The heat,
the fatigue.
My soul said no
and folded
into a spore,
quiescent,
waiting for
quiet and cool.
Beyond salvation,
mental starvation,
self‑deprivation.
Burnout,
burn right,
burn left,
burn everywhere.
I feel too old
for new beginnings
in the chokehold
of this feral sun.
The bare minimum
is already
too much.
Tag: poetry
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June Relocation: Consequences
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Sunday
I woke up all cranky,
super grumpy,
with pain in my neck
and a light head.
To rebalance myself
I went to the park,
the movement and the greenery
did help a little,
but not enough.
My nose was itchy,
my sinuses exploding.
I inhaled some steam
with essential oils in it:
eucalyptus, peppermint,
clary sage, rosemary,
lavender and tea tree.
I never fail to be amazed
at how effective it is.
To celebrate it,
I wrote this poem,
sipping thyme herbal tea. -
Saturday
I woke up with no rush
and had a nice breakfast
with my boyfriend.
Kefir
with oats and walnuts
and dark chocolate.
I love taking my time
sipping my hot coffee,
it’s the smell that gets me,
not the caffeine.
The sun was shining,
we had a little walk
and then had ravioli for lunch.
We added cherry tomatoes
of many hues:
red, yellow, green,
orange and purple.
He cut them all in half
and I felt a sudden urge
to arrange them on a plate
in a multicoloured wheel
with mozzarella in the centre,
shaped like a milky flower.
The dish was finally blessed
with a twirl of olive oil,
pepper and oregano.
It was so simple
but it felt so good.
Then I had jasmine green tea.
I felt at peace. -
Peonies Back Home
Today my mother sent me pics
of the peonies back home,
because I was there at Easter
but they were just buds.
That bush has been there
for as long as I remember,
but I can’t picture myself
as a little kid
running and tumbling
on that same grass,
looking at those peonies
a million times,
never imagining I’d see
those flowers on a screen
because I missed them blooming.
Most of the time
I spent in that space
I didn’t even own a phone;
I didn’t know what it was.
I hope, whatever happens,
that bush can carry on.
I’d love it to outlive us all,
because I sense relief
in the idea of immanence.
I have the utmost faith
in roots’ perseverance.
They’ll be fine, even when we’re gone. -
Ways
I used to drive to the office,
sealed in a metal capsule,
just another scale
on the morning car snake,
sliding from bubble “home”
to bubble “work”.
Then I shifted to public transport:
a pinch of train, a zic of bus,
and all the bubbles burst,
dissolving me into humanity,
the river of society,
the course of destiny.
Now I commute by bike,
across some countryside,
and it is wild
how much life hides
beyond the thresholds
I’ve never gone by.
When I was rolling on the road,
I fooled myself into believing
I was the flawed hero
of my micro dimension.
When I glided fast on rails,
I felt the reassuring absence
of anything remarkable
about my existence,
one among many,
not erased, only reframed.
Now I pedal through the outskirts,
crossing realities
that tell me what herons do
at 7 AM and 5 PM,
how cats handle the rain
just like I have to
when we all end up
under the sky's sudden moods.
They show me which flowers bloom,
how long they stay open
before folding back
and closing for the season,
the colour of newborn leaves,
their parent trees
and their silent urge
to become green.
The sweat I pour into effort
is making me a friend of discomfort.
And there’s this galvanizing freedom
in slipping past traffic,
enveloped in nothing
but the atmosphere.
Wherever I follow
the rhythm of the world,
cloud cover changes,
and so does snow
on mountain tops
and the transparency
of winter fog.
But do I change along?
Is there a place
where human and nature
touch without hurt?
While I’m seeking it,
I’m also leaving
space within me. -
Soul, Medium Rare
Whenever I smell
hot oozy tar,
I almost rejoice
‘cause I also feel charred.
A snowflake stays pure
only until it lands,
every fall bruises,
snow knows, and I do too.
I filled wounds with gold,
got them shiny as stars,
so that all the glitter
would blind prying eyes.
Isn’t cotton candy sweet,
but with a marred aftertaste?
Marshmallows swear that
charred is their best shape.
Adieu à Dieu,
I still see you from afar. -
Confined Spaces
Electricity
feeds light bulbs
with sparks
that ignite
a shell of glass.
Equally,
alive fantasies
spiral together,
bounce and collide,
finding their shape. -
Runaways
I'm mourning my good mood,
for a fleeting moment
soft between my fingers
before slipping away, again.
I pray for its return,
though I don't blame it
if it chooses not to
in this depressing season.
Until then I’ll wait,
counting spots on the ceiling,
listening to pigeons cooing.
Amen. -
Carina Travel Agency
Background Image: Carina Nebula image taken by HAWK-I camera on ESO’s Very Large Telescope
Credit: © ESO/T. Preibisch – Source
When my inward eye fancies
an escapist extravaganza,
I picture myself as a little alien
visiting a cosmic Ginza.
In my utilitarian spacecraft,
full throttle to a hypergiant star,
I drive and drive, so careless
of space and time afar.
I stop a while for a glance,
atop the highest Cosmic Cliffs,
gazing all around at the galaxy,
soaking in glowing sidereal whiffs.
I peep into the dark Keyhole,
but through the dust, all I see
is the grand Defiant Finger
mocking, making fun of me.
Tuned to my favourite Astro-Radio,
to Mystic Mountain, I head my ship.
I, of course, take pictures for content,
let down—never!—by a good old nebula trip. -
Vanity Fair
All aboard our grain of sand,
on its elliptical path,
floating around a furnace
for what to us is forever!
A jolly carousel,
spinning and balancing,
rolling and revolving
in dark emptiness.
Who knows what is out there,
watching our little fair,
(amused or dejected?)
killing a moment of eternity.
Cosmic & Uneasy 