Madrid in poems

A month ago I travelled to Spain for a few days to visit family. I often feel the need to travel during winter and Madrid is beautiful in the winter. I wrote some poems while I was there.


It is like stepping into a different world ūüĆé
where people say it’s cold when it’s 16¬įC
and shops are open at 21:30
Teenagers are out and about
loud and happy and young
very late into the evening
There are mariachi in the square
And small shops
around the corner from
my mum’s house
where people still know me
Being here is at once
an escape
and a homecoming
I belong in the warmth
of the February sun
but I also belong


El concierto

A red-haired woman and
a bearded man kiss passionately
Among strangers
*Probando sonido*
I sip my gin and tonic
whilst some tall people pose for selfies
with a giant glass of beer
There will be music in a minute
and I will dance with my latin hips
like nobody is watching
but like everyone is watching
at the same time
Because that is how I dance anyway



The King

You linger
in my thoughts
and in my habits.
I don’t know you anymore.

I don’t know that
the rain is sent from you
or that there is a hint
of your voice in thunder.

You are an idea
or worse…
someone that once lived
in my heart
and my writing
and my soul.

The rain just comes and goes
without reason
or sender.

Thunder booms
without majestic words.

No job title to my name.

these days
life moves in cycles
of positivity– wonder,
a certain hope
(jealousy, sometimes)
something close
to desperation
and unassuming happiness

I write answers
to testing questions
wonder if it’s all for nothing
study my keyboard
listen to lectures
consider all the possibilities
arrive at meaningless conclusions
quietly dance with the darkness I used to know
only to come back because there’s nothing there.
How many others have felt like this?

I question the value
of my existence
without a job title
to my name.


I stay home
whilst nature takes revenge outside
With the world
pouring out from my screen

Would it be better
to go out into the storm?

Would my mind find refuge
from the stream
of images
of war?

Is it worth knowing
what happens,
if only for those
stories of hope?

A dream.

A dream
into your imagination
a soft plunge
in the liquid substance
that will sustain it

It begins to unravel
with quick, sharp movements
in all directions —
speedy arrows
travel across
in milliseconds

Then with softer
elegant twirls
it dances
to the music
of the Sleeping Beauty soundtrack.


I remember a love of epic dimensions
rich, powerful, abundant love
that could carry my heart to the heights
of the tallest mountain
and plunge me into the depths
of a dark,
empty tomb.

Human love of epic proportions
epic flaws
indescribable tenderness
deep wounds
tainted beauty.

Your heart in knots
your soul aching
for another love.

Continue reading “Knots.”

Saturday morning.

on a Saturday morning
she would get up early
and tiptoe to the kitchen.

she’d learned to be quiet,
in the kitchen
she’d learned to disappear
into the silence.

there, every Saturday morning,
she would enjoy a
few hours of coffee scented

she’d learned to be quiet
in the kitchen;
zachtjes lopen,
koffie maken,

keeping her mysteries
a secret.

Saturday morning.
by Yessica Daedalus, 2013