182 posts
Latest Posts by my-dearest-giulia - Page 4
Key
The Archives
Poetry: #giulia breathing words
Personal: #giulia’s diary
Random: #giulia’s bits and bobs
Current WIP: #giulia’s new book
Currently Reading: The Iliad, The Picture of Dorian Gray
An Ode to Pools of Moonlight
Shimmering lace
Falls to the floor,
Like a spool of silk
Unraveling,
Revealing a dimension
Not thought of,
Not seen.
The stars melt into your waterfall
That ebbs and flows
In turn
With the tide.
A million darlings wish on your missiles,
Your projectiles of light,
Falling through the sky.
Your same image
Reflects upon the Earth,
Ever shining,
Above us all
Like a silver thread
Connecting humanity.
An Ode to Rays of Sun
Sweet, mellifluous rays of sunlight
seep through every crack, every seam
invading every crevice, every nook
until there is no space for night.
A million threads,
golden as fresh honey,
bright as a thousand suns,
tether me to the sky.
The shine of silk or velvet,
the beauty of a field of dandelions,
the yellow light,
sends a haze over everything,
obscuring all that is not good.
The morning is acissmus,
the night, a palimpsest.
Until you see the stars.
Oh, the stars deserve their own poem.
I cannot do them justice as a simple end to another.
How can one call themselves human without being enamored with the heavens?
She
She is marble
She is glass—
All that falls to the floor
And cracks
She is snowdrop
She is rose—
All that wilts on its stem
And dies
Why must I compare her
To a flower
Or a statue—
Is not being enough?
She is not delicate
She is not rock
She is human
When she is cut
Blood spills
Is not brown hair
And freckles
And honey-shining eyes
Enough?
For this world
Plainly not.
How could I lead myself to think?
For a moment
For a second
PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK 1975 | dir. Peter Weir
A Pretty Little Message to Myself
A boy with eyes like glass jars swishing with waves of the blue abyss,
I wrote my pretty little poems
about a pretty little boy with starlight eyes,
moonshine hair.
The lives I regret to wish
that I had lived,
The girls.
Belgium, Switzerland.
French and Italian and American
Geneva, Brussels.
I try to say my life has changed;
Never the pretty little boy
with the odd Swiss accent,
and the lopsided smile,
and the shy, wry, understated wit.
Never again.
Women
"Women, they have minds, they have souls"
"the wholeness after everything toppled."
"I’m so sick of people saying love
is just all a woman is fit for."
"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as understood."
"And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself,
because I could find no language to express them in."
"The poets are always correct,"
"What an effort to keep alive."
"The Revolution will end with the perfection of happiness."
but.
"The stars in their courses"
"fight against us, my friend."
Eyes
Eyes of flowing honey,
eyes of swirling ocean.
Is there really so much of a difference?
Both marred with scars,
painfully etched in over the years by family and friends and society itself.
A father filled with rage,
a mother who never wanted her.
One desperate to fit in with American society and one forever distancing herself from it.
One knowing nothing about himself and the other knowing everything about the both of them.
Yet, when their eyes meet all the scars seem to smooth over,
the raging sea calms,
the honey travels far from the fearsome bees of its past.
And, when they are inevitably torn apart?
Jealousy
Midnight parties in Wimbledon
Sketches of Julius Caesar on idle sheets of paper
Football games in Wales when it’s nearing dusk
Academic trips to South Africa in Spring
Sunsets from Roedean, on Brighton’s coast
Family pictures in front of Rad Cam in Oxford
Sushi dinners and British accents
and boys in black blazers
and evening walks to Grantchester
and Warwick in the summer months and taking pictures of the sun
and hair waving with the onslaught of wind on sunny shores
and Mediterranean villages on the sea
and 4AM strolls in Kensington and Leicester
and dinner dates in Porto Torres
and running through palm-ridden forests
and reading Dead Poets Society and the Secret History in dark corners of rooms with oak wainscoting
and Alexander in Eton tails
and-
To live so much
That I die
When I see you
To learn that
one who speaks of
such that is different from their actions
is an idiot,
to entertain the notion
of facing you.
Why?
Who are you?
"To define is to limit," you say,
a smirk dancing on your lips.
It is because you know who you are, that you need someone to find out who that is.
For that is what it is
to be worthy of you.
An Ode to Rays of Sun
Sweet, mellifluous rays of sunlight
seep through every crack, every seam
invading every crevice, every nook
until there is no space for night.
A million threads,
golden as fresh honey,
bright as a thousand suns,
tether me to the sky.
The shine of silk or velvet,
the beauty of a field of dandelions,
the yellow light,
sends a haze over everything,
obscuring all that is not good.
The morning is acissmus,
the night, a palimpsest.
Until you see the stars.
Oh, the stars deserve their own poem.
I cannot do them justice as a simple end to another.
How can one call themselves human without being enamored with the heavens?
i’m an introvert until someone starts talking about the moon or my favorite books.
I’M REVIVING THIS SERIES!
Day 3 coming up quite soon!
Questions To Ask People You Like:
Favourite classical authors?
Favourite poem?
Favourite book?
Preferred writing utensil?
Favourite place?
Favourite memory?
Most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
Favourite library?
Favourite flower?
Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice?
Favourite quote?
Favourite Latin phrase?
British or American spelling?
Favorite obscure fact?
Favorite historical figure?
Favorite romance novel?
Favorite big city?
Favorite small town?
Favorite constellation?
Favorite university?
Favorite British town?
Favorite obscure author?
Favorite fabric pattern?
Favorite song?
Story of their first love?
Ideal plans for tomorrow?
Favorite old French author?
Favorite turn of phrase?
Favorite capitol or city hall?
Favorite old building?
Favorite museum?
Favorite book store?
Favorite folk tale?
Favorite historical story?
Favorite historical battle?
Oxford or Cambridge?
Edinburgh or London?
Favorite Italian town?
Favorite palace or castle?
Favorite noble family?
Favorite royal family?
Favorite century?
Ever written a love letter?
Favorite weather?
Tea or coffee?
If your name was Adelia, which nickname would you choose, Addie or Delia?
Favorite Greek, Roman, or Norse myth?
Opinion on Oxford commas?
Favorite word in a foreign language?
Favorite English word?
Favorite historical time period?
Favorite song lyric?
Favorite things?
This very morning, my history professor picked up the book I was reading, looked me in the eye, and said “Don’t read Wuthering Heights.” He then proceeded to walk away and continue class.
Icarus Also Flew
You might look at my life
You might look at a moment of it
You might look at a year
a decade
a century
a millennia
You know I am not to be gone
I will be remembered
My life may look bleak,
My poems laced with sadness.
I look back on them now,
Pretty Little Messages to (sorry I can’t
share this name) and (or this one)—
And to the rain.
But, if you looked at a moment,
A day, even.
Oh, would you see.
Descartes and,
Appalling and,
Hunchback and,
Natalia and,
A Boy and—
Each is my name for a moment.
Together, a name for myself.
Icarus also flew.
This is the post I want you all to spread as much as you can. Do anything but I want it to be seen as much as possible. I don't care for any of my other posts as much as for this one. IF I DIE I WANT THIS POST TO BE SEEN. I WANT THE WORLD TO HEAR.
This is the memory of a 16 year old girl Katya from Mariupol. I translated it to English and I cried while translating. Please read this. Don't scroll. Don't be ignorant and indifferent.
Do you know the feeling of pain? Once I fell in love with a boy but he didn't love me back, and I thought that it was painful. Turned out that the real pain is to see your mother dying with your own eyes. And to see your brother coming to her again and again, asking her: "Mommy, please, don't sleep, you'll freeze". And we'll never visit her grave. She got left in the cold and dark basement.
We peed, slept and ate our last portions of food in the same basement.
Once uncle Kolya caught a pigeon, I think on the fifth or sixth day, and we fried it and we ate it. And then we all puked.
Mom held on until the end, she died three days before we evacuated.
I told my brother that she's sleeping deeply and that we shouldn't wake her up. But, I think, he understood everything. He understood back then when our lady neighbor died and we couldn't put her outside and she started smelling. And then it became quiet for awhile, uncle Kolya put her outside and got blown up by a hidden grenade (my note, this word "rastyajka" means a grenade with a string attached to it, not a stray bomb. It was put to kill civilians coming out from the basements). Mom cried a lot. After Dad's death, uncle Kolya was the closest person to us.
The dead bodies stink so much.
They were everywhere. I closed my brother's eyes with Mom's scarf so he didn't have to see it. When we were running I almost threw up several times.
I don't believe in your god anymore.
If he existed, we wouldn't have had to suffer so much. My Mother never, you hear me, NEVER did anything bad. She never even left uncle Kolya in another room until she got married. She went to church and confessed often, and so did I. Uncle Kolya gave up smoking so Mom wouldn't worry about him sinning. And your god took her away. The pastor told me something about her helping god there, but it would be so much better for her to help god here, by bringing us up.
I hate russia.
My own uncle is there. Do you know what he said to me today on the phone? "Katya? Which Katya? Girl, I don't know you. What war, which Katya?". And then he wrote me from a different number: "Katya, don't write me. It's dangerous for me and my family. And your mom won't come back".
I hate them! It was his own sister?! How possibly can a person do this???
You know what? I think I'm going to come back to Mariupol. And I'm gonna live on the same place as before. And everyday come into the basement of the new building to put flowers.
It's also scary when the kids cry when it's forbidden. It's forbidden because we needed to not be heard.
These monsters found people in the basements and killed them. Those, who survived, told us that the russian soldiers could rape kids, the elderly and even dead bodies.
If there is a god, why does he let it happen?
I don't want to live anymore. We may be separated now, I suppose. I may not ever see my brother again. And why? Why did this putin "save" us? We lived so well, we even bought a car. Uncle Kolya promised to teach me how to drive. And they even burned the car. And our flat is no more. I want to die and I can't.
Please, hug your kids! Otherwise when you die, they might not remember your smell. If I handle it all and have kids, — I'm going to hug them 24/7.
***
This is it. Now it's time for you to do your part. Do a tag game, tag all your mutuals, do EVERYTHING BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS IMPORTANT. THIS IS MY HONEST HUMAN SCREAM TO YOU AND I SCREAM TO YOU TO SPREAD THIS MEMORY. THIS IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS, NOT OSCARS, NOT MEMES, NOT EVERYDAY LIFE. EVERY DAY OF WAR, EVERY DAY WE DON'T GET OUR VICTORY IS THE DAY WE LOST MORE OF OUR INNOCENT PEOPLE. MAKE A GODDAMN CHANGE, PEOPLE!!!
Yours truly
because you were only 5 when you learnt the dark was something you should be afraid of and that night, a child found god in the bathroom light
when you turned 11, someone said you were too loud, too brash, too annoying for a girl; they made you think you’d never make it in this world
then came your 13th birthday when you realised that your mother would only love the person you could become for her, so you made yourself smaller and smaller until you ceased to exist outside of your own mind, screaming “are you happy now, mother?” but no voice comes out because you can’t be too loud, remember?
at 15, you hated yourself for not being able to fight without crying (you still do) so you don’t let anyone in that can hurt you
and now that you’re 17, you’ve waited for summer long enough to know it will never arrive for a person who says so little of what she means.
// you’ve been 8, on your way to 18, and barely survived the years in between
A Poem About Rain
I walk out,
Feeling the cold air press against me.
The clouds melt,
Sending their crystalline droplets.
They shatter on the cold ground,
So quickly;
I seem a goddess.
Little dark spots appearing
As my oxfords tap on the pavement.
Drops drip
From the cherry tree,
A bride in spring’s white.
I knew this would happen.
Something in the way the clouds hung over the sky,
Something in the shadow.
I knew that it would rain.
Something in the air, the ambit.
Rain, the ultimate acissmus.
Peace before the onslaught,
Icarus also flew.
HELLO, THIS
The Hermitage Museum. Saint Petersburg, Russia. 10/04/2015
Biblioteca Braidense by girlgoneabroad.
you have a place in my heart no one else ever could have 🍃
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Questions To Ask People You Like:
Favourite classical authors?
Favourite poem?
Favourite book?
Preferred writing utensil?
Favourite place?
Favourite memory?
Most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
Favourite library?
Favourite painting or sculpture?
Favourite flower?
Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice?
Favourite quote?
Favourite Latin phrase?
British or American spelling?
Favorite obscure fact?
Favorite historical figure?
Favorite romance novel?
Favorite big city?
Favorite small town?
Favorite constellation?
Favorite university?
Favorite British town?
Favorite obscure author?
Favorite fabric pattern?
Favorite song?
Story of their first love?
Ideal plans for tomorrow?
Favorite old French author?
Favorite turn of phrase?
Favorite capitol or city hall?
Favorite old building?
Favorite museum?
Favorite book store?
Favorite folk tale?
Favorite historical story?
Favorite historical battle?
Oxford or Cambridge?
Edinburgh or London?
Favorite Italian town?
Favorite palace or castle?
Favorite noble family?
Favorite royal family?
Favorite century?
Ever written a love letter?
Favorite weather?
Tea or coffee?
If your name was Adelia, which nickname would you choose, Addie or Delia?
Favorite Greek, Roman, or Norse myth?
Opinion on Oxford commas?
Favorite word in a foreign language?
Favorite English word?
Favorite historical time period?
Favorite song lyric?
Favorite things?
Italian dialects alignment chart
dark academia is when you have to read the crustiest pdf known to man
ancient greek word of the day: πολυνιφής (polyniphēs), deep with snow
the feel of shaking out your cramping hand as your chopin vinyl comes to end, looking up from your notebook to realize with surprise that the sun had set as you were writing, counting the pages of your notebook you have filled, squinting to decipher your handwriting as it devolved into illegibility at the end, marking in preliminary edits with a bright red pen and a critical eye, laying out the pages on your floor, grinning at the tangibility of your productivity, your success
"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood ".
George Orwell, 1984
