Stories
Innocence
POSTED IN reading poetry, Stories April 21, 2014
InnocenceWhen falling off the cliff they cry,
hurting the iris of their eye,
flying before they learn to fly,
whose words will kiss their tears to dry?
I am the Catcher in the Rye.The Fallen knows the Catcher’s dream
to keep alive th’ innocent gleam.
The Catcher feels the Fallen’s sense:
“Don’t kill the heart of Innocence!
Let it live hidden in the sky!”
I am the Catcher in the Rye.I gave the hunting hat to me
while pushed into the falling free.
Life took me off the cliff, but I,
I was the Catcher in the Rye,
I gave myself the hat of hunt,
and through the Rye I walk and chant.Maria Magdalena Biela
Dot the i
POSTED IN reading poetry, Stories March 11, 2014
I kid you not
POSTED IN Stories February 17, 2014
I Kid You Not
My eyes tell always: “I shan’t!”
when people want the hunters’ hunt,
yet, in their hunt I have been caught,
I kid you not.
At times I’m Arthur and Merlin,
my thoughts as swords come out and in,
Aye, with my crabbit thoughts I fought,
I kid you not.
While running on piano chord
my fingers build a better world
where children sleep in their cot,
I kid you not.
I teach a flower how to bloom,
a sun ray to avoid the gloom,
yet, people like not to be taught.
I kid you not.
A thousand years I tried to find
a blink of soul in every mind,
Yet, I cannot find what I sought,
I kid you not.
The magic words sleep in my wand
to unveil Shamrock from beyond
the rainbow to the golden pot.
I kid you not.
Maria Magdalena Biela
The Wedding Photo
POSTED IN Stories January 25, 2014
The Wedding Photo
They stood there smiling in black and white
holding their fingers tender and tight.
They knew the secrets of a past tense heart
they knew of a future “till death do us part”.
They tell a story that starts with “I do!”.
They dream of a lifetime witnessed by two.
They hold their crowns as King and his Queen
They know not that marriage is simply a scene.
She hopes to be mother and blessed to be.
He hopes to write poems and countries to see.
She loves to become a woman at last.
He loves her in the future, present and past.
They both look so happy and deeply in love.
They both dream of marriage as life in a grove.
They both do not know the “I do” aftermath
for they both envisioned a different path.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Whose voice?
POSTED IN Stories January 25, 2014
Whose voice?
Writing could be only a struggle with death and sometimes a victory over it. Nothing dies more entirely in the human mind than the hidden memory of the first steps, the first spoken words and childhood’s first glance of life.
I have never sifted life, never hunted for it, I was never bookkeeping it nor have I ever used it for ”literary experience” purposes.
I simply loved and lived life, normally, spontaneously, disinterestedly, sometimes lazily.
I impregnated myself with life, hoping that its essences will echo inside me as strong as a small drop of fir resin echoes the scent of a whole forest. I used to stay awake late in the night, in a perfect harmony with insomnia, watching the trees, the stars, breathing the darkness near my wide opened window.
One morning I discovered the mystery of one apricot tree blossomed over night, like a child coming from the deep sweet dreamy waters of sleep.
Who was the child: the apricot tree or I?
Sprinkled with pink white flowers I felt inside me the echo of the Greek scream: ”Thalassa!”, when they discovered the Homeric wonder of the Sea.
When did my apricot tree become white with flowers? While I was asleep?
That tree dressed like a spring bride became my swing that went high and higher straight to the Milky Way.
The table of shadows invites everybody to take a sit and tell a story.
The old Jewish house of my childhood does not exist anymore, but in my memories. Late in the heart of night, when every soul sleeps, my friend, Insomnia, opens to me old windows that in the light of day seem to be locked.
I see myself, a four-year-old, running wildly between the trees of our orchard, climbing and hiding and running away from brothers, sisters and especially my mother. They always threatened me with ”lunch, dinner”, awful words, scary sentences for a four-year-old who loved climbing the trees and eating their fruits only.
I see my father, tall, dark, pale, a Poet, gathering us together, five children, and organising a poetry contest, behind the house.
There he would improvise a stage where we would recite poems, to be rewarded for the best acting ever.
I see myself fidgeting, fighting my tears and my fears, climbing the stage behind the improvised curtain, trying to remember my poem.
Of course, I always won! Everybody would be ready to give up their own pride only to see my serious and proud face receiving the chocolate trophy from my father’s hands.
My brothers used to sing but I, with my small voice, I would recite classic love poems not knowing the meaning of the words, and I would say ”I love you forever” with the same passion, hunger, delight, that I would eat my chocolate prize with.
I never smiled. Yet, in my father’s arms, I would hug him strongly, thankfully, collecting his tears with my fingers and wondering where they come from. I would caress his face and dry his tears of love silently. He loved through me, he recited with me, he cried for divine love having me in his arms.
Whose voice recited those poems? My voice or my Father’s?
I would not know….I do not know…I will never know.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Apart
POSTED IN reading poetry, Stories January 5, 2014
Apart
Her eyes were shivering a tear
while the old year was shot
she softly sighed “Happy New Year!”
And dried the tearful thought.
Her eyes were echoing the heart
its beating ten to one
the counted seconds, whole in part,
made future be outrun.
Her eyes kissed Mother’s loving hands
and Father’s forehead gray
they cry in their faraway lands
and for their daughter pray.
Their eyes were searching, near and far,
to meet each other’s soul
watching the same heavenly Star
and each part as a whole.
When Time she stopped, she whispered sad
into wide Heaven’s ear:
“I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!
Blessed be this New Year”!
Bielka
Acrostic II
POSTED IN Stories November 2, 2013
Acrostic II
Lilac whispers to the skies:
“Echo her blue heaven eyes
Early opened wide and wise!”
Never have I seen sapphire
Anchoring the soul to fire.
Kind, majestic lilacs tree
Upon fate with petals three
Rendering our destiny.
Knowingly forgo your spheres
Eyelids hiding mighty tears
Lay your incense on us all,
Ancient tree with blessed soul.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Acrostic I
POSTED IN Stories October 20, 2013
Acrostic I
Gardening the Eden
Anchoring the clouds
Earthed to be a maiden
Loving all the crowds
Blessed by all good Fates
Ageless to be
Gardening the Eden
Earthly poetry.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Acrostic
POSTED IN Stories October 14, 2013
Acrostic
Reveal your self and let me feel
Inside your soul that’s closed with seal
Canvas of thoughts, colors of dream,
Harpist of senses that shyly gleam
Are you the Only? Are you the One?
Redeeming the words from Death’s caravan?
Do what you must for Love, be Madman!
Just be the Poet, give life to words!
“Overrated” they said about Love, “My Lords!”.
“Nay!”, said the Poet, “with stars I had tryst,
Ever a sweeter word did exist
Surrender my pen if Love is deceased!”.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Hiljaisuuden runous / The poetry of silence
POSTED IN Stories July 7, 2012
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Puhua Eino Leinosta on kuin huutaisi valtavaan luolaan: monien sukupolvien kaiku vastaa. Jotkut tunsivat hänet, toiset ovat rakastaneet häntä tuntematta häntä. Moniin sydämiin on jäänyt hänen runoutensa, tunteensa, hänen intohimoisen elämänsä liekki.
Minulle, eteläiselle kasville, joka yritän juurtua Pohjolan eksoottiseen kulttuuriin, Eino Leino on Suomen Mihai Eminescu.
Tutustuin häneen eräänä toukokuun iltana, kun yksinäisyys ja ikävä kotiin kummittelivat sielussani.
“Silloin syreeni kukki
ja illalla putosi tuoksuen
tuoksullaan verannan täytti”
Kun olin katsonut syvälle hänen sieluunsa, yhden kerran, tunsin, että siitä tulisi rakautta ensi silmäyksellä.
Siitä alkaen, Eino Leinosta tuli ystäväni, veljeni tuskassa, tuskassa, jossa katkera elämä muuttuu musikaaliseksi runoudeksi, niin kuin Midas oli kirottu muuttamaan kullaksi kaiken, mihin koskee.
Sinuhe Egyptiläinen sanoo: “Ken on kerran juonut Niilin vettä, hän kaipaa Niilin luokse takaisin. Hänen janoaan ei tyydytä mikään muu mainen vesi…”.
Minun Niilini on kirjallisuus. Olen maistanut Eino Leinon runouden lumottua nektaria ja nyt kannan kohtaloani, joskus niin kuin ristiä, joskus niin kuin kukkaa rinnassa.
Minun kielessäni Eino Leino soi niin kuin vetten musiikki, jotka laskevat vuorilta ja lipuvat tyynesti metsien läpi ilahduttaen janoisia huulia.
Olen yrittänyt muuntaa hänen sielunsa romanian kielelle, niin että myös ihmiset minun maassani voisivat iloita hänen säkeittensä kauneudesta, hänen kuohuttavista ajatuksistaan. Minun maassani hän on vähän tunnettu. Kalevala on kertonut kaiken suomalaisista romanialaisille. Kuitenkin Eino Leino merkitsee tunnerikkaan, mutta etelä-Europassa vähän tunnetun kansan romantiikkaa. Suomalainen romantiikka on kuin jäävuoren vedenalainen osa: sitä ei näe, mutta se on voimakas ja ikuinen.
Kuudentena heinäkuuta Suomi juhlii Runoilijan syntymää. Minä, ulkomaalainen, joka nuoruuden uhmalla, puhtaan neitsyen rakkaudella, kielitieteilijään uteliaisuudella yritän oppia tuntemaan hänet, toivon hänelle koko romanialaisesta sydämestäni: ” Olkoon Sinun ikuisuutesi onnellinen, Sinä, yksinäinen ja onneton Runoilija”.
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