The Robing of the Bride

Inspired by one of my favorite paintings. Click to read in The Ekphrastic Review.

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A Journey

The door to your mind’s garden

is guarded by tools from the devil’s forge.

I can’t help sticking pine needles into my eyes

if I see you too much.

Your face is made of stone,

and the sacrifice was not optional.

Trying hard not to smile,

you walked like an earthquake,

you made me fall through my own cracks

under the earth’s crust,

where I learned

that we are all born with wings

and the only enemy is forgetting.

I will not be bound

by tears that flow like blood from perverted stigmata;

I will search the skies for the giant fish

that carries on its back the world we want.

I will go there by myself –

not abandoned, but upright with the pride

of a beast thought long extinct.

NOTE: The imagery in this poem was partially inspired by the work of Romanian artist Ștefan Câlția

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The Lioness

She could not be born today –

not on the magazine covers

showing pictures of twenty-year-olds

putting on little girl uniforms

only to spread their legs,

not in the house where

Bluebeard’s wife gives him a hand

in throwing a new corpse down the cellar stairs,

not in the crowds of the living

with their touchscreen lotus-eating machines,

who have forgotten that they live.

The human mask hides the head of a lioness,

but you’re only looking at the body.

You think it was made for hands and eyes.

You don’t see how it was also made for war,

and you don’t see how she would fight for you.

All you know is how to put her through

the thorns of things you fear –

and so she walks unborn.

 

 

*See also:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sekhmet

http://genius.com/Angela-carter-the-tigers-bride-annotated

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This Is Not a Prayer

This is not a prayer,

since prayers are what you listen to

when you need a good laugh.

Spoiled little boy in the sky,

playing the earth like a video game –

the crimson of our blood

is just a pretty color

that you like to see,

and our tears are merely what happens

when you have pissing contests

with the neighbor downstairs.

The only thing I really know

is the nameless pain of the wife

who hasn’t found a husband

and of the mother

who’s never borne a child.

And I guess I also know

that you cannot hurt me

if I choose

to call everything you send my way

a gift.

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New Published Poem

Hello everyone! I have a new published poem, inspired by my favorite artist, Max Ernst. Please go to The Ekphrastic Review to read it:

http://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/forest-and-dove-by-anca-rotar

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From the Broken Hearts Notice Board

It’s just that I wonder

if she touches you like I would –

slowly,

trying to read you like a map,

seeking for the places

where pain screams under skin,

so she can lure it out

and make it her own.

It’s just that sometimes

when I get lost on evening streets

it takes a moment to realize

I’m there alone.

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They Should Know You by Now

I’ll have to remember

to buy some peanuts

and try to tame the ravens.

They should know me by now.

Like the cats know me –

begging for food

in mezzosoprano voices.

Isn’t that what we all want?

I know now

that air is god-shaped,

but my guides are all beggars

and they are all blind, even if

they should know you by now.

I get these goosebumps on my skin,

whether it’s cold outside

or the sky is orange hot.

It’s ok, they’re just

tiny dents in the machine, but

they should know you by now.

Sometimes you don’t want

to count the roads –

that’s one song I got tired of

before I even learned the words.

How many seas? Who cares?

To hell with them –

they should know you by now.

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