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MARIETA MAGLAS

SONGSOPTOK THE WRITERS BLOG | 6/15/2015 |




BETWEEN REAL AND UNREAL


The thing with no name
Surrounded by sadness,
That kind of sadness
Penetrating the silence,
That kind of silence
Searching for the tears,
Those tears
Becoming cubes of light,
Those cubes wondering
About their situation of their becoming,
Being involved in a movement
Apparently anarchic,
Needing “a priori cognoscible,”
Some synthetic truths
And a lot of empirical postulates
On the shape of their inner dislocation,
Their inner being having an unstable equilibrium,
Needing a stable equilibrium,
That equilibrium
Becoming an emblematic symbol
For the diminishing boundary
Between real and unreal,
That cubic thought withdrawing into the self,
Slowly becoming
A memory . . .

EXISTING OUTSIDE MYSELF


I am transformed
from my ego into your ego.
I am passive
while existing outside myself.
My ego is also my nonego.
I am only a part of you
insofar as
I am a part of you as your sensuous being.
I am your idea,
taking on sensuousness,
when nothing is permanent.
I am here for
the realization of your aims
in Omniscience,
in Omnipotence,
and in Omnipresence.

THOUGHTS OF UNKNOWING NESS
(COMPLEX POETIC FORM)

Thoughts of unknowingness and you dance me
until I become only movement . . . This tango undresses
my feelings, and I am stripped of all bad thought
to be enlightened. I am a Cartesian clear and distinct object
on this pyramidal peak of the mountain, where
the echoes trail off almost forever over the horizon.
Let’s sing, either with the power or with angels or with freedom,
nought else nor no more songs, but a swing song,
a prothalamion, which
clearly,
straightly,
rightly,
truly
expresses nothing less than the clarity of our true feelings
and nothing more than the rightness of our straight angles of view.
There is the fullness of our love, where
God is knowable, whether willful or involuntary.
We can neither see still,
solace still one another
in our sufferings,
unless we are irreversibly stuck in His
unending love cycle. There are, in fact,
a cognitive itch
and a divination using the human form
while being alive,
when life is not alive in its own sense
except for the eternity.
We can be good people
through this consciousness of ours,
which is relentless and reflexive,
especially when it becomes an object to itself.
I am not myself,
I am only this reaction of mine
in front of others,
like a doppelgänger in the mirror.
The more I feel the time passing,
the more I understand eternity.
Yet turn, turn to live each second of no return.
There is no yellow horse in our dreams,
neither is this golden ripe wheat field
our land of freedom.
The sun shines still for every still green sunflower
following it from east to west each day.
I’m spellbound by
the swinging sonorous cadence
of the birds chirping on the pyramids
and on the peaks of the mountains.

[MARIETA MAGLAS]




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