My Name

 

My Name

They named me after my grandmother,

but they shortened her name for me,

turned it into a cute little nickname

with that tame voiceless sibilant.

They also named me after

my mother’s favourite book character

with whom I have nothing in common,

except for synesthesia

and the fact that I once tried to learn

how to knit.

On the other hand, I am quite similar

to my grandmother.

Maybe the fact that she brought me up

has something to do with that.

We don’t let children choose their own name.

I am not sure if that is good or bad.

I wanted to be called Tinkerbell.

I liked the sound

and I really needed those wings.

I love names that mean something important.

For years I thought my name had no meaning.

Now I know it has the same root

as Nativity.

Not bad, that.

If I was choosing a name for myself,

I think I would go with something sonorous,

something long and slightly old-fashioned,

I would try each sound out loud

to see if it suits me.

This would surely be time-consuming.

and, to tell you the truth,

I have grown fond of the name I am wearing.

I like the way it doesn’t quite define me

or explain me,

yet it is there for me to use

and call mine.

GloPoWriMo Day 21

The Owls

 

The Owls

There was a cherry tree

in our garden.

One summer it held a small owl.

I was still awake when the owl called.

I had been told that owls brought bad luck.

I chose not to believe it.

It took me a while to notice

there were two of them.

to hear the overlapping calls,

one voice answering the other

across the dark.

I watched them hunt together in the evenings.

This is what love looks like, I thought.

The next year the tree was gone.

It had been dying, they said.

The owls moved to the oak next door.

I could still hear them.

This is what forever is like, I thought.

We went back every summer.

Time seemed to stand still.

Then cracks appeared in the walls.

More trees went.

Not the neighbour's oak.

It grew strong and steady, 

still holding the owls in its crown.

GloPoWriMo Day20

Yarrow

 

Yarrow

Common yarrow signifies war.

The name has the same root as “yellow”.

It is also known as nosebleed.

Some call it soldier’s woundwort.

Over here we call it the outlaw grass,

for, it was the flower of outlaws and rebels.

Soldiers once marched with yarrows in their bags.

If you are wounded, yarrow can heal you. 

It helps with heartburn and stomach upsets.

It was named after Achilles,

who was a soldier in his own right.

It is also known as devil’s nettle.

They say the devil can use it to curse you.

In witchcraft, it wards off evil spirits.

In large doses, it is psychoactive.

Do not confuse it with poison hemlock.

It is native of Northern Greece and the Balkans.

It has a pleasant medicinal smell.

Herbalists use it as pillow stuffing.

It can help you sleep and bring pleasant dreams.

Yarrow grows freely behind my house.

GloPoWriMo Day 19

Ars Poetica

 

Ars Poetica

I don’t suppose I know where I am going.

It is not wise to presume I know anything at this stage.

I follow the shape this poem is tracing.

I do whatever I have to do

to get to the end of the page.

GloPoWriMo Day 18

 

What Branko knew about words

 

What Branko knew about words

                    "I was killed by a word too strong."

                                                                                Branko Miljković

That words can wound you,

trap you and betray you,

weigh you down,

like a rock around your neck.

trip you, 

burn your tongue,

misplace you.

mislead you,

make you lose yourself,

hit you like a rock,

slap you in the face,

words poorly chosen,

too strong, too many,

shouted, or whispered like a curse.

GloPoWriMo Day 17

What the river told me

 

What the river told me

She scares herself every day, she says.

Every morning she wears a different face.

Sometimes she is a monster,

wild and dangerous.

She takes lives

and destroys crops.

Sometimes she is a thin silver snake,

too weak to be feared.

And then there are days when she is a ghost,

an empty bed,

dry.

And on some days, when things are too much,

she sinks inward and disappears.

She hides inside her underground cave

with open domes and draughty corridors.

Her walls there are constantly eroded.

That’s what happens when you build your place

out of mud and anger.

GloPoWriMo Day 16

Solitude

 

Solitude

My great-grandfather came from the East

one summer.

He came alone to look at the land.

He kept seeing it in his dreams, they say:

acres and acres of green rolling hills,

a little forest and a meadow 

and an oak tree.

When I die, bury me here, he said,

under this mighty oak, but beware,

leave no mark on my grave, for I need

my solitude.

The following summer, they all came.

His wife brought a tiny pear tree.

She carried it in her arms like a baby.

They built a small house and next to it

the pear tree grew.

It grew tall and it grew strong.

And the fruit of that tree was sweet and juicy.

And when he died, they buried him there

under that mighty oak and they

left no mark on his grave, so that he could have 

his solitude.

And my grandfather moved away to the valley.

He built his house by the river.

The river was fast and when it rained

it entered the house and took away

all their memories

until they forgot their old father

and their old house and the grave.

Yet, in their dreams they saw the pear tree

still growing tall.

No one could find the meadow or the grave,

nor did they know where the pear tree grew.

My father went away to the city.

The memories of his childhood and his youth 

faded away.

Then one day, he had the dream:

a meadow and a pear tree

and an oak and under it

his grandfather’s grave.

He asked around, but no one remembered.

He searched for years and then one day

he brought me with him.

And there it was, before our eyes:

the meadow and the pear tree

and the oak and a mound of grass

And he stood under the oak and spoke

to his grandpa, who'd grown tired 

of solitude.

GloPoWriMo Day 15