The Extreme

When I again and again begged you to be
Faire and share our hearts, you handed me
A gun in my right hand and held another in yours.
Sitting on the empty floor, after you gently stroked my
Black hair and touched my cheek, we stared at our gray eyes
And slowly pointed your gun at my heart, my gun at yours.

When the sound of the guns echoed throughout the room
Of the lonely lovers,
In your transparent tears from your eyes,
In your red blood dying your shirt and my face, I thought
I finally saw what I was aching to see.

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


Inside the Limpid Box of Isolation

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then–shuts the Door–
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—
– Emily Dickinson

Wherever the lady traveled, whenever she stayed,
The box, invisible to everybody else’s eyes,
Surrounded her body from her head to toes.

The men who saw her brown long hair and brown
Eyes led by her casual smile
Told to people, she was the pronoun for beauty.

The women who glanced at her well-grown bosom
Underneath her red dress
Shouted to the world, she was promiscuous.

Inside the limpid box, her passion burned.
She reached her hands to the brush and the pallet
And depicted her bare heart on the canvas, alone in the
Basement. With yellow and white, she painted the full
Moon symbolizing her love that would never to die.
Behind the full moon, she painted the sky

Of black shaped after her hatred towards the man and herself.
She was abandoned into the emptiness, in pained, which
Nobody else would ever to unvail.

After the three decades of seasons, the lady,
With her own hands, ended her life, when the cold
Rain drops colored the January morning and melted the box.

© 2016 Kiara Belle

The Definition of A Poem When I Was Twenty

A poem is…

Something like,
The sounds of rain during June,
The red glow in the morning sky on the New Year Day,
The tears of last night,
The very first heartbreak at the age of fifteen-

The moments,
The emotions and even
The senses are
Transformed into words and
Meet the rhythm of a language,

Somebody addresses the words
As beauty and elegance.

The truth is I still do not know
What a poem is.

So please, just let it be
So undefined and
So unnamed.

Just let it be the riddle
Extended to eternity.

© 2016 Kiara Belle

The Grandmother’s Hand

The grandmother looks at her hand –
The numberless wrinkles breathe under her loofah-like skin.

The hand is betrayed by lies and pleased by sincerity.
Hugs and handshakes forgive sins,
But pain is still in the fist.

Flame of war, cancer’s scars on one-breasted chest, cheeks of granddaughters,
The hand always remembers the touch of all.

© 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!!!

The Emotional Part of Ordinary 

The sleepy-eyed girl walks to the washstand and faces another in the mirror, completely forgetting that the sunlight is awake hours before her. While she does so, her sweet mother or generous roommate or faithful lover already prepares her breakfast on the table. The regular delicious smell awaits her as usual, which is what she never even realizes. Like that, when she is so dull about the tiny tiny pieces of her everyday, the girl next door is about to kill herself, craving for a reason to live. With the sleeping pills spread throughout the floor of the room where no lights are on, her wrist and soul are bleeding. Too many tears are wasted. And, the man on the other side of the earth is dying by the sudden car accident. The red lights, the drunk driver, the late ambulance, there are too many causes to be blamed. While everybody is somehow lived by their lives, the nameless French poet, sitting on the dirty street in Paris, pours his emotions into the details of his ordinary life. He verbalizes them on the paper, moving his favorite black pen in his left hand, and creates beauty within the dramas of lives. So many emotions are shined by his left hand.

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

About the Girl

At the age of thirteen, the girl, who could not run faster than her schoolmates, walked to the seashore – to collect white shells from Setonai Sea, the west of Japan. Into the transparent glass bottle, she put the shell – one for each bad day. Instead of wasting nights with tears, before cutting her wrist, she went to the seashore and gathered the shells. At the age of seventeen, when the glass bottle became full, she took the plane – to cross over Moscow, fly over Copenhagen and Amsterdam. Near Notre Dame in Paris, the glass bottle in her arm, she stood next to the photographer, whose mind and camera captured the pink sunset. With no glance at him, she murmured, “What’s in my arm is the amount of my sadness”. His eyes – as blue as the Sea – caught her in his gaze and he gently held her fragile body in his arms. He opened the glass bottle and scattered the shells – into the deep old Seine. Then, he took her hand and they disappeared – somewhere between Brussels and London.

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