xelaislost

[xelaislost]

Girls when they can’t become renowned poets, speak 6 different language, wear silver hoops, black knit tops, have sylvia Plath, frank Kafka, Virginia Woolf, Totsky filled bookshelf, move to Italy, live in New York, runaway to France with a man they met only 2 nights ago, drink pretty bubbly beverages at a underground jazz club, make out with a musician from said jazz club, date a model, have a messy break up with a model, have all Lanas, Fiona apples, Sade’s, and Amy winehouse' vinyl, have a black cat, wine stain lips, dark red nails, black sunglasses, and messy yet clean hair.

[xelaislost]

yes dog motif, yes pomegranate symbolism, yes fig tree metaphor, I hear you, but when are we going to talk about a walnut? you lower yourself to pick it up, knees wet and dirty with mud, you hold the earthly pebble coated in a layer of skin, scalp like, and you think if you just break it open with one sharp sting of the hammer that there would be a sweet reward in the centre, a fruit of your labour, but it is bitter and sad, and shaped like viscera, and your fingers are stained a yellow brown that will never wash out. when

[xelaislost]

*buys another book* hahaha oops! *buys another book* oh woops! *buys another book* oops! hahaha *buys another b

[xelaislost]

Andrey Kneller, the translator of My Poems: Selected Poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva [bilingual edition] 

[xelaislost]

though i am heavy, there is flight around me

wendell berry, the fall of icarus, f. scott fitzgerald, christophe vacher, hozier, galileo chini, mahmoud darwish (tr. catherine cobham), rubens, akwaeke emezi, alfred schwarzschild

[xelaislost]

{Words by Anaïs Nin, from The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4 (1944-1947) / Cynthia Cruz }

[xelaislost]

Marguerite Duras, from The Lover

Text ID: to devour and be devoured,

[xelaislost]

—Aldous Huxley, from Brave New World

[xelaislost]

I don't know when I started to have the ability to look and walk around the earth. Somehow, I am this mysterious miscalculation of the universe that popped up randomly. When I first gained consciousness, the first person I met was the old Chinese groundkeeper. He swept the leaves of the new shed willow tree with his slow movement. He didn't seem to be bothered by my presence. He just looked at me and gave me smile that caused his wrinkles to show and his eyes to disappear.

We grew closer over time. He didn't seem to be bothered by the fact that I'd been wearing the same white dress for weeks, nor the fact that I walk barefooted. Every night he'd retreat to his creaky wheelchair placed on the porch of his small cabin, light a cigarette, and then slowly rock it back and forth.

One interesting fact I learned one night is that every single day, at least one human returns to the ground. I learned this after following the groundskeeper for two weeks. Interestingly. it's always the same -- grieving people, white balloons, and black clothing. But today was different, it wasn't the living that grieved.

I peeked from behind the willow tree and saw a girl with her hands covering her face. I hear the muffled sobs that slowly grew louder as she lowers her hand.

"I don't understand," I hear her say.

"I don't understand," she repeats.

"I don't understand," she cries defeated.

"I want to understand," She pleads.

I don't move from where I am. I continue to watch the girl as her cries go from loud ones to ones that sound almost like a whisper. I watch as she lays her body slowly on the ground, curling herself into a ball.

"I don't understand," This time her voice is hoarse.

I turned away to let her get the space that she needs but I was stopped by the snapping sound of the twig I just stepped on. I close my eyes, internally praying that she didn't hear it.

"Who's there?!" her voice echoed through the whole graveyard.

I slowly emerge from behind the tree with both of my hands behind my back. "Hi," I manage to say.

"Who are you?" She asks as she stands up from the grave. The woman had soft features in her; narrow eyes, a small nose, and a small mouth. She's smaller than me but it seems like she's the same age as a 'high school senior' as the groundkeeper would say.

I don't respond but it's because of the weird feeling in my chest. I don't have a name or at least-- I don't remember it. Maybe that's one of my punishment as a mistake.

What difference does being unnamed and unknown have?

I gave her silence and she replies with a questioning look. She stares at me for quite some time and it started to weird me out. I try to fish out a conversation but my mouth fails to produce a single word.

"Rhydian," she says. "I'll call you that. I think its Welsh for unknown."

"Rhydian" I repeat in my head. She signals for me to sit on the ground next to her. Most of the time, the sky cries with people whenever they weep but today, the sun shined brightly.

"No one came," She says, staring at the tombstone in front of her.

Her tombstone is different. It wasn't made out of stone like the others nor was it made of marble, which are the ones that rich people have. Hers was made out of nailed-together old wooden planks; like the ones in the groundskeeper's house. She didn't have an epitaph and it seemed like a wood burner was used to write her name.

"Olei" I read. "That's a unique name.

She didn't move for a good amount of time. She just kneeled in front of her own tombstone. "How did you..." I finally managed to ask.

"Die?" She says in a bitter tone. "I don't remember how died nor how life was when I lived."

I don't answer in disbelief. The groundkeeper said one time that ghosts have the ability to remember how they died and lived. If a human returns as a ghost, it holds its memories so that it knows what its purpose is. Those who died a tragic death, however, don't attain them.

I don't tell her this but instead, I open my mouth and say, "it's okay."

We stayed on her grave for hours even until midnight started to come. Ghosts don't sleep. Neither do spirits like me. But she laid down her 'grave' and for reason, I laid beside her.

We lay there facing the night sky, she was counting stars and I was counting the seconds that passed by. Unfortunately, I lost count. As time passed, I grew envy of humans.

--

There is something about two people talking that binds them together perfectly. I couldn't decipher whether it was pure interest or an attempt of two people (well, dead people) to fend off the loneliness.

"A warm pretzel," I say, half-laughing. "or I think that's what they call it."

"You mean that knot thingy?" she answers.

I give her a confident nod that makes her burst into laughter again. I never figured out why pretzels tickled her funny bone so much. But her laugh was infectious, I ended up laughing with her. We reached our spot once again-- a roadside in the mountains that overlooks a cliff and an overview of the illuminated city. For two weeks we would come here to watch the sunset before I wake up in the graveyard once again. The sun started to paint the sky orange and the birds started to chase it again.

I breath out deeply as I close my eyes.

When I open them again Rhydian isn't beside me. My head started to look around in panic until I saw her familiar figure on the same spot I first met her. Only this time she wasn't alone. As I walk closer to her, I realize that she's actually watching the kneeling old groundkeeper in front of her.

She stood there frozen. When I realized why, I too, fell frozen.

The old groundkeeper whose feet never walked a meter far from his rocking chair sobbed quietly as he clutched a small picture in a wooden frame. A picture of her. Beside him is a piece of pretzel that now has crumbs of dirt.

Seeing both the pretzel and the frame were enough to drive into a pit of flashbacks. I see white specs of snow, falling on my palm as I count my coins. I see a tall Mexican man with a metal cart that is shaded by a big umbrella. I approach it and immediately hand my coins to the man. He hands me the warm, brown knot and I take a bite.

I remember.

I remember that I was an orphan begging for coins in the streets so I can earn money to buy one piece of pretzel on Christmas night and she was there, Rhydian. She was across the street. I remember grabbing her arm and dropping my bread before everything went black.

"My granddaughter," the man sobs as he places the picture on top of Rhydian's grave.

"My granddaughter's hero" he says in between sobs and places the pretzel on top of the lump of dirt beside Rhydian. "Forgive me for burying you beside my granddaughter. It was hard for me to find your family. I hope you and my granddaughter find each other because life was selfish when it forbid you to meet."

When I turned to look at Rhydian, she wasn't there anymore. I don't have to question myself to know what happened to her and I know for sure I have the same fate. It was my hands that first started to glow and then it slowly crept into my body until I am engulfed by the light for the last time. And in the last moment of my conscience hallowed out existence I whisper a wish of meeting Rhydian for one more lifetime.

You find a girl crying next to a grave. “What’s wrong?” You ask. She cries harder. “Nobody came to my funeral.”

[xelaislost]

#poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #dead poets society #poets of tumblr #writers and poets #poems on tumblr #writing #poetry collection #poetscommunity

[xelaislost]

#poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #dead poets society #poets of tumblr

[xelaislost]

August 30

We fill these empty streets,

With stories and jokes of wit.

You fill my ears with laughter,

And I filled the stars with wishes that were whispered .

The pitter patter of tiny drops,

Hide the beats of my frantic heart.

We lie next to each other,

As the sky continues to consume nothing.

The wet concrete and your naked smiles--

The gap between us and our hesitant hands,

Oh, how I want to make them all mine.

I'll keep them in a vessel-- for nights as cold as december,

May they be remnants of my will to stay.

#poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #dead poets society #poems #poets of tumblr #excerpts #new poets society #writers and poets #poems on tumblr

[xelaislost]

I've strayed away from effulgence,

I am nothing more but a waste of intelligence.

#poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #dead poets society #poets of tumblr #poems #excerpts #new poets society #writers and poets #poems on tumblr

[xelaislost]

I.

Oh, wild child, your compass points the wrong path,

It seemed like you strayed away from bukowski and Plath--

Look at your poetry,

all of them bathed in ivy.

II

Oh, wild child, turn your head.

The deers run free in the flower bed,

follow them, follow them and flee.

Find the poets buried in the lake's debris.

III.

Oh, young poet, you're finally home.

Hear the whispers of the wisps and singing of trees,

Let all the leaves sway,

In the melody of your poetry.

#poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #dead poets society #poets of tumblr #poems #excerpts #new poets society #writers and poets #poems on tumblr #writing #poetry collection #tumblr poetry #poet #love letters #poetscommunity #inner child

[xelaislost]

The corpse at Make out Creek

Bury me at make out creek,

Along with my poems and soliloquy,

Beneath the whispering willow tree;

Just three steps away from the running stream.

Bury me there where I make amends,

With the ghouls that haunted me.

Let a sapling grow from the cage where my heart used to be.

Water it with the tears that flowed from the eyes that remained blurry.

Keep me in a distance,

Where no one shall feel my agony

And bring disturbance with tranquility.

-alx

#excerpt #poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #dead poets society #poets of tumblr #poems #excerpts #new poets society

[xelaislost]

The Girl and The Nook

Written on March 4, 2020

         There's an old library a few blocks away from our house. It's famous by the historian architecture that was engraved with it. It had three floors with wooden railings on each floor and with each step, there is always a creaking sound that follows you along with the annoyed 'Shh' of the middle-aged librarian. 

I used to hate that place when I was around eight years old. I used to hate how haunting the place feels. And honestly, a middle-aged librarian who's obsessed with keeping the place quiet and a rowdy eighth years old kid who uses his fingers like a gun are two types of people who should not breathe the same air. 

But I was forced to seek refuge in it as I battled against hamlet, Shakespeare, and a gentleman named 'Mr. Darcy' once I hit high school. 

 I would sit at my usual spot (the third table on the second floor that's beside the 'historical fiction' section). I vividly remember the vanilla-like smell of the old beaten copy of 'wuthering heights'  that was used by God knows how many high schoolers. I remember how I'd usually go back and forth from the book to the dictionary and then back to the book again. I remember how much I feared the deep words because I was scared of getting submerged in them. 

And lastly, I remember the girl in the nook. She sat at the nook of the third floor. The floor that usually held history books and autobiographies of some people who I guess are now the phantoms whose works haunt the floor. I'd see her mostly around four in the afternoon, carrying the same book that wrote 'memoirs of an unsent letter' as she take the stairs towards the third floor. 

I'd usually ignore people but seeing her at the same spot and at the same time every day, holding the same book ignited some curiosity within me. 

"I must be crazy," I whispered to myself when I found myself stepping on the first step of the stairs that led to the third floor. I'm not supposed to be up there. I'm supposed to be sitting at my usual table dreading words that I cannot comprehend. 

But instead, I found myself pretending to scan through the covers of the books as I take a peek at the girl who was sitting on the floor. It is as if her petite body is cradled by the nook and her soul is latched with the book in her hand. Her black hair is all over her face, her black-framed specs keep sliding down her nose, and her eyes would squint every now and then. 

I take a step in her direction. It took four creaks and I stood in front of her. The lack of words escaping from my mouth made the environment awkward.  She did not look up nor spared me a peek. She was so immersed in what she was reading, her face looks like it is about to dive into the book. 

I faked a cough. 

No response. No reaction. 

I faked another one again. 

This time, she looks up. "Can I help you?"

The sound of her voice surprised me. You would expect a soft voice from a person that looks like her but hers was deep and hoarse at the same time; as if she was singing or screaming all night.

"Do you know which corner of this library I can find some scientific books?" My petty excuse extends.

She pointed at the stairs, "On the first floor, and then just ask the librarian."

I nod, awkwardly. I gave her one hesitant thanks and then turned away. The creaks of the floor followed me through every footstep.

***

 Two weeks and countless hidden glances after I attempted another interaction. This time I pointed at the book that seems to nestle her hand every day, "May I ask what story does that book holds?" 

She looks up and gave me doe-looking eyes, as if she's been waiting for so long for someone to ask that question, "It's a story about a letter that withered in time." 

"Was it dedicated to someone?" I let my curiosity every fiber of my being. 

She nods. "My grandmother's first love." 

I was taken back. Suddenly, all of the words in my mouth disappeared. But my curiosity grew, "What a cliché." 

I expected her to be offended or even annoyed but she smiled at me and gave me another nod, "I agree. It's one of those cliché stories that you read in novels. A soldier going off to war to serve the country and a poor provincial girl waiting for her love to return. It's the same cliché cycling of longing and dreading." 

"It's not a tragic story without the old familiar longing and dreading," I add which makes her laugh. Her laugh wasn't the type that gave off shy energy. She laughed loudly and if I'm not mistaken I think I even heard a snort. 

She lets out a sigh, "Do you want to know the whole story?" 

I hesitated at first but like every weakling in stories, I eventually gave in. I took up the empty space next to her and gave her a shy smile as I settled down. She reciprocated and all of the sudden all of my perceptions about her in the past faded like sand falling grain by grain from the palm of my hand.

"It's originally a letter that my mother found on my grandmother's attic on the day that we were cleaning up her house just a few weeks after she passed away," She said, letting her hands glide through the tanned pages of the familiar book. 

I stay quiet. 

"It's a letter from my grandmother. The one that she left buried behind the boxes of dusting seasonal decorations. It was my mother who found it. During that time, I was just a seven-year-old girl with wide curious eyes. Fortunately for me, my mother was a writer. She took some inspiration from the letter and placed it here," She gives the cover of the book a light tap. 

"Does the book contain the original letter?" I ask. 

She gives me a nod and then she flips through the pages of the book, she stops when she reaches the middle part. From there, she hands it to me. 

I got hesitant but she gave me a slight nod to assure me that it was okay. 

'My dearest beloved, 

        I write this letter as the wax from the candle drips. I hope that you are safely hiding in trenches or in bunkers or in whatever man built tunnels within the earth. My heart weighs heavier this night as it dreads the last time that I will write to you. 

Tomorrow, when the sun rises from its slumber I will be wedded to a gentleman that used to swing by to offer me flowers as beautiful the sky. My heart could no longer take the nights where I'd stay up thinking if you are still breathing or if you've already met your doom. I could no longer bear the pain of waiting for hours just for you to appear at the doorstep of the house that we built and then end up with nothing but cold air. And lastly, I could no longer carry the heartbreak of losing our child. It was around four months, it had these small hands that I held for about five minutes, it had eyes and small feet. 

I learned that I was pregnant just two weeks after you got left for the military. This was the reason why I kept asking you about baby names in the letters that we exchanged. 

I hope you could forgive me for what I am about to do but I can no longer be in a love that has no insurance of coming back. 

Sincerely,' 

"Eloise," I say as I read the last line. The name tasted quite familiar in my mouth; as if my tongue once said it before. 

"But you see, my grandmother didn't get married to another," the girl next to me says. "She stayed here.." 

"Here?"

"Yes, I recently found out that the land that this library is standing at is the same land that once held the house that my grandmother and her beloved built. And this is the same place where she'd wait for him," 

Just when I was about to say something an old picture slides itself free from the pages of the book. It was a picture of a man and a woman happily smiling as they looked at each other; my heart drops.

"That's..." I manage to say. 

She glances at the old picture, "That was my grandma and--"

"My grandfather," 

There was silence for a few minutes. Until I decide to open my mouth again, "He passed away last year. He used to tell me stories about the woman he loved before meeting my grandmother. I guess the letter was meant to be unsent. Your mother did a great job in picking the title for the story." 

Memoir of an unsent letter. The letter remained a treasure keeper for the memories that were kept a secret. 

#creative writing #writblr #writings #prompts #short story

[xelaislost]

Candles and Dreamers

Sometimes it is the pursuit of passion that kills a dreamer-- A candle can only burn so bright until its last wicker falter.

I am in a constant chokehold of the lack of words-- And metaphors that no longer serve their purpose. I'd create pretentious scenarios in an attempt to revive the fire that died down deep in me.

I long for it to resonate and haunt me once more--

My petty self would even resort to piking out old wounds, scraping the scar and opening it once more. I would tear out my ribs and let the blood of my past drip onto the paper that remained blank for so long.

I am nothing more but a soul stumbling to find any remnants of passionate fire.

#poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #dead poets society #poets of tumblr #poems #excerpts #new poets society #writers and poets #poems on tumblr