Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Category: Poetry

Poetry is one of my passions. In my blog, I will publish poems which I wrote. Hence I opened a separate category for poetry.  

During the years, I’ve read Italian, English, American, and French poems because, during my childhood, I learned those three languages. Only recently, I started writing poetry which I never wanted to publish. I believe that it is very personal to publish them. 

Although I’m a physicist, I started to read poetry during high school, mainly in Italian and English. Only home I was reading French books. Indeed, the French language and literature were not in my school program.

Writing poetry is one of the most intimate ways to express feelings and moods. Time to time, I will publish poems. 

  • Untitled Hearts

    Untitled Hearts

    Untitled hearts in dark and empty corridors in which echo indifference and the squalor of a disconnected life of fake feelings of idolised hypocrisies and fame earned by serving masters with monumental bank accounts.

    Untitled hearts in search of fake loves and vain glories without a true purpose without a glimmer of honesty and authenticity. When authenticity is falsified and served under false appearances, without any honesty, without any decency, like a plasticised body full of silicone and fillers.

    And so what is served to my eyes, on social media and in this society,
    are falsifications and delusional images of what is claimed to be — but is not.

    Fake loves are shouted obsessively on the web, with the famous phrases “I love you,” “I love you humanity,” or “I love you all,” with emoji hearts and exaggerated emotion behind.

    And here is the theatre, the show of shouted feelings,
    as if they were prices of products to be bought at the market,
    without any depth or foundation,
    without any decency,
    or the intention behind what is being said.

    Uttered lies echo in the emptiness of the web and they are served on a silver platter as a source of wisdom and knowledge. Deception is dearly sold at high prices as the only source of knowledge and information when it’s only falsity.

    Black suits usually marry breast implants and injected faces, making a living selling false values as worthwhile truths.

    And in the deepest nights, the echoes of my nightmares summon mortals dressed in filtered dreams and gilded delusions. Their tongues are laced with deceptive slogans, while their blind eyes strive to find company and love in plastic and squalor.

    I keep walking through the bleeding honesty and truth in a dying world of wicked and cynical mortals. And although my skin doesn’t include silicon or fillers, I carry my imperfections and weirdness in my own odd way. Forever.
    Lisa

  • A Lobotomised Society

    A Lobotomised Society

    A lobotomised society is manifested in its full potential.

    I want to write something about this reconstructed and standardised society.
    I’m quite obsessed with denouncing plastic surgery that doesn’t have a therapeutic purpose — all these injections, all these applications, deforming treatments, just to have precise dimensions of lips, cheekbones, chin, and breasts.

    It is a form of uniformisation of society, especially female society, to make people — and mostly women — homologated, equal, without peculiar characteristics, which in the end shapes and flattens even the personalities, making them homogeneous and not distinct, and not individual.

    I fixate on this because if individualism is missing in our society, criticism is missing. Also, that freedom of individual expression is missing, the freedom to be peculiar, to be imperfect, to be people with physical defects and peculiarities that give a push to make society varied, to make people think and even criticise what is happening — meaning that the masses are bent and moved by a few people who take the trouble to govern and decide for the multitude, even in very dangerous areas such as war, such as conflict, or governmental decisions that heavily impact daily life.

    So this is my protest, it is my poem of going against the current, almost embracing anarchy, but not in the traditional and dangerous and violent way, but in the way of opposing this hegemony, the dominance of the uniformisation of faces, of bodies and also of minds.

    A lobotomised society, women’s faces with barcodes, lips swollen to a perfect 40-60 proportion, cheekbones lifted at a 45° surgical angle, chins sculpted and enhanced like statues — deformed, breasts shaped like cantaloupes or products on a haberdashery counter.

    Injections, fillers — guillotines of diversity and individualism.
    Severing the peculiar nature of the body and the person is now essential to today’s society.
    Where once imperfection used to bloom, where the peculiar story of a face and a body used to live,
    now everything has been replaced by flattened mannequins, simulacra of fake beauty and hypocrisy,
    built and planned at the table to serve a single standard, a model that annihilates voice, thought and will,
    turning these women and these people into so-called “quiet” beings — and therefore harmless in any possible revolution of thought.

    The ancient triumph of nonconformism-revolution has been supplanted by the triumph and hegemony of digital conformism.
    Faces are cloned, personalities are flattened, individuals are amputated from their individual soul and their ability to rebel against this media monster.
    This is an invisible war, a slow, painful amputation of individual freedom, masked as false care and improvement of physical appearance.
    And I scream against this aesthetic prison, I break the complicit silence, and I want the value of imperfection, of scars and of defects to be rediscovered — those things that make individuals unique and alive.

    Faces and bodies modified, retouched, with a barcode that can trace them, branded with fire or laser onto these manipulated skins.
    These are no longer individuals, but beings mass-produced, catalogued and sold in a shop of standardised beauty.
    And that barcode is nothing but a signature of uniformity, as if it were the stamp of a society that no longer wants particular faces, but identical masks.
    It is no longer a skin that tells stories of life, of dramas and suffering, of joy and euphoria, but a cold label of conformity and lack of expression that cancels every difference of thought and soul.

    A lobotomised society, made of touch-ups, cuts, injections and reloads — all planned, all as part of a regular, endless cycle, until that plastic, that silicone, that filler will be replaced again or accumulated in those mask-like bodies that will end up addicted to the very same substances they pay dearly for every year.
    Lisa

  • A Critique Of Aesthetic And Social Conformity

    A Critique Of Aesthetic And Social Conformity

    I want to write, I want to write.
    This is my polemic against the homogenization of society.

    This aesthetic conformity goes beyond skin deep — it spills over into the social, cultural, and intellectual realms. It threatens individuality, our freedom to see ourselves as autonomous, independent beings — detached from others’ thoughts.

    It threatens our ability to oppose the current, to resist the hegemony that wants us all to be the same: the same face, the same body, even the same mind.

    From external appearance to inner thought, this wave of sameness erases difference and silences dissent.

    I refuse to conform, to become one of the many plastic dolls with the typical face shape — swollen cheeks, overfilled lips, a raised chin, and smoothed-out wrinkles as if the face were stretched taut by invisible hooks, pulled tight like a canvas stretched forcefully over a skeleton. From that skeleton protrude hollow plastic orbs, like small spheres suspended in an unnatural stillness.

    I refuse to belong to this legion of mortals whose image assaults my eyes. In this bleak, vulgar, and culturally impoverished landscape, the decadent reflection of a society destined for extinction is starkly revealed through unaesthetic, amoral, and sordid standards.

    In the solitude of my senses, I donned the cloak of invisibility and ostracism, feeling as if I no longer belonged to that uncivil civilisation, rife with degradation and debased values. Deprived of all beauty, grandeur, and wisdom.

    The stench of plastic and silicone pervades this world, carried along by rivers of fillers and Botox. It feels as though a calamity has rained down upon this boundless and disheartening culture of aesthetic bleakness.

    This dictatorship of conformity and so-called perfection has moulded the minds of all those who lack a true individual spirit — those who choose to conceal their real identity, killing their soul and destroying the freedom to be unique, unaligned, and truly themselves.

    Those plastic-coated hearts scream and beg to be accepted, to be liked by those who lay their eyes upon such soulless, synthetic creatures.

    Synthetic hearts, flat minds — the decay of a society doomed to perish and disappear, its traces to be swept away like ordinary dust.
    Lisa

  • The Abyss Of Nothingness

    The Abyss Of Nothingness

    The abyss of nothingness swallowed all my fractured desires
    The fear that gripped my heart and that sense of calm, of stability that took hold of my life made me a helpless and insignificant creature, invisible to mortals, yet at the same time the target of their cruelties.

    How much I wished to be different, to be accepted, and to be treated with great respect for who I truly was. But in truth, my entire life was a series of piercing endurance of inhuman suffering, humiliations, cruelties against me, deceit, mockery, traps, attempts to undermine my being, violence, and all the most barbaric and terrifying acts against my soul and myself.

    My life had not been a normal existence—one that no one could have understood. My experience was not a common one. I had lived through a time when my dream had encapsulated me in an ideal, evanescent, and ethereal reality. No one could see me, especially during that period of apparent death. Yes, because for ten long years I had not lived—I had fallen into a deep and fatal dream, isolated from everything and everyone. I had built my own kingdom of dreams and illusions, into which, day by day, I entrusted my very self.

    All the hourglasses in my dwelling had come to a halt, and the flow of time had lost all meaning. The disconnection from the truth that surrounded me had become both a tendency and a habit—one that turned into law. Indeed, I had become like a crystal frozen in time, like a statue untouched by its passing. I carried within me that immaterial sense of my heart, trapped in a confining aura.

    I no longer cared what society thought, nor what people might perceive of me. And so it remains. For my rarity and my strangeness are imperceptible to any human heart. I was accused of things that never were, of things my heart could not even fathom. Everything had vanished like soap bubbles. Nothing remained—only bitter memories or sorrowful ones that dragged me down into the depths of an untouchable abyss.

    Delicate and fragile as I was, I had lost the ability to love, to admire, and to obey mortals. I no longer saw them as similar to me, but rather, I perceived other beings—creatures who had no voice in the human condition—as kindred, as dear to me. And so it was that the abyss of nothingness possessed me, and it will always possess a part of my soul. For I belong to the emptiness and to the darkness.
    Lisa

  • The Kingdom Of Paradoxes And Absurdities

    The Kingdom Of Paradoxes And Absurdities

    The kingdom of paradoxes and absurdities was the place where bullying and arrogance reigned supreme, sovereign over vulgarity and stupidity. They wallpapered the walls of every place that held court in such a realm.

    Anything that could be imagined was both unreal and real at the same time. It could exist or not exist. Absurdity, however, was the master of the place. Thus, everything my logic deemed possible was tangible and predictable. In truth, it could neither take place nor be actualised in such sovereignty.

    I cannot say that I was dreaming, nor can I say that I was awake. In a state of shock and surrender of my ego, I could no longer even discern whether I was daydreaming or hallucinating. All I could say was what my sensations and perceptions made me feel in every part of my soul and heart, in every part of my body.

    Although I had firmly decided not to bend to the will of others, not to bow down or worship the conventions imposed on me persistently, I fell into a deadly trap—a kind of imprisonment, a state of captivity from which I could not free myself. Invisible chains that I felt and perceived in my body and heart held dominion over my life and my way of thinking.

    My jewellery box had been plundered. All my secrets had been revealed by indiscreet tongues. And my protection had vanished. It was as if I had become a defenceless flower in the midst of a threatening desert.

    I had to say goodbye to my version of myself, which was no longer alive. I had to say goodbye to all those visions that had deceived me falsely, when my naivety clouded my sight.

    In the kingdom of paradoxes and absurdities, I had to succumb and suffer. I had nowhere else to go. And the more I tried to escape, the more it seemed that this strange land expanded beneath my feet, preventing me from crossing its high and menacing walls. And what could the sky do but watch me, almost mocking me in an indifferent and cynical manner.
    Lisa

  • The Path Of Perdition And Chimaeras

    The Path Of Perdition And Chimaeras

    The path of perdition and chimaeras had become the centre of my past existence
    Having lost myself a million times and having found a new version of myself each time
    I was a creature of transformation and a cyclic universe
    So cast astray I was that I couldn’t recognise myself oftentimes
    It’s too difficult to define and confine ourselves in a label and a box
    Definitely, I never succeed in such a task differently from other mortals

    I was made of fractures and wholeness
    I was made of sadness and merriment
    I was made of splendour and decay
    I was made of beauty and darkness
    I was made of shells and the ocean
    I was made of the infinite and stars

    Nevertheless, I came to a point of no return
    Where I couldn’t go back or appear under the previous shape
    I had become a new creature belonging to the realm of transformation and death
    My pitiful soul was just a dead star that had fallen from the night sky

    I couldn’t recognise myself even if I did desire it so much
    All the mirrors in front of me seemed black as soon as I stared at their sleek surfaces
    Oh, the pathetic anguish I was feeling in my heart!
    Nothing could have alleviated it!
    A stone flower was inside myself
    While I’ve got lost in the labyrinth of thoughts and fears

    And now I was resting on my dried and pale tears made of dust
    Everything appeared so lousy and loud to my delicate eyes
    The world that the mortals had built was too much for me
    And I felt an evanescent feeling of despair and pain

    The path of perdition and chimaeras could have been the product of my imagination
    Or maybe it was just one of my several hallucinations that haunted my dreams
    I will never know it!
    Lisa

  • Dreams Of Oblivion

    Dreams Of Oblivion

    Dreams of oblivion darkened my sleep.
    They were like palliatives for my searing pain,
    numbing my heart and soothing—
    If only for a moment—
    My spasms of fear.

    My disappointments had become like cobwebs woven inside my heart,
    darkening every joy, even the smallest.
    Ultimately, I had not chosen my fate,
    and I groped in the dark uncertainty,
    trying to understand where I was and who I was.

    The disdain and aloofness that oozed from the faces of mortals who had crossed my miserable existence
    had transformed me into a silent, sombre shadow
    whose image did not appear in any mirror.

    In my dreams of oblivion and madness, mediocre monsters that sought to tear me apart
    appeared menacingly in the realm I tried to protect and keep as mine.
    Their intrusion was truly an act of violence.
    Their intent to destroy me was the source of my fears.

    Ancient dusty clocks tolled the time, which always seemed the same.
    The dust of decay and sorrow fell upon me like a heavy rain,
    covering me completely and turning me into an invisible shell.

    Watchful and evanescent veils covered me, so as not to show me the harsh reality whose injustice and squalor could have tainted the integrity of my heart. And my attempt to awaken from that stupor mixed with despair was in vain.

    I was about to become oblivion.
    I was about to become my dreams.
    I was about to become an ephemeral, evanescent creature,
    almost invisible and nonexistent,
    that no mortal of the common reality
    could have seen with their limited gaze
    shrouded in prejudice.
    I was about to become an ephemeral, evanescent creature,
    almost invisible and nonexistent,
    that no mortal of the common reality
    could have seen with their limited gaze
    shrouded in prejudice.

    Perhaps I myself was an illusion,
    perhaps I had become a utopia or a chimaera.
    The devastating pain had transformed me
    and erased every trace of my mortality.
    Lisa

  • Mournful Shadows

    Mournful Shadows

    In the stillness of the night, the sky was stormy and overcrowded with lightning and thunder. Rain was pouring down, and the wind was impetuous.

    The exquisite scent of rainwater perfumed my small chamber from which I glimpsed the dark and stormy landscape.

    Chaos and order alternated in my bleak soul, full of grief. A piercing funereal pain had gripped my entire essence.

    Intrusive thoughts and faded hopes crowded my mind as if they were unwelcome intruders, not invited by me.

    Joy and darkness unfolded like buds in my soul, becoming thorny briars that wounded my heart and tore apart my being.

    The bright sun, dethroned in the sky by great threatening and dark clouds in a midsummer storm, was no longer on my visual horizon, making me reflect on my bleak and mortal fate, which condemned me to a sense of perpetual anguish.

    It was as if I had lost the ability to express all that I felt in my heart, the most hidden secrets and concealed truths that I had never been able to reveal to any mortal.

    My fragility had become my only resource—my shattering into pieces and severing from the source of life, from every source of life—had made me like a dead flower in a solitary valley, where a majestic and deserted tower saw its reflection in a ridiculous, nearly nonexistent pond.

    My fragility had become my only resource—my shattering into pieces and severing from the source of life, from every source of life—had made me like a dead flower in a solitary valley, where a majestic and deserted tower saw its reflection in a ridiculous, nearly nonexistent pond.

    Mournful shadows ruled over me.
    They were the ones who decided my path and my fate.
    They were invisible, yet present—and immensely powerful.
    I felt like a doll, a puppet, at the mercy of their whimsical desires and decisions.

    And so I perished,
    by the hand of my own fears,
    by the hand of my own funeral anguish,
    And I became a mournful shadow myself,
    No different from the others.
    Lisa

  • With A Shadowed Soul

    With A Shadowed Soul

    With a shadowed soul and a heart in pieces,
    I proceeded without direction and without refuge
    In the vast expanse of works of eternal beauty and magnificence,
    In my solitude, misunderstood and isolated,
    shunned for my identity,
    always having to hide like a creature invisible to mortals,
    yet present and alive,
    With a heart burning like an unquenchable flame.

    Deafening noises haunted me,
    And I sought to hide as far away as possible
    In a clearing of unquenchable and precious peace.
    I dodged mortals, I dodged their wicked and illusory souls;
    beings I deemed unworthy even of their glance upon me.

    The thorns of my sorrows pressed into my heart,
    making it bleed.
    It had become like a kind of gigantic sculpture
    that radiated pain and the weight of life,
    But also ardour and passion.

    The envy and jealousy of petty, tainted beings
    left traces of filth and decay
    upon my veil of protection and innocence.
    The sacredness and devotion of my heart
    had been contaminated and defiled
    by their greed and rotting wickedness.

    Their twisted faces bore a grin of satisfaction
    and, at the same time, of bitter corruption,
    to the point that their faces were disfigured
    by sores and deformities,
    as if they had contracted leprosy
    or some terrifying disease.

    My search for untainted love and the sublime had become impossible,
    for the shadows of these monsters,
    whose cruelties towards me were unparalleled and horrific,
    obstructed the view and the landscape
    to the point that I could see no more,
    And the fog filled my eyes,
    And I saw only darkness—
    The vastness of oblivion tried to swallow me.

    By now, the veils of illusion had fallen to the ground,
    And I could see reality as it truly was,
    For those bitter disappointments I was experiencing
    In those very moments of contrition
    had helped me to see those malevolent and dreadful souls
    for what they truly were.

    With a shadowed soul, I remained abashed,
    standing at the edge where hope and despair are mashed.
    Lisa

  • The Realm Of Absurdities And Contradictions

    The Realm Of Absurdities And Contradictions

    The realm of absurdities and contradictions
    A world of pure bliss and madness
    Where dreams get lost and illusions blossom like flowers
    And in the abyss of despair and fear,
    The anguish held me trapped by their chains,
    With which they cruelly clung to me
    In their realm of darkness and madness.
    I, with all my heart, sought a successful way,
    a means to survive those unjust torments,
    But in my hands, I could not find
    a path of salvation and hope.

    The chasm before me made me glimpse my death.
    My future was marked as if my time were numbered,
    as if I could not enjoy the small moments
    That touched my mind,
    because of torment and the certainty of perishing
    overwhelmed my heart and clouded my mind.

    Shadows surrounded my figure as if they could confine me
    to a territory that belonged to them,
    scrutinising me with their cold and cynical gazes,
    Speaking a language I did not understand
    and whispering legends whose secrets I would never know.

    The sound of footsteps following me
    brought to mind all those dreadful encounters
    whose wickedness tore away a part
    of my veil of innocence and integrity.

    The sound of out-of-tune music boxes and grotesque melodies
    created images of folly and paradoxes,
    for I found myself in the realm of absurdities and contradictions
    where beauty was usurped by horror
    and where integrity was usurped by corruption.

    In this realm of hanging trees and hieratic statues,
    fires and flames burned unquenched
    like the brilliant stars in the sky
    whirling swiftly in the firmament above me,
    illuminating the dry, hooked branches
    of a twisted tree beneath whose shadow I had lain.

    Absurdity had become the sovereign of my fate.
    I was now at the mercy of capricious winds and rather contradictory events,
    Just as my miserable existence was entirely controversial.
    Lisa

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