Lonely, waiting, watching deep,
Praying as the tempests rise,
Losing hope where shadows creep,
Don’t you leave him — heed his cries.

Alcyone, don’t you stray,
Alcyone, trust his vow.
He longs to whisper, bid you stay,
Yet the tide won’t let him now.

He loves you true, but he is gone,
The sea demands its toll.
He cannot hold you when the dawn
Fades beyond waters cold.

You turned away, betrayed his trust,
Abandoned love so pure.
Now his fate is ocean rust,
A dream that won’t endure.

"Let me see Alcyone,"
He prayed beneath the moon.
Yet the sea knew you’d turn away,
And now the waves consume.

He wished to say he loved you still,
Even through the salty spray.
Why could you not just wait until,
He found a way to stay?

He bent upon his weary knee,
A ring within his grasp.
Yet you left him lost at sea,
A vow drowned in the past.

All the sailors found embrace,
Returned to waiting arms.
But he, forsaken, cast away,
Claimed by whispers where specters mark.

"Let me see Alcyone,"
He whispered every night.
He prayed, but you did not believe,
And so, to ghosts, he paid the price.

He loved with faith, his heart was whole,
Yet was your love the same?
Did longing ache for him alone,
Or did you covet but his name?

Your sorrow is the hollow storm,
That stole his final breath.
You cry now, but guilt is born,
You let him drift to death.

Why did you leave, Alcyone?
He never chose the sea.
He parted to build a life for you,
Yet you let him cease to be.

Look upon the wreckage now,
The love you cast aside.
He did this for you, yet fate allowed
His ruin in the tide.

Listen, Alcyone, do not pretend,
You cannot play the part.
We all know it was you, in the end,
The one who stopped his heart.

~
June 2025
HP Poet: Agnes de Lods
Age: 47
Country: Poland


Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Agnes. Please tell us about your background?

Agnes de Lods: "My name is Agnes (Agnieszka), and I come from Poland. I grew up in the countryside, in a family rooted in rural and small-town traditions. My mother is a very intuitive person, and my father was always standing in the last row, quietly helping others, especially people with disabilities.

My parents gave me two ways of perception: seeing with the heart and with the mind. They didn’t have higher education, but our home was full of music, books, radio talks, and documentaries that showed the world in many dimensions. They helped me see that reality is full of tension and harmony, depending on what we pay attention to.

They gave me space to speak in my own voice. Growing up close to nature, I spent time observing, listening to the rhythm of the seasons. I learned humility, compassion, and what it means to face hard work and failure."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Agnes de Lods: "In Polish, I’ve been writing for four years. In English, two or three. But in a way, I had been preparing for it all my life by writing, reading, and observing the world around me.

I started sharing my reflections on Hello Poetry in December, just a few months ago. For the first time, I felt ready to express everything I had kept inside for years."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Agnes de Lods: "People. I love people. Every single person has a story. Sometimes strangers stop me in the street and start talking. I guess they want to be heard, and I love to listen.

Nature inspires me. And my dreams, too. Some of them come true, others do not. Still waiting for those lottery numbers to show up in a dream.

Books are also a huge source, just like music and art in all their forms. I am inspired by Karolina Halatek and Hania Rani, Marc Witmann, Umo Vide, Dror Elimelech, and Patricia Suarez (Colombian poet and painter), and many others."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Agnes de Lods: "Poetry is exceptional on every level. Metaphors express the unspeakable and have real power. They change the frequency of thought.

Poetry heals, invites contemplation, and opens doors to the many layers of human nature.

To me, poetry is sound, color, scent, even taste."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Agnes de Lods: "Sylvia Plath, Alejandra Pizarnik, Wisława Szymborska, Adam Zagajewski, Czesław Miłosz, Jorge Luis Borges, Pablo Neruda, Federico García Lorca, and many more.

I also read poems on Hello Poetry, and I am so glad to see many truly talented writers here. It means this world still has a chance."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Agnes de Lods: "I am fascinated by psychology and archetypes. I read Jung with deep interest.

I love sci-fi, deep conversations, walks in the forest, and learning new languages. But more than anything, I care about human connection and understanding.

I like to dance and play the piano, though I have not had much time for that lately. And I love connecting the dots."


Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you Agnes, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”

Agnes de Lods: "Thank you so much for letting me share my story. I am so glad to be part of this community of sensitive souls. I feel good here."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Agnes a little bit better. We certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #29 in July!

~

She bites the pomegranate—
not with hunger,
but with a soft kind of ache,
like remembering a song too late at night.

Juice ribbons down her wrist
in rivulets of rubies,
sanguine silk,
each seed a small beating heart
she swore she’d never swallow.

The orchard hums—
a low, bone-deep thrum of honey-thick dusk,
where shadows sleep in the eyes of foxes,
and the air tastes like cinnamon secrets.

There is gravity in sweetness,
a tug between teeth and truth.
She thinks: love is a fruit with a rind too thin to protect it
and eats anyway.

Inside her chest:
a garden blooming in reverse—
petals folding,
color bleeding into absence,
the sound of something unripening.

She is full now—
of myth, of molten memory,
of something holy and ruinous.
She smiles,
and the world forgets
what season it is.