I’ve posted a new poem on my Ko-fi page — one of the pieces that stayed with me after submission season.
These poems may not have found their journal home, but they still belong somewhere: in the small literary room I am building, slowly, carefully, and with feeling.
You can read the poem here:
If the work speaks to you, support through Ko-fi is always deeply appreciated. It helps me continue building this quiet salon of poems, fragments, reviews, and literary notes.
Ariadne, Dido, and Clytie—
ancestors of the tribe called Beautiful Losers.
Their loves were alone, half-met,
steeped in the clandestine ache of disappointment.
Spring meets Summer.
Summer elopes with Fall.
Fall yearns for Winter.
Winter chases after Spring.
The cycle of lovers’ tales.
Some loves are born to be forever chasing.
Even beauty cannot possess the souls of the beloved.
Votives of curse are lit for Hecate.
Still, Ariadne found herself
in Dionysus’ arms—god of wine and pleasure.
Dido let Aeneas touch her aching love in a cave.
Clytie burned for Helios,
who left her for a mortal princess.
But I am chasing the shadow of his past,
the ghost of a lover no longer himself—
his eyes, the blue sky—so beautiful, so sorrowful
they puncture my heart with helpless longing.
I write his name on papyrus,
seal it with the candle’s tears,
and burn it in the quiet flame,
calling his name within.
The doors of time close.
Candlelight flickers in the wind of the hour.
Wistful images of his face—young, old—
even those I would forget, I cannot forsake.
For eleven years you have read me here. I am still here. But I am also writing on Medium now — longer essays, book reviews, and the kind of prose that arrives at midnight and demands to be written. Come find me: medium.com/@etoile1291
Painting: Claude Monet, 1875. Public domain via National Gallery of Art.
I keep it to myself, and myself—like a girl with no lips.
And so, no one sees me. I’m forgotten, forsaken.
Still, I am flesh and bone—the quiet soul, the raging spirit.
Recognition is not my thing, or so I try to beguile.
But the crying heart longs for it, like a flower needs water.
The calm sea always hides the surge of roaring waves.
I wanted to be someone’s one—even if he knows me not.
I wanted to be a lover’s lover—even if he is someone’s one.
When I shared what I felt, with streams of salt-sad fire,
it was too much for them. They turned away.
So I stopped confessing it altogether, evermore.
I wish for nothing now—not tomorrow, not ever.
With no expectations, I let the days pass—and fade away.
They say pets reflect the personalities of those who care for them. The way they respond to others and express their feelings seems to mirror how they’re treated at home—or perhaps how their owners reveal the rawness of human emotion, unfiltered and instinctive.
My two cats, Toro and Camille, mirror my ego and superego, respectively. Toro is a sensitive soul, easily shaken by the outside world and never shy about his emotions, almost like a little human. Camille, in contrast, is calm and observant. He watches me in silence, as though he sees through to the very center of me. At times, I think of Toro as the General Cat from Cat’s Eye, and Camille as Jiji from Kiki’s Delivery Service.
Sometimes, I wonder if they are the little brother and sister who were never born—that they somehow returned in fur and paws to be near me… and, strangely, near my mother, who once chose not to bring them into the world.
Whenever they curl beside me, their small hearts pulsing gently against mine, I feel the wonder of life swell within me—a quiet awe at its vividness, like a tide of feeling stirred with reverence for the mystery of creation, and the One who makes all things beautiful.
Rudyard Kipling once said that a cat walks by himself. But perhaps he never met mine.
Whatever happens, they are my familiars—silent witnesses and gentle companions, walking beside me through this strange and lovely journey of life.
I never stood beside him.
Nor did my eyes ever meet his.
But when I heard he was gone—
forever, yesterday—
a strange sadness fell upon me,
like dusk after the sun has set.
One soul less in the world,
and silence filled the void.
We will never see him again.
His voice and face are lost to us,
like an old photograph of the beloved
set quietly aflame.
Flame, Glass and Ink are Poems, essays, and reading notes by Stefania Joori Suh 
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