"magdalena" poems
An Open Letter to Really Important People
The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness
We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go
To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name
Signatories:
Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.
Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be
Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED
Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico
Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X
(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
Gugunitain daw nila ang pagpapakasakit ng anak ng diyos. Paano tanong ng isa sa kanila? Ewan ko, bahala ka. Magpapapako ba ako sa krus o magpapahampas ng latigo habang pasan ko ito? Tang-ina bahala ka pati ba naman yan problema ko pa?
Mas guwapo daw si Hudas kumpara kay Hesus at ito daw si Magdalena ang naging asawa ng Tagapagligtas. E ano ngayon?
Hindi ako apektado kahit pinalaya ni Pilato si Barabas kapalit ni Kristo at wala rin akong paki-alam kahit paulit-ulit na nagduda si Tomas.
Kung nabuhay mang muli si Kristo at umakyat sa langit wala itong kabuluhan, sayang lang ang kanyang pagpapakasakit.
Bakit?
Sapagkat lalong dumami ang mga ulol na tao sa mundo; hindi napabuti ang sangkatauhan sa ginawang pagpapakasakit ng karpintero ng Galileya mukhang lalo pa itong napasama. Patuloy na lumaganap ang kasakiman at kaulolan ng tao sa mundo.
kaya't walang saysay na gunitain ang Mahal na Araw sapagkat mura at walang halaga ang bawat oras ng mga mamamatay tao at manlulupig na nagsasabing sila'y mga tagasunod ni Kristo.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
you are all of the mind’s dirtiest trick:
a weathered image of Magdalena,
a sleight of hand and a swirl of skin.
defying the laws of inebriation like a culprit
set loose, or the pallor of the moon excreting its habiliments.
the old rancor of the tree from its spurious beating. vestal buds of autumn
frugal hands of drizzle in April, prostitutes pirouetting, pried open,
dissected in faces of the tabloids (their almost acrobatic supremacy on centerfolds)
all mangled like the unclear, yet certain picture of a 1990s havocked
retrospect.
you are all of the mind’s filth: a putrid modal-jazz entrapment
and I am that sad fellow at the elbow room of some dislimned establishment
falling as lithe as poppies in spring
only when my mind starts to sing freely, a clenched, harmonic framework
will my bones start to unloose in the ether, death with its ammoniac perfume,
closes in like an unwanted visitor with a bounty of silence drowning everything.
i imagine you anything but lustrous this evening.
there are certain points in the pressures of your gravity
that levitate to mere intersections of the finer points of ecstasy.
i imagine you all soft and plump as a word of salvage
without the vigor of blandishments when you start with your
own way of moving i imagine you as blunt as a dull knife
plunging into me – i imagine your sidereal satellites fail in their coverage
over impossibly the blackest of skies in February,|
i imagine you anything but clean
and all white and spruced up with the most
drenched light, real to the touch and swiftly moving across the afternoon
like wishing you all but perverse and anomalous
and strikingly beautiful.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
She weaves, a river of black,
Flowing from her lap,
The current increasing with each thread
Of satin, of black drops pouring out
From her fingers.
The walls smell of dye,
home to a spider,
In its web a beetle caught.
Murky pools of wax indicate
Where illumination was sought.
In this dark and dingy Hut,
The weavemistress carries on,
A lonesome life but filled with joy,
Of creating what was not from
Mundane items like skin and cloth.
With none to look out for,
And none to look for her,
She finished her masterpiece,
The last design she had to offer.
In silence and in peace,
In resignation and in a need
To mark the final creation
With a final deed.
Magdalena bared herself,
Poised before the window reflecting
The candles
And her haunted frame,
She adored herself as
She adorned herself
With her Gown of Black,
Feeling no regret, feeling no shame.
And to celebrate,
She lit a fire
Poured wine,
Not to the wood,
Not in a glass.
But to the Gown
And on the walls.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
Overcome by your
moving temple,
Overcome by this
holiest of altars
So pure,
so rare,
to witness such an earthly goddess;
that I've lost my self control,
beyond compelled to throw this dollar down before your
Holiest of altars
I'd sell
My soul
My self-esteem a dollar at a time
One chance
One kiss
One taste of you, my Magdalena
I bear witness
To this place, this prayer, so long forgotten;
so pure,
so rare,
to witness such an earthly goddess.
That I'd sell
My soul
My self-esteem a dollar at a time
For one chance,
One kiss,
One taste of you my, black Madonna
I'd sell
my soul
My self-esteem
a dollar at a time
For one taste,
one taste,
one taste of you, my Magdalena
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
I remember my younger days
Were the ashes of fire grew higher
Crowds and streets with empty praise
If they practice truth in the mirror, they´re a liar
I remember the iron curtain
Blocking any ray of sun
When crazy mind´s were the only sane
and you could´t trust anyone
I remember childhood dreams
That died for each year that I grew
A time when ends justified the means
and what joy meant no one knew
I remember beliefs forced upon me
Until I was convinced they were my own
When being a alive was the same as being free
Feeling unsafe under the roof of my home
I remember the color red
On the ground and on the flag
I remember the tears I shed
When I lost the few good things I had
I remember being scared
To sell my soul by mistake
To become like the people I feared
and not realize until it was too late
I remember a foreign earth
Across borders, beyond the wall
Where no one decided what a life was worth
I remember waiting for the barricade to fall
I remember my younger days
Memories burned into my mind
I remember the crowds and streets of heavy praise
When the fog lifted in 1989
«Copyright Johanna Magdalena Husebye»
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
Sun, heart of fire, flames in the sky,
you, like a burning city-- am I then your scarlet silk Rome?
(I am everything for you, nothing next to you)
and the breath is knocked out of me by you,
my heart is clawed out for you and it is I, I claw it, with blood-red talons,
my blood is not for you, my blood is for the universe
and the universe is all you.
and for all my wit and words, daughter of fast-talkers and runners
breath and smoke and city-burners,
for all the words I've spoke and spun
there is nothing--
no words--
for--
you!
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
Paso a Nuestro Amo y Señor
andas, lienzo y candelabros.
Paso a Nuestro Salvador
el Señor de los Milagros.
La calle es un río humano
por cuyo cauce, la gente
muy acompasadamente
camina desde temprano.
"Avancen, avancen hermanos,
no estorben al cargador..."
grita el Capataz Mayor
que las cuadrillas comanda.
"Paso, que vienen las andas,
paso a Nuestro Amo y Señor..."
Por las calles se desborda
aquel torrente morado;
gimen los pies maltratados,
la Fe permanece sorda.
La multitud que lo aborda
da marco al rey de los cuadros:
Caídas y descalabros
en aquella mar mulata,
y cual velero de plata
andas, lienzo y candelabros.
Una señora morena
le ofrece todos sus hijos;
una ciega de ojos fijos
pídele Luz Nazarena;
azota una Magdalena
su vil cuerpo pecador.
Al paso del Redentor
doblan tristes las campanas
"Avancen, avancen hermanas,
paso a Nuestro Salvador..."
Sobre el lienzo de Jesús
la tarde pinta una sombra.
Sobre las frentes se nombra
señal dela Santa Cruz...
Bajo un cirio -santa luz-
A Ti, Señor, me consagro,
y de tus perfiles magros
venga a nos tu Redención
que nunca negó perdón
el Señor de los Milagros.
999
Magdalena, conozco que te amo
en que la más trivial de tus acciones
es pasto para mí, como la miga
es la felicidad de los gorriones.
Tu palabra más fútil
es combustible de mi fantasía,
y pasa por mi espíritu feudal
como un rayo de sol por una umbría.
Una mañana (en que la misma prosa
del vivir se tornaba melodiosa)
te daban un periódico en el tren
y rehusaste, diciendo con voz cálida:
«¿Para qué me das esto?» Y estas cinco
breves palabras de tu boca pálida
fueron como un joyel que todo el día
en mi capilla estuvo manifiesto:
y en la noche, sonaba tu pregunta:
«¿Para qué me das esto?»
Y la tarde fugaz que en el teatro
repasaban tus dedos, Magdalena,
la dorada melena
de un chiquillo... Y el prócer ademán
con que diste limosna a aquel anciano...
Y tus dientes que van
en sonrisa ondulante, cual resúmenes
del sol, encandilando la insegura
pupila de los viejos y los párvulos...
Tus dientes, en que están la travesura
y el relámpago de un pueril espejo
que aprisiona del sol una saeta
y clava el rayo férvido en los ojos
del infante embobado
que en su cuna vegeta...
También yo, Magdalena, me deslumbro
en tu sonrisa férvida; y mis horas
van a tu zaga, hambrientas y canoras,
como va tras el ama, por la holgura
de un patio regional, el cortesano
séquito de palomas que codicia
la gota de agua azul y el rubio grano.
934
affixed there, its insignia of silence,
the river-memory of bleak stone
in waters raging
all at the vandal of the afternoon.
running dog's the swelter, a salvage
of iron in heat. the revolution's an image
of the child in all of dogdom
when anger breaks loose a fettered dove
here, or the crisp agony of bannerets
shoving a name worthy of forget:
bawling enigma from here to there
all the tension of wires, umbrella-heads
are people, drowned in lambanog.
our mirage drunk somewhere in intestinal
roads flushed with the swill of bile --
moon's the face of ****** stars
their ****** patrons. squall of wind's
the pernicious call of morning starting
washlines, groping dry,
an unpossessing pale ****** somewhere
in Quiapo, someone's a Jesus-monger, ****
of the Magdalena, or
an inverted crucifix treading its way
past hills without geometric memory.
mine's the next station, yours too,
thumbed by a tired machine: this etcetera
of coffins squinting at their faces.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
when narrow blinded eyes
draw out their hunting gear
leave traces of their feat
just as a souvenir
all eyes near and far
shadows mine which hunt
leering as i bend
bending as i turn
bodies as cold as dead
spiral against my own
as if a lonely rock
bears whirling storms alone
sing praises of this flesh
my ageing hollow corpse
savor this luscious treat
slip into this warp
into a sightless knot
all in the name of fun
buildup a love all fake
romance my skeleton
if time may blind all reason
although few eyes may roll
bring yourself inside me
come love this wretched soul
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
I'm not an 'ingénue' anymore - that’s been vitiated.
I'm not innocent, pure, naive or vulnerable -
which are technically, 'ingénue' requirements
(I don’t make the rules).
That being said, if no one has an objection,
in terms of narrative trajectory, I'd like to be
considered a 'fémme fatale' until further notice.
.
.
Songs for this:
HEATED by Beyoncé
Hysterical Us by Magdalena Bay
11am 08.12
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 10:25 AM UTC
when you talk of Poland
it sure sounds like a dream
I'm so happy to have met you
and have you share those things with me.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
Bien venga, cuando viniere,
la Muerte: su helada mano
bendeciré si hiere...
He de morir como muere
un caballero cristiano.
Humilde, sin murmurar,
¡oh Muerte!, me he de inclinar
cuando tu golpe me venza;
¡pero déjame besar,
mientras expiro, su trenza!
¡La trenza que le corté
y que, piadoso guardé
(impregnada todavía
del sudor de su agonía)
la tarde en que se me fue!
Su noble trenza de oro:
amuleto ante quien oro,
ídolo de locas preces,
empapado por mi lloro
tantas veces..., tantas veces...
Deja que, muriendo, pueda
acariciar esa seda
en que vive aún su olor:
¡Es todo lo que me queda
de aquel infinito amor!
Cristo me ha de perdonar
mi locura, al recordar
otra trenza, en nardo llena,
con que se dejó enjugar
los pies por la Magdalena...
704
As you were lavishly embracing Morpheus, like the ***** of Babylon,
I was caressing the smoke from my cigarette with my tongue and lips.
This serpentine tongue,
This usurper of words and promises;
Fraudulent emotional serpent-
Never to be trusted.
I made loops with my tongue, and the smoke was like a circus acrobat,
While my lips were burning with grotesque desire;
They were craving your delirious nectar.
I stood there like an unmoving rock
Like Maria Magdalena next to crucified Jesus.
I stood there like a monk bending in front of the temple altar
I made an offering to you - myself
Under the veil of black lace I coyly waited for an answer.
Pious towards you, yet profane to the world
I counted your every heartbeat
So that my heart was in tandem with yours; it did not dare do otherwise.
This heart that pumped cold reptilian blood.
Who knew I can feel?
I swore this would be the last time.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Una luz azulada
Por el llano y los árboles se extiende.
Va al redil la vacada,
Y una estrella, entre nubes asomada,
Con un fulgor azul radiosa esplende.
De un sonrosado esmalte
Se ve la cima del poniente orlada,
Y del sol la postrera llamarada
Hace que el cielo más azul resalte.
La tarde, azul... Y entre el azul risueño
Del campo y de la altura,
Flotar parece languidez de ensueño
En el silencio azul de la llanura.
666
The Road to Magdalena, New Mexico
The wind is cold, a Colorado cold,
Blowing the summer back to Mexico
From whence it came; it sat upon this land
For dreary months of heavy, lifeless heat.
But now the desert dawn is blue; the stars
Make one last show before withdrawing to
The Caves of Night beyond the timberline,
Where no man walks, for fear of ancient gods.
This desert dawn is blue with promises;
The road to Magdalena creeps beneath
The ridges where the Watchers of the night
Seem now content to still their thunderstorms,
And grant a grateful pilgrim sunlit hours.
There will be coffee in Magdalena,
And not much else. The cattle drives have ceased,
And the railroad is gone; the school is closed,
As are the saloons, but there should be coffee.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
Clearly hypnotized by all the words that you've said.
Blowing all the days until you lay in my bed.
Now my souless nothing's turning grey into red.
As falling scarlet needles dance around in my head.
Tonight we'll fly under stars dressed in black.
Bite you immortal, or so says the bat.
One hand on your wing the other on your thigh.
With one timely moan, butterflies split the night.
A bite on her neck seems to penetrate deep.
Whispers of Magdalena has her drop to her knees.
A full line, a fat dime, with pictures to share.
A moment of silence while the audience stares.
A creep down your spine with a devious smile.
Forcefully colliding sweaty souls all the while.
Before the seizure her eyes disappear.
Filled full of darkness our path becomes clear.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
Donald Trump’s on trial - the first of many.
It’s a cold feeling, being judged
- with your future held in the balance
(Ok, that sounded SO much like college life).
We all hope for greatness, I believe.
As kids, we see ourselves winning Wimbledon,
or standing on the gold medal podium at the olympics.
Donald Trump was a controversial president
I think that’s fair to say - some saw greatness,
others - not so much - but I think Mr. Trump
has what it takes to be a great prisoner.
First, he’ll eat practically anything
and he’s used to both paying for ***
and working with criminals.
I think he’ll have greatness ****** upon him.
.
.
songs for this:
Secrets (Your Fire) by Magdalena Bay
POSE by MICHELLE
Hi-Fidelity by Lava La Rue
Leave it on the Dance Floor by Hope Tala
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 2:41 PM UTC
One hunch back hitchhiker,
seeking prehistoric medicine
had a meet n' greet with deadly plants
even in these woods he felt a steady wind,
from history's distant trippy roots,
when he reached out his decrepit hand
same time found he couldn't move
nor breathe, blue beaked
then he grew wings and flew
for what seem like a few weeks
drowning in green blue ridge
mountain beauty, rushing water
leaving plumage useless
the truth hurts
like landing face first
as space-time winds down
the hour glass's last turn: through.
The Crax was eaten up
by Magdalena's whirlpool.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
In this hole.
I've always felt so alone.
I could hardly see,
Until you found me.
Even from so far.
You left me with the perfect scar.
It hurts so good, and I must say,
You and I could rot away.
With you I'll walk anywhere.
Stick red begonias in your hair.
I think you know just what I mean.
The world may not be what it seems.
Thought it to be Magdalena.
Until I learned of you Cristina.
It hurts so good and I must say,
You and I could waste away.
Weakened knees and stuttered heart.
Forget this not, my favorite scar.
Even across states.
You've opened up the flood gates.
And I'm drowning in your love.
The girl that I met, her name was Scarlet.
And she drove a knife straight through my ******* heart.
And then she pulled it right out
Gave me a kiss.
Then the wound healed.
And left a scar...
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
words breaking free
from the cloud of the mind.
the clout of the imperative telling:
this is the wind blowing from all
directions hoping to touch you
where you sleep,
rests its bone somewhere where
no cold shivers the ground,
somewhere familiar
somewhere where both you
and i have found each other
two separate birds joining
in the morning
Magdalene wears these words
melancholically
hand in glove and earth
in the mouth plump and tender
like bosoms of full women
eyes of men having their fill
of imagined sensations in the flesh
tingling forever throbbing
underneath the white moon --
until then the many loves
will read this hoping for a deliverance
the bow of my breath aims true
but the precision is falsely taken
a sidewinding serpent,
a riotous guerrilla in the bush,
hinging the heartland
a poem washed away in the river
as women rinse the clothes of men
singing songs of despair;
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
You're an emerald zipped up
you are like a thousand eyes;
that traverse the Universe ...
you are like stone
made new sand and water.
Grain to Ladder Magda sand
I take you with my arms,
because my tears
reel in your mermaid kisses.
Magda mother you are full;
like a statue of sand,
leave my rib and my hip
to be attached to your zipper.
Where should you be and how are you?
if you are not dressed as a skirt,
all skirt all whole
all mine, without a change,
makes us think Magdalena.
Emerald impregnated in the stone ...
no one will change your world,
since the world grows like the wind;
like the one who catches your nose
like the one that ages your brain
spawned in fields of mist ...
You are wind ... from the high tree,
of the highest in the world,
of emerald paths ...
you are the indifferent wind that carries your weight;
condense your grief ...,
and rush your sweat into the most beautiful sand ...
Hey Magda sweat;
sweat beads raining sand on you,
you don't aged and you don't die ...
Well you and heaven
they are a poetry family
that pierce your eyes and mine,
in the conquest of having you Magdalena ...
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 3:25 PM UTC
I’m taking control, making changes.
Some for the worst, others for the best.
I don’t like to evade or retreat.
My secrets are inconsequential.
I’m taking things into my own hands
- I kissed my therapist. On the lips.
Life is but a game of ‘Smash or pass’
and I hate waiting for ice cream.
“I like the way you move,” he said, “I like your skin.”
“It’s what people notice first” I admitted, “want to see it?”
Or maybe I dreamed that - I dream about him, sometimes. shrug
I think the helpless, astringent, professional intimacy fires me.
I want him to ask me about my jerkwater *** life, he has a concomitant
passport, but he never does. Isn’t that important - what about Freud?
What do you think you inherited from your parents? He asked.
“What a question!” I observed, “You mean genetically?”
“Come on,” he prompted, and I thought for a long minute.
“I have my mother’s impatience, her drive to succeed
and her thick blonde hair that seems to dry instantly.”
He nodded, indicating he liked where I was going.
“I have my father’s eyes, his flashing temper and flat chest.”
He chuckled, but I could tell he wanted me to stay serious.
“Then there’s my Stepfather (Step), he taught me humor,
patience and self-control - oh, and how to drive.”
He ****** on his pencil eraser and nodded.
He always blurs the line between performance and approval.
.
.
Songs for this:
Secrets (Your Fire) by Magdalena Bay
The Spot by Your Smith
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 8:48 PM UTC