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Sonnet of the Silent Rift

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Sonnet of the Silent Rift

By Al Konda

The room was still, but no longer the same;

A line had formed where none had been before.

Your hand withdrew, though nothing spoke its name,

And left a space that did not close again.

Your breath had changed, though nothing marked it so;

A pause now held what once had freely passed.

I sensed a distance neither chose to show,

Yet knew the moment would not hold its flow.

It settled in, not fully shaped or known—

A difference slight, yet not enough to be dismissed.

No word could claim what had already grown,

And nothing now remained as once it was.

It did not break, yet would not be undone—

What once was one could not return as one.

When the line does not return

There are moments where nothing visibly breaks.

No sound.

No word.

And yet, something shifts in a way that cannot be undone.

A line appears.

Not drawn.

Not declared.

But present.

It does not ask to be acknowledged.

It does not explain itself.

And still, everything begins to move around it.

What was once shared now holds distance.

What once moved freely now pauses.

Not because something ended.

But because something changed.

And that change does not return to what it was.

The space remains.

The forms remain.

But the condition has altered.

And from that point on, what exists must exist differently.

🎬 Watch it on YouTube: https://youtu.be/x0WdWXfQ_fw

© Al Konda · The Poetry Elite

Spring, Memory, and the Question of What Remains

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Spring is here, and it gives me room to breathe—to relax, to take in the fresh air.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the human condition, about the state of human affairs. I can feel it in my poetry too—a shift. Toward control. Or maybe toward abstraction. I’m not entirely sure which.

I entered 2025 with 64 almost-complete manuscripts, written between 2018 and 2024. It should feel like a triumph—a journey nearing its end—but I find myself hesitating.

At the end of 2024, when resolution season came, I promised I would publish them all quickly. I didn’t. At first, I thought it was perfectionism.

But is it?

When I finished The Seer, I refused to edit it. I published it exactly as it came—to prove something to myself. That a first draft can stand. That the raw form has its own truth.

So perhaps it’s not perfectionism after all.

With Orthodox Easter approaching, I find myself asking what my younger self would think of me now—of the goals I chase, of the life I am building.

I used to love Christian holidays. Especially Easter. Especially Christmas.

I remember my grandmother painting eggs—red, always red. I remember how we would crack them against each other, each of us trying to be the last one unbroken, claiming the others as trophies.

We watched films about Christ. It was part of it.

I still remember one night—people in the neighborhood gathered money to rent Jesus of Nazareth so all the children could watch it together. We sat outside, under the dark sky, and I can still hear the voice of an old woman beside us, cursing those who crucified Him as if it were happening in that very moment.

Easter wasn’t a date. It was an event.

It brought people together. It gave us something to wait for, something to share.

There was a natural gratitude then—not scheduled, not practiced, not forced.

People showed up for one another. They helped. They cared. Not because they had to—but because they had already decided to.

That was the result of real commitment.

Of intention.

Today, we schedule gratitude.

Back then, we lived it.

So I ask you—

What decisions are you making, day by day, to help the people around you?

Primăvara, amintirea și întrebarea care rămâne

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Primăvara a venit și, pentru prima dată după mult timp, simt că pot să respir.

Și odată cu respirația aceasta, vine și altceva—gândul.

M-am gândit mult în ultima vreme la condiția umană, la starea în care ne aflăm. O simt și în poezia mea—o schimbare.

Spre control.

Sau poate spre abstracție.

Nu sunt sigur.

Am intrat în 2025 cu 64 de manuscrise aproape finalizate, scrise între 2018 și 2024. Ar trebui să fie o victorie. Un drum care se apropie de capăt.

Și totuși, ezit.

La finalul lui 2024, când a venit momentul rezoluțiilor, mi-am promis că le voi publica pe toate rapid. Nu am făcut-o.

La început am crezut că e perfecționism.

Dar este?

Când am terminat The Seer, am refuzat să-l editez. L-am publicat exact așa cum a fost scris—ca să-mi demonstrez ceva.

Că un prim draft poate sta în picioare.

Că forma brută are propriul ei adevăr.

Așa că poate nu este perfecționism.

Pe măsură ce Paștele Ortodox se apropie, mă întreb tot mai des ce ar spune versiunea mea mai tânără despre mine acum—despre scopurile mele, despre viața pe care o construiesc.

Iubeam sărbătorile creștine.

Mai ales Paștele.

Mai ales Crăciunul.

Îmi amintesc de bunica mea cum vopsea ouăle—roșii, mereu roșii. Îmi amintesc cum le ciocneam între noi, fiecare încercând să rămână ultimul cu oul întreg, adunându-le pe toate cele sparte.

Ne uitam la filme despre Hristos. Făcea parte din tot.

Îmi amintesc și acum o seară în care oamenii din cartier au strâns bani ca să închirieze Jesus of Nazareth, ca să ne putem uita toți copiii împreună. Stăteam afară, sub cerul nopții, și încă aud vocea unei bătrâne de lângă noi care îi blestema pe cei care L-au răstignit, ca și cum totul se întâmpla atunci.

Paștele nu era o dată.

Era un eveniment.

Ne aduna.

Ne dădea ceva de așteptat.

Ceva de împărtășit.

Exista o recunoștință firească atunci—nu programată, nu exersată, nu forțată.

Oamenii erau unii pentru alții.

Ajutau.

Iubeau.

Nu pentru că trebuia—ci pentru că hotărâseră deja.

Asta era rezultatul unei decizii reale.

Al unei intenții.

Astăzi, ne programăm recunoștința.

Atunci, o trăiam.

Așa că te întreb—

Ce decizii iei, zi de zi, pentru a-i ajuta pe cei din jurul tău?

Din categoria: Blog

The Sharpened Pause

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The Sharpened Pause

By Al Konda

The room remained, but not as it had been;

A pause had formed where nothing used to stay.

Your hand moved once, then stilled itself again,

As if the thought had nearly found its way.

 

It lingered there, not fully shaped to form—

A shape that leaned, but would not yet be named;

No sound emerged to break what still was warm,

Yet something in the quiet had been changed.

 

Your breath had shifted, though it made no claim;

The pause stretched on, refusing any sound.

I sensed the nearing of what never came

And felt it settle where no word was found.

 

It stayed unspoken, yet it did not fade—

What lived unnamed grew sharper where it stayed.

When something almost becomes

There are moments when something begins to form—but does not arrive.

Not because it cannot.

But because it does not cross.

A movement starts.

A thought gathers.

It leans toward becoming.

And then—stays.

The space changes.

Not enough to break.

But enough to be felt.

What was once simple presence now holds a second layer—something unspoken, yet undeniable.

It does not need to be named.

In fact, it cannot be.

Because what gives it weight is precisely this:

It does not pass.

It remains where it almost became.

And in remaining, it sharpens.

Not into action.

But into awareness.

🎬 Watch it on YouTube: https://youtu.be/xS6P2OuLc88

© Al Konda · The Poetry Elite

Before Anything Was Said

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Before Anything Was Said

By Al Konda

 

The room was quiet, holding what it could,

The air unchanged, yet gently shared between,

Two chairs that faced each other as they should,

With nothing asked to fill what there was to be seen.

 

You sat across, not turning toward or from,

Your hands at rest where light could find them clear;

No motion rose that asked us to become,

No word was formed that needed to be heard.

 

The light remained, yet nothing turned or pressed,

No shift arose to mark a change in place;

The room held steady in its quiet rest,

And kept us both within a single space.

 

No edge appeared to mark where we began,

Nor reason found to name what simply was.

When nothing needed to become more

There are moments that do not ask to be understood.

Not because they are unclear.

Not because something is hidden.

But because nothing is missing.

You sit across from someone.

No word is needed.

No movement asks to be followed.

The space between you does not call for anything to fill it.

It simply holds.

There is no effort to define what is there.

No need to name it.

No edge where one ends and the other begins.

And in that quiet, something rare becomes possible:

Not connection as something made.

But presence as something already complete.

It does not build.

It does not declare itself.

It remains.

And in remaining, it asks for nothing more.

🎬 Watch it on YouTube: https://youtu.be/7T_cl-DRoI8

© Al Konda · The Poetry Elite

After the Day Ends

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After the Day Ends

By Al Konda

The light withdrew, but not as it had come,

No edge remained to mark what had been day;

The room returned to something less than one,

Yet held what did not fully pass away.

 

Your glass still warmed the table where you leaned,

A crescent print the fading dark could keep;

I spoke your name, though nothing intervened,

And heard it settle just beneath the deep.

 

It was not absence—it altered what was near,

Made space a form your body used to take;

And in that shape, made briefly almost clear,

I felt the quiet shift for your own sake.

 

If this is loss, it does not close the door—

It leaves it touched, and reaching into more.

When what remains does not leave

There are moments when the day does not end cleanly.

Not because something is unresolved.

Not because something continues.

But because something remains.

Not in the room.

Not in what can be seen.

But in the way space holds what was there.

A glass still warm.

A mark left without intention.

The smallest trace becomes enough to shift the air.

And in that shift, something becomes clear—not as a thought, but as a presence that does not need to declare itself:

Absence does not empty a place.

It changes it.

It gives form to what can no longer be touched.

And sometimes, that form feels closer than what was there before.

Not because it returns.

But because it never fully leaves.

🎬 Watch it on YouTube: https://youtu.be/XZod0Dps2xM

© Al Konda · The Poetry Elite