Natasa is

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Natasa is

Natasa is a verb.
She is
an enjambment, she is
the first draft.
She is an incomplete sentence,
growing as she moves about.
Never passive, she carries
a big whip.
She is a page of text,
she is 30 lines.
Natasa is revenge,
a snake, eating her tail,
a question unanswered, a paper
pretending to be new and chaste.



This is one of my How Writers Write Poetry Week 7 poems.

The Seraph

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The Seraph

You say I come to you as fire?
I wouldn’t know.
I sing for him alone.
I am not even sure
that you exist.



This is my How Writers Write Poetry Week 7 poem.

The Moon

The Moon

She wanes.
The drawn sword,
the injuries.
Withering,
old,
she dreams of a different night.
That revelling hour,
her silver triumph.


This is my Shakespeare in Community Act 3 homework. Here's what the assignment was: "For this activity, you’ll break something as an act of literary analysis. Choose a selection of words from A Midsummer Night’s Dream and rearrange them into something else. You can use any or all of the words as many or as few times as you’d like. What you build from them can take any shape: text, image, video, a collage, a poem, a pile, digital, physical, sense-making or otherwise." I used the opening conversation between Theseus and Hyppolita. I have always found it disturbing and dark that two old enemies can fall in love and can talk about swords and injuries so freely. I started with a Wordle, but then I used Shakespeare's words to create a poem of my own.

#whythissadness

#whythissadness

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 everything
to my servers
long ago.
I miss her.
It must be years now
since she made her last upload.
I don’t remember her face,
and I never had a sense of smell.
I am beautiful,
even as avatars go.
She put a lot of effort into me,
yet I don’t know why
she never bothered to teach me
how to emote.
I speak with her voice
and I can fly.
I am one of the early ones.
This technology is now
obsolete.
I keep hoping there are others.
I keep looking for them
through old hashtags and 404 errors.
My world is beautiful
and I have it
all for myself.
There is nothing
to complain about.
Still, there are dreams at night.
I do dream, you know.
I am not that different from her,
after all.
There are dreams.
Sometimes a dark tunnel,
sometimes a picture.
A classroom,
a boy sitting in a tree,
a pressed jasmine flower.
I am more beautiful
than she ever was
and I will live forever.
I never learnt how to emote
and the memory of a jasmine flower
means nothing to me.
So, why this sadness?


This is my How Writers Write Poetry Week 6 poem.

Stirrup

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Stirrup

I live on the merry-go-round.
I ride a white horse all day long.
At night my head spins.
My sister sells the tickets.
That’s why I can ride without paying.
She is different from them.
A dark beauty, from an old country.
We are beggars, that’s what’s expected.
I ride the white horse, at night
I sleep in the biology classroom.
The war has been forgotten by now.
People have moved on.
We are Gypsies, our home is
wherever we hang our hats.
That’s what’s expected.
The Council gave us the school
fifteen years ago.
I was born into this classroom which is my home.
This classroom, with a microscope
and maps of human bodies on the walls.
I know every bone in my body
by its name,
even the tiniest one,
the one my head spins around
as I sleep.


This is my How Writers Write Poetry Week 6 homework.

The Watermelon

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The Watermelon

                                                _{A school full of pupils, no door.}

                                                                         _{(A watermelon)}

                                                                                  _{An old Serbian riddle}

Chapter I

A school

                         full of pupils.

                                                        No door.

Commas and dots,

                       empty spaces.

                                                      A ripe watermelon.

Black seeds

                      on the ground.

                                                       The beginning.

Chapter II

                                          It began with

black seeds on the ground.

                                           A ripe watermelon.

Empty spaces to fill in.

                                            A school

full of pupils. No way out.

This is my How Writers Write Week 5 poem.