TAKEAWAY COFFEE Titelbild

TAKEAWAY COFFEE

TAKEAWAY COFFEE

Von: MARCELLA BOCCIA
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 In Takeaway Coffee, Marcella Boccia presents a haunting and deeply introspective collection of poems that explore the complexities of existence, love, loss, and identity. Set against the backdrop of Ireland, these poems draw from the melancholic beauty of the Irish landscape and the inner turmoil of a mind searching for meaning in an ever-changing world.Boccia’s work is both lyrical and raw, blending sharp observations of the external world with poignant reflections on the internal struggles that shape our lives. Through vivid imagery and emotionally charged language, she invites readers to witness the fragility of the human experience — the delicate moments of connection, the ache of heartbreak, and the overwhelming sense of solitude that often accompanies our journey through life.Takeaway Coffee is not just a collection of poems; it is an exploration of the delicate balance between the fleeting nature of time and the profound impact that even the smallest moments can leave on our hearts. From the rainy streets of Dublin to the quiet solitude of a coffee cup, each poem invites readers to pause and reflect on their own existence, to find beauty in the mundane, and to confront the darkness within.In this poignant and evocative work, Marcella Boccia crafts a narrative that speaks to the universal human condition — a testament to the enduring power of poetry to illuminate the depths of the soul. Takeaway Coffee is a book for those who seek to understand the complexity of their own emotions and the quiet, often overlooked moments that make life both fragile and extraordinary.2025 Kunst
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  • The Irish goodbye (Marcella Boccia)

    The Irish goodbye (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 25 2025
    The Irish goodbye (Marcella Boccia)

    There’s a kind of quiet that lingers here—not the soft whisper of an evening breeze,but the kind that sits heavy,like a glass half-full,as if time itself has been pausedand nothing, not even the air,dares to break the stillness.It’s a silence that slips into cornersof dim-lit pubs and crowded rooms,where laughter once bounced like raindropsoff cobblestones,where the clink of glasses has softenedinto a hum,and the murmur of voices becomes a songthat no one knows the words to.The Irish goodbye isn’t loud.No farewells are spoken,no promises made to return.One moment,there is a face, a smile,and the next—a seat left empty,a coat draped over the back of a chairlike an afterthought.It is in the quiet departurethat we are most ourselves,no need for goodbyes,no rehearsed words,just the soft, deliberate stepof someone who knowsthat sometimes the leavingis the hardest part of love.And so we slip awaylike shadows,unnoticed,as though we had never been.But even in the silence,there is a memory that lingers—a warmth left behindin the curve of a smile,in the echo of a laughthat will never truly fade,even when the door shutsand the world moves onwithout us.In the Irish goodbye,there is more love than in a thousand farewells,more truth in the absencethan in any promise to return.It is a love unspoken,a goodbye without words,and in that,perhaps,we find the most sacred part of us.The Irish goodbyeisn't an end.It is simply the quiet knowingthat in the leaving,we are never truly gone.
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    3 Min.
  • Shadows in the national library (Marcella Boccia)

    Shadows in the national library (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 25 2025
    Shadows in the national library (Marcella Boccia)

    In the hush of dust and parchment,where silence hangs like a forgotten hymn,I walk through the labyrinth of books,a ghost, a wanderer,swallowed by words older than my years.The shelves curve like the spine of a prayer,and shadows dance in the dim corners—long fingers stretching,reaching for the pastas if it could be touched,pulled down from the heavens of ink and paper,where every story lingerslike a secret kept too long.Here, in the National Library,the air smells of must and memory,of lives lived in margins,of minds who once gazed at these pagesand found themselves reflectedin the flicker of a candle's light.Now, it is my turn—to trace their ghosts with fingertips that tremble,to read their thoughts between the linesthat the world forgot.I pass a row of books on Irish myth,and the shadows of the ancient gods stir—not in the books,but in the quiet corners where no one dares to look.In the flicker of a page turned too fast,I glimpse the faces of thosewho whispered the old songs,who breathed life into the legends that now sleepin these forgotten pages.The shadows watch me as I read,silent witnesses to a life half-lived,to a past half-forgotten,to the weight of knowledgethat presses down on my chestlike a book I cannot close.Here, the past speaks louderthan the present—a language older than time,older than the city that breathes outside these walls.I close a book,and the shadows shift once more,disappearing into the air,into the folds of my memory.And though the silence remains,it is no longer empty—it hums with the voices of the forgotten,with the weight of stories that never end,and with the knowledgethat some shadows are meant to stay,in the corners of the National Library,where time bends and breaks,and where the past waits patientlyfor someone to listen.
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    3 Min.
  • The Christmas tattoo (Marcella Boccia)

    The Christmas tattoo (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 25 2025
    The Christmas tattoo (Marcella Boccia)

    In Dublin's fog, where the air smells of rain and history,I sit in a chair, my hand outstretched,waiting for the needle to pierce the skinlike a promise made in the dark.A Brazilian artist, hands steady with the weight of ink and time,leans over my palm,his fingers tracing the outline of an echo—an arpa negra, black harp,its strings pulled taut with the music of my heart,played on the notes of a Christmas that has never been mine.He hums in the silence,the hum of distant shores,the sound of a life lived elsewhere.The ink begins to bloom like winter roses,curling, curling,until the harp rests there,quietly, on the back of my hand—a reminder,a symbol,something ancientin a place that feels too new.It is Christmas—but the cold winds of winter are not the ones that carve this into me.It is the warmth of summers spent in foreign cities,the warmth of a life that has always felt out of reach,and the distance of those who never stayed long enoughto teach me how to love myselfwithout apology.The tattoo is an arpa negra,an island in the sea of skin,a song I will never hear but can always feel.It is the echo of my longing,my refusal to belong,to be one thing,to be anythingbut this—a pulse of a place that never existed in me.I watch it as it settles into my skin,its lines sharp and bold,a rebellion against the fragile breath of the year.It is Christmas, yes—but I have something that no gift could ever give me:an arpa negra on my hand,the black strings of a songI was born to play,but never learned to sing.And as the ink settles into my veins,as I leave the tattoo shop behind,I am both complete and empty—marked in ways no one can seebut the hand that holds it all togetherin a world that would rather I forget.
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    3 Min.
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