Posted in Poems

False Prophets

By: Bryan Ricardo Marini Quintana

(Joshua Reynolds, Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse, 1783)

In a wardrobe, Mrs. Siddons masks her identity

She wears outlandish attires

To change into characters and escape her reality

She parades ludicrous prosthetics

To face the mirror and rejoice in her fantasy

In a vain struggle to find meaning

Mrs. Siddons beholds her reflection

Trying to fill the void by impersonating

Mrs. Siddons contends with her creation

When she’s stripped from a fruitful vocabulary

Mrs. Siddons doesn’t reason her existence

When she’s discarded from a picturesque scenery

Mrs. Siddons doesn’t know her performance

When she’s heaved from a crystalline lens

Mrs. Siddons doesn’t fathom her expressions

Offstage, she subsists the routines of a colorless reality

Yearning to don her masquerading veneer

Onstage, she performs the adventures of a colorful character

Returning to dwell in her delusional fantasy

In a game of pretending through limitless costumes

She feigns to wield skill

In a game of entertaining with devious illusions

She weaves an appealing spell

In a game of transforming into sagacious characters

She becomes a pretty doll

Consuming the potion

The performer arrogantly believes she’s

Swallowing the incantation

The masses absurdly believe she’s

Creative as a writer and composer

Erudite as a mythologist and anthropologist

Imaginative as a painter and sculptor

Articulate as a philologist and linguist

Wise as a historiographer and philosopher

When she’s dressed, Mrs. Siddons pretends to be

Fearing to lose her disguises

When she’s unveiled, Mrs. Siddons desires to be

Acting to mimic her characters

Without her attire, Mrs. Siddons reveals she’s unconscious

Donning a persona to live a fantasy

With her attire, Mrs. Siddons feigns she’s conscious

Donning a persona to have an identity

Living within a predictable theater

Mrs. Siddons’ world revolves around her

Stepping into an unpredictable unknown

Mrs. Siddons’ world is overthrown

Realizing that without characters she’s bereft of identity

Mrs. Siddons returns to her fantasy

In a crowd, Mrs. Siddons appears charmingly

To feign her performance of being skilled

In a crowd, Mrs. Siddons speaks eloquently

To sermon her autocratic vision of the world

Onstage, the masses erect a pedestal for Mrs. Siddons

Praising her persona as a beautiful deity

Offstage, the performer hides in marvelous dresses

Dragging the world into her delusional fantasy

In a theater, the masses worship Mrs. Siddons

Falling into perdition to venerate a Golden Calf devoid of identity

Posted in Poems

Innocent Habits

By: Bryan Ricardo Marini Quintana

(Michelangelo, The Fall and Expulsion from the Garden of Eden, 1509–1510)

“Just this once” I muttered tentatively
“One more time” I whispered insecurely
“One last time” I screamed boastfully

These were Empty Words that lacked Immediate Action

It sparked out of pure curiosity
It changed into a habit
It turned into a necessity

These were Senseless Actions that lacked Meaningful Words

In time my pureness washed away
In time my vileness dampened fluidity

A nude muse visited me periodically
Carrying neither wisdom nor beauty
Instead she caressed my body
Swaying me into temptation

With a glance I became horrified of my creation
As the source of inspiration that manifested turned against me
Palpably realizing that I had cursed her into an abomination

She flourished me with pleasure
She flashed me with thrill
She flaunted me with passion

I became drunk of amusement
I became blind of addiction
I became null of lust

My body instigated this past behavior
My soul dissuaded with future consequences

I turned crude whilst my body decayed
I felt numb whilst touching my flesh

My skin’s scales worn off
My skin’s layers burnt off

With the morality of the soul stripped away
My mind was free of feeling guilty

My hunger swallowed any fulfillment
As the body ceaselessly begged for excitement

Before I’d comfortably lay back ecstatic of her
After I’d stressfully stand up fearful of her

A nude muse visited me perpetually
Carrying neither wisdom nor beauty
Instead she mutilated my body
Forcing me into submission

“Just this once” she muttered as I complied mortified
“One more time” she whispered as I obeyed distressed
“One last time” she screamed as I heeded frightened

Posted in Poems

A Testament of the Will

By: Bryan Ricardo Marini Quintana

(Vincent van Gogh, The Yellow Books, 1887)

I am
I am stories
I am consciousness

A fabrication of Time and Space
A manifestation of Testimony and Will

With their words I materialize
With their ideas I cement

I am their questions and answers
I am vain aspirations and hopeful dreams

Through me philosophies and theories are discussed
Through me tales and fables are recounted
Through me joys and sorrows are remembered
Through me hatred and love are expressed

I am Time and Space
I am the Ticking Clock
I am the Corroding Stone

Transporting them to the past and future
Transporting them to the confines of earth and vastness of space

I am the Voice
I am a Tangible Figure
I am a Phantom Figure

Through which objects feel
Through which animals talk
Through which humans ponder

I am
I am the Testament of Humanity
I am the Will of Humanity

With their emotions liberated
With their creativity explored
With their thoughts recorded
With their memory safeguarded

They call me History
They call me Literature
They call me Philosophy

I am
I am their Testament of Existence
I am their Will to Live

I am their escape from death
Avoiding swift forgetfulness

I am their key to immortality
Indulging perpetual remembrance

Posted in Poems

A Pursuit for Writing

By: Bryan Ricardo Marini Quintana

(Angelica Kauffman, The Artist in the Character of Design Listening to the Inspiration of Poetry, 1782)

Why do I write?

Perhaps to forget

Perhaps to remember

Why do I write?

Like Odin fears losing Huginn and Muninn

Likewise I dread forgetting Thought and Memory

Why do I write?

Maybe to forget my reality

Maybe to preserve my dream

Why do I write?

Either to preserve Myself

Or to preserve Culture

Why do I write?

Either to bloat with my ego

To not be forgotten

For my figure to be remembered

Or to shrink with my humility

To be forgotten

For my art to be remembered

Why do I write?

To allow an audience to experience my art

To allow an audience to criticize my art

Why do I write?

To find my story

To aid others find their story

Why do I write?

For my figure to be forgotten

For my art to be remembered

Why do I write?

To unchain art from my binds

Freeing creation from my confines

Allowing imagination to transcend from my grasps

Posted in Poems

Perpetually Dehumanized

By: Bryan Ricardo Marini Quintana

(Leonardo Da Vinci, Embryo in the Womb, 1513)

They were stripped from their families

They were stripped from their possessions

They were stripped from their parts

Each one was forced into the cotton field

Each one was forced into the gas chamber

Each one was forced out of the womb

Each one longed a taste of freedom

Each one longed a feeling of safety

Each one longed a gasp of breath

They didn’t deserve this

They didn’t ask for this

They didn’t want this

They had no word

They had no say

They had no choice

You’re just a nigger

You’re just a rat

You’re just a clump of cells

That’s what the slaver said

That’s what the nazi said

That’s what this generation said

That’s what they believed

That’s what they’ve been told

That’s what has been passed on



Nay I say

You’re a Negro

You’re a Jew

You’re a Baby



Nay I say

You’re innocent

You’re innocent

You’re innocent

Above all to shut eyes

Above all to neglectful eyes

Above all to my own eyes

You’re Human

You’re Human

You’re Human

In their confusion

In their suffering

In their fear

They wondered

They pondered

They asked

What had I done to them?