“Heart thoughts are profound, hindsight aches and hope is obscure.
I’m craving a great adventure — one that leads me back home.”
—Donna Lynn Hope
Homesickness
Harried bumps in the road
Oafish swish-swash on tracks
Merrily the swipe of Bavaria
Eagerness to wolf down baked goods
Stranger dangers seem far away
Illicit pranks of broken down water closets
Chiming of bells, bells, bells
Killing time by rubbing off soap from hands
Numb-founded at pratfall
Eager to move from place to place
Soon…soon…be still and let God move
Seas separate kin like whites and yolks
I experience homesickness
When I am away,
It hurts when I
Have to go
But I know that
Home will never leave
And I will always
Be able to return
With open arms
I feel terrible,
After being apart
For a long while
And I just want
To run to home again
And never have
To leave anymore
I want to stay
And be at home,
Comfortable and nice
In perfect leisure
But life pulls me
Out to do things
That I would rather not,
I’d rather never leave
You, my home, my beloved,
My person I love so
You are my home
That I never want to leave
So will you stay with me
So I never feel
Homesick evermore?
Written on March 30, 2021
Homesickness has me
Ogling old photographs,
Missing all that reminds me of home.
Echoes of a time long ago
Still, rings silently in my heart, and
I long to return to my roots and
Come home to my family:
Kick back and reclaim my youth.
Nowhere else feels like home:
Everything in the city is,
Self-serving, corrupted, or
Sexually orientated; God, I miss home!
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Full of speechless sorrow,
My heart fluttered with a vague terror,
And pounded in my throat,
My hurrying thoughts clamored for utterance and fell.
I ran far away,
Trying to escape the torture of failed dreams and aspirations,
Faster, I huddled through the narrow road with blistered foot.
Forgetting many secrets you can never know,
My soul was wrung with a sudden wild homesickness,
I'm drying and dying from deep inside,
In a strain of exaggerated and illusionary gallantry.
Suddenly, in the mild and mellow maturity of age,
I found a place to hide,
In an evening of great silences and spaces, wholly tranquil,
To sit, watch, cry and say goodbye to a hell I once called homeland.
Homesickness
is truly an awful feeling
It’s an emptiness
that needs to be filled
It’s a sadness
felt deep within one’s soul
It’s a loneliness
incomparable to any other
It’s a yearning
for the yesteryears of one’s life
It’s a longing
to be near missed loved ones
It’s an emotion
we all experience from time to time
Homesickness
is like being lost within yourself
The pull is universal.
During Christmas season,
Everyone thinks towards home.
No matter the religion or philosophy,
The homesickness of Christmas is real.
Even forces of nature succumb to that pull.
Lesser duration of sunshine on Christmas,
Even more or less intense
As it seeks the way
Home among the stars.
The moon comes closer home
To earth, rending full light for gift.
Water vapours come down
Again to their earthly abode
In the form of mist.
All of creation seeking the way home to be reborn.
They learn from the Holy couple,
Seeking homeland so as to give birth to Him.
With that and more I still maintain;
That I shall be home for Christmas.
Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner
"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova
He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.
Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.
Compared with your arm.
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