Happiness is a By-Product

You could fill your house with
Ninety-nine red balloons, the kind that
Glimmer in the sun and shine in the
Black light, and you could
Fill your room with rainbow pinwheels, the
Ones that spin into white nothingness, the
Kind that children buy at the carnivals, and
You could paint your walls with the light inside of
You, extracting every inch of joy and mixing it with
Cheap acrylic paint that peels off while you
Use it, but I’m almost certain, that one day, when
The ninety-nine red balloons that you kept so
Carefully in your living room finally reduce to a mere
Collection of deflated plastic, and the rainbow
Pinwheels that danced next to your
Window suddenly stop and disintegrate into shards of
Construction paper, and the paintings on your
Wall lose their illumination, you will realise that
You cannot catch gaiety in colours or objects or
Paraphernalia, and you cannot possibly trap your
Mind in hypnotising swirls of made-up joy, and you will
Realise that happiness is a by-product of
Life, and we acquire it simply by being.


Dear Reader

There’s always going to be
Strange syllables of stories that
You can lose your sadness in, and
Paragraphs of prose to postpone your
Perplexity with the people you
Surround yourself with, and
There are verses and lines and
Poems that can engulf you with
Words, but Dear Reader, there
Will always be sounds which will
Echo your thoughts, and which will
Flood you with memories, and
Sometimes, those syllables will
Roll of your tongue, and
Suddenly, the stories will not
Seem so strange anymore, the
Gates of fiction and fantasy will
Open, and you will find reality in
The poetry of escapism.


The Unbecoming

Sometimes, although very rarely, the
Universe collapses into itself, in a
Strange, seemingly harmless combustion of
Air and nothingness, and the trees and
Flowers disappear into the spaces between
The grass, and the people, going about their
Daily routine, suddenly freeze in well-timed,
Spontaneous seconds of frenzy, and all the
Words and letters curve their backs and
Lean against themselves, until the gears of
The universe begin to move again, and soon, the
Trees and flowers appear from underneath the
Grass, and the people begin to walk home as if
Nothing had really changed, and all the
Words and letters stand upright, waiting to be
Smeared with ink and vulnerability.


Let In The Light

In ambiguous moments of
Light and darkness, when the
Air teemed with uncertainty and
Sensation, and the wind took in its
Wings a sweep of fervour and
Passion, I walked through empty
Roads and fictional towns, full of
Mythical souls and vacant homes, and
As the sky slowly suffused itself
With pale blue illumination, the
Roads glowed with new-found
Beginnings, the cities came to life in
Excited quivers of passion, and the
Vacant homes slowly filled up with
Hollow souls searching for light.


Oriol Angrill Jordà

On Rain

For the time-being, let the
Rain fall in intertwined ropes of
Dissonance and harmony, in
Shivers of resistance and
Dank quivers of darkness, and
Let the downpour of discovery
Lead you to narrow lanes, and
Forgotten names, and old
Rusty feelings that got left
Behind on sunny days.


The One With The Coral Curtains

The last time I went to the cafe,
The one with the wicker chairs and
Slanted roof and bright coral
Curtains, I took a long look at
The people sitting on the
Chairs next to mine, the
Girl who refused to order
Anything from the menu, the
Man who looked at her with
Guilt in his smile and ebbs of
Enthusiasm in his laugh, and
The boy who
Stared at his phone instead of
His mother’s longing eyes, and
For a minute, the world stopped
Moving in rapidity, and in high
Quality digital film, and the
Moments slowed down as I
Wondered where these people
Came from, what they were sorry
For, and why their sadness and joy
Wafted away in transient whiffs of
Hot chocolate and coffee.

Rene Magritte

Rene Magritte


Let your eyes skim through these lines,
There’s nothing much here to say,
Drift off to foggy meadows and hills,
Let your mind glide away.

These words are nothing but symbols,
Let them bask in their own bliss
Leave them be and disappear,
Let your soul go amiss.

Let these syllables ring in your head,
But do not listen to their sound,
Compose your own rhythm
And the world will resound.



I want to go elsewhere. I want to go to the places they all speak about. I want to go there and I want to live there. The places where the rain falls sideways, not in hard sheets, but in clear raindrops. Where the rain takes everything with it but leaves enough behind for me. I want to go elsewhere. I want to go the places I read about. The places I write about. The places where everyone finds their white rabbit and follows it all the way to wonderland. Except I keep wanting
go elsewhere so badly that I keep running into dead-ends. What’s missing stays the same. But I
still want to go elsewhere.


Does Time Know?

Does time know?
Does time know that it
Speeds up the rain when the
Grass is losing its colour, and the
Dry, dry roads are aching for
Water, and children are looking for
Small, glimmering puddles to
Float little paper boats made of
Yesterday’s newspaper and
Today’s happiness.

Does time know?
Does time know that it
Slows down those moments when
Words slowly turn into feelings, and
Meaningless letters become
Memoirs, and people realise that
Eternities can be poured into
Lines of verse made of
Violet ink and
Single-lined paper.




A quickening curiosity spread through
The sky, through slivers of silver
Raindrops, and suffusions of scarlet
Sunsets, and as I looked up, I saw
Fire and ice meet, and for an
Instance, just for an instance, the
World collided in strange dissonance,
In bright orange tumult and
Frosted grey storms of havoc, and
In that instance, just in that
Instance, the flames snatched my
Anger, the wind took my fury, and
Fierce shadows of wonder
Eclipsed my aching eyes.