Imagine trying to outrun your own shadow on a bright, cloudless day. That’s the restless, contradictory energy pulsing through Kaija Ra’s poem «My Guilt, ver. I, fixed for 23/10/23». The author, a contemporary poet, often explores raw, personal landscapes of emotion, and this piece feels like a snapshot from a private diary, dated precisely to October 23, 2023. It captures a very modern moment of trying to bury a feeling beneath a barrage of distractions, only to find it waiting patiently at the end of every line.
On the surface, the poem chronicles a deliberate escape. The speaker announces a firm “Goodbye / My guilt” and launches into a vivid, almost frantic, itinerary of avoidance. They step away “on sunshine,” trading inner turmoil for the glittering, artificial paradise of a “barbie LA sunrise.” The imagery is deliberately plastic and pop-culture infused—sea beach, dance floor—painting a picture of a life lived for external spectacle. The declaration “I gonna fucking gone guys” seals this with a jarring, conversational defiance. It’s the kind of phrase shouted over a shoulder while fleeing a party, blending bravado with a deep need to disappear. The rhythm here is choppy and insistent, like a heart beating too fast, with the short lines and abrupt rhymes (sunshine/lifetimes, guys/lifetimes) creating a sense of things being hastily packed away.
Yet, for all this determined flight, the poem’s construction ensures we never lose sight of what’s being chased. The title itself frames “guilt” as a software bug needing a “fix,” a problem to be debugged on a specific date. This technical language clashes beautifully with the raw emotion, suggesting a struggle to manage the unmanageable. The most brilliant formal twist comes in the final stanza. Just as the speaker seems to be making their getaway, the word “co-” dangles at a line break. We expect “cool” or some other casual, dismissive slang to downplay the fault. Instead, the next line completes it with “-moon,” transforming it into “comoon.” This isn’t a typo; it’s a masterstroke. It visually and audibly mimics the word “come on,” a sigh of weary exasperation, while also forming “common.” The fault is a constant companion, a moon that orbits “any bloody lifetimes.” This celestial imagery is profound. You can flee the beach and the dance floor, but you cannot outrun the moon. Its light finds you everywhere, just as guilt permeates every attempt at a fresh start.
This makes the poem’s significance deeply relatable. It speaks to anyone who has ever tried to silence a persistent, uncomfortable feeling by drowning it in noise, travel, or sheer busyness. Kaija Ra captures the exhausting cycle of modern avoidance, where we curate perfect, sun-drenched lives online or in person while a private shadow trails behind. The poem’s power lies in its honesty about failure. The escape isn’t triumphant; it’s temporary and already tinged with the knowledge of futility. The guilt isn’t conquered; it’s just been momentarily left on read. In its blend of texting shorthand, brutal honesty, and a sudden, timeless metaphor, the poem builds a bridge between our immediate, frantic present and the ancient, slow-moving tides of human conscience. It’s a small, sharp reminder that some things, like the moon, cannot be fixed by a change of scenery.