Poems By Sofia Rossi

Creation

Perhaps it is among the whispers of the trees, where the lilacs bloom in spring; where the currents of the air guide the flying of the birds; Where life sleeps, quite enamored, under the branches of an oak; that is where this story seems to begin.

When the morning shows its eyes, on the east of the nighttime sky, that the time it starts.

For the dawn of all creation, in its splendor and its grace, was now just beginning. Life chased itself in land and sea; the coral reefs, the caves, the bright green of canopies was filled with life, and the earth was immersed in sound.

The movements of the ocean were like powerful rhythms of an ancient energy, and all sea creatures beat to its same tune.

And thus, from chaos sprang order, and the laws of nature placed themselves in a cycle of pattern. All was in perfect coordination and efficiency. Every species had such countless advantages, means of life, and vast ways of reproduction that the schedule of life and death was seldom altered. Life was in a mathematical balance few eras have seen.

But then, to the world’s surprise, from a new sunrise came the dawn of mankind. And man was not like the rest of life’s creatures. He was alive, but in a way which no other creature had ever experienced. His depth and complexity made him a creature indefinable by the laws of nature.

Each animal had the spark, the energy of life in them, but only man had enough to form a soul; a fully functioning divinity in all its splendor. This, which no other animal had acquired, was the only tool necessary, and the most powerful of weapons in the confines of our reality.

And thus, man came, and he towered above all other creatures. He had a weapon which animals perceived as celestial, something capable of defeating all their defenses. And man saw that he was much stronger than all of life, and used his strength for his prospering.

He used the soil of the earth to grow the means of quenching his hunger, and used its waters to dissipate his thirst. He built homes with the branches of forest trees, and warmed his body with the furs of mighty animals. Man was wise, and he understood many things. He felt a oneness with the earth, a closeness now long forgotten.

As man’s cities grew, and reason affined, cancerous thoughts began to plague him. He wished only for self gratifications; he felt small in the world. He sought happiness, for the hustle of organized structure left him no room for wandering. And thus man became a weak, helpless being, victim to petty gratifications and useless desires. This was the downfall of earth’s mighty creature, whose possibilities were once infinite.

He has not learned to control his great instruments, and let his will be dominated by chaos. These creatures will never return to their great ancestry. With the difficulty and complexity of structure, also comes our own complexity and the difficulty of controlling it. Men have failed to maintain balance. However, the seedlings of truth are yet found buried in our minds, and it is once again our duty to grow them into mighty trees.

Thus far has life come in its path,

Though its stories are countless and dark,

For few can see life’s boundaries,

And where our shadows are marked.




Reflection

A face shines from the cracks in the mirror…could it be? Was it I, who smiled so curiously, enthralled by the woman of this reflection? And how could it be then…that I had for so long missed this face in the mirror. Surely, I had gazed in her eyes distractedly, on mornings and afternoons, in light and half-light, years after years…
Surely, then, I must have before seen! The pale glint which moonshine glows on her lips, the desperation of her eyes (perhaps tired, perhaps barely alive?)…and this fierceness! This difficult dreamer’s sigh, which escapes from her cheeks, from the half-frown of her lips…what is it?

I near the reflection. I extend a palm, graciously, touching upon this unearthly reality. What lies just behind this image? And her eyes…they seem to study me so. I have seen her face so much, yet so little. This creature, I see her, from the depth of my own, distracted eyes. Her smile, malignant, beautifully alluring, stares back from the pools of her pupils. I look intently, for I see a beginning there. A beginning, perhaps to an infinite hole, a darkness more impenetrable than the cold of desert nights. A darkness so unknown, its very enfolds quiver with fear of its presence. Have I truly known myself?
Why, then, does this child of enchantment startle me so?

The secrets of her silence seem so familiar. The stories, the emotions, I have known them. They were the moments of my life. Fractured, indistinct, through pain and ecstasy, this creature knows every twist of my soul. She accompanied me, when I thought even the darkness had turned her head. She whispered to me, when I thought only silence could fill the catacombs of my despair. And now, I recognize her. She knows too much.
Ah, this creature is the reverberation of my soul! How I love thee, strange face, how I love thee…With a love boundless as only infinity, for you are mine own infinity.
Only a love so unknown to mortals could shake me now; for how can I not love what is but a part of myself? The whole of myself! Only one creature knows the deep secrets of my being; that which is unspeakable by human thoughts; that which is only seen through eyes of sensation. And this creature, alas, my reflection.

I can no longer dream, idly, stupidly, about the nothingness which fills my days. I can no longer walk by this reflection, as it sits so immobile, studying, wondering, seeing.
Now, for only now I see; Eternity. In me.



Dead Poet


The memory of the piano lingered in his thoughts; the glide of small hands on the keys brought back the call of past days. Yet, now, how the piano sat so somberly; draped in a sleeping film of dust, rusting in its silence. He gazed longingly towards the window. Thick grime had settled on it, rendering the shapes outside blurred and indistinct. There, the shape of a half-smiling moon was barely distinguishable; it sat, like a judging God, almost peeking through the glass, staring back at him.

His soft hands rested, clutched together, on his lap. His fingers arched, almost in prayer formation, his back curved, like a horse being burdened by heavy loads. In the half-light of the oil lamp, only a shadow of his appearance could be perceived. The flicker of the small flame left dark marks under his eyes, and sombered the creases in his cheeks. Yes, he was no young man. The footsteps of age had trodded on his hopes and wishes; the promise of serenity was now only the stale memory of a childhood smile. He sat in his chair, immobile.

Was it contemplation which left a light frown on the lines of his mouth, or was it a hint of remorse?

Was it perhaps shame for his condition, or mockery for his delusions?

And who is to know.

His desk was cluttered with ancient books and crumpled paper. His head, once filled with the sensations of youth, was empty; only a silent chill rang in its pathways. Ah, how he’d dreamed of her. His companion, who had inspired in him so many breathtaking flames. His muse, alas, had departed from his arms! She, who alone carried his heart; she, whom he loved most dearly and passionately, whose smile was a flash of excitement, a word of beauty, a story of both sadness and ecstasy.

Now, if he tried, he could only recollect blurredly his memory of her; for she was fugacious, like the currents of the wind; she hovered like song in the air, for a second, and then was gone. She neither had patience nor calm; she was a thunderstorm, and the slight chill of March. She was the butterflies gently resting on spring’s flowers, the scent of jasmine in the hair of a lover. Oh, she was! But now, only her shadow lurked the hallways of his wishes. That she may, for one last time, pay a visit to his forlorn spirit, whom in anger and frustration all life had forsaken.

His eyes are cold, and aloof; in the semi-darkness, he does not care to see, he does not care to feel. His lips are shut, his hands, delicate from the handling of fine paper. His teeth are yellowed, bathed in the scent of tobacco, and he reaches, day after day, for the pipe on his bedside table. The fog of smoke help his features disappear; he no longer must show his face to the world; the face which he is so deeply ashamed of. The face which has tormented him from the looking-glass, every day of his life; the face which he can no longer stand, for it disgusts him. To know that he was nothing without his muse; nothing but a quill, dried up from the lack of ink. His muse was the poet, not he; he was nothing but a clumsy tool, and she had replaced him with a more efficient one.

Surely, somewhere, among the dark streets of London, or in the green pastures of the countryside, his muse had flown to; she had found a young man, perhaps eager and full of spirit, whom to delight with her verses. And he, like an eager schoolboy, had flirted with her brilliance and diverted her into playing his games.

Oh, but she was right. He had become too obsessed with his writing. It was no longer a game, no longer an idle fantasy; and that the muse could not be burdened with; seriousness cannot find resting place in the true heart of poets.

Perhaps that is what he had been once; a poet of youth, unmarked by the solitude of life, the scars of age’s blows; yes, once, he had been like a wave blown aback on the sea, drifting without promise of rest, rising and falling with the wind’s sighs, crashing with fragrance upon an unknown shore.

But alas, the carefree love of fresh minds withers, as even the brightest of flowers. The muse, with its gentle smile, and everlasting beauty, does not fold its wings to man’s inevitable repose; she does not wait to push those who have bent their heads to strife, nor wishes to play with those that have lost passion for game. She moves on, from the dead lilacs to the blossoming rose, wavering from life to life like the kiss of first summer’s dawn.

Alas, for me, she's gone!



Death of a soul

A daunting flower lends its wings,
Parting with light as the nightingale sings.

Her pale hair shines with dying light,
Weary autumn eyes meet her sight,
Creases of age line the memories of her cheeks,
And softly with tired lips she speaks.

Time spins a web of dying regrets,
Among the curling smoke of her cigarettes;
A shadow flows with her silent steps,
Carrying unknown burdens, forgotten debts.

She clings with sorrow to life’s hands,
Drowning with silent lips in time’s wastelands;
Her head bowed, she sits in stone,
Forgetting the light her love once shone.

And the clock hands turn, like winter’s seasons,
Among the broken symphonies, a million reasons
Weep silently with the morning’s chill;
The roses resting on her windowsill
Have withered in the frost of her goodbyes;
And softly, inside her heart, an angel cries.



On the tide by the sea

On days dark, with sorrow weak,
When wind, with anger, shouts and shrieks,
I found myself, alone inside, sitting by the tide.

The sea then shook, with mighty screams;
Its roaring sound perturbed my dreams.
For I was weary, on that day,
On I walked, bleak and gray.

I stood, quite still, by the frigid waves;
As, on the sand, they met their graves.
Like mighty soldiers, on they fight,
But all they fall, like weary knights,
Washed up on the shore.

And to the dark and murky sea,
I rang, with sorrow, a silent plea.
From its strange depths, where spirits nest,
I wished for a truth with which to rest;
I sought an answer which no man knows,
The depth of life with which all glows.

I wished to find, on water’s dance,
My reflection, a single glance,
For high and low I searched life’s peaks,
Never to find what all souls seek,
Never to taste what no man finds,
That wish which lights all mortal minds;

For once to find, on waves by the sea,
Our soul’s reflection, wild and free. 



Memories

The gowns swept across the polished heartwood of the ballroom, twirling amidst cries of joy and laughs of cheer, waltzing to popular and lively melodies at a typical party of the late eighteen hundreds. There were hundreds of guests, each eye twinkling excitedly and expectantly, each mouth joyfully chattering away with old friends and new acquaintances alike. And amidst all of this joy and festivity, what shall we find but a negative source of black light? Someone whose soul was unsettled, rampant, and in its turbulent nature could not relax and let itself drift comfortably amidst the evening’s social circle. An old woman, perhaps, spiteful to all the young, jealous of her own faded youth? Or perhaps, a worried mother, who must make sure her daughter doesn’t engage in too much sexual promiscuity? Who may it be? Certainly, you would not guess the blossom of this turbulent soul. A child, no older than eight, whose angelic features and pale eyes seemed to infuse purity, whose small painted lips were like a cherry on a white blossom, was the very fountain from which this strange mixture of emotions flowed. And no one, in their cheer and bliss, could see the bubbling chemicals inside the pools of her pale eyes. Not her mother, who was enjoying the social circle and joining in for the latest gossip, and certainly not the aunt that was supposed to be watching her, pleasantly engaged with a man much younger than she. So who can see into your eyes, Annabel Beth? Who sees the intricate pattern of thoughts which engage your imagination? So many strange, deep passages run within your mind; can no one see them, Annabel Beth? Annabel, sing me a song. Sing me a song that has rhythm and flow, and a whispering quality to it. Yes, Annabel, sing me, I know you can…you sing in your sleep, to calm down your monsters. Oh, Annabel Beth, I know sometimes you get frightened, I know you twist and turn, but the calming singing pleasantly rocks you back to sleep. But Annabel Beth, you have overcome terrible monsters, and they have made you wise. So many things you know now, and through the crystals of your eyes you perceive even subtle thoughts. You are troubled, yet serene. In control, yet still a child in want of play. You, Annabel Beth, are what men are afraid of. Someone deceiving, whose nature is not easily understandable. Someone who rocks between evil and good, between crazy and normal, between monster and angel. That is who men fear, because they are not able to understand such split motivations. But you can, can’t you Annabel Beth? Can’t you! Fire, Annabel Beth, I know the figure of fire hypnotizes your desires. Fascinating substance fire, it can mold and create, but also murder and devour. It can bless frigid bodies with everlasting warmth, or burn them in unbearable agony. Fire is two natured, and that is why you like it so much, don’t you Annabel Beth. Yes, I feel a connection with it. Ah…Annabel, why are you afraid of birds? They’re not going to hurt you, they’re not! Stop being so frightened, Annabel Beth!! Their little beaks seem sharp and treacherous, but their eyes are curious and kind, and their song relieves pain from men’s hearts. Do not fear its calls, or its flights, or how it looks at you, curious. Do not run away! And do not touch it with thought of murder; do not harm its fragile colors. Annabel Beth, you must understand things. You cannot cry, expect people to treat you as the only suffering being. I know your suffering, Annabel Beth, it is deep maze of deceptions and burning fires; it is something which devours you, creating a monster without feeling for pain or regret. I know it…but in this ballroom, your soul is alone. These men and women. So joyfully winding away and forgetting, whose eyes only barely scratch the surface of emotion, are nothing but mere shadows of you. And they seem distant…they are like slow echoes from the other side of a canyon. They are foggy and unclear, while you, you have many colors, don’t you? Many sides, many things you hate, many that you are pleased with; certainly many you are afraid of. Annabel, you are simply so pretty! Your locks are like fine pearl silk, so blonde almost white, and your porcelain skin is soft and smooth. The curiosity of a child shines in your sky gray eyes. Yes. You hear that often. Do you not Annabel Beth? You are a fine pretty blossom, with not a petal flawed! Do you like what they say? Or does it disgust you. It is shameful to be judged by these low creatures, isn’t it Annabel Beth? I know it, they swarm the oceans of life polluting its waters. They destroy the foundation for towers, and burn crops in the field of becoming. They hinder us. And slow our progress. Yes. Yes I know Annabel Beth…that is why you are so uncomfortable. These men are on a different plane. Their problems need not concern you, don’t boil your emotions like a toxic volcano inside your head. You must, Annabel Beth, you know you must. You must do it for the sake of releasing these tensions, it’s important you do Annabel Beth! It’s alright to think these thoughts, men are the ones who made it impure. Yes, Annabel, there is the woman. She is particularly annoying is she not? She has no great talent, is not extraordinarily pretty. In fact, the one thing which makes her repulsive is that she is absolutely like every other woman in the room. So ordinary and so compellingly useless. So gray…and who ever uses gray when having to make a beautiful work of art? It is alright on her, Annabel Beth, it is alright. Don’t think about your fears. Don’t think about the grass, and the birds and the monsters in your dreams. They are watching now, they will no longer hinder you. They want you to, can’t you hear their voices? Yes, Annabel Beth, their voices are quite soothing now, aren’t they? You no longer need to fear them. But that woman’s voice, her voice is so high pitched, it ruins the subtle chatter of the room. There, Annabel Beth, she’s not far is she. No, she’s so very close, you can smell the perfume on her dress, can’t you? What does it smell like, Annabel Beth? She smells of lavender and geraniums, doesn’t she? Oh, she’s leaving now, retreating into a dark corner towards a bathroom. Now is the time, Annabel Beth. Don’t worry, I will guide you, it is all very simple. The human body is quite fragile you know, it is very easy to suspend life permanently. So easy, yes, quite so easy. Yes, the blade on that knife must go right through her neck, for a neither fast nor clean death. Hugging her, you feel uncomfortable, don’t you Annabel Beth? You do not like the touch of skin upon yours, it gives you a fastidious feeling of repulsion. Ah…Annabel you have done it. Blood has a very vivid color, doesn’t it? A beautifully oh so vibrant red, a paint of war and passion, bravery and marvel. But you must leave Annabel Beth, you must go to an adult and cry tears, and say that you found her there. And who will ever doubt you, Annabel Beth? And as they all rush to see the dead woman, and ponder who the murdered may be, tens of ladies crouch around you, comforting you for the traumatizing sight you had to behold. It was quite easy, wasn’t it Annabel Beth? Yes, a piece of cake for a child so young. You can always trust me, I will lead you, Annabel Beth. Your fears, and the cold of your memories shall not harm you, if you listen to me. Annabel Beth, you are a beautiful miracle of deception, of strength and weakness, blessing and curse. Don’t shy away Annabel Beth…let my voice guide you, because it feels so very pleasant in your head. I never have to leave, and show you the paths you have to take in life. Listen, Annabel Beth, always listen. To me.



A Moment’s Eternity


The night I first saw her, a bright moon was shining. Everyone on the ship had been asleep, but the erratic motion of the waves had awoken me. I had tried to fall again in slumber, but we were traveling new waters, and my spirit was restless. 1

I cursed in the darkness; my spirit was that of a worn sailor, always anxious for new wonders, traveling only to escape the feelings of imprisonment that firm land aroused in me. I could not stay in one place for very long; my wishes ached to be renewed; I longed for new shores to explore, new storms to conquer.

My escapes were, after all, my imprisonment; my free spirit kept me in chains; I was his slave to follow, to whatever treacherous escapade he yearned for next. I often though of a family. I longed for a woman, always at my side, but I knew I could only be poison for her. Never home, never lending a helping hand, unable to offer a shoulder for protection.

That night, my restlessness was giving me particular trouble; the rumbling of water outside gave me no hope for peace. With resignation, I quietly got out of bed, wishing for a breath of fresh sea air. It would surely ease my rumbling spirit.

Outside, the night was beautifully clear; a thousand stars shone from their celestial thrones; the moon, queen of all, sat in splendor among them. I gazed longingly at her fair beauty; how many poets had written about her mysterious presence!

I sighed, closing my eyes. I let the rhythmic sweeping of water lull me in a strange trance; back and forth, back and forth, the waves crashed on the shore of my thoughts, washing away my disquiet emotions…I breathed deeply, letting the pungent smell of salt soothe my tired body.

And then, just as I opened my weary eyes, there she was. A silhouette outlined by a silver thread of moonlight; There, walking on the ocean waves. I gasped in amazement; her features were blurred, indistinct; a mass of long curls trailed behind her in the wind, rising and falling with the water. I could not see her face in the darkness, but the rhythm of her walk aroused in me an unknown passion; I was transfixed with her figure; I could not move my eyes from her gentle body. For no woman had I ever longed so deeply, with a yearning far beyond mortal love.

And then, just as instantly as she had appeared, she was gone. I stared for a long moment at the very place where she’d been standing, overtaken by speechless amazement.

I trembled; I felt an unquenchable thirst in my heart;

What had I just seen? I could not come to terms with the swarms of questions which now raced in my thoughts; who was she? Surely, nothing so indescribable could be human; my heart had jumped in my throat, my hands were sweating; I felt as if I’d stolen a view of something forbidden, magical.

There was not a moment in which her moonlit silhouette was not with me; I stared for hours at the sparkling waves of the sea, wherever I went. I became increasingly quiet and irascible. My already uncontrollable spirit was now bursting with wonder and strange passions; her sight tormented my every dream; I would vision her beauty, see her hypnotizing sway…only to awake, startled, in a dirty hammock, surrounded by sleeping sailors.

No matter how I yearned; no matter how I pleaded the heavens, they would not grant me a second glimpse.

Many years later, I found myself on a journey to the coast of Africa. The black continent had still never been seen by my eager spirit; its untamed wilderness allured my wishes; and I, like an obedient puppy, followed my impulsive passions, following my heart to whatever corner of reality it pushed me. Africa was a dangerous, unexplored land. We traveled close to the coast, and only went on land for provisions or upon sighting a British camp. On one of these occasions, after a long stretch of wild land, our ship came across a small camp waving the English flag. Exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry, we quickly took refuge in the small cove of civilization. We spent the night there, regaining strength to pursue the rest of our treacherous journey.

As it often was, on this very night I awoke, startled, from a terrible nightmare. All around, my mates were soundly sleeping. Sweat dripped down my face; the suffocating heat of the night left me breathless; it crashed on my body like the strong waves of a storm, leaving me helpless. I twisted and turned for hours in my bed, trying to regain sleep, but, as always, it eluded me; it left me, crushed by heat, to rot on my dirty straw mattress.

Insufferable and aching, I left my bed, favoring the outside air, like I often did in my insomniac nights. The air outside was not crisp and refreshing, like the cool breeze of the water, but it was not as suffocating as the tent.

I made my way slowly to the beach. It was an intensely moonlit night; clear, untamed. Only in the heart of darkness could the moon shine so brightly.

As my feet finally sunk in the sparkling sand, there, she appeared like a vision. My heart suddenly stopped. Time seemed to hover, immobile, for an infinite second.

Her silhouette…I would have recognized her curves in any light; excitement and terror both overtook me. I was powerless to move; I sunk to my knees; I could see her hair, waving back and forth, with the rhythmic motion I was so familiar with. I wanted to call to her, whisper softly, but the sounds were trapped in my screaming heart.

She was so close…a few meters, and I could have caressed that perfection. She was simply standing, just where the sea kisses the sand, staring into the never- ending waves.

Suddenly, she turned to face me. I could not see her distinctly; once again, just her features were outlined. My mind was exploding with millions of thoughts; the moment she met my gaze, it seemed as if reality crumbled away. I could feel the intensity of her eyes as she studied me; I looked helplessly towards her; I was but a speck of dust in the hands of a goddess.

To my mounting disbelief, she slowly began walking towards me. Every second that she inched closer, a new wave of strange emotions overtook my throbbing soul; I belonged to her; my heart, my soul, my every wish rested solely in her hands. I was a puppet to her desires, and I fully wished for her to guide me. She stopped in front of where I was kneeling, and gracefully got down to her knees. And there, in the darkness, I met her eyes; they were crystalline, transfixing, hypnotizing; they were inhumane, breathtaking; they were neither good nor evil, creation or destruction; perhaps they were the soul itself.

I could feel her breath on my skin; every wave of air was a soft, electrical tingle.

And then, in a moment, she pressed her lips on mine. Truly, no expression can do justice to that moment; no description could fulfill my desires to tell it in all its magnificence. No kiss, not from queens, not from alluring oriental dancers, not from the beautiful ladies of Paris, Rome, London…no kiss will ever compare to that moment.

As her soft lips warmed my own, trembling ones, I came to contact with myself; everything in her reminded of my soul. In short, she was; everything present in creation was her artifice.

All beauty and splendor became clear in that second; every horror, every twist of deceit seemed to unfold plainly in front of my eyes. The secret of everything was shared with that soft brush of lips; I remained immobile, wondering why I had never seen reality; for indeed, those secrets were simple. The confused myths we had for so long trusted were a construct of imagination; truth was, indeed, a simple matter.

That second was, and forever will be, the whole summarization of my life purpose; but as soon as it came, thus it went, like a breath of wind. I opened my eyes, and she was gone. Only the memory of her silhouette remained; I sat, in deep contemplation, until the morning. I was trying to sort out reality from dream, fantasy from truth; all my convictions had evaporated, dissolved like cigarette smoke. That second had shown me all things; and she had given me the gift of knowledge.

Needless to say, she never left my thoughts. She was everything in my vision; no other woman could possibly have my love now; for my love was locked up in the immensity of an angelic creature. Since that night, though I have searched for her in my every voyage, she has never again appeared to me. She both blessed and tormented me; I long for her touch more than my own existence.

Oh, how meaningless my life! How selfish men, who think they can understand!

Not all the journeys in the world could make them free; How foolish, to ponder, day after day, what reality may be.

Only a kiss from a goddess could make them see.