Divine Titelbild

Divine

Divine

Von: MARCELLA BOCCIA
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 Divine is a collection of poems that transcends the ordinary, a sacred yet godless hymn to the suffering, the beauty, and the unbearable weight of existence. In this book, Marcella Boccia explores the divinity of the poet—not as an omnipotent creator, but as a being condemned to feel too deeply, to bear witness to the world's agony while carrying their own.Blending the visionary mysticism of Yeats with the raw, unflinching confessionalism of Sylvia Plath, Boccia crafts verses that burn and haunt. These poems traverse the ruins of Italy, from the blackened shores of Naples to the silent canals of Venice, from the marble sorrow of La Pietà to the echoes of war that stain the poet’s soul. With a voice both fragile and furious, she writes of a life suspended between the unbearable need to exist and the quiet seduction of oblivion.Here, poetry becomes prophecy, and suffering turns into a benediction. Divine is not just a collection of words—it is a requiem, a gospel of the godless, a testament to the poet as both martyr and oracle. It is a book for those who have lived on the edge of darkness and still dare to call themselves alive.2025 Kunst
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  • In the Name of No GodI (Marcella Boccia)

    In the Name of No GodI (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 28 2025
    In the Name of No GodI (Marcella Boccia)

    I was not baptized in holy water,
    but in the salt of my mother’s tears—
    she wept when I first screamed,
    as if she knew I was already lost.No angels whispered my name,
    no god carved my fate in gold.
    I was born in a land of relics,
    where saints rot beneath glass,
    their hands folded in silence.O Rome, O Vatican, O marble tomb,
    I have kissed the cracked lips of statues,
    searched for meaning in their hollow eyes,
    but they only stared back, unseeing.I have walked through cathedrals of war,
    where bones of the nameless
    lie tangled in fields of poppies,
    where prayers rise like smoke
    and vanish before they are heard.The dead have no need for gods,
    nor do I.
    I have seen the cruelty of heaven,
    the indifference of stars—
    they shine on the butcher’s knife
    as they shine on the newborn’s breath.If divinity is to feel it all,
    then I am divine and forsaken,
    a prophet without a gospel,
    a flame without an altar.I kneel only before the earth,
    before the blackened trees of autumn,
    before the silent suffering of lambs—
    for their blood is as sacred as mine,
    and I will not drink from the chalice of slaughter.No god will claim me,
    no heaven will hold me.
    I will walk into the darkness alone,
    and my name will burn
    on the lips of the wind.
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    2 Min.
  • Divine and Damned (Marcella Boccia)

    Divine and Damned (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 28 2025
    Divine and Damned (Marcella Boccia)

    I was sculpted from Carrara marble,
    veins of sorrow streaking the white,
    a statue left unfinished
    by the careless hands of fate.They crowned me with laurel and thorns,
    called me divine,
    but my tongue tastes of rust and requiems,
    my prayers are written in ash.O Florence, city of drowning saints,
    your frescoed heavens hold no god for me—
    only the gaze of hollow-eyed angels
    trapped in their golden frames.I have walked through Pompeii’s silence,
    where the dead whisper beneath my feet,
    where love was etched in volcanic stone
    and buried before it could burn.I have bled in the Colosseum of my mind,
    where gladiators still fight their ghosts,
    where my ribs are the arches of ruins,
    and my heart, a fallen empire.They say poets are half divine,
    but divinity is a wound—
    a gash where the world seeps in,
    a mouth that cannot close.I have seen too much,
    felt too deeply,
    stood at the altar of existence
    and cursed the gods who made me.O Rome, O Vatican, O gilded lies,
    no cross could bear my weight,
    no heaven would have me—
    I am both sacred and forsaken,
    divine and damned.
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    2 Min.
  • The Burden of a Poet (Marcella Boccia)

    The Burden of a Poet (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 28 2025
    The Burden of a Poet (Marcella Boccia)

    I was born beneath a sun too golden,
    where the air smells of prayers and bread,
    where saints weep in cracked cathedrals
    and marble crumbles like ancient regret.They told me poets were divine,
    that words could carve altars in the air,
    but I have only gathered ruins—
    syllables like broken relics
    scattered in the dust of my mind.O Rome, O Florence, O Venice drowned,
    your ghosts echo through my veins,
    your statues wear my silent sorrow,
    your rivers know the weight of names.I walk the Colosseum of my thoughts,
    where gladiators of grief still fight,
    where my heart, an unchained lion,
    roars against the silence of God.My hands—two bleeding Madonnas—
    write elegies for the unborn dead,
    for the child I never was,
    for the mother I’ll never be.At night, I lie beneath Caravaggio’s sky,
    a chiaroscuro of prayer and plague,
    and dream of an Etruscan burial,
    where poetry is the only god left.To be a poet is to be divine,
    to burn like a votive candle
    and call it light—
    to carve one’s name into eternity,
    knowing eternity will never care.
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    2 Min.
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