bodies
to express the words- 
numbers of God.
I would say that
'twas not a previously 
choreographed dance.

Ancestral emotions moved 
all the things of the mind
out of the free space.
Crawled swiftly within
the suffering souls from which
have started to disappear peacefully.




The White City

I'm in the white city.

A dense fog

Disintegrates all my hopes.

There are people dreaming

Of nonexistent worlds, 

There are disoriented people

Walking on the terminal's sidewalk.

There are lights turning on and off so erratically

In this white city.

There are hidden screams in the night

Covered by the heavy rain sounds, 

That rain falling continuously

And monotonously.

In this white city, 

The victims

Don't understand that they are victims yet.

There are flowers, 

There are fast food kiosks, 

There are botanical gardens, 

With beautiful exotic trees, 

And there are horror movies in the theaters.

As shadows emerging from the fog

Are the last steps.

There are steps searching each other, 

And there are steps that are separated forever.

The rain's sounds

Vibrate the eye of the windows, 

Vibrate the burial stones, 

Vibrate the dreams, 

Those dreams

About better days.

Apparently, 

Someone screams

In the white mist of the night.

Maybe he's the victim of an aggression, 

Or maybe, he's someone who has lost his love.

Maybe it's just an echo...

I'm in the white city

And I'm searching for you in the darkness... 



​
The Last Cicada 

The sadness scattered 
over the walls resonating 
with what was 
in the heart 
of the mountain.
No sound could be heard.
A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas
were shrouded in mist.

A somewhat long-winded 
like a speech
surrounded the sky. 
Maybe it was an echo, 
a sesquipedalian one.
It wasn't breathless at all.

Nothing could have saved 
nature around.
Neither of the forests, 
neither of the birds, 
and neither of the bears 
could survive.....
Nothing more 
could have been done. 

All the moving peaks became 
small stones, as solitary 
as the moon, 
at the fugitive horizon. 
The last cicada
disappeared.

Everything became motionless.
There were only the shadows 
of the trees
to follow the sunbeams.
The nature game 
turned detrimentally 
into a disaster.

In an illuminated city, 
a man bought
a lovely bouquet of red roses 
wanting to bestow 
what it is considered to be
a symbol of romance. 
This man needed 
to express his love 
and to let his woman know 
how he feels about her.
This man disappeared.
He was the last one.
Nothing could have saved him.
Nothing more 
could have been done. 

Bio: Ardus Publications, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, Silver Birch Press, HerEthics Books, and some others published the poems of Marieta Maglas in anthologies like Tanka Journal , Three Line Poetry #25, Three Line Poetry #39 edited by Glenn Lyvers, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry edited by Yossi Faybish, A Divine Madness edited by John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin edited by Marie Lecrivain, ENCHANTED - Love Poems and Abstract Art edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, Intercontinental Anthology edited by Madan Gandhi, and Nancy Drew Anthology edited by Melanie Villines. Her poems have been also published in journals like Poeticdiversity, I Am not a Silent Poet, Our Poetry Corner, and Antarctica Journal.

---