Category: Literature

* Re: Cut *

How unfortunate –
a detached fetus,
yet an unborn,
fragmented with still lukewarm

Blood,
A lump like a lemon,
lifelessly quite,
That greyish red tissue.

Flat placenta,
A cake marinated with cold jelly,
Your warm affection
Ichor injects

No more into the heart.
I hold (on to) it,
Clutch our unborn
of rosy future.

A grief, that is.
Alone in the room
A dead silence
Sing with the drifted weep.

Where is the mother?
O my
Love, “I am ill.”
I’ve been prescribed a pill to bury

The thick
Tenacious feeling.
Tristesse,
do(es)n’t leave me.

The stain on your
Glove merciless
Remark
Misty and mistaken and when

The pulse
Agitate your heart
Change your dark
Room of wound

How you depart –
Resilient victim,
Dream girl,
Mother without birth.

*Recomposed from Cut by Sylvia Plath

* Re:Romance *

‘’And in the night’’
With a drunken man lying down stairs
Conversation flied through the twigs as if there were only us
And she hooked me onto this thing called romance
In front of her friends’ house, used to.
I was dreaming,
It was sweet.
The voice so bright the moon lights between the lips
I felt the warmth of blood through my vein
Drifting off to love.
I promised myself that I would never lose her
My timid desire for a delicate she,
I’m scarred with fragile affection,
I thought of that sometimes.

Romance is now dead and done.
And it cut into my rib cage deep and sound
The breath of baby dead silent
And it cut into me between flesh and soul.

‘’I could begin to open up and risk desire
For I move slower and
Quieter than most’’
I’ve gone too deep too soon I still forget too slow
I wish it wasn’t that way but at least it’s you.

Touch me here
Dance to me
‘’I don’t care
If’’ it repeated
I want to be where you are
For all that I desired humble as it can be but last a bit further
Than that of a cut flower
So when I look at the stuff there still you are not gone

Flesh and soul
Deep and sound
Inside

*Recomposed from Ex:Re – Romance by Elena Tonra

* the existence of you *

All that I lost, I missed, and all that I’m missing.
But she is there, right on time.
In the stream of unlimited moments she is out there awaiting me to bump into.

What if I can’t see all her beauty,
What if it’s always not enough?

Any thing stimulates me; everything is about you.
Thirty-three autumns that past,
Last words of the three thousand years old sacred tree,
World that has yet to come,
Mysterious tingling. 

The tiny notes that remind me of the existence of a you.

(This work was partly done last October)

* Still Be *

It has been four hours,
nothing happened.
If the night falls it’s because it has no option but be
like there is nothing so certain at the end
but death;
certainty that we celebrate.
In the afternoon the solitude hurts me,
not you.

You are incapable
of hurting me anymore,
as you are gone,
to somewhere only you know.
Maybe your yurt,
Don’t tell me,
I can’t bear it.
I couldn’t see that coming,
but live it.
The world that I didn’t expect,
an empty one that I never thought of.
It has been eight months
passed without me noticing;
I was in the midst of torment,
and I’m still be.

* Still a broken heart *

Clouds depart, emptying.
Left on me deserted sky, vast vacancy,
Much sorrow under the brilliant sunlight,
As if it cares nothing.

Wind orchestrates,
Leaves whispering gossip,
Millions accounts of the life and death
Of things that cross our mind missing.

Much was lost, things I forget,
But not that haunting thought.
Reminding me that I,
Under the Sunday afternoon, still a broken heart.

* Dance *

Dance is, unknowing where boundaries are supposed to be but testing, pouring the plasma and watching where it goes; consciously formulating your steps without committing to a direction.

It’s murmuring with limited vocabulary, uttering the sound that’s familiar while making it exotic, vomiting when you don’t necessarily have to, just to sense the warmth in that narrow path between your lungs.

Dance is, instead of turning your language into music, turning the music into your language.

Read The Metamorphosis

Since Verwandlung does not exclusively mean metamorphosis, it really leaves to the reader to determine what exactly is the subject of the metamorphosis/transformation. By saying that, I almost directly position myself to the side of the “death of the author”, though I have no credential of claiming to be a post-structuralist; what I would like to do is just to keep a record of how I interpret this work. 

The transformation has been suggested to be presented by the physical metamorphosis of Gregor into the insect/beetle/bug, by the transformation of the attitude of Grete, and also, by the altering mental state of Gregor. I have no objection to any of these. Sincerely, the transformation of Grete is distinctly noticeable and the theory itself is very convincing. 

However, instead of asking what the metaphor is about, what is the subject of the metaphor, and which character represents what, I want to know what has been genuinely transformed?

The entire story to me, is actively mourning the vanish of love.

It doesn’t matter what kind of insect, or not insect, he turned into, or that his didn’t even transform to anything at all, the point is that he became a burden. This burden, partly the result of not able to communicate, turns this into a tragedy, rather than a fable. He is not the ugly duckling, and there is no positive insight in it. I believe Kafka simply wrote down what he thought was real, that love, no matter how much you have, as Gregor tried to provide Grete the opportunity to be a musician, will (I would say may) degrade, it will be forgotten. He could simply write a story about how someone got leprosy and his family turned away from him but it can be much scarier than that. Because seeing love turning into nothing is one of the scariest thing ever in its nature, and that we just don’t even want to look at it.