Cosmic & Uneasy

Autore: Marta

  • À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu

    À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu

    On Placebo’s new 2026 tour and my twenty-plus intermittent years with their music.

    A sigh, a blink of an eye,
    twenty years passed by.
    I’ve been much working
    and also a bit pondering,
    while some riffs and lyrics
    came back in wave-like visits.

    Stubborn ghosts
    carrying on my behalf
    a self blurred by distance,
    all the graceful shadows,
    the rough seduction
    of my collapsing youth.

    Protège‑moi
    from forgetting;
    merci
    for the feverish melancholy,
    for the songs that stay,
    and for you, not yet leaving the stage.

    There’s a need to sing
    that feels very present;
    for desires are prettier
    in dimly lit darkness,
    and my inner teenager
    is angrier than ever.

    Despite what mirrors give away,
    I tried to never forget
    to be the way I am,
    even if it sometimes meant
    being unknown and undercover.
    See you in November.
  • Golconde

    Golconde

    What a time
    to be alive,
    but are we?
    Sometimes I see
    only empty vessels,
    ordinary shadows
    led by this fear
    of letting neurons
    run free.

    Nature cries
    in grand dawns 
    and sunsets:
    “Stay with me.”

    But no,
    we turn away
    in the name
    of our strange love
    for cages,
    for the yoke,
    while the oxen
    watch us
    with condescendence.
  • Burning Questions

    Burning Questions

    Why
    being able to connect
    with your deeper self
    feels so sacrilegious
    and so forbidden?

    Why
    when the world outside
    screams in fuss and pride,
    being home alone,
    in candlelight,

    staring at your demons
    dead in the eyes,
    feels so lustful,
    so profane, 
    why?

    Why
    are we being taught
    to deny
    what’s inside
    just to comply?

    I defy.
    In the heart of the night,
    I choose to acknowledge
    the monsters and beasts
    that dwell in me.

    I am whole.
    and we are free.
  • Further Encounters With Aurora

    Further Encounters With Aurora

    From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.

    I thought the time
    had finally come
    to meet again:
    the right month,
    the right place.

    But shame on me
    for undervaluing
    your unpredictability.
    You’re a slap in the face,
    a rinse of humility.

    You appear at your fancy,
    wrapped in clouds,
    and to frozen photographers
    with tripods and all,
    you blow raspberries.

    Showing up in pictures
    but not to naked eyes?
    Okay, we get it:
    being taken for granted
    is not your style.

    As per our old habit,
    you come when I’m leaving.
    Is our situationship toxic
    at this point in our story?
    I guess we’ll be seeing.
  • The Clarity Of Silence

    The Clarity Of Silence

    From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.

    Lappi,  
    Lappi,  
    inexplicable,  
    endearing,  
    alluring,  
    merciless,
    stripping down sounds,  
    colours,  
    scents,  
    leaving so much space  
    to listen to myself.  
    Why do you take away  
    from my ordinary life  
    so much sense?  

    All my desires echo  
    in this vast emptiness.  
    I want your pale face  
    always with me,  
    in my mind,
    Lappi,
    Lappi,
    as a reminder  
    that what matters
    is not the rat race,
    so meaningless,
    but what is inside,  
    true,
    pristine.
  • Souvenirs

    Souvenirs

    From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.

    This is my last day
    here in Lapland.
    It also happens
    to be my birthday
    and Sami National Day.

    My present will be
    breathing as much
    as I possibly can.
    I’ll stock my lungs
    with this clean air.

    I want to imprint
    this unspoiled scent
    on my nostrils
    and on my brain,
    an olfactory memory

    to hold dear
    when I am back
    choking on PM10,
    down in the city
    where I live.
  • Special Skills

    Special Skills

    From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.

    Here is so vast,
    so empty,
    so different.
    People here
    have special skills.
    They endure the cold,
    do not fear the snow.

    I, countryside girl,
    instead cannot.
    Snowy tracks
    are not my thing,
    I walk simple routes,
    so afraid
    I would get lost.

    Did I intrude
    into a world
    not meant for me?
    Do time and money
    atone
    for not belonging?
    Am I a joke?

    Me,
    here,
    today:
    privileged.
    This is not a playground
    for folks like me.
    This is ancient,
    wild and sacred.
  • Another Sea

    Another Sea

    From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.

    This sea is strange.
    It is not blue,
    it is all white,
    it is mermaid‑free.
    Its fish are weird,
    they have no fin
    but long sleek skis.

    There is no seaweed,
    just trees floating
    in wide clusters,
    with white balls on
    soft and cottony,
    like candy floss,
    huge lollipops.

    This sea has waves too.
    They are more like dunes
    with diamond powder
    glistening 
    under the moon.
    Is it stardust,
    fragments of dreams?

    It is what I wish,
    what is precious to me.
  • Overstaying Guest

    Overstaying Guest

    From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.

    Wrapped in silence,
    I walk toward
    the sinking sun
    in front of me,
    and all around
    the world turns rosy.

    A car passes by,
    filling my nostrils
    with something syrupy,
    almond‑like,
    artificially heavy,
    while everything is light.

    It does not belong
    to this picture,
    it’s so unwelcome,
    yet it lingers 
    for a moment
    too long,

    before the scent
    of puffy snow
    takes back its place
    right where Inari
    and Sodankylä
    shake their hands.
  • A Change Per Season

    A Change Per Season

    From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.

    White above,
    white below,
    and a belt of trees.
    A perfectly ironed sheet.
    Every now and then
    a skier here,
    makes a ruffle there
    on this soft draping,
    doomed to melt
    in a few months.
    Earth here gets bored
    of wearing the same clothes
    all year around
    and requests a change
    for every season.