Tag Archives: beauty

The faithful (Romantic Monday)

24 Oct

I first got pulled into this company of lovers and romanticers and great writers by Hastywords, thanks for finding me!

I think turning Mondays from gloom to celebration of romance and love is one step in making this world a better place, so I’m glad to take part! Other gorgeous Romantic Monday posts can be found here, as well as the rules and the man who we get to thank for this great idea!

This idea inspired tingling words in me, and I know my poem Illogicalities of being in love was already listed, but I just had to write another one, a new one. The Illogicalities was posted on Tuesday anyway… and there can never be enough love in the world, right?

So here’s to Monday romance.

(Edit: Some of you might be confused as to why this was posted here today. The thing is, I was totally under the impression it was Monday…  I should obviously spend a bit less time daydreaming and more learning the calendar days. No wonder I’m always late. Oh well, time is relevant right? So have a romantic Mond.. err Wednesday! Hope you like the poem!)


The faithful


I promise you this,

I will stay by your side.

The moon can move oceans

but not me.


I will be the solid pebble, grounded

and unmoving in every tide’s turning.

I will accept your absence and welcome

the sea’s caress like it was you.


So go, my bird boy, fly

and see if it’s lonely up there where

only wind plays with your feather hair.

Forget my fingers and lips, my hips

that beg for your skin, your kiss.


Go, my dove, go now

because I can see your flutter and shake,

your quest, your curious gaze

that tiptoes across the Andromeda

and meets the first snowflake

with fresh wonder of the explorer

The pearl chaser, the lover of all


Go and I promise you this,

I will let you jump of cliffs

if you wish, let you wear

all the growth rings of this life.

And when you are gone

I will kiss the horizon

keeping me level, make love

to the seas and the skies


And I will not miss your love

Because your love flows in the air,

it is the jingle of the spring

in every tree, it is the universe,

it is all around me

So go,  let your shallow bones

make you light, take care

of you in your flight

and lift you higher, to sit on the moon,

to crown you the groom of the stardust,

the gardener of the night sky.


Go and balance there,

in the nook of the crescent

and know this:

I will wait here

Until all the shores are abandoned,

until salt mummifies the ships

and sinks my heart.


And still then, I will wait

in the bottom of all oceans. I will

weave the waves into a soft blanket,

stitch my tears into a parachute.

So if you fall off the thinning moon

I can catch you, save you,

the way you saved me of bruises

when I first fell


For you.

Seven wonders of the world’s back streets

10 Oct

I don’t know what you like to experience when you travel. Hot sand, the culture’s national dishes maybe? For me, it is dwelling in places. You know, walking aimlessly around, knowing you will get a little bit lost, thinking about the place you are visiting, trying to figure out the mood of the place. Picking little details out of the landscape or finding funny little buildings and thinking: ‘That is where I would live if I stayed here.” Casually dreaming.

Travelling is surprises.

Sometimes the control freak inside me takes over during my daily routines, but when I travel I make sure not to pack that part of me. When you wander around and look at things in a completely open way, you might just find a wonder in some abandoned back street. And it doesn’t have to be something no-one has ever seen before. As a matter of fact, it can be anything: a person, a sight, a passing feeling, an object that might seem a plain ordinary to someone else. The difference is what it means to you. The difference is that it makes you stop and look at your life from a different angle, strikes you as beautiful or extraordinary, impresses you, makes you feel something new.

Here are some of my accidental wonder-moments:

Found this little man on the rail on top of the Eiffel Tower, left to capture the views of Paris by some Slinkachu inspired traveller or by the man himself?

What are yours?

Juliet (1945) by Man Ray

6 Oct

Beautiful or grotesque? Or the symbiotic marriage of those two?

Photo: artfinder.com

The wasted kind of beauty

3 Oct



The penetrating kind, hanging heavy

Upon our reunion. It lingers in our smiles,

turning them dusty. And when we look

at each other, I’m shocked

by the ragged patchwork of our past,

the blushing wishes and crushing,

Wordless hours, worthless glitter

of shattered plates and little earthquakes

exploding in our stomachs.


We look at each other, at the gashing

nostalgia. We look at each other and see

this silence. This Pandora’s box.


And you, Narcissus, fixing your gaze

to greet the birds but not me.

Reaching out for the clouds. I stare,

to soak you in your pride and

Spite, to show you the vast glacier

Behind my eyes. This unmoving,

Solid surface will not give. No,

These are not tears my love.

They are falling pearls of ice,

Diamonds, to leave your heart

A bomb-site. To freeze your petals.


And yet, I wish to redeem that one night

when silence was not a villain but our gravity.

The night it pulled us together.


As we swayed, drunkenly, so kiddish

and innocent and blissfully unaware

of the sly resentment already

dogging us. We tiptoed

on the tightrope of happiness,

a slim thread of hope, ready to cut

our inexperienced feet. You worked

your  shaky hands down my back

and stretched the corners of my soul

into a blanket to keep us warm.


Under there, made brave by the silence,

I propped all my happily-ever-afters

Against your being.


Later, you said, we’ll leave this night

To rest under the blanket. It will lie there,

bare in the darkness, untraced and safe

from the detrition of time and light, safe

from our fumbling attempts of goodbyes.

In those words, I loved you.


But I think you forgot, that blanket

was my soul, the one you created.

Like the God who gets bored

on the Seventh day and forgets

to close the tab, to stop the flood

from pouring. I think you forgot

that nothing living survives in the dark,

in the ferocity of open water with

no boundaries, without a horizon.

I think you forgot I was something living.


And there it was, in your promise,

the suffocating, gulping, drowning

silence closing in on us.


And if we were a butterfly, it

Would be the pitch-black kind,

the one that performs its pirouettes

to no audience at all. It would be the kind

that fights the night, snaps its spine

with forcing pride,  only to die at dawn.


The most wasted kind of beauty.


Another poem, phew. The birth of this onto paper was a bit difficult, and had I been pregnant with it for 9 months, instead of the few days it spend buzzing in my mind taking shape, I would have opted for a caesar. Despite the scars. Besided, aren’t scars a good thing in literature? You always hear about the tortured writers with so heavy bags under their eyes they wouldn’t pass the weight allowance of any air line check in. Now that, my friends, is a silver lining on heart ache for all the future writers; Go out, fall in love, feel crappy and you’ve got yourself a best-seller. But please don’t end up like Sylvia Plath.
Good night!

First photo from http://intermezzo.typepad.com, second my own