Dominika Visy
I AM
Some say I’m kind of kind. Or one of a kind. Selfless. Or impolite.
But no-one has entered the labyrinth of my soul.
I am a rainbow.
I am blue and purple
And white and black and gold.
I doubt my doubts
And question my questions
And face my face that mirrors
The mirror’s fearful stare
And aloof air.
But I dare
To care.
And I smile
In vain
In the rain.
I show
And learn
And give
And take.
But after all,
I am human
So I fly
Then I fall.
​
PARIS
Y
O
o n
u t
c and no-one h
r notices. e
y s
That’s Paris. treet
DOMINO
The world
around us
Is falling
Like a domino.
Yet we, humans dream
and hope
and plan
with ever-renewing faith
in the success
of our plans.
But God thinks otherwise
And so our plans fall,
One by one
Like dominoes.
It doesn’t matter how much we hold on to them
Or what our heart desires
These mean nothing
to our omnipotent Lord.
Against opposing forces
we tend to rebel
Be it a teacher, a boss or a parent.
But we hold no chance
against the All-Powerful Father.
So we, too,
Fall,
One by one,
Like dominoes.
THE LAMENTS OF MADAME PARIS
On the bank of the Seine, lazy and careless, its bluish-grey a perfect mirror,
The old lady stops and contemplates her face
She starts to weep, and mourns her bygone glory
Stolen by the cruel hands of fate.
“Long ago I was so admired,
The finest in Europe, an unrivaled beauty.
– Now I am sombre, my charm has corroded.
Once I was wrapped in silk and tulle and lace.
– Nothing remained but a colourless, dull layer of concrete!
I used to be rich, caressed by luxury.
– But the devil named Recession cursed me with despair and famine
Once my salons welcomed the brightest of souls,
And crowned heads lit up my halls.
I sheltered all who were pursued or scared.
– But my children, discontent and sad,
Leave me in search of a fairer land.
I was the subject of talks all around;
Never was a topic more interesting to discuss.
Myriads of eyes turned towards me.
Oh! How I cherished their regards!
– Now these eyes, once so smart and clear
Are buried in horrid smartphone screens!
Oh, oh! My tears flow without end,
As I recall my youth dissolved
By the neglect of progress!”
She just cries, she does not speak.
Let us go, let’s give her peace.
For much has been said, and more can be said
But the truth remains: the glory of Paris will never come back.
​
THE SPIDER
I saw her when I entered the shower
And forced myself to oppress a shriek
Facing the thick legs stretching on the tiling
And a million eyes without a degree of fear.
In cold blood, she stared at a cowardly, bizarre human being
While I recognised the miniature symbol of courage.
​
I'M AFRAID
I lie awake, my eyes wide open
To the dense darkness that’s surrounding me
Sometimes my heart thunders
And sometimes it’s too nervous to beat.
I remark: I’m afraid.
A few days remain before I face
Another chapter, another blank page
Another endless journey.
There waits
Another voyage, another city.
Another unknown place.
I receive
Another chance, another beginning.
This time I might even make it.
And yet, I’m afraid.
Because I know
That this may be
Another failure, another heartbreak.
​
ADULTHOOD
The taste of mulled wine and coffee
A kiss of menthol on your lips
A heated embrace on your hips
Sweet perfume and sour candy
The accords of a gypsy band,
Nights out are never planned
Getting up at half past ten
Too much freedom’s in your hand
Workload piling on the floor
The deadline was the day before
You’re jaded and can’t take more
You just want to slam the door
Sleepless nights and wasted days
Your childhood heaven fades away
Rusty leaves and cold sunrays
Nature betrayed by decay
And when your salary is gone
You can no longer deny:
You longed for it, but in the long run
Adulthood is not always fun
​
SHE SAYS
You are foolish, she says.
You know nothing of real life
Just look at me, the perfect wife!
You are hopeless, she says.
You won’t improve,
You are doomed.
You are stupid, she says.
What you know is worthless and dull.
If you are not like me, you can’t survive.
I pity you, she says.
You are filled with chanceless dreams,
You will fail if you don’t follow my schemes.
Take my advice, she says.
I know you more than you yourself,
And I can read your empty head.
Leave me alone, I say.
You are jealous and heartless.
Because I did what you never dared.
Sort your life. It’s screwed enough.
To succeed, I must follow my heart.
​
FACES
Knock, knock, knock.
A station. Rush hour.
An endless monotony of
Heels on the pavement.
One blending with the other,
A faceless crowd rushes by.
One lifeless mass
Spreading around
And dragging indifference with them.
Afraid to be crushed, you push through
And run and duck and flee.
But stop just for once, I ask you
And observe the crowd around you.
The mass separates,
Falls into pieces.
And all of a sudden
You start to see faces.
You begin to wonder.
How many are hungry?
How many are ill?
How many are freezing?
How many live in fear?
How many strangers?
How many are natives?
How many are in love?
How many have babies?
How many hate?
How many are late?
How many are tired?
How many got fired?
You’d think you see
Unknown features,
Doubtless differences.
But look closer,
And you’ll discover
Myriad mirrors
And in all of them
You recognise yourself.
You can’t turn from others
And you cannot hate,
For then you’d turn from yourself
And you’d hate your own existence.
​
CHRISTMASES PAST AND PRESENT
On this dull grey December day
I long for the Christmases of yore.
I remember the nervous expectation
The unending wait before the great day.
And the joy of list-making for a starry-eyed child
Who wanted every toy on every shelf of every shop.
Then the magical date has dawned at last.
I long for those jovial forenoons of festive films
And the unbreakable sanctity of lunch
That united a scattered household.
Then a light promenade after a hearty meal.
I still see the neon lights falling on the crystal snow.
The hustle and bustle of Budapest still rings in my ear.
But returning to the warmth of love
From our frosty walk,
The crazy world quietened
And only silver bells filled the air.
We noticed the graceful tree in its evening gown
Bathing in the dazzling candlelight.
And underneath laid the land of wonders.
A treasure trove of toys.
In those days, we were earnestly glad
However small a gift the boxes would hide.
For days and weeks after Christmas Eve
Only these toys mattered – and mum’s festive cakes.
Such were the Christmases of the olden days.
All warmth and cheer and hope.
But now they have vanished.
And I moved on.
London never stops.
Not even the sacred holidays can quieten this insane place,
Or halt the mass of men and cars and tubes.
I expected no warmth this year
In a converted warehouse.
With a close friend – but against a group of bohemians!
There were no candles, no Christmas lights.
Only the ashes of a cigarette flashed from time to time.
This bunch preferred a liquid lunch
Of wine and rum
Flowing free, without limits – and without a price to pay.
A strong cocktail – but it could not affect them.
They were trained to endless drinking.
And for them, midnight was the most suited time
For films and fights and feasts.
I just watched them, for they were strange
And yet, strangely familiar.
In sober moments they dabble in arts.
They paint and write and play.
Yes, they are my fellow souls!
In their insanity, they draw me.
Their life reveals its beauties.
I want to be a carefree bohemian
Above worries of money and bills!
But, ladylike, without booze and fags and weed.
Christmases Past and Present had nothing in common.
And I wonder what the future holidays will bring.
Will I return to the warmth of Christmas at the parental home
Or will I go on against current and choose another bohemian Christmas?
​
WISHES FOR THE YEAR 2014
Now that a new year has dawned
I admit that 2013 wasn’t bad after all.
What can I pray for this year ahead?
A year not worse than the one I had.
A year of renewed hope.
A pleasant job.
Enough money.
Small luxuries.
A new home
In a better borough.
A mended heart.
A new man to love.
Recovery
And a slimmer body.
Trips and plans
With old and new friends.
Sustained passion
For my dream profession.
Focus and energy
For essays at university.
Less time wasted on Facebook and co.
And more time to build my portfolio.
Inspiration and time to create
And maybe a bit of fame.
But most of all I wish
Happiness to my family.
​
GLORY TO YOU
Glory to You, our Heavenly Father
For balmy blossoms laden with the promise of spring.
Just as for the purity of winter’s first snow.
The velvet water on a summer day,
And the golden blanket of crisp autumn leaves.
Tongue-tickling spices,
Flavours sweet and sour.
Warming laughter,
The comfort of a roaring fire.
The majesty of the endless sea,
The dignity of solid hills.
And the dutifulness of skyscrapers.
On buzzing city streets.
All different, and yet all worthy of praise.
Such is Thy glory,
Such is Thy grace.
​
WHEN ART IS BORN
Must tears dilute my paint?
Must my ink be made of blood?
Must sorrow spark,
Must despair direct
My imagination?
Can art only exist
In a mist of melancholy?
Must I sink
To the dungeons of pain
To be raised up
To art’s masters?
Why must I shatter myself?
Could I not paint jewel colours,
Could I not be the advocate of hope?
No. I’m afraid that art is born in the same place
Where despair dwells.
​
THESE INSOMNIAC YEARS/ART OBLIGES
I labour for bread by dull daylight
And when moon’s kingdom rises,
I descend into the Cave of Wonders
To gamble with the Muses.
When Fortune takes pity on me,
My reward is the glory of creation;
An airy brush-stroke or a melodious rhyme.
But when, in tempestuous humour,
She pushes me away,
Nothing is mine
Except the futile pain of nightless days.
Because I chase earthly dreams,
I gave up those that lurk behind my locked eyelids.
Slumber? That’s time wasted
Like gemstones ground and blown away.
I must live on morsels of sleep
And pursue my twofold work with equal delight.
During these Insomniac Years.
Then, one days, the Muses will invite me
To dwell among their ranks.
All other labour will be behind me,
Art, and Art only, will stack my shelves with bread.
​
POEM-ETTE COMPOSED IN A TUBE CARRIAGE (THE TUBE POEMS 1.)
Heat and hate stir
In a cauldron
Below the earth.
Hell has risen
And swallowed the world.
This is London
In the summer.
​
MIRROR
The human soul is a mirror clearer than all
That reflects not only what the eye can hold
But also what’s hidden at the core.
An open smile shines on the surface
Brighter than sunlight can ever gleam.
But so can chilly indifference
Extinguish the proud flame.
A hurled word may dissolve in a moment
But it lingers forever in the mirror’s depths.
And the smallest prick of hatred
Shatters the glass to a million pieces.
And when it’s broken,
It won’t be whole again:
If the pieces are distorted,
They can never mend.
​
GOODBYE 2014/WHAT I SEEK TO BE
I look back on the year
And put each moment on a scale
I omit nothing, I face all:
Happy minutes
And tear-soaked hours.
I cannot deny that there was joy
In the air of distant lands,
The smiles of friends,
And the steps that led me
Further towards my goals.
But these moments, immortalised in a puzzle piece,
Cannot make up a happy image.
I had much, comforts aplenty,
But I was never loved, nor carefree.
Money flowed freely, like a waterfall.
One day there was wealth, the next a bare cupboard.
Ghosts danced around me
While I cried for mercy.
A few happy days passed
Between each month of agony.
I lived in the shadow
Of a sword hanging above me
With one foot slipping into the abyss.
The trumpet of doom woke me every night,
As I slept by a flickering light.
Even when spring bloomed in full glory
Or summer reigned with an easy touch,
I was afraid of the day,
Haunted by the past
And frightened of the future.
I was surrounded by friends
But my soul was alone.
In the warmth of a blanket, or a week-long heatwave,
I was always freezing,
Forever longing for a man’s embrace,
The only force to melt a frozen heart.
My fire was oft extinguished
By hasty rejection.
My naive heart crushed
By scorn and alienation.
It’s time to turn the page
On the chapter entitled 2014.
I guarded every happy time
To recreate in the new year.
But I bid farewell to all bitterness
Never to experience it again.
In 2015, I wish to travel the world
And make myriad friends,
And live in comfort and luxury.
But above all, I seek to be
Loved and carefree.
​
I HAVE A QUESTION
God,
Mirror Mirror,
Sweetheart,
Mother,
I have a question.
Who am I?
And what am I?
And where am I?
And where’s the way?
And can I turn back?
Why did you,
And how could he?
For how long?
And why not me?
Where were you then?
And where are you now?
Will you come back?
Or are you too far?
What have I done?
Can you forgive?
Why do you ask
What I can’t give?
What’s your purpose?
What’s the reason?
When will it end?
Or will it ever?
God,
Mirror Mirror,
Sweetheart,
Mother,
I have a question.
But each question
Breeds another question
And there’s no time to ask
All I want to know.
So to condense every question
Into one that covers all,
I just ask:
What the fuck?
​
THE LILY
I watch the lily on my desk
Lying silently in a plain glass vase.
I gently touch the striped petals,
Their whiteness stained by a hint of red,
And their redness paled by shades of white.
Not quite pure enough, not too passionate.
And lo, a streak of green is creeping up.
I marvel at the robust stem
As it floats just below the water’s edge,
Bending to no earthly force,
But broken by any hand.
I sniff into the air,
Lured by the faint perfume
At first so charming in humility,
And yet guarding poison at the core.
I watch the lily on my desk,
And the more I watch,
The more I recognise myself.
​
THE TALE OF TWO FLOWERS
A gardener once planted
Two seeds of the same kind
Under a bush, side by side.
But he planted one in a spot
Shaded by the leaves,
While the other, an inch away,
Stood free under the sky.
So the selfsame sun
Lavished one with golden rays
While the other received nought
But a few stray beams
When spring came,
Two flowers sprang up from the seeds
But the one favoured by the sun
Grew tall and bright.
While the other became weak
And faint in the shade.
When their time came to release their seeds,
The tall flower was aided by the wind
And its seeds landed on fertile soil,
While the seeds of the smaller flower
Only encountered a feeble breeze
And fell on barren ground.
So one flower, admired by all,
Blooms in glory to this day,
While the other is but the prey of decay.
What is the moral of this tale?
Do not blame a flower
If it’s not tall enough,
For a flower cannot grow
If it’s hindered by circumstance.
​
KENSINGTON KISS (THE TUBE POEMS 2.)
Tonight
I saw a couple
Kissing
Under the arcades
Of High Street Kensington.
Oddly, they were alone
In the otherwise always full
Station hall.
But this couple filled the arcades
with more love and warmth
Than the hundreds and thousands
who rush through from dawn to dusk.
​
HOME
Is home the four walls I call mine
For a little while,
The pillow my head longs for
on a too long night?
The noise of a party
Creeping inside?
Or is home where my mother sings,
And my father scolds,
And my sisters laugh,
And dogs bark, and roosters crow,
And memories are painted on every rock?
Is home the kitchen sink
Where I labour for bread?
Or the well-worn plush
Of a theatre hall?
Or the crisp air
Before an early flight?
Or the winking sea
On a summer eve?
Or the melting concrete
Bathing in neon-light?
But the song quietens, and the address changes, and the plane touches down, and the curtain falls, and the sea dries out, and the lights flicker, and the party ends,
And I realise that home is not a place, but a feeling.
​
ESSAY IN VERSE
This is a poem about poetry.
And poetry is about nothing. And everything.
The poet's ink is the river that carries their blood,
Blackened by vain love, sorrow and lifelong heartache.
And poetry is every tear-drop that gathers into words
As it falls on a blank page.
And poetry is a flag that claims a piece of land in the world.
And every syllable a choir that accompanies my heartbeats.
Short. Sharp. Stifled. Deep. But never still.
Swaying like the sea,
Whistling like the wind,
Scorching like the sun.
An ocean condensed into a dewdrop,
A lifetime into a wrinkle,
Humankind into a verse.
Poetry is the ghost of a wise-man
Omniscient and unwilling to speak,
And poetry is the ghost of a newborn babe,
In awe, and knowing nothing of the world.
Poetry is the unwanted stepchild.
And yet, a mirror of the world.
​
EVERY CITY
Every city has a soul, a liquid, misty soul that shapes every newborn child, and a heart that hums them lullabies. Every city raises its own archetypes, just as it gives texture to the rain and taste to the sunlight. Flee with hatred or roam far and wide, your city will follow you, eternal child.
​
NOW
Play the game until the candles burn out
Sing the song until the last string breaks
Enjoy the night until the walls fall down
And dance until the floor opens wide
Leave no kiss unkissed,
No love unconfessed
No pleasure untasted,
No question unanswered,
No promise unfulfilled,
No favour unreturned
No guitar lying by,
No friend left behind
Shake off your ifs and whens and hows and whys
This moment is yours now,
Take it while it lasts.
Live now, without regrets.
Who knows where we'll be when tomorrow comes
Or if tomorrow comes?
What if tomorrow never comes?