Sister of a Stone

Rina Caparras. I write for a living.

[sisterofastone]

back on tumblr

bye, Twitter?

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what year were you born

1991

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Hi, everyone. I'm turning 31 next month.

It's been a long, long time since I wrote poetry.

I stopped in order to fulfill a lifelong dream to learn and speak Japanese.

I became fluent in the language recently, which is super cool.

Maybe I should get back to writing now that I've achieved this goal. We'll see. 😂

[sisterofastone]

You’ll always be too much for tepid hearts.

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Talking to you feels like coming home after decades of wandering in the wilderness

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"all art is quite useless."

By Rina Caparras

Sunlight blasts across the whitewashed room where a man and his son sit. The man holds Wilde in his hands, reads aloud: “all art is quite useless.” The heart monitor beeps in agreement. Daddy, says the boy on the bed. Drag these demons from me. He kisses the boy’s forehead and resumes reading, one hand carrying the book, the other holding the boy, as if the words would exorcise the illness. Yesterday it was Fitzgerald, tomorrow it will be Borges, as uncertain as tomorrow is. The doctor enters the room, checks the boy’s vital signs. It’s no different today than it was yesterday. Memories race in the father’s mind like the tears collecting in his eyes: nights of burning cigarettes, cold beer, dark rooms, and the poetry club’s speaker whispering words that awaken the monstrous grief sleeping inside every person’s chest. There are certain wounds that only words can inflict, the kind that reminds you that beyond your skin you are layers and layers of light encased in a mortal shell. (You know this. That’s why you are reading this. You’re looking for something that stings.) But as the father reads another paragraph, you know that the type of words he’s saying is only  the type that leaves one hollow, sick, wanting, like the little boy fighting for one more breath.

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Poetry in the time of a pandemic.

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You keep me in your back pocket like spare change you don't mind losing

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Get Lost In Libraries With Me

GET LOST IN LIBRARIES WITH ME. Walk with me in between bookshelves and tell me about books you recognize. Tell me about your favorite stories; talk to me about your favorite authors. Let's lose ourselves between pages and build a world with Tolkien's imagination, Rowling's characters, and Kundera's narrations. I'll be your Arwen, your Hermione, your Tereza--you can decide which. I can even be your Scheherazade, lulling you every night with my lovely tales. I'll be anything you need, just stay and explore this beautiful world of words with me.

Get lost in libraries with me. Let's leave our boring lives and spend each waking moment running our eyes through paragraphs and verses. Can't you see? We've got all we need: light, the printed word, and ourselves. Let's drown in Austen's pain, laugh at Wilde's wit, and marvel at Orwell's brilliance. Let's spend our years in this quiet, faraway world, where we can pretend we don't have responsibilities, obligations, needs.

Get lost in libraries with me. Pick up that dusty old novel, crack it open. Admire the old, yellowed pages. Close your eyes. Get lost in libraries with me, so we can have these books to distract ourselves from the fact that we're not meant to be.

[sisterofastone]

one day I'll just be some word that lingered at the tip of your tongue, something you can vaguely taste but can never relish

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Old Habits

By Rina Caparras

The way I type “good morning” on my phone

every day after waking up proves that you cling to me

like a phantom limb. My natural instinct is to keep

doing the things I did back when you were around:

I still prepare an extra breakfast before leaving, and

I still leave dinner at night. Like hair and nails

that continue to grow long after the body is dead,

my heart is unaware that it beats for something deceased.

You always told me that you’d have a pretty short life,

but I didn’t know that your own walls would be the one to kill you.

How was it like building all those defenses against me?

They say that many died while building the Great Wall of China,

due to the heavy work, time constraint, and tough conditions.

You were never built for hard labor.

You’d make a better watcher, ready to set the beacons

on fire whenever an intruder dares to enter.

Maybe if I go at night, I can pass by unseen,

but you’d have too many guards stationed at every post.

That’s the problem with people who have layers and layers

of walls—they’re afraid of letting anything in, even

harmless things. We have to learn from Troy’s mistakes,

after all. There’s no point in trying to force

my way inside. Instead I’ll stick to old habits;

tried and tested measures. I’ll leave the tapa for breakfast,

I’ll leave you sinigang for dinner. Maybe your nose

will trace the familiar scent and let you leave your fortress

for the feast. A hungry dog will always find a way

to return to its master. But then again,

I never mastered you.

[sisterofastone]

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Let me hold on to the words you taught me, long after I become a footnote in your story.

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I’ll come to you like a storm and leave like a whisper

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Midlife

by Rina Caparras

A ripe fruit has no excuse for tasting bitter.

Time hones and dulls, but also perfects–

those that remain flawed shame their essence,

like things that taste wrong,

even when given time to develop flavor.

I think of this every time I see a musician

exchanging sleep and sustenance to learn how to play

the correct arpeggios, to strum the right chords.

Perfection is unattainable, but the pursuit of it is mandatory.

My history professor once said,

“We study heroes, not to praise their abilities,

but to recognize their humanity,

and then realize our potential for greatness.”

I say to him, now that I am aged and weary:

We would not know the genius of Alexander,

Napoleon, or even Genghis Khan,

if we were all gifted.

Life’s challenge is accepting our dullness,

so the sharpest blades would shine.

So leave me be, at peace with all these flaws,

and this boring, ordinary life.

[sisterofastone]

This hits me a little weird now that I’m a lot older.

[sisterofastone]

So I haven’t written a poem in more than 5 years...

and I need your help! I want to read and get inspired by cool poets here and beyond. Any recommendations? For reference, my favorite poets are Richard Siken, Andrea Gibson, Sylvia Plath and Mary Oliver.

[sisterofastone]

My wish for all writers this year...

is for you to find an editor an agent who understand and believe in your work

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Hi! I just wanted to ask why did you start writing? I wanted to do a presentation about you for my English presentation, you are so inspirational!

Hi, anon. I know it’s been more than three years since you sent this question. Sorry I never got around to answering it. Things got in the way. 

But to say the least, I started writing to be understood. I have the meanest resting bitch face, plus a voice that makes me sound like I’m being sarcastic 24/7. And, I suppose it doesn’t help that I’m a cynic, which means that I always rain on people’s parades. For these reasons, people usually start disliking me before they get to know me.

When I’m writing, though, I can show a bit of vulnerability. I can show a bit of kindness. If I can share kindness to the world through writing, that makes the activity worthwhile, don’t you think?