Poetry By Marga Fripp

Poetry By Marga Fripp

By Marga Fripp

A Home for Anger

Where does anger live? 
Does she have a home of her own?
This morning I found her in my kitchen
dreary and lost, her hair disheveled, 
dew glistening through her silky threads.
She was graceful, yet defeated. 
Her crusade lost. Her dusky eyes
sinking in a scarred face.

I wanted to ignore her at first
the way I did in the past. 
But this time was different.
She needed help.
Her body was wasted, listless
draped over my kitchen chair.
She was chased through the dark night
like a wild beast. The ghosts
of her past hunted her to the edge of the city. 
She was not to return where she came from. 

Another refugee. 
An outcast.
An angel?

No more, I said.
Enough is enough. 
Anger is welcome here.

I brewed a pot of fresh coffee for us.
We broke bread together. 
The kitchen filled with a sweet
familiar air. A seething fire
churned inside me; ashes flared
like marigold blooms on my skin.

She took my heart, in her hands.
She held it with kindness.
My breath deepened. 
The fire slowly died out. 
Stillness everywhere.
Her home, my heart.






Begin Again

You’ve come to the end of this road.

A long-faced sadness
follows your abandoned footsteps.
The grimy old way
twists like a winged serpent
into the dusk, devoured by
a fury of steel-sinking skies. 

I’m here waiting for you.
My heart the size of an ant, 
bearing the slab of fear. 
Does happiness know
you’re coming home? 
Will she remember how tenderly
you cared for her when she
was forsaken? 
How you made her laugh,
until her cheeks bloomed
like pink peonies?

You finally learn to soar,
to shed the old fetters on your wings
and claim your right as Phoenix.
The blue-gray abyss releases
its careful hold.

The old road gone, a new horizon
opens like a holy map, 
to your own promised land.
Nothing is lost. Found,
you return,
ageless and daring.

Begin again.






Blank Page

Where there is nothing
I begin. A blank page,
a few splotches of color,
a gesture of kindness
an invitation to a cup of tea.
The page opens up.
It speaks to me like an old friend,
still dreaming of what she wants to be
when she grows up.

I pick up the pastels. 
The conversation begins. 
The creamy sticks light and wiry, 
drift across the empty page, across
a sea of solitude. 
Nothing on the horizon but waves
turquoise and cobalt,
curling their backs like
feral cats guarding the waters.

Layers upon layers, the colors rival
each other, a struggle of their own
becoming, a rite of passage. 
Some happen to touch and fuse
gaining renewed strength,
a new belonging.
Others remain muted, trapped
beneath the weight of textures.
Nothing remains unaltered.
Light and wary shadows
emerge from the foreground.
The page surrenders.

I am quiet. 
Listening takes courage.
My hands relinquish control. 
The sea unfurls before my eyes. 
I hear where she is going.
I see where I am going.
Where there is nothing
I begin.



I am a Romanian-American women’s empowerment social entrepreneur and former journalist living in Geneva, Switzerland. I grew up in Romania during communism without books, but with an old turntable and a few vinyl records of fairy tales. Stories have been a source of daily nourishment and hope ever since, and they continue to inspire my writing. My work has appeared in Offshoots 14: Writing from Geneva, Fall 2017.



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