Sonnets to Scream

 1. A. Todd Anderson

There's a shy poet in every class

Who always recites loudly, if comfortable;

His thoughts and heart could never pass

As anything less than admirable.

He writes until his friend smiles brightly

For he enjoys the words he often hears;

It brings the poet joy, though only slightly, 

Before he feels the eye's fall of glass tears.

The snow weighs on him as a lead boulder

While he cries out a famous, dear name;

It shoots through him like an arrow in the shoulder

And it pains him to know who is to blame.

He always senses every little thing

And the toll each of those could bring.

B. Todd Anderson 

Există câte un poet timid în fiecare clasă 

Care recită cu putere, dacă se simte confortabil;

Dar tot ce altora adesea le pasă 

Este adâncul inimii și gândul său admirabil.

Scrie până când un prieten surâde cu lumină 

Pentru că el adesea adoră ce aude;

Atunci poetul are fericire, deși puțină, 

Înainte de simți a ochilor cascadă de lacrimi surde.

Neaua îi cântarea în spate precum plumbul 

Atunci când striga o dragă, faimoasă denumire;

Îl săgetează și infectează tot mai mult plumbul

Fiindcă deja știe totul despre acea sortire. 

Simte fiecare detaliu, este aproape un tic,

Și vede efectul său, oricât ar fi de mic.

2. Loneliness

I stare at a painting hung on a wall,

The poet gazes out bound with loneliness;

I can only imagine all of his joy and its toll

While a skull filled his eyes with dryness.

I smiled, yet I couldn't feel anything,

Though I'm trapped in a frame, like that poet;

All I have left is to remind myself to sing,

To sing loudly while I write my sonnet.

I am stuck with the scent of lavender,

Under the light of many shimmering stars;

I feel everybody's so bitter tears,

Yet mine often fall silent on Mars.

Sometimes, people read merely from outside,

Forgetting thus, all the keys we always hide.

3. Aristotle Mendoza

He always listens, but rarely speaks

Because he often prefers to wear a mask;

He sees beyond all mimics and tricks,

Although he fears the questions they may ask.

Loneliness was all you could see in his eyes,

Like a black button on a white walll;

All until he met Dante and his absence of lies,

The one who could make him forgt it all.

Dante brought passion to Ari's indifference

And showed him a world of unknown words;

Ari never thought about the difference

Because he couldn't see Dante's swords.

It puzzled him that he was loved dearly,

Although he was rather mute, clearly.

 

4. Dante Quintana

He was often open like the books on his table

Because his fire can burn too brightly;

To read, to learn, to teach, he was often able

Because words aren't a struggle, not slightly.

Looking for a bird, Dante didn't hear Ari's call

And was pushed to avoid being killed by a car;

Broken bones and stitched faces were their fall,

Though Ari could still see his eyes from afar.

At Dante's swollen face, Ari couldn't bare to look

Because the beating could have hurt him too;

Dante would weep for the many hours it took

To return to what for him was true.

They hold each other in a warm embrace

And feel their minds' tempests without a brace.

5. Închis 

Închis într-o sticlă, stă gândul în compania

Unei lacrimi solitare, dar totuși înghețată;

Când se întâlnesc, îmi aduc mania

Și zilele cu mii de vorbe ce se îneacă.

Știu că nu-i ceva sever sau permanent,

Dar acele lungi ore parcă paralizează 

Al tobelor allegro ritm intermitent 

Și închid orice exteriorul stimulează.

Și se adună mereu că într-un glob de sticlă rece

Fiecare gând tăios ce doar rănește;

Uneori, furtuna nu mai trece,

Iar puterea unui fulger doar crește.

Coastele și plămânii aruncă inima la închisoare 

Și-l doboară pe Iar în zborul lui spre soare.

6. Why do certain people care too much?

Why do certain people care too much

About everyone else's sense of fashion?

It's simply the art's tender touch

That brings in the theatre, all the passion.

Some think they see a lavender streak 

In anyone who's out of the ordinary;

Whoever forces the norms to bend and break

It is often seen as a mere circus scenery.

It scares me about it to be thinking 

For it tightens the knot of my tongue;

It will be enough before I start sinking 

And I tear apart the pages of poems, too long.

Is it a mistake to go on a different way?

Will I be stuck in an open cage till the last May?

7. Pens & Words

The pens & words pierce into my throat,

Succeeding in paralysing my tongue;

Still, the two are what keeps me afloat

And what gives me the power to write my song.

I live in worlds I, myself, have created,

Worlds in which I am the god or goddess;

Thanks to my golden sceptre, all has melted 

And caught fire from the ashes, nonetheless.

It is odd to choose the pen instead of a sword 

Because they both carry a mountain's weight;

They can both kill and heal, blade and word, 

Because brutality and tenderness can be the same trait.

Pens and words pierce often into my heart

But they also help me be reborn through my art.

8. Long Hours 

Long hours can seem paralysing

When the lungs quicken, the beat of the drums;

That's what I often catch myself analysing 

In hope of understanding those wasted sums.

It's the eyes that tell all these stories 

About water, singing of joy and sorrow;

That's how you live through grief and glories

And bear all the masks you could borrow.

Yet I stare aimlessly through the empty void

With crystal eyes that have long dried out;

It's a sort of numbness I failed to avoid

Because it stifles each and every shout.

There isn't much that I could think or say

Which could bring me a better or new May.

9. Stomach

A knot in the stomach takes the focus again

Because the head is locked in a jar of glass;

To hide that, I always aimlessly train

So that the clouds don't gather in a mass.

The glass will break and I will gather the shards,

Despite the blood, tears and scars so bitter;

I need to learn to play better with these cards

Or else I'll drink the salty water by the litre.

Oh, knot in the stomach, killing all that's beautiful

And urging the drummer to play much quicker!

It must be a virus way too graceful

Because it only makes me grow sicker.

Why do I write with ease about torment

When I often admire the universe's adornment?

 

10. Heartstone

It's cold outside, even when the sun shines,

But I still adore all about swimming;

I don't cover my head, not even when it rains

Because I'd rather allow myself to be dreaming.

Thor, they call, the short boy they tease

And I always find myself caught in-between;

To take the punches for him, I'd do with ease

Because It's still not the worst I've seen.

I ran into a car with eyes in a waterfall

And some don't seem to see the intention;

My whole being is for beating a call,

So I decided to put an end to the ideation.

Why was I born like this, blond and blue-eyed, 

And didn't realise to whom I had lied?

11. Fernando P.

You still stare at a mirror with broken pieces

And see the shards of yourself, unknown before;

It's nothing but the pain everybody misses

Because we cannot be without the living's bore.

Complex and simple beings by our nature,

We create words and worlds to outlive our years;

How odd is it for a social, lonely creature

To write poems that please many ears?

Álvaro de Campos talks about progress and modernity

In all his endless maritime or triumphal odes;

Ricardo Reis calls upon the gods with an eternity

To which Horace forever proudly nods. 

Man is not an animal, but flesh with a mind,

Although many fit the sort that's ill and kind. 

12. Fears

I want to cry, although I cannot,

Not when those blue, eagle eyes stare down

And spit the fire that trembles every cot

Or burns the skin, lip, ears, and crown.

Eyes swell, scars gather on pale skin

While numbness devours all that's feeling;

Yet laughter wires everything in tin

And keeps my ravens under a glass sealing.

Only a cat can stand the endless tears

That fall on trembling limbs or cuts, so little;

Yet I stand breathless between the fears,

Although they could crush my bones, so brittle.

It all slowly freezes inside the glass bottle,

Yet it's closer to boiling, as if it was in a kettle.

 

13. Language

In this world, nothing could be closer to reality

Than those who too often write or paint;

That's how we embrace the banality

As well as each bruise and every faint.

More than the gods, a pen gives birth to many worlds

And brings music to the silence of the void;

Ideas ring and speak through all the words

That sing of questions we cannot avoid.

Identities and cultures are born from language,

Which gives names to every little universe;

That's how creatures with each other engage

And learn to read and write in the craft of the verse.

The head and heart need to be in such a balance

That others may find in them a menace.

14. Between White Roses

The sun still rises upon the lavender field,

Although many droughts and winters tried to stifle it;

Their masks always hide them behind a shield

And so it's never killed, though it does take a hit.

Lavender can grow anywhere between white roses,

Regardless of weather, rank, or time;

Even when you still see the hooves of horses

Or when its oil is smelt on the hands of a crime.

Achilles adores the bitter-sweet scent of lavender

Because it reminds him of the joy in Patroclus' eyes;

Now tears rain over his cheeks, as if he was another,

While he refuses to sing any of their cruel lies.

Although I feel I'm talking to the windmills,

Lavender still grows on all the past, present and future hills.

15. Orpheus

Sing to me, Orpheus, with the strings of your lyre,

Of every pansy and rose, every eye and ear;

I will write the words, for I still have the fire,

Although partly extinguished by a bitter-sweet tear.

May Apollo and his muses bless my worlds

Because I think I am ready for the life's dance;

Feeling become figures when shown through words

Because otherwise we would be cought in an endless trance.

Yet I still stare aimlessly through the window,

Remembering the embrace of a dear winter;

I already have the colours and the brushes of wilow

Because od Orpheus' generation, I will be the painter.

Before rebirth, something needs burn down;

Before the sun rises again, in needs to set in every town.

16. The Boredom of F.P. 

When I get bored, I begin to write my sonnet

So as to forget the fact that I exist;

That's why I must have a bee in my bonnet,

Since through symbols, I often try to resist.

How many pick up the pen instead of pulling the trigger?

As Virginia Woolf always loved to say;

In this war, I don't know if I could be a Sieger

Or at least to keep the devil of feeling at bay.

It's odd what can be born of boredom,

The worlds we create when we roll our eyes;

Though it can feel much like a martyrdom,

The instincts cannot ever tell lies.

It's strange what non-action adds to the brain,

Although the oxygen through the fire comes to a drain.

17. Februrary 14th

Teddy bears, dyed roses and frozen hearts fill the place

While my stomach knots as if in sickness;

If blood falls, I will not leave a trace

Because above all, conquers the deafness.

Many wear the mety mask of joy

On this moment that's nothing but Thor's day;

They pull the strings as a child plays with a toy

And then cut them before the following May.

Why do I talk when I'm looking through a glass,

Forver observing what I don't feel?

It's all a headache and a weightless masss

Because I carry spade aces made of steel.

I do not feel the void I was warned about,

But the curses will sometimes make me shout.

18. Indifference

The moon itself could fall off the sky

Or the Tiber river could change its course;

For all I care, it could all be a Prussian dye

Or have the salt-and-pepper of a wild horse.

When it comes to faith, the indifference grows

For Christ isn't above Apollo or the dragons of jade;

Each story has golden marbles and circus shows

Because to live for mythology is the oldest trade.

All people are born equal to both of my eyes

For nobody is better or worse than the other;

I abhor all the petty, egotistical lies

Which make of differences such a bother.

Why should I care about when the prime minister sleeps,

Or which politician towards the gallows leaps?

 

19. Acid

We spew acid that burns the other's skin 

By pointing out every little difference;

It gives to many a reason to use nails, clay or tin

To make their living a less painful sentence.

We forget the equality we were born under

Because people fail to see each other as such;

The spine feels as if close to the deafening thunder,

Before the lightning delivers its sweet touch.

Words as spears pierce into sensitive hearts,

Freezing or turning them to little stones;

That's why we cfreate and admire the arts

While forgetting all the yelling and fearful tones.

Why do we look for somebody to take the blame

When we are the ones who make each claim?

20. Earthquake

The ground shakes, all the building catch its song

And begin to dance while losing their bricks;

All the people suddenly speak the same tongue

And forget the world, their masks and tricks.

Glass blinds them and hurts beyond the skin

While everything falls apart under the naked eye;

The rapair is always done only is thin tin,

Although it can lead many to kill or die.

The mind seems to be turning against itself

While thin and long scars appear on the arms;

Each memory is a small glass on the shelf,

Which brings the sound of laughter less than it harms.

The ground trembles and so does the head

Because over a thread continues its tread.

21. Flower of the Bard

Silence dawns upon every great city

When the quiet ones find the courage to speak;

Still, the gods only know to take pity

Or use angainst them a poison and trick.

Those who are mute wear streaks of lavender

Which too often lead to stares, curses or punches;

The scars left by war are rarely tender

While the back in pain, sometimes, hunches.

To stay or to rot, I keep asking a tarot card

While the lavender blooms in one of my rooms;

Poison never stifles this flower of the bard,

Which suffered 10 planets' worth of glooms.

To leave or to die in a sweet misery,

All before I cover myself in the grave's mystery.

 

22. To Artemis and Athena

Afrodite sings, while you hear the sound of the lyre,

Of love unbound in golden or rusty chains;

To Artemis and Athena, it is nothing but endless tire

For enamoured lives are to them a bane.

Artemis runs the wilderness with the moon by her side

While the huntresses follow her into the darkness;

Outside, inside, nobody has anything to hide

Because her way leads out of any harness.

Athena knows the words of philosophy and poetry

For the wise owl is always her proud guide;

The head's matters require a masterful deity

Because learning involves someone close by our side.

So the two live in th ewonder of maidenhood

In their tight, merely aromantic sisterhood.

 

23. Winter 

The sun sinks to the depth of frozen rivers

When everything falls under the deepest sleep;

While snow and ice give other the shivers,

I sit underneath and count the mind's sheep.

The winter freezes the tears when they fall

And the frost on windows paints the glass;

Meditating, you see the heart's silent call

And start to stitch all of your wounds in brass.

Nothing and everything changes in the contradiction of men

Because many thoughts put us in the middle;

In one head, can exist at least other ten

And to understand them is the life of Sphinx's riddle.

Winter can be a riddle you fail to understand,

Though all you have to do is observe, not see, to comprehend.

24. 18th Of August 

In an endless universe, storms gather first

Inside the silent head without a tongue;

Joyous sadness keeps its forward burst

Before the blood starts pouring for too long.

I don't know how to feel, so I simply act,

Before disappearing and turning into a mute;

I wish I knew how to work it out or react

Without being put in the most tight suit.

I'm not even 20 while I'm losing my own name

Amongst the louder ones of all other poets;

Although not a single day feels the same,

I still find myself quietly writing my sonnets.

I feel the world's endless warmth and cold,

But I know so little, though I'm not yet 20 years old.

25. Look Directly 

I fail to look directly and see people's eyes,

So I only notice shirts, freckles, and moods;

Bodies are often unable to tell lies,

As you can see such laughter or will to hang in the woods.

Eyes, ears, and mouths always greet the outside

With empty politeness and masked words;

When somebody has a total of nothing to hide,

They are seen as the destroyer of others' worlds.

Why is it hard to look towards the present 

Devoid of judgement and defensive ideas?

Why do so many look back or forward and resent 

The progress or lack of it in little Korea?

I see, but often solely with my ears

Because nothing deceives what the mind hears.

26. Întuneric 

Privesc adânc și lung în eternul întuneric 

Și nu reușesc să înțeleg teama de influența lui;

El transformă orice râs, orice plâns isteric 

Într-o amintire ce bate în minte un cui.

E adevărat că te poate lăsa fără voce și respirație 

Fiindcă adesea sparge globul tău de sticlă rece;

Dar te obligă să simți ce ai putea să iei în considerație 

Și să-ți vezi renașterea după ce uraganul trece.

E bine să cunoști și întunericul și lumina,

Să nu le știi în alt mod decât complementare;

Numai așa poți vedea frumosul de pe colina 

Pe care Sisif împinge continuu piatra de sare.

N-am teamă de ceva ce nu cunosc bine

Fiindcă adevăratul răspuns vine din sine.

27. Brave New Worlds

I stare outside the open window and hear

A few words, among which counts my name;

The voice is unknown, yet very sharp and dear

Because it calls to mind a distant flame.

A portrait almost foreign to me

Reveals a future that rarely forgets words;

It is something I look forward to live and see

Beacuse ideas can create brave new worlds.

Thus I fly higher and even catch a cloud

Before falling to break my bones on the ground;

A sharp voice keeps calling me with its loud

And intense, yet calm, and careful sound.

The gods want me to sing while writing my sonnet

So as to have fewer chances of losing my bonnet.

28. The Reason of Feeling 

Nothing bothers me anymore these days

Since the head turned off all that's feeling;

I've only been wondering through an endless maze

In the futile attempt to break its sealing.

The reason of feeling brings the worst pain

And forces the head to bloody tear itself apart;

From this game, I have nothing to gain,

Aside from ruining all sides of my art.

Words and ideas can equally heal and kill

Because they work in different ways for each;

I hope this time I will not easily fall ill

Or try to poison myself with a rotten peach.

I try to swim against a swollen river

Because I refuse to drown in such a shiver.

29. Stained Glass 

He paints a stained glass and doesn't show his progress

Beacuse his own colours tint those he uses;

He fears the storms may bring such a mess

That he might fail to see what he chooses.

For disobedience, he was yelled once more

While being hit for speaking his mind aloud;

A spot in his heart is growing so sore

That it overflows any rainbow or dark cloud.

He now doesn't feel so much anymore,

Which sometimes brings tears to his eyes;

He still feels those scars without their gore

And can still notice if he's being fed lies.

Nothing saddens him or brings a distant joy

Because a small gesture can even kill such a boy.

30. Our Generation 

Our generation was born and died 1000 times

While thrown into the dust all alone;

The air no longer smells of blooming limes

Or ideas about whoever owns the throne.

Worthless, lazy or much too sensitive

Are names that still ring in our ears,

And it doesn't help that we're still creative

Because it feeds endlessly into many fears.

Still, I try to look above and see the stars,

Although I have no clue what tomorrow will bring;

I refuse to let my mind be locked behind bars

For I still have my quiet wish to sing.

I salute the lovely minds of our generation 

For they will highlight every artist's creation.

31. Labyrinth 

To interact can be a labyrinth for me

Because I fail to understand their cues;

I know the language, yet I cannot see

The link between words and silent clues.

I am aware of every gesture I show

Because I know how some may react to it;

In such moments, I feel like I am a crow

Who often by most pigeons is hit.

Yet I bury it like the corpse of a friend 

Who died long before finding his peace;

I fear the noose might soon bring my end

Because I can no longer stand such a hiss.

Why is the brain wired in such a way

That I cannot see February changing into May?

32. Sounds Like Treason

People often stare and I cannot return the look

Because I usually notice only the colour of the eye;

Everybody seems to interact according to a book

Without which, they slowly start to die.

I do see things others don't for some reason

Such as the slight difference in manner or tone;

But to say this aloud sounds like treason

Because it cuts people close to every little bone.

The brain is wired against itself and it often feels

As lonely as a wolf who was quietly exiled;

They say as time passes it always heals,

But it leaves the wounds open, however mild.

I'm used to being a sort of a different breed

Only because my mind follows another creed.

33. Abyss

This abyss of mine seems to be endless now

And I tried everything to find a way out;

I ended up here, but I don't know how

Nor do I see the rhyme to write about. 

The void can be equally consuming and feeding

Because not even fire has the courage to exist here;

To get out, there is no universal leading,

Not even a memory of something dear.

Yet you rise and often touch the sun

Like Icarus with his ideals and wax wings;

Only you never cared for what had been done

And only want to write what Apollo sings.

The abyss can be both sadness and joy

Because your own mind becomes a toy.

34. I craft my mask so as people cannot see

I craft my mask so as people cannot see

All the intensity and tears which lie inside;

To navigate the universe, I become a bee

Whose joy or sting of frustration has to hide.

And it works because few dare to break the glass

To discover a truth that's not sung about;

It sometimes makes the sound of a great fuss,

Although it's too low to sound like a shout.

It is draining, but often reduces the isolation 

And calms the nerves activated in a social setting;

It can feel like belonging to a different nation

When every single interaction becomes a betting.

In crowds, why do I even bother to fit

When I know I'll be the one who takes the hit?

35. Dense Fog Inside My Mind

What is it that burns too often my head

And leaves the most dense fog inside my mind?

I sometimes feel through me the arrows of lead

Or the claws reaching for my shoulders from behind.

Is the ice on my spine or endless fear

The one seeming to conquer the rhythm of my drum?

Either way, it comes along with a tear

And the infinite spectrum of being numb.

Inside, outside, it is all the same

Because everything works in similar ways;

I forgot who could or should take the blame

Because I'm used to losing my mind, most of the days.

It kills me to think and feel at the same time,

But it becomes tiresome to have to play the mime.

36. People are curious to feel everything around 

People are curious to feel everything around

Because nobody rules better than an impulse;

In my ears it never quite makes a sound

Because I don't wish for whatever quickens that pulse.

Some go as far as missing their flight

For the blood and poison adorning a rose;

Seeing this leaves me in a state of fright

Because many get out with worse than a broken nose.

Many lose dreams, tongues, ears and eyes

For someone they saw as the one and only;

In agony such a heart too often dies

Or is endlessly consumed by sorrow, solely.

There's a glass between me and such intense feelings 

Beacuse when the head rules, the heart has 7 sealings.

37. Too Quiet or Too Loud 

I sit in silence, usually buried amongst people

Beacuse the shadow is cast always by the light;

The night is dark and fright is triple 

Because I'm again stuck between freeze and flight.

I try to speak my mind, but it's either too quiet or too loud

For anyone to even notice its existence;

I often lose my head in such an indifferent crowd 

Or they cut it upon forgetting all their patience.

Both sides crave the sweet poison of the other

Before falling apart, as if crushed by a hurricane;

The storm brings brings silent, violent tears to one another

While the heads are left with every single blame and bane.

Isolation and lack of it destroy all the same

While leading to madness in every kind of frame.

38. Snow & Rain

It snows heavily all throughout spring,

And its weight bends and breaks many a shoulder;

But in my ears, such a threat doesn't ring

Nor does it signal me a muscle ready to falter.

I do enjoy everything about its peaceful presence 

Because it calms down the turmoil of summer;

Against my head's clamour, it returns the patience

And slows down the allegro rhythm of the drummer.

I fail to understand why so many hate snow & rain

As they extinguish the fire we all carry;

Few can walk along with the burden of pain

Before they quietly choose which one to bury.

There is nothing that bothers me anymore,

Although some spots still feel too sore.

39. The Deafening Silence 

A bottle is all you can see in an empty room

As well as the deafening silence filling it;

It's nothing but a strong scent of doom

Before the thick glass will take its final hit.

The bottle always gathers the strongest feeling

Which tries to spill your guts on every table;

Head & heart slowly become nothing but a sealing,

Preventing you from seeing your feet as stable.

And it goes on and on until the glass bottles break

Or intensity overflows the brain of a ghost;

Now eyes show the pressure they cannot take

While your body becomes to such a play a mere host.

Numbness can hurt as much as vulnerability 

Because it forces the mind to lose an important ability.

40. Books as a Crown

Books will feel like a crown on your head

When you see everything expanding before your eyes;

Even long after your tongue has bled,

You will still be able to read between their lies.

Before yourself, everything will open in absurdity

And all the darkness will suddenly make sense;

That's how nature will show you its dignity

And its beautiful particles will become dense.

By walking in light, you will be able to find darkness 

And see the beauty hidden between all its lines;

Now you observe each season and its shortness,

Water & fire, head & heart, rises & declines.

The mind is crowned by the study's beauty,

But to recognise this is everybody's duty.

41. All Cuts & Wounds 

All cuts & wounds have at least a little stitch

Which helps the body reduce the bleeding;

Still, when all these begin to irritatingly itch,

I catch myself counting red drops, onwards leading.

I hate how much my skin feels tight

While the stitches gather mountains of salt;

When I pick them, my body is locked in freeze or flight

While both head & heart are put on a halt.

And so my head keeps spinning aimlessly, 

Before it quieted every slow movement of the tongue;

Minutes, hours, days, carry out this curse helplessly

While I write, listen to, and sing this bitter song.

It feels like a computer malfunctioning up there,

But I have no clue how much of it I can bare.

42. My Mind's Labour 

My mind's labour guides the eyes to see ahead

The sight, hearing and taste of too many;

But long after my own tongue has bled,

I can no longer fathom the words of any.

The cogs spin, day & night, in & out,

Although they are wired in an odd manner;

Regardless of how loud or quiet is the shout,

It could never reveal the blood of the banner.

Although the stones keep gathering around me,

I try to keep my head above, to swim & float;

Beyond that, not many people can see

Or try to help, to build and offer a boat.

Lucky those who never had nor ever will feel this misery;

From outside, they see nothing but a circus scenery.

43. All Empires Must Fall

When the ground shakes, all empires must fall

To make way for the new world which settles in;

Although old ghosts still make a crying call,

The newborns won't repeat the same drowning sin.

And thus, a new light suddenly pierces the ground 

To teach the beauty of colour to those who see only black & white;

For some ears, it might be too sharp of a sound,

Despite the pleasure they take in the unusual sight.

Instead of carrying the old flag and its blame,

The youth prefers to makes one without a thorn;

Such minds cannot, will not be the same

As those before who could throw anything in scorn.

We may be born just too early or too late,

But we still learn to accept what you used to hate.

44. Houses Built in a Distinct Way

Each world has houses built in a distinct way

Because different ideas come from all places;

When those collide, it is curses some would say

Before seeing the other along similar traces.

Still, some buildings seem oddly designed 

Because the architect wanted to show off his skill;

Such houses are often demolished or simply fined

Because such a presence makes everyone ill.

And so brains are wired without fitting in

A world, a place, a language of wonder;

Such brains drown themselves in water or gin

Because every interaction is as exhausting as plunder.

How can we grow to embrace difference 

When we only know the taste of indifference?

45. Ari & Dante

Dante's hands calmly caress Ari's scars and skin

While he feels his face to be as fragile as porcelain;

Dante cries when he remembers Ari's broken shin

And feels as though such a mind couldn't be sane.

Likewise, Ari couldn't bare to look at Dante's swollen face

Because he doesn't understand why the boys did it;

Of blood, his fists still have an awful trace

Because the challenger didn't expect to also be hit.

With all the scars and fears, they stare at a shimmering star

Which guides them through the universe, both dark and light;

It feels immense when seen from the pickup of Ari's car,

So much so that each of them discovers a reason to fight.

Neither tears nor blood can tear them apart

Because the way they feel represents their art.

46. Nothing Happens Anymore 

Nothing happens anymore when eyes become mute

While intense feelings drown in endless numbness;

Still, my mind forces a smile to fit the suit

Because nothing could feel worse than eternal deafness.

The heart still sings, though as a player in a band,

Even when the legs and hands start to paralyse;

In my eyes, there's nothing other than glass and sand

Because when the storm begins, few take the time to analyse.

Every second, minute, hour, day, it doesn't end,

Regardless of whoever is the nameless, silent speaker;

My head keeps firing signals nobody should send

Because nothing can hurt more than being an overthinker.

It never stops, no matter how hard I try,

And this can stop Icarus from his attempt to fly.

47. Aimless Ways & Moods

Many throw stones in aimless ways and moods

Because they dislike to hear what is different;

With knives at cows' throats and burning woods,

Questions about disappearance become frequent.

They all hear the stifled, yet loud cry,

But choose to stay silent, to play blind;

Everything, everywhere is nothing but a lie

Which builds a golden crown from behind.

And people forget superiority doesn't exist,

Not even when talking about a silent voice;

Not matter who you are, bird, man or beast,

Your quiet tone can change a fellow's choice.

Why choose to be cruel in a world that suffers enough already, 

When you can improve the matters, slow & steady?

48. May 5th

This very day, the kitchen's scent makes me sick

Because they all just repeat the same tiresome words;

I'd say it would feel better if I was stung by a tick

Because an old frustration is revealed in such worlds.

People spew acid to burn down opposing tongues,

Especially on Easter day, when rejection is obvious;

But gods forbid you dare sing your pagan songs

Because of roots, most are too oblivious.

Why should I choose a day to prove whatever 

When every single one can be a testament to gratitude?

That's why I prefer a different road, although I have to sever

Everything coming to such a pompous magnitude.

I couldn't care less of all they do or say

When most of them act like parrots every day.

49. Endless Building Block

I stand on the roof of my endless building block

And look down to see what happens if I fall;

If I hit my back on the asphalt, if my end is a shock

Or a source of misery for those who don't hear the call.

But I won't, although I have both wax wings,

Which may one day serve as feathers in a colourful plumage;

Heart and mind join in whatever each sings

While consumed by joy, by tears, by rage.

I risk losing my breath or voice in senseless arguing

Because something obvious to me is hidden from another;

Instead I sit quietly in a darkness that keeps swallowing 

Every moment until sound becomes a bother.

I wonder if I should jump or attempt to fly

Because I hear the noise made by every lie.

50. As If Ideas Were Different Countries 

People feel as if ideas were different countries 

Which need to be defended, regardless of the cost;

They sometimes fail to respect certain boundaries,

Even though a comrade admitted they lost.

Like rams hitting each other until horns break,

Stubborn people continue a dead conversation;

No success will exist until the ground starts to shake

Or the ram receives a crown, a bright evaluation.

I never know enough, but I can always know more,

Although Aries, Taurus, will never know perspective;

With them, don't argue until your throat's sore

And allow each partaker to be brightly creative.

If mind is a neighbourhood which anyone can paint differently,

I choose to expand mine, albeit silently. 

 

(source of the image: pinterest)

The Art of Poetry and My Obsession with "Il Ballo Della Vita"

    Do you remember when Horace wrote a poem that would define a whole new genre? Because I do. I'm talking about “The Art of Poetry” or “Ars Poetica”, as he called it. As the best teacher put it, he expressed his opinion about what poetry should be and how the poet should see it. Horace thought poetry goes beyond theory and should be treated as an art. While nobody disagrees on that one, there have been many others who have written about poetry. Some of those turned their verse into music and created concept albums, also known as albums adored by philosophy enthusiasts. One of those is Måneskin's debut, namely “Il Ballo Della Vita”. In the following paragraphs, I'm going to obsess over this one while I talk about Marlena. Disclaimer: this is just an opinion, don't take it too seriously.
   Let's address the elephant in the room: who is Marlena, and why am I so obsessed? Frankly, she is not a real person, but rather a goddess who blesses the band in terms of creative expression. In other words, she's their muse like in the Greek myths. She represents everything about creativity, from the liberating feeling of expressing yourself to the sense of emptiness of burnout. She is also the freedom of thought and the capacity to illustrate it, to give it a form through art. This idea alone made me become obsessed, especially with a few songs. Also, as if to feed this, my best friend gifted me the album on Christmas. I have listened to it for about 3-4 in a day, and I'm very close to learning Italian thanks to this band. But that's already off-topic; let's stick to the concept.
   The album starts with a new song, quite literally. With it comes a new feeling that is naturally accompanied by discomfort. Something is missing, but the new sensation cannot only fill that space but also overflow it. It is a great dream that goes beyond the locked minds, yet something that can be learned if there's a will. Then, in all this confusion, a call to the muse is made and a warning of distance towards those who are “trapped in their minds”. It is a blessing that leaves the writer breathless. But since the past tense is used, he indicates that the muse might be quite distant at the moment. This leads to a flow of contradicting emotions regarding the song of the goddess and wish to create, which is detailed in the second song of the album.
   “Torna a casa” describes the feeling that appears in the absence of art, the emptiness given by the inability to express oneself. In this one, the muse is personified by being given a name, Marlena. In the first part of the song, the lyrics describe a sunset with closed doors and a sun on the horizon. The only image in the writer's mind is that of Marlena's red cheek and the hand that healed his snake bites, despite everyone's curses and his thorns. Then the chorus begs the muse to return to avoid the freezing feeling of disappearing. The second part of the song describes a sunrise that illuminates people's blind spots. However, despite all the hardship, the writer is willing to move forward, learn to forgive themselves, and allow Marlena to improve their life. Still, this song has enough material to write an essay about or join a different dimension.
   “L'altra dimensione” speaks about the joy that follows when we find our voice. The will to create becomes even stronger when we listen to the muse's song. The lyrics start by swearing to pack everything and move to another dimension, tired of everyone's gray faces. The writer wants colours, which they cannot reach amongst people with figures full of sweat. Thus, they ask Marlena to take them for a dance, the dance of life. The creative force has now the power to give birth to new worlds and has also the capacity to heal all wounds. The writer admits having risen from the ashes like a phoenix, and even learning to fly, simply because they packed everything and kissed Marlena. Then we find out the dance of life is led by her, by art and creativity. She can teach the steps as well as a way to fight for such a vision. The carelessness for the outside world leads to the next song.
   “Shit Blvd” details the carelessness that comes with the vision. The writer expresses that they only want to sing their song, though split between desire and hatred. Then we see a reference to Icarus and the desperate will to “fly away”. The words in the mind now make sense, and the muse perhaps trusts the writer more. In the end, it's all a dream that demands to be lived alongside her, a dream where fear should be absent. The boulevard is trying to imprison or limit ideas, but the artist already has wings and is ready to fly fearlessly, as it's detailed in the following piece.
   “Fear for Nobody” goes into detail about the courage to create. The artist is begging themselves not to close their eyes, not to succumb to a narrow vision. The tears have dried out, leading to a sort of numbness that is parallel to the will to express oneself. The writer then admits to having no fear and asks the muse to show him the reason for it. The dream slowly becomes reality and the courage to fight is born. It becomes a unique story that doesn't care about endless disapproval. But what happens when you lose that fire?
   “Le parole lontane”, my personal favourite, details the fleeting nature of the muse and what it feels like not to be around her. When we're writing and feeling as if something's changed, even the air doesn't feel the same. We want to believe it was real, although the anxiety is rising and bringing tears with it. The writer wants to swim, yet not drown because the words feel distant when Marlena isn't around. They want to scream, despite the possibility it might be in vain. Then time burns and changes the nature of creation, which leads to more tears before the storm that turns everything around. Words become futile, so much so that singing is done silently; the feeling is expressed by a mute. The winter freezes and the paralysis becomes fearsome since the legs simply give out. The writer begs Marlena to return to them because, by losing her, they may not be able to walk again. Still, burning oneself out leads to rebirth and maybe even immortality.
   “Immortale” speaks about the invincibility that comes along with creation and the power it brings to the writer. Thus, in a way, it re-writes the myth of Prometheus, who wanted to share the gift of fire and light with the mortal world. Same with the writer of these lyrics, they want to share their gift with those who need it. That's why those who dislike it leave before they have a chance to be touched, they don't want to interact with it. A lesson is to be learned from past mistakes, one that leads to flying high like Icarus. Some take the leap for money, some others for immortality and the joy of being listened to. Even in the darkest of times, the moon guards the artist; they are still standing despite the scars on the back. Because of that, a flower blooms without waiting for the spring. A new big bang takes place, and a new planet or even universe is born. Afterward, confidence becomes indifference to the outside world.
   “Lasciami stare” is all about the freedom and indifference one needs to be an artist. We need to be able to say “leave me alone” so that we can get the quiet necessary to create. The time will pass quicker unless we write the words that nobody said before. We will be considered crazy, but we'll know those who say it might as well be lying. Writing songs, and expressing our minds liberates us from the handcuffs many others accept and even praise. Thus, we'll be able to see that they are tied like puppets. Later, we'll realise that our songs might last forever, and we'll learn to say “Give me a break”. That's when a new will and energy to be reborn, to wash ourselves from the dirt, returns to us. Everyone's masks become obvious while we try to show what's ours. Being told that we're too young, that it's too early, doesn't bother us anymore, but we're aware we're not doing it for fame or money; we do it to ensure our view. But we still have to remember the rhythm.
   “Are You Ready?” asks the listener to be prepared to let their guard down and move with the flow. All one needs to do is remember the rhythm. From that, everything becomes possible; suddenly, dust catches fire, and you are ready to throw yourself into an unknown territory. As terrifying as that risk may be, it is worth trying if it brings you to the top.
    “Close to the Top” acknowledges the ascending way the artist has ahead of them. The clocks say that it's now their moment to shine brightly like never before. Those who chose to stay behind will remain there and cry; those are warned to keep their distance. Then, the fear withers and makes room for growth. The light embraces the darkness, the hatred embraces the acceptance to the point where we've got nothing to say.
    “Niente da dire” discusses the satisfaction with one's art. We want to fly, to hear our names in all the cities; we want to communicate a message and just savor reality for a second. Thus, we learn to let go of the guilt that can seem paralysing, along with all the doubts. That's how we find a cure for the wounds we have. Then the fuel burns, we get hurt and smile because that's how reality is: like the water of the sea that makes everything visible. We find nothing to add or laugh about, other than the acknowledgement of tearing down the thorns and starting to live. So Marlena accompanies the writer on a walk under the moonlight. She is warned not to listen to the mermaid's song because the artist doesn't want to drown either. Fear is thus forgotten, and the honest memory is written as poetry so that the night isn't scary. These are the conditions under which one can die as a king.
   “Moriro da re” is the conclusion to the concept. With exercise comes a sort of certainty of your abilities, a feeling which is detailed in this song. Although everything is uphill, the writer chooses to take Marlena by the hand and redesign the whole world. With the luggage ready, the two plan to shine through the grey night. Along with her, the artist admits they can now die as a king, with all the glory and fame. Not even sickness or tiredness can stop them from advancing like fire, taking everything with them. They are ready to face the crowd and whatever comes ahead; without going back, they prepare to leave. Then Marlena wins the evening with her beauty and honesty. With her, the wind will blow in the sail for a light travel and the artist can die as a king.
   How obsessed am I, on a scale from 1 to 5? Well, considering this is my longest article so far, you can do the maths. Once again, I am THIS close to learning Italian thanks to this band. Do I recommend the album? Yes. Do I recommend following its concepts? Also yes, if you want to learn to express yourself. Now, I'll wrap it up here. Back to the tea and sonnets!🍵

  

(source of the image: https://recensiamomusica.com/maneskin-il-ballo-della-vita/)

Aristotle & Dante

    Why am I attracted to LGBT+ literature like a moth to the flame? I assume it has something to do with the fact that I'm not particularly straight. I enjoy these stories more than their hetero counterparts because they seem less stereotypical and more genuine, they just reflect reality better. Likewise, I guess that's why they seem more raw. One of these stories is called “Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe”. I would say it is “The Song Of Achilles”, but taking place in the late '80s in El Paso, Texas. Also, I haven't read a book this quickly since TSOA. It still did not make me cry, but it did leave me with an inexplicable feeling. In this post, I will explain why I love it so much. As always, if you don't like spoilers, close the tab.
   For starters, I relate massively to both Ari and Dante. Just like Ari, I don't think I've ever been this close to anyone before meeting my best friend two years ago. Just like Dante, I speak with passion about literature and music. However, I find myself relating more to Ari and his paralysing self-doubt, bottled up emotions, and family dynamics. Dante is very open about everything and expects the same honesty in his relationships. Ari is not, and he feels trapped by this. He feels more comfortable around his mom than his dad, whom he doesn't quite understand, and that's something that I relate to. Also, he stifles his crying until he can no longer and pain becomes “a storm that came out of nowhere”, which is something that I do too. Gods, they know what it's like to be a teen.
   About intersectionality, it's interesting that they are both gay and Mexican. It's rare to see a character represented by multiple identities. Usually, when one is queer…that's it, other identities and the way they affect them are not mentioned. This book doesn't quite play into that stereotype. Exactly because Ari has to figure out everything all at once, he gets lost and frustrated. However, he is more comfortable with his Mexican identity than Dante is. Ari notices that bothers him and even calls him, though jokingly, a “pocho” or a half-arsed Mexican. The flip side of it is that Dante is more comfortable with being gay than Ari is. He's not afraid to say it or kiss a boy, although the latter gets him beaten up (“They cracked more than his ribs”). With Ari, his dad has to bring it up for him to notice.
   That brings me to the next theme: family portraits. In a nutshell, everyone has secrets, except Dante. He is an only child, while Ari feels like one since both his sisters and brother are 11–12 years older than him. Ari feels like the mascot of the family or a stranger, which sends him into an exile of sorts (self-isolation, I assume). Until he meets Dante, whose openness towards his dad seems foreign. Then, they are not only welcomed in the other's family, but their relationship with their parents especially improves. After a death in the family, his mother promises to be honest about Ari's imprisoned brother.
   After he finds out his brother killed a man with his bare fists, he becomes very curious about his dad's past too. In a beautiful scene, the two come out of the closet to each other: Ari as a gay man and Jaime, his father, as a traumatised war veteran. Ari was so consumed by every other problem that his dad brought up his sexuality, and specifically his instincts. After that, they understood each other. Honestly, that's a lovely message to send. Yes, saying the truth can and probably will hurt, but it's even worse if it's hidden and bottled up until the glass breaks.
   Another thing that I love about this is the psychological aspect with all its wounds. It's so obvious, but everyone has flaws, including our best friends, including our parents. Dante's greatest strength and weakness is his stubbornness, which leads him to be occasionally authoritative and win almost every argument. Ari's greatest flaw is his crippling self-doubt and anxiety. Still, his instincts don't lie. When Dante doesn't hear him calling his name, Ari's first impulse is to push him out of the way of a car.
   Afterward, because he has three limbs in a cast, Dante offers to bathe Ari. Dante cries, and Ari wants to do either that or hit Dante; he hates his openness as much as he hates himself. Likewise, when Dante is beaten up, Ari breaks the nose of one of the abusers. By the way, since Ari is the narrator, I love the beautifully tragic way he describes Dante's swollen, almost unrecognisable face; he could barely look at it. As a result of that, their parents guessed they were most likely romantically in love (“The way he looks at you”).
   All in all, do I recommend it? Yes, otherwise your bookshelf will be as sad and lonely as Ari's rocking chair. Do I have a favourite character? Not necessarily, though I do relate massively to both Ari and Dante. I'll wrap it up here with a few quotes I enjoy. Now, back to the tea!🫖 

 

(source of the image: mycast.io)

“WHY DO WE SMILE? WHY DO WE LAUGH? WHY DO we feel alone? Why are we sad and confused? Why do we read poetry? Why do we cry when we see a painting?” 

“The problem with my life was that it was someone else’s idea.”

“Maybe someone should have told that guy that we all weren’t ten-year-olds anymore.” 

“For the music to be over so soon. For the music to be over when it had just begun. That was really sad.”

“Fifteen-year-olds don’t qualify as people.”

“It was a small idea. But at least the idea was mine.”

“Mom, she got my sense of humor. I got hers.”

“WHEN | WALKED INTO THE HEAT OF THE DAY, EVEN THE lizards knew better than to be crawling around.” 

“Mascot. Great. Ari, the family mascot.” 

“Being fifteen didn’t help. Sometimes I thought that being fifteen was the worst tragedy of all.” 

“His eyes lit up. I mean, the guy was ready to listen to every word I said.” 

“I was ashamed of myself for being ashamed of myself.” 

“And really, he didn’t look like a professor. He was young and handsome and easygoing and it seemed like a part of him was still a boy.” 

“ My mom and I, sometimes the thing we had between us was easy and uncomplicated. Sometimes. But me and my dad, we didn’t have that.”

“  I got to thinking that poems were like people. Some people you got right off the bat. Some people you just didn’t get—and never would get. ” 

“Until Dante, being with other people was the hardest thing in the world for me. But Dante made talking and living and feeling seem like all those things were perfectly natural.”

“Do you think it’s bad—to doubt?”

“No. I think it’s smart.” 

“I noticed his smile was a little sad. Maybe everyone was a little sad. Maybe so.”

“Words were different when they lived inside of you. “

“ I wanted to talk, to say something, to ask questions. But I couldn’t. All the words were stuck in my throat.”

“In your dream. You were looking for me.”

“I’m always looking for you,” I whispered.”

…and many, many others.

Sonnets to Sing

    Happy Holidays or Whatever. It's time for more sonnets because I'm a bit obsessed. As usual, you will see some related to certain movies (e.g.: “Dead Poets Society”) or books (e.g.: “The Song of Achilles”) because they are just that great. As they say: “Good writers make you join their worlds; the best ones make you want to create your own”. Be prepared for lavender because I'm not particularly straight. Also, some have a Romanian version because they are fun to write anyway. Why not have sonnets in that language too? Anyway, I hope you enjoy. 

1. Eyes

Some people's eyes stop at clothes and tattoos

And refuse to see beyond such surface;

Still, I look past all these taboos

And thus find the mind's rich space.

I'm often looking in from the outside

Because that's how you observe the worst and best;

From the others' broken mirror, you see your own shards aside

And put the heart's golden thread to a test.

If I could hear thoughts, I'd surely bet

That I would meet each every judge

Who, to fix the world, is always set

And who knows nothing but to endlessly indulge.

I stand up high, naked, while looking down

And spitting on such a vain crown.

 

2.  Painting

Across the body, the mind winds its story

And the heart adds melody to all of it:

It sings of the times with high glory

As well as the ones when the serpents bit.

With ink and needles, I often draw on my skin

Those sparks and symbols only known by me;

Memories will fill that canvas in

As the masterpiece I slowly begin to see

And so I try to wear my heart on the sleeve,

Despite guarding it so bloody carefully;

Though it sometimes wants to leave,

The swift drum obeys the head fully.

Thus, I tell my story without a single word

And begin to fight without a single sword. 

3. Streak of Lavender

The lavender that brought such a scare

Is luckily regaining its acceptance;

To love, some simply wouldn't dare

For the light fears the shadow's resistance.

Poor Patroclus and his streak of lavender, 

He failed to defeat the all-mighty Hector;

Poor Achilles and his teardrops, so tender,

When facing gravestones, he would hear no lector.

Lavender, too, grows in the emperor's garden

Because he adores its scent and colour;

Ai of Han ought to always broaden

All the splendours of what he loves to savour.

My pen serves as my golden sceptre

Because, without it, I couldn't walk a metre.

4. Flight

The snow is traced with the ashes of many

Who touched the sky, yet were quick to hit the ground;

Still, I seem to be unlike any

For their yelling, to me, makes no sound.

I touched the sun, went blind and regained my sight

So that I can see beyond any face or reason;

Though nothing seems to hinder my flight,

Feathers of the wings have suffered the treason.

Some keep watching while spitting again on me,

Others listen, my plumage admiring;

Either way, they are free to come and see

The road built ahead of my arising.

Beyond tattoos and scars, some cannot see

The painting that lies inside of me.

5. Ode to the Cat

His blue eyes stared at the void of mine,

Probably wondering if it's loneliness;

Yet his tail coils around me like a grape vine,

Thus finding a cure to any sadness.

The cat assists me like any other poet

And is a god that few sing about;

His mystery helps me write my sonnet,

Even when I have thoughts I don't speak aloud.

The snow of his fur, the sapphires of his eyes

Always paint my morning's mood,

Even though he never runs after mice

And often sings to get his food.

The cat's freedom adorns my room

And rids me of any possible gloom.

 

6. Heart of the Art
Poetry heals all accidental or intentional cuts
And helps in taming each and every storm
That starts whenever the wires take the shots
That alter the mind's best form.
Pink scars on pale skin
Cry out for a trusted counsellor indeed;
Still, they are sewed in wires of tin
That allow no growth or little seed.
Only poetry stitches and stops the bleeding
Of the head and tongue during a hurricane;
And so the heart engages in a ballet of feeling
That transforms me into a singing crane.
Only poetry calms a raging storm
And heals bleeding, regardless of its form.  

7. Maglor

I look at the sea that shimmers in moonlight

As I curse the jewel that sank beneath a wave;

A snake became of this empty fight

That holds me still, though I will not see the grave.

I can see my brothers smiling through the stars:

Maedhros and hid fire, the twins forever in disharmony;

It is a pity the wheel left many scars

That cannot yet be rubbed with honey.

I am cursed and blessed to be left behind,

Despite my hand that still bleeds heavily;

In time, my burn a cure will find

But my head may not heal so steadily.

Why do I try too hard to even exist

When all I see around me is a dense mist?

 

8. A. Nine of Swords

 A corpse was brought before his bright eyes,

Truly unrecognisable at his first glance;

But he tore the armour and its lies

And almost felt his heart stopping its dance.

Achilles' eyes soon became bloodshot and numb,

As tears began to conquer his heart;

He could feel his chest's irritatingly quick drum,

As he wished not to see the next dawn's start.

His voice cracked and broke in his throat,

As “Patroclus” was the only word he'd say;

At last, Charon waited for him in that boat

To, perhaps, reunite with me one day.

What is worse than being left alive

When you have nothing to help you thrive?

B. Nouă de spade
Era un mort în fața luminii ochilor lui,
Unul ce nu recunoștea din prima;
Dar a smuls armura, minciunile oricui,
Și aproape nu își mai putea simți inima.
Ochii lui Ahile erau tot mai roșii în amorțire
Când tunica i se umplea de lacrimi;
Simțea a pieptului tobă și insistenta ei lovire
Nedorind să mai trăiască ale zorilor patimi.
Se aude a lui voce răgușită și spartă
Cum "Patrocle" era singurul cuvânt ce spune;
Apoi Charon în a nemuririi barca îl așteaptă
Pentru a scrie în piatră un al II-lea nume.
Ce poate fi mai rău decât să fii lăsat în viață
Când ești strâns legat de a neliniștii ață?

9. Ricardo Reis

It is not the gods that I often abhor

But those who argue on who's the best;

That who says the other is a whore

Forgets we live in the same nest.

Christ is no better than Apollo or an Emperor or Jade,

Although he's portrayed to be tediously flawless;

Yet nobody can master such a trade

And become, to the followers, simply lawless

I sit in-between, watching them spit and fight

While I carelessly drink my daily cup of tea;

This war of philosophy reaches an absurd height

Because it goes beyond each and every sea.

I've never cared for whom the gods send

Or who has the best imaginary friend.

 

10. Lyre

His fingers touched the chords with softness,

Casting his spell upon the one who's listening;

Patroclus marvelled, though with shyness,

And almost felt as if struck by lightning.

He knew Achilles' voice from a great distance:

A crystal so uneven, yet so incredibly clear;

A song, a smile, and it was his entire existence:

To seek, to speak to a soul so dear.

All by himself, Achilles plays the lyre again

With scars and tears all across his body;

His Philtatos was to his pride slain

And he is left to feel the warmth of nobody.

Achilles stares at the lyre's golden adornment

And weeps again, reminded of endless torment.

11. Days Off

Days off feel like a breath held for too long,

As if a war was dawning upon this land

But this region only knew it in song

And in the blood fallen on the border's sand.

There is numbness to it, more than I desire

Because I can't feel as strongly as in the past;

Despite how brightly burns all the fire,

I'm losing the hope that it will last.

My shoulders keep their tension anyway,

Regardless of the day or night, year or month;

It is a free day, in December or in May,

And I still wander as nothing but a moth.

It was a day off, and it felt so strange,

As if I was constantly kept in an open cage.

12. Numbness

There's numbness I cannot explain

Because it fills the emptiness inside of me;

It feels as if it's about to drain

A large body of water I fail to see.

A violent rain brings to waves all the sorrow

And causes them to rage against one ship;

It happens beyond the surface, always below, 

Until the ocean has sailor blood to sip.

It's all quiet now, though any feeling is dead,

Before the trident is used once again;

Drowning is where all this mess led

And I should find a way for it to explain.

I can't feel as strongly as I probably should

Because to let myself be consumed, I never could.

 

13. Lavender 

Lavender grows wherever it pleases,

Through water and desserts, dark and light;

Each drop and second, it often seizes

And through whirlwinds, it dares to fight.

No terror or gas can stifle it completely,

For its purple petals are always left behind;

Nothing can kill its roots entirely

Because, usually, they under boulders hide.

Men who kiss each other hide in purple fields

Because it's their only way to escape

And drop their knives, spears, or shields

While freeing themselves from the old shape.

Lavender is a scent that I admire

That pushes me to write as I aspire.

14. About Friendship

Like bears who share their honey

Or cats with a more quiet, cold feeling,

People often spend some money

To strengthen the friendship's sealing.

I buy books or albums to those with a similar taste

For the sheer pleasure the act brings to me;

But I see it is, among us, a common trait,

A way to avoid drowning in the indifference's sea.

I give without needing to receive

Because from it, I feel such a great pleasure;

Yet it is a gesture some seem to retrieve

Because the joy of it is for everyone a leisure.

I don't think I could live without any friends

Because I could meet the world's various ends.

 

15. A. Neil Perry 

A bright sun shines upon his head and heart

Shimmering through the smile often on his face;

He brings light where others see darkness in art

And always warms others in his embrace.

He's an actor, in and out of the theatre of wrath,

Who wears Puck's crown, usually proudly;

He wants to feel himself through this path,

Although, it could prove to be rather deadly.

In his father's chair, he chooses a bullet

And closes his eyes before the open window;

In the blood of his heart, he signs his sonnet,

And ends up leaving his friend in limbo.

He knows life cannot be lived without art

And lets the bitter blood pour from his heart.

B. Neil Perry 

În minte și inimă, vezi adesea soarele
Strălucind prin zâmbetul ce-l are pe figură;
Aduce lumina unde alții văd numai durerile
Și încălzește pe oricine cu a lui privire sigură.
E un actor, înăuntrul și-nafara teatrului mâniei,
Ce poartă a lui Puck coroana și trăiește în arte;
Pe această cale, vrea să simtă mândria expresiei,
Deși conștient că-l poate duce la moarte.
Pe fotoliul tatălui, un glonț alege onestul
Și își închide ochii la fereastra cea deschisă;
Cu sângele inimii își semnează sonetul
Și lasă, în camera prietenului, lumina stinsă.
El știe că viața nu poate exista fără artă
Și lasă amarul inimii să deseneze o hartă.

16. Hadrian

Hadrian strides through the empty halls,

Trying to find one person specifically;

He hears no breath or answer to his calls,

But only finds the tunic of Antinous, essentially.

The yell turns into a tear and then another, 

Feeling each of them in the heart like arrows;

Every servant or senseless word was a bother

As nobody could extinguish his sorrows.

"Antinous!" he wails into the void's emtiness

But it slowly, slowly becomes sound only;

His numbness begins to turn into deafness

As he will not hear the song of the lonely.

Hadrian weeps, staring the tunic's adornment,

And is always reminded of his endless torment.

 

17. Ice

 Looking outside, the windows are frozen

Because the winter kissed by flat as well;

I count its wonders to be about a dozen,

Including its whispers through every bell.

Through ice, I often see more clearly

Because snow quiets every conflict;

It is a season I hold quite dearly

Because I forget the wounds they inflict.

It's spring again when yelling breaks the ice

And the same fights keep exhausting me;

In this time, I start to play the dice

To choose what's the luck that I will see.

I smile at the winter's distant words

And admire all its different worlds.

18. Mermaid's Song

As I open the windows, I hear a sound

That's so familiar, yet odd as a distant land;

It breaks bones and glasses because it's so loud

That it reduces all it reaches to mere sand.

Yet it calls me, as the mermaids Odysseus,

To listen to its symphony without words;

Though it's something often deemed as tedious,

It's also something that fills and creates worlds.

Alas, I start to write my sonnets to sing

To bring the rainbow to gray faces;

It's through words that ideas can ring.

And leave in a binary world colourful traces.

I sing the glory and sorrow of all the poets

While of iron I craft most of my sonnets. 

(source of the image: https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/3/orpheus-at-the-tomb-of-eurydice-johann-peter-krafft.jpg)

Reminder to Love Mythology

    Why do I love mythology so much? I've been asking myself this question ever since I became obsessed with anything even remotely related to Percy Jackson. Is it the relatable stories? The symbolism? The incredibly human nature of the gods and their children? The concepts about identity? Maybe the modern retelling? Honestly, I don't think I'll ever have a precise answer to this. Still, I cannot deny its influence in my life. I have discovered many things about myself through the lens of mythology. For instance, I realized I might be non-binary or gender-fluid when I read about Loki and his shape-shifting powers. However, I'm not here to write about Norse myths yet. I'm instead returning to where it all started, namely Greek mythology. In a nutshell, “The Song of Achilles” played with my heart's strings in the same way Achilles played his lyre: gently. Though I didn't cry, I was still moved and want to explain why. As usual, if you don't like spoilers, cover your eyes.

   I appreciate the way everything was described. It felt as if a poet started storytelling because even the most tragic of scenes were described beautifully, yet simply. The death of Patroclus and the reaction of Achilles to it felt piercing, yet poetic, like in a Shakespearean tragedy. Naturally, the imagery becomes vividly detailed. You can hear Achilles scream, whisper and weep at the sight of Patroclus' bloody corpse. You can feel his grief and sleepless nights. On the other hand, there are also scenes that talk about the sheer joy of being around each other. Each moment when Achilles plays the lyre is one of those, whether it's during their childhood or wartime. In these, Patroclus seemed to be almost spellbound by the other's mastery of the instrument, the clearness of his voice, the gentle way he touched the strings. Hell, even the “spicy” scenes are described so poetically that I, an asexual, was almost unable to tell it was about to get sexy. Again, from an aesthetic point of view, I could bet this book surpasses other debut novels. 

   Another thing I adore is the way the characters are presented. We are too used to seeing the classical heroes as exorbitantly, or even toxically, masculine: Stoic, close to emotionless, valiant warriors. But “The Song of Achilles” has a quite different approach, since the saying “boys don't cry” doesn't seem to exist here. It brings to light a side of Achilles that was not explored as much before, namely his heart. He knows how to hide his emotions, as well as when and how to express them. He smiles a thousand times along with Patroclus, yet cries a river at his most beloved's death. Also, despite their contrasting personalities, they appreciate each other greatly. Odysseus is sarcastic or even cocky, but also talks sweetly about his wife. Agamemnon is a courageous general, yet sensitive to the blood-sealed warning of Patroclus. Even the gods are portrayed in a human manner, typical to most types of mythology at the time. Thetis loves her son deeply and hates his beloved just as deeply, mainly for his mortality. Additionally, the deities take sides during the Trojan War. Apollo, for instance, brings a plague upon the Greek army and, later, the downfall of Aristos Achaion and his Soulmate, which, I would say, is fascinating.

    The philosophy adds to such beauty. It would be unfair to say it is merely about war and love, since it goes well-beyond that. Though briefly, Patroclus' direct, yet poetic, descriptions discuss the types and effects of each. He loves Briseis, but not in the same way he loves Achilles. He also senses how this affects her, though she doesn't show it much. Seeing Patroclus' dead body, she calls Achilles self-centred for not realising that others could have loved his Philtatos as much as him. Then Achilles, probably, asked himself with resentment: Why? Why did I let him wear my armour? Why did I have to seize this war and its glory? Wherefore did I have to choose my pride over him? Wherefore did I have to be the catalyst for both of our fates? He ponders and finds no answer, neither from within nor without. Honestly, it's intriguing how a single person can have this huge influence over another. Practically, it reinforces the idea that ordinary people can do extraordinary things, no matter how small they may seem, as the author herself has said. That, I think, is a lovely thought to present.

   Also, as a queer person, to read a book where the representation is so casual feels almost surreal. They aren't damned nor praised for their morality, they just are. They are seen as regular people, as much as Greek heroes can be. Once again, it humanises them to have their hearts and minds as the main focal point of the story. They love each other deeply, passionately and if this comes across to you as a hetero bromance, then I would suggest reading it again, without bias. I thrive with LGBT+ casual representation, especially in literature. I've been craving this kind of thing ever since I got into Alison Bechdel's work, not to mention that the history or mythology related to this community fascinates me. In this aria, I have nothing at all to add. It's simply great.

   All in all, do I recommend it? YES, it's a good mythological retelling. It's definitely one of the books I'll keep returning to, as are Pessoa's “The Book of Disquiet”, Tolkien's “The Silmarillion” and Wilde's “The Picture of Dorian Gray”. Reading TSOA felt like listening to Måneskin's “Coraline” or Taylor Swift's “Ronan”: it did not move me to tears, but it did make me feel something unexplainable, a sort of beautiful sadness. Do I have a favourite character? I don't think so, though it's humanly impossible to be unable to relate to the narrator: the voice of doubt, of anxiety confronted by Achilles' voice of confidence; occasionally a raven on the hero's shoulder. Whose fearful mind cannot relate to this? Anyway, I'll wrap it up here with a few quotes that I adore. Now back to the tea! 🍵

 

(source of the image: https://the-bibliofile.com/the-song-of-achilles/)

“I hope that Hector kills you." The breath rasps in his throat. “Do you think I do not hope the same?” he asks.”

“Achilles does not regard me.” Her voice trembled a little. “Even though I bear his child and am his wife. Do you know why this is so?” It was a child’s question, like why the rain falls or why the sea’s motion never ceases. I felt older than her, though I was not.”

“I am air and thought and can do nothing.”

 “With a roar, he throws Antilochus from him, knocks down Menelaus. He falls on the body. The knowledge rushes up in him, choking off breath. A scream comes, tearing its way out. And then

another, and another. He seizes his hair in his hands and yanks it from his
head. Golden strands fall onto the bloody corpse. Patroclus, he says,
Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only. (c. 31)”

“FOR THE FIRST TIME since my death, he falls into a fitful, trembling sleep.

Achilles. I cannot bear to see you grieving.
His limbs twitch and shudder. 

Give us both peace. Burn me and bury me. I will wait for you among the
shades. I will—
But already he is waking. “Patroclus! Wait! I am here!”
He shakes the body beside him. When I do not answer, he weeps again.”

“I have done it,” she says. At first, I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. A C H I L L E S, it reads. And beside it, P A T R O C L U S.
“Go,” she says. “He waits for you.” 

“We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence.” 

“This, I say. This and this. The way his hair looked in summer sun. His face when he ran. His eyes, solemn as an owl at lessons. This and this and this. So many moments of happiness, crowding forward.”  

“Odysseus inclines his head. “True. But fame is a strange thing. Some men gain glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in one generation is abhorred in another.” He spread his broad hands. “We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?”

“Chiron had said once that nations were the most foolish of mortal inventions. “No man is worth more than another, wherever he is from.”

“But what if he is your friend?” Achilles had asked him, feet kicked up on the wall of the rose-quartz cave. “Or your brother? Should you treat him the same as a stranger?”

“You ask a question that philosophers argue over,” Chiron had said. “He is worth more to you, perhaps. But the stranger is someone else’s friend and brother. So which life is more important?”

We had been silent. We were fourteen, and these things were too hard for us. Now that we are twenty-seven, they still feel too hard.

He is half of my soul, as the poets say. He will be dead soon, and his honour is all that will remain. It is his child, his dearest self. Should I reproach him for it? I have saved Briseis. I cannot save them all.

I know, now, how I would answer Chiron. I would say: there is no answer. Whichever you choose, you are wrong.” 

“We are all there, goddess and mortal and the boy who was both.” 

“Have you no more memories?”
I am made of memories.
“Speak, then.”

 “He holds me so tightly I can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a
moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. A torment.”

“I stopped watching for ridicule, the scorpion's tail hidden in his words. He said what he meant; he was puzzled if you did not. Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?”  

“The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.” 

“When he speaks at last, his voice is weary, and defeated. He doesn’t know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won’t light.”

“Perhaps he simply assumed: a bitterness of habit, of boy after boy trained for music and medicine, and unleashed for murder.”  

“His mother comes. I hear her, the sound of waves breaking on shore. If I
disgusted her when I was alive, it is worse to find my corpse in her son’s
arms.” 

"Therapon was the word he used. A brother-in-arms sworn to a
prince by blood oaths and love. In war, these men were his honor guard; in
peace, his closest advisers. It was a place of highest esteem, another reason
the boys swarmed Peleus’ son, showing off; they hoped to be chosen." 

“For many years now, Achilles, I have urged companions on you and you
have turned them away. Why this boy?”
The question might have been my own. I had nothing to offer such a
prince. Why, then, had he made a charity case of me?  Peleus and I both waited for his answer.
“He is surprising.”
I looked up, frowning. If he thought so, he was the only one."

Senseless Sonnets

    Boo! It's October, it's time to get our hands on the best horror stories and the most dramatic gothic poetry. Truth be told, I'm not that good at writing. But I've been obsessed with sonnets since the end of July and I've written a fair share. So I thought it's a good idea to post some of them here. As always, the only ones who had to suffer were YouTube's musicians, with their eternally poetic lyrics, and my poor Tarot deck, which often pulled me out of a creative block.
 
 1. Aries
I am alone on a different planet
Where I sought a thought, but simply lost;
That's why I forgot to write a sonnet
For each soul that I host.
I can see Mars with my mind's eye
The way I saw the Albert Hall the other day;
But it's simply another lie
I tell myself for here to stay.
My planet has flowers that never bloom
Under the wrath of the seas;
But sturdy violet and lavender fear no gloom
As they appear before the wise trees.
My mind is only a planet
That helps me not forget my sonnet.
 
2. Tempest
A whirlwind that collides with the sky
Unites the land and water;
But so high I fly
That it doesn't even matter.
As above, so be it below:
A hurricane, unstoppable at all
Since I got so low,
I expected this fall.
It's a storm that I've only seen in dream;
Oh, my most beloved nightmare!
Only the grim, conscious stream
Can light the poison of such flare.
Am I being manic?
Do I only know panic?
 
3. Heartbeat
I'm thinking and thinking, it's draining
As some act like I don't exist;
But I can't blame them for such training
Since I, too, would throw to my face a fist
I hear a hum, the sound of a drum
That is about to tear my chest apart;
If only I wasn't so numb
To such painful works of art.
It's quiet, yet so loud
The sound of a heartbeat;
If only I wasn't chased by the hound,
I would seek a way for it to treat
Will I find my way out?
Will I simply escape with a shout?
 
4. Wildfire
In a nearby forest was a fire
That nobody knows who started;
It's said there was a pyre
For a poet so ill-hearted.
He was standing on the gallows
Because of the torture of his will;
He wished to go through the shadows
Without putting his mind through a mill.
And so he burnt among living corpses
So he could finally be free,
Although few were the forces
That encouraged him to flee.
I stand on his high rooftop
Where the powerful wind helps me hop.
 
5. Hurricane
I feel a hand tightly holding my neck
And it's not only breath I have no longer;
It's the many mates leaving my deck
For to sail I'm no longer eager.
I feel like I'm a weightlifter,
Only my barbell resembles a cloud;
But how I wish I was a shapeshifter
When the tempest was too loud?
This sickness keeps me so blind,
It's poisoned much of my brain;
It's also one of the kind
That only knows to drain and drain.
Yet nothing seems to do me
On this road, I cannot see.
 
6. Hymn
Sing to me, goddess, rhymes long forlorn
Of distant days older than time,
Days when each word had a thorn
And each torn could find its rhyme.
Sing to me of Patroclus defending his lover
And turning upside down the depths of hell;
Sing of Achilles falling lower and lower
And returning with a smile and yell.
Play along with violent violin strings
The song painting Hadrian's grief
As he threw all his golden rings
In the river where Antinous lies stiff.
Sing to me, goddess of human nature,
All the possible rhymes of tears and fortune.
 
7. Alien
I sit naked on the top of a tall building
And wonder what's it like to be down;
I would give up all my shielding
Rather than let myself drown.
I haven't sold my soul yet
To the love of diamonds and gold;
Quite a few people I had met
Have not told this tale of old.
They all see the marks, tattoos, and piercing
And think I'm the boldest of the freaks,
Yet the point they keep missing
Is that it's not the flashlights I seek?
Should I tell them stones can't reach this height?
Or should let them senselessly fight?
 
8.  Existence
"Why am I this way?"
It's a question I've asked myself many a time
And I can keep asking it until May
But I still won't find its rhyme.
I might have some unknown virus
That sends me on the edge once again;
I feel like I'm in a circus
And I'm being looked at as if I were insane.
Though nothing seems to pierce through me
As I have no scars at all,
I have never felt as free
As I was during the fall.
Will I look up or down?
Will I stay afloat or just drown?
 
9. Cage
Between the ribs that formed a prison,
There was a heart with a beat so swift
That it knew little to no reason
And that never found rest, so sweet.
It pounded and pounded whenever
The mouth was locked away;
It could also easily sever
The breath left as prey.
It bites the tongue and brain
And makes the gut only overactive,
Though it doesn't bring much pain
Since it doesn't ask for a sedative.
Oh, racing mind and heart,
Teach me the way of this art.
 
10. Lost
I feel I'm about to get lost
Through the fogs and cogs of this machinery;
Still, I only feel the cost
Of this contest of archery.
Everybody starts to aim their arrows
Straight to the hearts and minds
Of those who sit in the gallows
Until the reaper begins its rides.
Their chests bleed and forget to breathe
As the mouths tremble and hold their speaking;
The brain starts fighting beneath
The words that were always reeking.
In this life, I feel like a terrible host
But I also feel I'm about to get lost.
 
That's it for the moment. Now, back to the tea!🫖