The Perfume Bottle

In the transparent tiny glass bottle, the little amount of golden liquid silently lurked. It was supposedly the perfume of Chanel. The label on the bottle was overly faded, as though it strongly resisted to be read further. The bottle was probably concealed from time for decades like the life of a heartbroken widow. And it was probably the original form of every extreme emotion like love and pain. And, it did witness the tears and passion of the owner, or I hoped it did. Even through the brief glance of the bottle, there were the indefinable dignity and luxuriance which I never ever belonged to.

When the bottle was opened, the subtle yet strong smell of the perfume immediately filled the air of the room. It was so easy to guess that the thickness of the smell was merely the consequence of evaporation through time. Even so, a part of me still wished that there should be something more than that to the smell. The golden liquid was too mysterious, too lonely and never deserved to be concluded by one simple scientific reason like evaporation. What if the owner were the refined female? The bottle had to have a story, hopefully a drama, a big one that could eventually make me cry.

So, again, what if the owner were the refined female? The smell fascinated, poisoned, and betrayed various gentlemen, for love was feeding the woman and she was only lived by love. Or, the smell was the tool of her own and she was using it to earn money by making men attracted to her, for she was a courtesan. Whichever the story was true, the bottle survived until today, apart from the reality, by keeping the secret of the owner, and I was still blocked from the secret. The golden liquid was indeed too mysterious and too lonely like that, for it was simply beautiful and it was what it made it even guilty.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!


What is Poetry?

Thanks for reading my old poems that I posted within these few days and your positive reactions to my works certainly meant a lot to me. And that made me want to think and write about what poetry is for me. What is it for you, my dear fellow writers and readers? How do YOU see poetry in your life?
Containing the mysterious strong power, leaving unfamiliar new scent, messing up with my heart and always running away from me, poetry goes beyond all of my knowledge and intelligence. Like a beautiful butterfly that can never be captureded in my hands, poetry is what is not mine, yet. However, it ironically keeps on making me attracted. Until the day poetry is finally captured in my hands, I would rather let poetry be undefined, for the combination of obscure thoughts never deserves to define poetry.
Unlike novels or short stories whose plots and characters have almost the dominant significance rather than the meaning that each word has, the importance that each word carries in a poem is quite enormous. In other words, if one cannot decode almost every word in a poem, he/she fails to understand it. This fact widens my ignorance and foreignness to English language and ends up revealing how unsophisticated my English really is. To be honest, poetry written in English and writing poems in English are threads to my English ability.

However, the reason why I am never ashamed of my poetry in English is because it is the consequence of following my heart. Namely, poetry is one tool to face who I am whether directly or indirectly. Like the case of the ancient Greek poet, Sappho, even though her works are discovered as fragments, as long as there is the strong power in the words in the poems, regardless of the languages of translations, the words shine by reflecting the pieces of the author. That idea perhaps might be what poetry to me is.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

Lala on the Sandglass

Very very long time ago, the hands of the God
scooped the Sahara sand and dyed it as blue as the
Pacific Ocean to measure the time of this world.
Still long ago, Lala, the great great great
descendent of Pandora, sat on the sandglass, with
the prayer to Aphrodite and the hope in the box
and watched over the hearts of the other mortals.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!