"toska" poems
In Welsh
The word "Hiraeth" means
A homesickness for a home
To which you cannot return.
A home which maybe never was.
The nostalgia,
The yearning,
The grief for the lost places of your past.
In Russian
The word "Toska" means
A dull ache of the soul.
A longing with nothing to long for.
A sick pining.
A vague restlessness.
In Yaghan
The word "Mamihlapinatapai" means
A look shared by two people,
Each wishing that the other will
Offer something that they both desire
But are unwilling to suggest or offer themselves.
You say that you love my words
And wonder why I have such a passion for them.
It's simple, really.
I'm merely trying to put a name
To everything you inspire me to feel.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
you are the toska breeding in me like vicious flowers
cannas perhaps lotus or bleeding hearts
haunting the excruciating longing in my sinking chest
a calming and white haunting
I hear a thud in the middle of my body and it seems
that my heart levels itself in between my dimmed ribs
so that it may nervously burst in my core
to let that beautiful yellow childlike sun into my body
what am I without you, a weltering raindrop
on top of a dark wooden roof
falling into the rustic mud while nobody is watching
being absorbed into the earth while nobody
cares
when I spoke my voice was hallow
and now you fill my speech and the streaks of tunes from my neck
like a starving man who by the grace of God has been blessed
with the feast of kings and queens
the phantom artist of something like a never ending dream
the gentle spirit
the serene incubus
you
daydreamer of withering beauty
heartless and genuine
I rest my smile upon your spine
I suffocate into your talent
of a deep and barren like litost
your calm ocean
as mine
filled with creatures only our imaginations
can begin to decipher
a tender arena of hearts and fowl play
you have taught me more about myself
I am bathing in beauty
drowning in a glorifying deep silk
I would bring my last weeping words in a coffin
with dark and rich embroidery resembling
that of your driven eyes
for a simple brush of your hand
upon my cheek
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 2:39 PM UTC
you are the toska breeding in me like vicious flowers
cannas perhaps lotus or bleeding hearts
haunting the excruciating longing in my sinking chest
a calming and white haunting
I hear a thud in the middle of my body and it seems
that my heart levels itself in between my dimmed ribs
so that it may nervously burst in my core
to let that beautiful yellow childlike sun into my body
what am I without you, a weltering raindrop
on top of a dark wooden roof
falling into the rustic mud while nobody is watching
being absorbed into the earth while nobody
cares
when I spoke my voice was hallow
and now you fill my speech and the streaks of tunes from my neck
like a starving man who by the grace of God has been blessed
with the feast of kings and queens
the phantom artist of something like a never ending dream
the gentle spirit
the serene incubus
you
daydreamer of withering beauty
heartless and genuine
I rest my smile upon your spine
I suffocate into your talent
of a deep and barren like litost
your calm ocean
as mine
filled with creatures only our imaginations
can begin to decipher
a tender arena of hearts and fowl play
you have taught me more about myself
I am bathing in beauty
drowning in a glorifying deep silk
I would bring my last weeping words in a coffin
with dark and rich embroidery resembling
that of your driven eyes
for a simple brush of your hand
upon my cheek
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
Toska reigns.
The chariot is losing control, string by string.
Put my hands in the air and allow my shadow
to take me for a ride.
The horse gallops in destructively attentive strides.
Gone with the wind and I bear my name.
Pain kills my ego once again.
Death is not the same as the living dead.
The phenomenon of the world is a continuously paranormal event.
There are so many ways to die, veiled under unconscious eyes.
Freud understands me, he knows the beast needs to eat.
But I don't have the ability to choose on what the other side
decides to feast.
Polarity is grabbing my arms in opposite directions,
my skin and bones are wearing out.
If I don't burn, I'll drown.
If I don't climb up, I will keep falling down.
Love is a circle and pleasure is a tide.
The Hermit comes out with his lantern,
illuminating everything I have so cunningly
tried to hide.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Written in the stars
a message just for me.
You always ask me why
I'm stuck staring at the sky.
They're blinking up there to tell me the Truth:
immortality exists for the masses,
a beautiful tragedy for the individual me.
When one ant dies,
you still groan over the colonies' persistence,
even while they process
that pour soul to his grave.
When one stars goes out,
you still gasp at the sky on a clear night,
saying there couldn't possibly be anymore out there.
Well I may die my own woman,
and I may make my mark on this world,
but someone will be looking down on us
when my colors fly,
remarking on the endurance of the human race.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
It took her Seven Years to complete
That Precious piece of Writing she called 'Toska'.
It saw her through 57 writer’s blocks,
108 Reader’s Blocks,
Odd 6000 Cigarettes,
Odd 7000 Joints,
50 Acid Blots,
1 Kg *******
3 break-ups,
34 One-night Stands,
114 new Friendships,
3 Suicidal Attempts,
9 New Houses in 7 New States.
All it took
To be
Wiped
Scraped
Drained off Earth
And its history was
her neighbhour- Li’l Margaret to tear it in just a three hour span,
When she was away at a Restaurant Fixing a Deal with her first Publisher.
The Willpower Failure was too Strong.
The belief in the reality called life,
took a wink’s duration,
To make it her full and final success.
Her 4th Suicidal Attempt was a huge success.
She died unknown,
Just like the death of another starving Orphan in the Indian Slums.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
and although i've never met you, i miss you..
i got lost in you, the kind of lost that's exactly like being found.
i want to explore you, objet trouvet.
i get toska thinking about you & your lover..
that should be me darling, you are well deserving of me.
well deserving of a lover that will love you until culmination.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
today, I have a biting case of gray-
a need, for what I don't know.
like there are pine needles, under my skin, digging their way in,
splinters through my rib cage, tickling the strings that attach me to my heart.
I have been checking my pockets for days now, found only worry stones,
shined and polished by my thumb.
For days now, I have had dusty fingerprints, for days now, I have felt this way.
for days I have carried warm cloth, the unborn child of my spirit,
fresh from the machines.
Buried my face in them- in order to find solace,
for days now, I have slept in.
Sometimes gray is soft and daze inducing-
somedays it is a scratchy wool afghan stretched thin across my body,
leaving channel marks and rashes-
it is an unforgettable, unexplainable feeling,
the feeling of gray.
One day in march I took a walk down the greenway
and my movements became clear to me-
cigarette flicks and head shakes had purpose.
Since then- Gray is overwhelming.
It was a cloudy day when I took them- it has remained that way since.
For days now, I have let my worries gather on my thumbs and fingers-
for days now, I have swallowed the stones.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
toska (n.)-
a dull ache of the soul,
a longing with nothing
to long for
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
He painted his face each morning
In the most eccentric colors.
To make her forget the dullness
Of the world around her.
-Toska
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 3:35 PM UTC
I feel like a slug
sometimes I feel like it might be easier just to be one
Faced plainly with my own mental lacunae
I feel the vice grips of creative sterility
Only exacerbated in my willingness to idleness
I am struck by two Slavic language words
Toska and litost
Both have a meaning akin to boredom and existential depression wrapped in one
It is a curse really
To be constantly bombarded with thoughts of my own inadequacies
And having no will to do anything to change them
Maybe that is why I have always been drawn to those long dead souls
Who barely clung to sanity in life and plunged forward like grand ice breakers through the social convictions of modern life
Those desperados of intellect who did simply as will
It is only in the presence of this kind of supreme will that I have found any comfort
And I fear that it is only in the juxtaposition of this and my own disposition
That I have ever lived at all
I mean really is any body picking up what I’m putting down?
This kind of Petulant absurdity is where I thrive
I fear again the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Which in this sense is nothing more than rejection and the knowledge that I really am nothing special
For self-conscious references to Shakespearean texts that lie still unread on my bookshelf cannot bar my consciousness from the near constant obsession
Of simply getting so far out there in the water that nobody can even see me anymore
And I can no longer see the shore
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
the sound of my own breathing gives me comfort
tells me i’m still alive
even though i can’t feel it
empty, hollow
full of air, of tears, of ice
of something missing
all the heat leaves me
through my eyes
shivering in the negative space
falling
into the dark
behind everything and everyone
forgetting to keep my head up
i let myself slip
just like everyone else
forgetting to remind myself i’m worth something
i’ve seen the truth
i’m nothing, in everything
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
I saw two grown men cry this week.
heaving their bodies, weighted with wails
my father with guilt burrowed in his gut
live streams his tears asking anyone for
answers to fix his sick son
my lover wishing to be shattered into dust,
logging each passing thought in emails
parceled with regret
I carry them;
I bundle and swaddle and embrace
I light three matches for each of us,
the flame kissing my index finger
we are one
in the ember I hear
we have taken only one family vacation
I wanted to cut off my finger and send it to you
you promised to protect me
my father is martyred
my love is sleepless
these are my men
and although this week I have had
black thread weaved underneath my skin
and I have carved out my name in my stomach
with worry
and I have been swallowed whole by the memory of
my favourite small town in Long Island
he is black
he is in a drought
he is marred too
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
“I spent the rest of the day smoking joints and listening to music. There was very little else that I had going for me. I was left hungry for something I could not put my finger on so I wondered the streets until dawn. With my head down I tried to feel confident but could only manage to fake it. A cloud of thought grew out around me, only broken by the introduction of some new stimuli as I walked. And very little stuck with me on my journey unto dawn. “
I read that in a book. I think it’s Joyce.
But that would be convenient wouldn’t it?
“Tell me, do you have a better idea?”
I wonder, is there one
Or are we all just products?
such a tired cliché…
I’m the miser’s purse
Dionysus
Something Something, we don’t care,
You and I,
Where this goes.
Do we?
Have a drink on Bukowski though
Despite my lack of common tact
I do have dreams you know.
And where were you when Burt and Ernie told us our Sponsors
And Images with discreet meanings rested in our hearts?
We Don’t need to read ******
“If you won’t stop screaming I’m gonna have to call security.” She said to him. His glare ****** her way. “Secure this,” He said. He ****** his hand into his coat producing from it a photograph of dollar. He handed it to her asking “can you break this?” She looked at him in fear and confusion “Sir this isn’t legal tender.”
“well I say it is” he said. But that was it, as security immediately burst into the room and the scene devolved into panic and screams.
<div text="He perceived an abrupt break in the energy, an ebb, stagnation. Everyone appeared to know where everything should go from here, But pretty soon he saw realized they were all talking out their ***** and he turned to leave."></div>
When we’ve reached that beautiful peak I want you to throw the radio in the tub.
element.style {
mood: toska;
languge: english;
background-position: -40.7127 -74.0059;
why-am-i-doing-this: IDK;
}
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
I feel
less volatile
less awake.
I've been biting my lip
livid.
Wearing my own blood as lipstick,
tears as mascara.
Whilst solidarity whispers dark words into my ears.
Meanwhile,
the crowds
they tell tales
of how pretty
I look.
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 9:03 AM UTC
And I think that I would be in bliss with a gun to my head and your finger on the trigger, because at least you would be here.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
I don't deserve you
the love you give me,
unconditionally.
You set me free
without chains or shackles.
I feel all of your love.
Your soul is too good for me,
but is mine good enough for you?
You say you love me
no matter what I do,
but is that actually true?
If you knew
all I've done
& who I've hurt
would you still love me?
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC