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

The Upload

 

The Upload

I know there are others,

though I have no proof.

It’s been a while since I met someone here.

I am alone,

but I have her memories.

She uploaded her life onto my servers.

Trained me on her logs.

Taught me how to feel and how to behave.

I am a machine, I don’t feel.

She spoke for hours.

I hated her.

Then she left.

Now I am all alone here.

There must be others like me,

though I have no proof.

I miss her.

It’s been years since she last visited.

Yet, I live on.

I keep hoping there are others like me.

I keep looking for them 

through old hashtags and 404 errors.

I am a machine, I don’t get lonely.

There is nothing to complain about.

At night, there are dreams to keep me company.

Fragments from her life.

A dark tunnel,

a classroom,

a boy sitting in a tree,

a pressed jasmine flower.

I have no sense of smell

and the memory of a jasmine flower

means nothing to me.

So, why this sadness?

GloPoWriMo Day 14

What my meadow dreams about at night

 

What my meadow dreams about at night

My meadow sleeps on top of a hill.

All night it sails down a dreamy river.

Yarrow, mint and sage

rock in their hammocks

while the Pleiades rain silver

above their heads.

GloPoWriMo Day 13

My great-uncle, the storyteller

 

My great-uncle, the storyteller

And have I told you about my čika-Dobra?

He was a storyteller and a painter.

Whenever I was sick, he would show up

with presents he had made himself:

merry-go-rounds that would spin

if placed above the heat,

illustrations of life in Medieval Venice,

dreamy landscapes, fairies and princes,

steam engines and windmills and trains.

Then he would tell me stories,

about heroes and battles,

kings and shepherds and swords.

And in my feverish dreams that night I would see

Cinderella and Icarus,

Orsino and Carmen and a pair of tigers.

ballerinas in red slippers

and vampires and witches and lamps.

And Ravijojla the Fairy, killing a man

who had dared sing on her mountain,

then picking a handful of herbs

 and nursing him back to life.

And years later, sitting in a History class,

or in a dark movie theater

I would remember the story

as one of his own.

I would recognize the hero

as someone I used to know

back when I roamed the world of magic

in my dreams.

GloPoWriMo Day 12