contemporary poetry
Almost a poem
POSTED IN contemporary poetry May 7, 2017
Almost a poemHe loved me. A six-O kind of love: He looooooved me. But he didn’t love me, me. He loved a girl who doesn’t exist. I was pretending, the way I often did, pretending to have a personality. I can’t help it, it’s what I’ve always done: the way some women change fashion regularly, I change personalities. What persona feels good, what’s coveted, what’s au courant? I think most people do this, they just don’t admit it, or else they settle on one persona because they’re too lazy or stupid to pull off a switch.
That date I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like him wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they?
She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.
Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl.
For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: “You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them”.
I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: “The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much” – no one loves chili dogs that much!
And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: they’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be.
Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics.
There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fu..ing thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain.
(How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: ‘I like strong women.’ If he says that to you, he will at some point f..k someone else. Because ‘I like strong women’ is code for ‘I hate strong women.’).
I waited patiently – years – for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to love cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we’d say, “Yeah, he’s a Cool Guy”.
But it never happened. Instead, women across the nation colluded in our degradation! Pretty soon Cool Girl became the standard girl. Men believed she existed – she wasn’t just a dreamgirl one in a million. Every girl was supposed to be this girl, and if you weren’t, then there was something wrong with you.
But it’s tempting to be Cool Girl. For someone like me, who likes to win, it’s tempting to want to be the girl every guy wants. When I met him, I knew immediately that was what he wanted, and for him, I guess I was willing to try. I will accept my portion of blame. The thing is, I was crazy about him at first. I found him perversely exotic, a good old boy.
He was so damn nice to be around. He teased things out in me that I didn’t know existed: a lightness, a humor, an ease. It was as if he hollowed me out and filled me with feathers. He helped me be Cool Girl – I couldn’t have been Cool Girl with anyone else. I wouldn’t have wanted to. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy some of it: I ate a MoonPie, I walked barefoot, I stopped worrying. I watched dumb movies and ate chemically laced foods. I didn’t think past the first step of anything, that was the key. I drank a Coke and didn’t worry about how to recycle the can or about the acid puddling in my belly, acid so powerful it could strip clean a penny. We went to a dumb movie and I didn’t worry about the offensive sexism or the lack of minorities in meaningful roles. I didn’t even worry whether the movie made sense. I didn’t worry about anything that came next. Nothing had consequence, I was living in the moment, and I could feel myself getting shallower and dumber. But also happy.
Until him, I’d never really felt like a person, because I was always me. Amazing ME has to be brilliant, creative, kind, thoughtful, witty, and happy. We just want you to be happy.
So many lessons and opportunities and advantages, and I have never been taught how to be happy.
I remember always being baffled by other children. I would be at a birthday party and watch the other kids giggling and making faces, and I would try to do that, too, but I wouldn’t understand why. I would sit there with the tight elastic thread of the birthday hat parting the pudge of my underchin, with the grainy frosting of the cake bluing my teeth, and I would try to figure out why it was fun.
With him, I understood finally. Because he was so much fun. It was like dating a sea otter. He was the first naturally happy person I met who was my equal. He was brilliant and gorgeous and funny and charming and charmed. People liked him. Women loved him. I thought we would be the most perfect union: the happiest couple around. Not that love is a competition. But I don’t understand the point of being together if you’re not the happiest.
I was probably happier for those few years – pretending to be someone else – than I ever have been before or after. I can’t decide what that means.
But then it had to stop, because it wasn’t real, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me, baby! I thought you knew. I thought it was a bit of a game. I thought we had a wink-wink, don’t ask, don’t tell thing going. I tried so hard to be easy. But it was unsustainable. It turned out he couldn’t sustain his side either: the witty banter, the clever games, the romance, and the wooing. It all started collapsing on itself.
I hated him for being surprised when I became me. I hated him for not knowing it had to end, for truly believing he had married this creature, this figment of the imagination of a million masturbatory men, semen-fingered and self-satisfied.
He truly seemed astonished when I asked him to listen to me. He couldn’t believe I didn’t love wax-stripping my personality raw and loving him on request. That I did mind when he didn’t show up for drinks with my friends. Again, I don’t get it: if you let a man cancel plans or decline to do things for you, you lose. You don’t get what you want. It’s pretty clear. Sure, he may be happy, he may say you’re the coolest girl ever, but he’s saying it because he got his way. He’s calling you a Cool Girl to fool you!
That’s what men do: they try to make it sound like you are the cool girl so you will bow to their wishes. Like a car salesman saying, “how much do you want to pay for this beauty?” when you didn’t agree to buy it yet.
That awful phrase men use: ‘I mean, I know you wouldn’t mind if I …’ Yes, I do mind. Just say it. Don’t lose, you dumb little twat.
So it had to stop. Committing to him, feeling safe with him, being happy with him, made me realize that there was a Real Me in there, and she was so much better, more interesting and complicated and challenging, than Cool Me.
He wanted Cool Me anyway. Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you?
So that’s how the hating first began. I’ve thought about this a lot, and that’s where it started, I think.
Gone girl
My Phoenix January
POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 5, 2017
My Phoenix JanuaryI was born in the light of night,
between denial, despair, delight,
upon my word, I nothing knew
of my new life and its own dew.I felt my feathers’ fire sweet
becoming ashes in a beat,
I heard my lament falling high,
a stricken beauty meant to die,announcing life. So I’ve been told,
since birth I was too wise, too old.
I’ve never cried yet tears I shed,
my Mother’s heart with hopes I fed,
I shared my light to make life clearer,
I was the candle and the mirror.I soared to heights above all peers,
I left behind all petty fears,
I tried to be the glow that lights
not the glare that obscures and blinds.Walking the Earth, all said and done,
I taught my eyes to watch and see,
I turned my all self to the Sun,
knowing that shadows fall behind me.My tale began with snow and night,
with mother’s tears and daughter’s light.
My feathers feel a fire thirst
and into flames once more I’ll burst.
My Phoenix winter unrehearsed.
to the wonderful Prof. Dr. Sanna Vehviläinen
Bielka
Lalaland
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 17, 2017
Lalaland
My aunt used to live in Paris
I remember, she used to come home and tell us
stories about being abroad andI remember that she told us she jumped in the river once,
BarefootShe smiled,
Leapt, without looking
And She tumbled into the Seine!
The water was freezing
she spent a month sneezing
but said she would do it, againHere’s to the ones
who dream
Foolish, as they may seem
Here’s to the hearts
that ache
Here’s to the mess
we makeShe captured a feeling
Sky with no ceiling
Sunset inside a frame
She lives in her liquor
and died with a flicker
I’ll always remember the flameHere’s to the ones
who dream
Foolish, as they may seem
Here’s to the hearts
that ache
Here’s to the mess
we makeShe told me:
A bit of madness is key
to give us to color to see
Who knows where it will lead us?And that’s why they need us,
So bring on the rebels
The ripples from pebbles
The painters, and poets, and playsAnd here’s to the fools
who dream
Crazy, as they may seem
Here’s to the hearts that break
Here’s to the mess we makeI trace it all back,
to that
Her, and the snow, and the sand
Smiling through it
She said
She’d do it,
Again.
Si…
POSTED IN contemporary poetry, Stories January 17, 2017
Si……cad zapezile-ostenite,
si-n mine urla lupi natangi,
adulmecand poteci gresite.
Te-astept pe tine sa-i alungi.… fug de oameni printre oameni,
si-n inima-mi omatu-i greu,
si sunt un nimeni printre nimeni,
te cat pe tine, omul meu.…vantul suduie napraznic,
si limba lui nu-i limba mea,
la moartea dorului fac praznic.
Te-astept sa plangi cu fulgi de nea.…iar ma nasc in asta lume,
o anonima inutila,
si n-am capitol, nici volume.
Doar tu, prefata mea subtila.Vintage print
Musca secunda din mine….July 22nd, feast of Mary Magdalene
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 22, 2016
Musca secunda din mine
Musca secunda din mine
Si îmi musca din lumine;
Bu tot visez un drum pierdut
Dar nu-l mai vad ca la-nceput
Sa fi venit din asfintit
Prin lan de grâu îngalbenit?
Sau iesit pe cea poarta
Calea mea era desarta
De-mi ieseau în cale spinii
Pâna-n marginile vinii?
Si, fatal, fara cuvinte,
Vedeam cruci fara morminte,
Parca-n tarini, prabusite,
Fara nume, neursite…
Îmi sta cuvântul greu absint
Precar topindu-se-n argint…
Musca secunda din mine,
Umbra mi-e dupa coline…
Doamne, într-o-nfiorare
Un cuvânt tot ma mai doare
Si nu vreau, cu el de glezna,
Sa îl duc cu mine-n bezna
Nici cu el sa-mi umplu fala
Eu, Maria din Magdala…
Musca secunda din mine
Si ma lasa fara sine!
Secunda moare razleata,
Frig mi-e, Doamne, si mi-e gheata’
Claudia Voiculescu
Whatever
POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 11, 2016
WHATEVERSeems as we age we tend to wander back to yesterday
Our memories cling to personal things of times now far away
As one by one Life calls us ‘out’ we move on up the queue
Towards the space left empty by the loved ones we once knewIf there’s one thing I know is that I really don’t know much
Although my moments may all hang about with life and such
It’s very clear to me in living life there’s just one chance
I simply let it go and let whatever lead the danceAcceptance of that profound fact that what will be will be
Is really not a hardship knowing what will come to me
I’ve lived my life in moments and tried hard to live it well
Could I have done it better? – whatever – only time will tellHowever I believe we’re born with destinies in place
We may think we are in control but friends that’s not the case
One journey ends, another starts – our spirits endless roam
We simply close our eyes and let whatever take us home.
Wanda Kiel-Rapana
The countdown
POSTED IN contemporary poetry, Stories December 31, 2015
The countdownThe last morning of this year. While the rest of the “crowd” still sleeps (holidays!), I enjoy my solitude watching the trees shivering naked in the wind. The soft and cozy armchair comforts me in the kitchen, the only place of the house that allows me to make noise, lit candles and smile to my thoughts, still protecting the early morning sleep of my dear ones.
The trees are watching me back. Another year was measured by their leaves. Silence and darkness, only the wind trying to impress a snowless last day of this year. Around ten o’clock a.m. the night will go to sleep and the daylight will shine upon us for a few hours. The Northern hemisphere is not quite heaven in winter, especially for someone like me, born in the sunlight.
What is the protocol for the last day of the year? Is there any? Every year I feel the same restless “thing” that I must do something to mark the end of another segment of my life and every year I feel like I did nothing. Yes, I prepare food, drinks, the festive atmosphere. Yes, I write my feelings, thoughts in a diary to remember. And yet I am not satisfied. Something is missing. When someone dies, there are funerals to attend, to honor their passing. When a year dies what shall be done?
When I was a child my parents used “to shoot” the old year, open the windows wide at midnight for the new born year to enter the house and bring new good luck. I believed in what they did. I still do. Somehow the symbol of their tradition lost its roots here, in my country of adoption: new land, new meanings, old nostalgia.So, apparently nothing could satisfy my need to mark the death of the 365th day of the year 2015. The TV is annoying, same old words, faces, tricks.
People outside seem to prepare themselves for the same old fights: shopping, dressing, camouflaging their faces for the parties.
Make up to cover up the wrinkles, the worries, the disappointments, the sadness, the loneliness, the compromising, the cheating, the faking, the boredom…
Only the true happiness needs no mask at all.
They seem ready for the countdown at midnight and for screaming “Happy New Year 2015”, wishing secretly or loud to be kissed by somebody (and to remember nothing or to regrette everything by the morning of January the 1st) while the champagne pours everywhere.Cliché. The most cliché of all the clichés.
I would like to enter a monastery at midnight and thank Life for another year. Yes, that would make me happy. To light a candle and give thanks for those who are still alive in my life, those who are alive in the war, those who escape war and become free people, those who escape illness, children who really get help in the starving part of the world. To pray for those who lead countries and continents to be wiser and more honest, more human, less selfish, less greedy. To pray for the helpless, the blind, the deaf, the powerful, the killer, the preachers, the seekers of true light. To pray for peace on Earth.
But, I don’t need a monastery to do all of these. I can do it reasonably well here, in my kitchen, my humble sanctuary.
So, today, this morning of the 31th of December 2015, before daylight, I pray for one more year, I thank for all the years, I join hands with my naked trees and I kiss the old heaven, each cloud, each shivering star, each wounded branch, each bird, for the dying year.
Then I light up the new born stars, a blue moon, I paint some smoking chimneys on the old houses, a Christmas Tree for every child, an open window for the new year waiting to be born.
Then all my past years, dead and buried in my heart will know that I grew up with them, they taught me life, they taught me well…Well, sleepy voices tell me that my fortress of solitude will be invaded by smiling sleepy faces soon.
Happy New Year 2016, my beloved Life!
Maria Magdalena Biela
Joulurauhan julistus/ The Proclamation of Christmas peace
POSTED IN contemporary poetry, Stories December 24, 2015
Joulurauhan julistus / The proclamation of Christmas peaceFor sure everywhere in this world people are wishing for peace, for kindness, for good will especially in Christmas time. But the only country I know which really preserved the tradition of “proclaiming the Christmas peace” publically in Christmas Eve, is Finland.
Finnish people have a deep and true respect for Christmas.
Since I’ve been living here, in this northern space, I came to the understanding that there are a few things which entered deeply my heart and have been keeping me believe in the miracle of mankind on Earth.
One of these wonderful things is “Joulurauhan julistus”, “The proclamation of Christmas peace” which happens every year, on 24th of December, 12.00 sharp, in the city of Turku.
The history of this tradition goes back in time, to the year 1200, when it happened for the first time. The version of then has been improved by the year 1886, when the punishment for breaking the Christmas peace became stronger.
On Christmas Eve, the house is clean, the Christmas Tree is filled with candles and the star is shining, and families gather around the table for the traditional Christmas meal. But, at 12.00 the TV is on and every family, all over Finland, becomes part of the crowd waiting in Turku, in front of the Brinkkala Mansion balcony, for the Proclamation of Christmas peace.
After that, Christmas time officially starts, people are celebrating in their ways, knowing that nobody is allowed to harm anybody all these sacred days.
Prior to 1886, Christmas peace was proclaimed from the doors and windows of the town hall, as the old saying went. The wooden balcony became known as the Christmas peace balcony and Finns living in Turku are faithful to their tradition.
Every year, at 12.00 , on Christmas Eve, Turku becomes the ” Christmas city” for all Finnish people.
After the chimes of Turku cathedral’s noon-day bell rang out across the square and following a ceremonial fanfare, one man formally reads the Declaration of peace from the balcony of Brinkkala House in Finnish and Swedish.“Huomenna, jos Jumala suo,
on meidän Herramme ja Vapahtajamme armorikas syntymäjuhla;
ja julistetaan siis täten yleinen joulurauha kehoittamalla
kaikkia tätä juhlaa asiaankuuluvalla hartaudella viettämään
sekä muutoin hiljaisesti ja rauhallisesti käyttäytymään,
sillä se, joka tämän rauhan rikkoo ja joulujuhlaa jollakin
laittomalla taikka sopimattomalla käytöksellä häiritsee,
on raskauttavien asianhaarain vallitessa syypää siihen
rangaistukseen, jonka laki ja asetukset kustakin rikoksesta
ja rikkomuksesta erikseen säätävät. Lopuksi toivotetaan kaupungin
kaikille asukkaille riemullista joulujuhlaa.”“I morgon, vill Gud,
infaller vår Herres och Frälsares nåderika födelsefest;
och varder förty härigenom en allmän julfred kungjord och påbjuden,
med åtvarning till envar att denna högtid med tillbörlig andakt fira,
och i övrigt iakttaga ett stilla och fridsamt uppförande,
emedan den, som häremot bryter samt julhögtiden
genom något olagligt eller otillbörligt förfarande oskärar,
gör sig under försvårande omständigheter förfallen till det straff,
lag och författningar för varje brott och överträdelse särskilt påbjuda.
Slutligen tillönskas stadens samtliga invånare en fröjdefull julhelg.”The Declaration of Christmas Peace in Turku Christmas City of Finland
“Tomorrow, God willing,
is the graceful celebration of the birth of our Lord and Saviour; and thus is declared a peaceful Christmas time to all, by advising devotion and to behave otherwise quietly and peacefully, because he who breaks this peace and violates the peace of Christmas by any illegal or improper behaviour shall under aggravating circumstances be guilty and punished according to what the law and statutes prescribe for each and every offence separately.”Kiitos Suomi!
Thank you, Finland, for keeping alive one place for peace, for goodness, for Santa Claus, for all people !
Hyvää ja rauhallista Joulua, Suomi! Merry Christmas to all!
Maria Magdalena Biela
S.O.S. Santa Claus!
POSTED IN contemporary poetry, Stories December 24, 2015
S. O. S. Santa Claus!Ever since we were children we have been waiting for Santa Claus to arrive on Christmas Eve and give us something which usually was our deepest wish. Growing up we have learned that Christmas is all about peace on earth, good will to mankind, light in our hearts. The road from the child waiting for Santa to the adult waiting for his children to smile in Santa’s arms is paved with memories, patience, experience and most of all the desire to keep alive the spirit of Christmas.
I was the child waiting for Santa, like I was waiting for my best friend. Now I am the adult who wants to help Santa be healthy and happy. But the time has changed and Santa gets slowly scared, tired during Christmas.
People grew too busy, too impatient, too greedy and some of them slowly have forgotten what Christmas is really all about. Santa cannot change the calendar, to reverse the time. He is confused: nowadays Christmas starts already in October?
All the shops are filled with shiny christmassy advertisement, TV offers all sorts of Christmas sales. By November the cities dress their Christmas trees with lights and stars are shining everywhere. When December comes every city or village is hosting the famous “christmas market”, where people go to drink mulled wine, eat sausages and buy all kind of christmassy stuff.
One can see Santa’s confusion! The Christmas trees aren’t green anymore! No! Now they are either white, or dazzling colorful, or golden yellow, cubist, or surrealist (Salvador Dali would be more confused than Santa!) as if we render our Christmas for a competition of the most postmodernist view and not as it is supposed to be: traditional. The streets become more and more crowded with busy people, nervous, aggressive, pushy, searching for something which never seems to please them enough. The food is either too expensive or out of date. The presents they prepare are a “must” not a pleasure. The cards they MUST send are too many to be written: in other words everything is “too something”.
Out of all this charade named Christmas one thing disturbs Santa the most: the presents offered by people to people. Offering a present to someone should bring happiness in both hearts: the giver and the receiver. When one prepares a present, one must think of the person who will receive it: what do they like, what would make them happy? A present should say: “I know who you are, I know what you secretly want, I know your dreams, wishes and I’d like to try to offer you a smile”.
A present mustn’t be a “must”, a duty, a “he gave me and I have to give him back “, do ut des. A present should be a quintessence of the person who offers it and of the person who receives it. Not a bribe, not a must, not a “thing which I don’t need, so I can give it to somebody else and get rid of it and of the duty of offering a present”. Or even worse: a present should not become a competition of “who’s richer than who?”. Unfortunately, more and more Christmas time has become a time for expensive gifts which have an ulterior motive. The heart is no longer involved in the process.
So, bottom line: Santa is sad and confused. How can we help him?
I remember him when I was a child, and he came to my parents’ house. It was not a rich house but it was clean, warm, luminous, cosy, with a shy Christmas tree in a corner decorated with candles and angels and ornaments made by me and my brothers. Santa felt home in my house. He knew the road by heart, it was silent night, snowy starry night, every year. Maybe that silence and the snow-covered house where children were dreaming of him in Christmas Eve is one thing which could guide Santa through the noisy life of today. Bear with us, Santa, we will bring back the Christmas spirit and we will remember how to make a house be a home for you!
Maria Magdalena Biela
On his birthday
POSTED IN contemporary poetry, Stories September 19, 2015
On his birthday
A happy birthday to you, my heart beat!
May love and laughter light your every day!
May peace and wisdom bless your every way,
and may you never steal, or lie, or cheat!Your eyes are filled with playful, candid light,
and Night, from your hair, shiny colours borrows,
and your soul pledged to Fate solemn and tight
to be forever honest, true to heart,
so if you must steal, steal away my sorrows.And every day we grow older together,
we change with age but Time we shall defeat
and we shall be eternal wind and feather,
and never shall we lose our faith and wit
for if you must lie, lie with me my sweet.A year from now you’ll read these words again
and you will wish: may the birthday that follows
bring other songs but always same refrain:
be always my Spring, my Green, my Crane!
And if you must cheat, cheat all Death’s tomorrows!May you never steal, or lie, or cheat,
but if you must steal, steal away my sorrows,
and if you must lie, lie with me, my sweet,
and if you must cheat, cheat all Death’s tomorrows,
for, without you, my soul feels incomplete.
Bielka
