Andanzas Andinas

Ah, beautiful and pitiful! ah, last
And fairest of the daughters of the Past
Born out of time and in most grievous days
When unto beauty men mete out no praise !
Lone Gothic princess, all your line is dead:
The glory of your race is vanished: fled
Is that high faith that should have found in you
Its meet delight and its expression true…

 

Salomón de la Selva

from: Ode to the Woolworth Building, 1918

 

♥ V.D. 1999 ♥

 

Horror of horrors!   Dark lady,  it’s you again

Abbess of shadow and sinister sprite.

Pray show me, sweet Nelida, how to express myself:

Passion?   Pure malice?    Or murder by fright…

You opened the dungeons where dreams slept desireless

Vanquished my sleep of misogynist night.

A sepulchral shudder enlivens my being:

Liquescent infernoes of Gothic delight.

Elevation celestial or depths of despair –

No middle to stand on beholding your visage

The firmament drops as I swing in the air.

In this fall, or this orbit, show mercy, bright maiden

Nor quench solar fires with lunar disdain.

Eclipsing at zenith, you blacken my brain.

 lava-flow

† ideal N †

 

 

Name: Nelida   Gender: female   Nationality: unknown
Meaning derived from Eleanor (shining light)
Continent/Origin: Andean sources of the Amazon 

 

Thy name, somber lady, illuminates heaven

As dazzling light penetrates into shadow.

Enlaid in rare colors (oh Lord, what a lead-in),

Your blackness out-veils the proverbial widow.

Iron maidens get nailed.  Don’t rest in denial

and lie to your soul that your actually dealin’.

I only ask this to your face:  that you’ll smile

Unlocking your Gothic cathedrals to kneel in.

No death-dirges here.  I’m no spike-studded user

Eventually yours to pursue until captured.

Let’s hope there is time – but we risk being raptured.

I’m not into pain;  not a sado-abuser.

Don’t masochists also need fun in the sun?

All I want is a friend.    So I hope you’re the one…

Idol-of-Perversity

Courting the Ice Maiden

She was an Andean maiden, a sacrificial victim, an embodiment of unspoken longings, sealed in a frozen tomb at the peak of a Bolivian mountain. I heard Inca music leading me on for years before I ever met her, walked up glaciers to find her, searched the headwaters of the Amazon for her essence, bathed my soul in forbidden tears, Inca on heightsbrought her treasures and tribute, laid my offerings at the foot of her mountain heights . . . but she was not there. Her tomb was empty. She was living in a mining town in Arizona with hair died Gothic black. I tried in vain to win her, I wrote her poems, prayed for her, but communication was impossible.
She wouldn’t splash around in the wading pool—
and I wanted to plunge below the Atlantean depths with her.
She figured I was a misfit outsider—I thought she was the fate of the Americas.
I offered her the treasures of darkness—she wanted someone to pay her light bill.
I would have borne her burdens—she gave me the cold shoulder.
I moved out of that town about nine months after she got knocked-up (not by me), and I lost touch, forever.

The unanswered question:
why did this person make such an indelible impression on me?

Princesa 2

IMAGE CREDITS:  incaprincess.org
      landesfes.deviantart.com