Life, or something like it.....

5d

irinia

"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

7d

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 22

irinia

emotion

a quarter of a second
that's all I need to understand
the emotion of spring leaves

#spring

Apr 22

irinia

everyday tyranny

If I stop dreaming
It fully wakes the beast
Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld

a collapsed time, its recurring pulse
spews me in and out of my mold
everything exists all at once
everyday,
probable and frozen states,
this configuration of atoms.
terror owned my muscles
cruelty assaulted my mind
I was breathing only in dreams
fused and confused,
receptacle for an anarchic pain.
I was living the secret life of moths
encapsulated in strangled words

I am writing:
this is the shape of a heart
no denial.
a tyranny of silence
is an impossible exile.
oh, I have to remember
the fortitude of silence
when I'm shouting,
when the tyrant is I

#tyranny

Apr 21

irinia

April

it's April in the lilac's sweetness
I need a break from this modern mind,
from the chronic, endemic discourse of crisis
I am looking: this creature, the sea, is herself
the wind shouts without words
echoes pass through the gate of tears,
weapons of mass production
take my hands and do something with them
layers of silence or the tango of closeness,
the thought of an uniterrupted line

#poetry

Apr 13

irinia

adoration

I unfold in adoration of clouds leaves wild flowers bees
thoughts pass like the shadows of birds
everything gets illuminated revealing a core
the world gets deeper than one thought

#nature #light #spring

Apr 11

irinia

antidote

words have orbit for pain to find a skin,
to slide into wonder
silence is in balance with the danger in your eyes
I'm not looking for an antidote for dreaming
I feel your barbaric alchemy, your mouth full of birds
I play hide and seek with you in my hair
your hands don't sit quiet at the edge of hours
I wear my steps like I throw the dice
poetry is an antidote for the scream of an unseen colour
I keep you in my tears and you flow

#poetry

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 9

irinia

war

a ***** war between language and forgetting

Gulag, Holocaust, Holodomor, Maafa
Operation Condor, Shock and Awe
red famine, potato famine
the kurdish, uyghur, rohingya, Isaaq genocide
Bengal, Rwanda, Armenia, Ukraine, Palestine,
Burundi, Nigeria, Zimbabwe
encompassing the geography of cruelty
someone humane did
actually write a book of inhumanity
560000 people killed on every page
1500 people killed at every word

still can't decipher the blood as if it's a hieroglyph
insatiable the history of pain

some are in the mood for war, for triumph
our eyes are swallowed by a verticalless convulsion
the cyclopic mind is doomed to fail
it's impossible to bury this time
in a hacked sky over a fragile earth

#history #war #cruelty #time

Apr 7

junipercloud

Thursday, April 3, 2025 1:56 pm

I sit on the white bench under the willow tree near the funeral home.
I miss the haunted house, light blue like my childhood home used
to be, and I think, can I visit? and where shall I stay?
The picket fence was broken, you mended it; someday I will return
only to bend it again. Thinking of you all the while.
Thinking of you at Hy-Vee stealing someone else’s groceries
from their cart because I told you I liked to rebel,
and you listened, and we both understood
why we wanted to take the apples we wouldn’t eat.
Ants spilling from the ripe fruit as we bit into it,
like dawn, like perpendicular lifelines.
And all this is imaginary, like the blank playing card
you found on the ground in front of a different person’s house;
but I think about it like it’s true.
I’m at a funeral home, after all. And I swear,
I must have conjured you out of the dark. The stars splintered, the
moon split open; fingertips sinking
steadily into lunar grooves, lattices, plaits of long black hair.
I pulled you from the silver dust— breath to bone. And I love you,
but I miss you all the same, for we were made from the same stardust;
we passed each other before we slipped out of collective conscious into the human race.
And the sky ends six times before I get up from the bench. And I knock
six times on the front door before passing through it.
Wrapped in a black cloak. Accustomed to the taste
of ice as it is handed to me in small plastic cups,
brought to me as I lay in a hospital bed; everything pale, sallow,
the nurses gazing absently with pity on their faces. And I chew my ice.
And I will come back to the funeral home, to the haunted house, to you.
I will come back.

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

Mar 26

irinia

***

Humanity has been so much like a child
With too many rich, useful toys,
Playing with each one that's given,
And discarding it when something
Newer appears in its midst.

We have been dilettantes and amateurs
With some of our greatest notions
For human betterment.
We have been spoilt children:
We have been like tyrannical children;
Impatient and imperious, demanding
Proof when listening is required,
Tearing things down when they don't do
What we want them to do
(How much simpler to let things do only
What they can do)
Being uncreative about what seems dark
And terrifying; preferring
Only what seems easy
And effortless;
Questioning the numbers
Of a philosophy's
Followers rather than examining
The fruitfulness of its ideas;
Wandering down blind alleys of populism
That lead to concentration camps;
Refusing to admit our vast crimes and mistakes
Denying the horrors of the slave trade
Minimising the reality of the gas chambers
Tearing our hair out in futile attempts
At reconciling civilization with genocide,
When civilization (as we have come to accept it)
Never did mean the true universal goodness
Of heart, but rather meant the self-mythology
Of a people, a race.
No, neither the good in us, nor
Our capacity for evil are exhausted.
Time will show just how young
We are in our abilities,
Of genius for good and evil.
For all these strains, unexamined,
And unredeemed,
Will find their higher fruition
In the unlit centuries to come.

by Ben Okri from Mental Fight An Anthem for the Twenty-First Century

#history #time #good #evil #civilization