The Empress Tarot Card

 

The Empress Tarot Card

She sits on the throne, all by herself. Some say she's pregnant.

Pomegranate seeds adorn her face. What could she be thinking?

She sits on the throne, pretty and silent. She’s bored to death.

GloPoWriMo Day 28 - a sijo

Freedom

 

Freedom

The tut-tut-tut of the trumpet.

Can’t you hear me calling, it says.

I am lonely and so afraid, it says.

The lights are out, the supper is cold.

What shall I do without you, lamb?

Now the dogs bark. The horses neigh.

What shall we do without you, lamb?

Was it you running, barefoot, in your night-gown,

down that road, into those woods?

I will kill you when I find you, lamb.

This road is not on the maps.

These trees whose names you don’t know.

My lamb, my white lamb,

will I never find you again?

GloPoWriMo Day 27 - American sonnet

Inspired by this piece of music:

Silence

 

Silence

A muted splash, a whisper of the water,

A glimpse of a snake on the river’s sleeping surface.

Then, silence.

GloPoWriMo Day 26 

The Truth

 

The Truth

They say I keep reinventing myself.

But I can’t make myself younger, 

and I put on weight easily.

To tell you the truth, 

I am often afraid.

I despise bullies.

I admire no one. My heroes are dead.

Except those two good men from the books. They will live forever.

Some men are rocks like that. They don’t even brag about it.

My happiest childhood memory is of being lost in the woods. 

On the other hand,

some women have managed to rule the world. Some of them even had nice names.

The ones in which men called them good, or sweet. 

Where they praised their softness or their hair. 

Their inner strength, like a river flowing inwards.

My heroes are ordinary people, surviving their day.

When I go, I’d like to have survived my day first.

I regret having smiled through my teeth,

saying it was fine.

No problem at all.

I was in love with a peppermint bush once.

It grew, independent of me.

And it smelled so good.

I have also loved sunshine, and summer.

When I come back, I would like to come as a peppermint bush.

Or a blueberry bush, I haven’t decided.

I have suffered from decision fatigue like that

all my life.

I am often sad, over nothing, like just now.

I love ice cream.

My guilty pleasure is dancing.

GloPoWriMo Day 25

So that I don’t write about the blue rabbit

 

So that I don’t write about the blue rabbit

I

"So I strike a pose."

So I begin.

So I go and sharpen my pencils.

So I play some soft jazz.

So I see him in my mind’s eye.

So I refocus.

So I strike a new pose.

So I go and do something else.

II

You were not there when I tried to describe him.

You were not there when I failed.

III

I do this for your own good, you know.

Why should you reach for something you can’t have?

Now go back to sleep.

IV

I hope that he is safe out there.

Somewhere where you and I can’t find him.

Inspired by Dušan Radović's Plavi zec (Blue Rabbit). The first line ("So I strike a pose") is taken from Gavrilo Stanojević's translation.

NaPoWriMo Day 24

Superpowers

 

Superpowers

If I was perfectly bendy,

if I could bend myself into a wheel,

I would shake off these bones of mine

and go and live like a snake.

If I had a suit of armour,

if I could wear it like a skin,

I would let the world reflect off me.

If I could be intangible,

if everything passed right through me,

I would not be afraid of dark places.

If I stopped being afraid of this poem,

I would make it go into dark rooms,

so that I don’t have to.

So that I can go to the desert,

so that I can bend myself into a wheel there

and watch the world 

upside-down.

GloPoWriMo Day 23

The Pencil

 

The Pencil

Why don't you just let me sleep?, 

said the pencil to the hand.

Why do I have to run for you?

Whenever I think I am done, 

you rip out the page

and make me start over.

You wake me up in the middle of the night.

You don’t let me rest.

You keep breaking my heart over and over

each time you leave a story unfinished,

a project abandoned,

and a character poorly written.

I’ve been doing this job for ever.

This job I never signed up for.

I don't remember how I got here

or why I have been sentenced to this work.

GloPoWriMo Day 22

Colours

 

Colours

Red 

The colour of my bride’s bouquet.

That was a long time ago, but

I still smile whenever I see you.

Yellow

The cat thought the lemon rind looked like a slice of the Sun.

Pity the taste was such a disappointment.

This can happen when you are guided by looks, thought the cat.

Blue 

Blue roses used to be white,

but they drank the dye.

So, now they are what they are. 

They signify secrecy and dreams,

unrequited love, mystery, and hope.

The handbook doesn’t mention sadness or tears, but

how could it be any different?

GloPoWriMo Day 22

How Refugees Arrive

 

How Refugees Arrive

They arrive on foot, on donkeys and by sea,

their clothes in disarray.

Some carry their bundles on their back,

others have bags in their arms.

Inside are all their worldly possessions now.

What’s left behind will have to be forgotten.

They are refugees now, which means they have no possessions,

other than their bundles and the clothes on their back.

Which is why they wear multiple shirts and sweaters.

This is a refugees’ uniform, no matter where they come from. 

They carry their babies in a firm embrace.

They trudge along.

The faster ones wait for their families to catch up.

Their family is everything now, in this new world.

They don’t know what this place is, or how they arrived here.

They woke up in their soft bed yesterday, and here they are now.

Or has there ever been a soft bed?

Maybe that was a dream they once had,

Maybe they have always been on the road.

Like a broken army,

they traipse listlessly, 

for they have no aim, no final destination.

There’s nobody waiting for them anywhere.

All windows are firmly shut, and the people turn their heads away.

Inspired by this photo

GloPoWriMo Day 20

What is hunting me?

 

What is hunting me?

They come at night.

Thousands and thousands of tiny question marks.

I can see their beady eyes in the dark.

They swarm by the lamp-post.

They flap their wings.

They shriek at me in a cacophony of voices.

They circle around me faster and faster.

Then they start flinging their questions at me.

NaPoWriMo Day 19

Blackberry Bush

 

Blackberry Bush

Next time, I will come back as a blackberry bush.

Maybe you will come back as a boy again this time.

You will find me by accident while playing in the woods.

Maybe you will recognize me, maybe not.

Somewhere, at the back of your mind, you will remember

that you always used to love blackberries.

Grinning self-consciously, you will check

that no one is looking.

You will stuff your mouth full of ripe berries,

their juices exploding at the back of your throat.

I will not come cheap.

Your torn trousers and scratched hands will bear witness to that.

You will come home and refuse supper.

Your blue tongue and mouth will give you away.

You will keep returning to me all summer.

When the autumn comes, do not be sad.

And remember to act surprised

when next time I decide to come back

as something else.

GloPoWriMo Day 18

Winter

 

Winter

Something is being born.

It is coming, it can’t be stopped.

It won’t be silenced.

Life is hard, it is howling.

Life is hopeless, I know this already.

These savage cries are seeping

through every crack, and every window.

And now the wind reigns.

And now the wind is gone.

The silence is deafening.

The night is long.

Winter has brought with it

the words, the sounds, the music,

the storytellers and the mages.

Yet, there is hope

by this fire right here.

We will win this war with harmony.

with the beauty of our stories.

With the kindness of our hearts.

Just ignore the savage wind.

It is uncouth and rough,

It is rude and not very bright.

Yet, there is hope

by this fire right here,

that our voices will be heard as well,

that our story will be told till the end.

No more rude interruptions.

GloPoWriMo Day 17

Someone else

 

Someone else

And now the wind has started.

Nothing significant at this stage,

just a pleasant feeling on the skin.

The birds are still singing and

I can hear children and dogs in the distance.

A bee is buzzing lazily around my balcony.

Or maybe it is a wasp. I can never tell the difference.

Then the sky darkens all of a sudden.

I can still hear the children. 

If anything, they are getting louder,

knowing their games will soon have to end.

The birds don’t care.

Nor does the acacia tree, full in bloom.

Spring has come early this year.

The wind is really picking up now, 

bending the acacia branches to the ground,

shaking the flowers.

I worry for the tree, will there be any flowers left after this?

And now the path underneath is full of white petals,

and the flowers smell sweeter than ever before.

Come what may,

they will dance with the wind one last time,

before they are silenced.

And what a relief it is to see,

that today it’s someone else who dies,

not me.

GloPoWriMo Day 16

The Cat Kingdom

 

The Cat Kingdom

There is a cat kingdom out there somewhere.

I know there has to be.

It is a good land, it is a just land.

And because they are good, because they are just, they have a Queen,

And the Queen has a very long tail.

She is fair and she rules well.

It is according to Her law that every morning

every cat in the kingdom is served

a pot of hot milk.

Because of that, her people worship her,

for she is wise and smart and pretty,

and she has the longest tail in the Kingdom.

GloPoWriMo Day 15 - stamps

I used this stamp as inspiration for my poem.

Descending

 

        Descending

 

 

 

To get there, you need

to climb down some winding stairs and then some more. You are advised

to be careful. It can be damp and slippery. You will be happy

to see that the tunnels are lit. Still, it is a good idea

to take your own torch as well. In order

to reach the main chamber, you ought

to turn left, then right, then left again. After that, it is best

to follow one of those large tunnels and

to let it guide you. Then you will have

to climb down a lot of stairs. It is bound

to get darker at this point. You will do best

to stay calm.

To think what this was like for Medieval prisoners

to walk down those steps, never

to see daylight again! Have I scared you?

I didn’t mean

to. You don’t have

to go there. Not if you are afraid of

the dark

or narrow corridors

or bats.

NaPoWriMo Day 14 - anaphora

A Humble Peppercorn

 

A Humble Peppercorn

I am about to write an ode

to a humble peppercorn, 

once bought and sold like gold.

It is tickly to the tongue,

burns like fire at the back of the throat.

Also note: when ground, it makes a crackliing sound.

Turns into powder black,

or grey, when mixed with salt,

a pretty colour, 

which makes me think of tweed

rough to the touch

tough to wear for too long but not to the point

where it’ll make you bleed.

Now, where was I?

Yes, black pepper, not grey tweed.

My mind, when freed, goes to strange places.

So, peppercorn, in some cases, was given as dowry, tax or rent.

Black pepper oil has warm, earthy and even flowery scent. 

Not at all unpleasant, though it can burn 

the skin, if used straight.

It should always be diffused.

Now you have all you need to make

soups, stews and sauses, or even 

bake

a carrot cake.

GloPoWriMo Day 13 - senses and rhymes

Ravijojla

Ravijojla

Let me tell you about Ravijojla. In my land there are different kinds of fairies. There are mountain fairies, river fairies, thunder fairies, herbalist fairies… Ravijojla was all of that and more. She could walk on water, fly over the mountains and through thunderclouds and cure the sick with her medicine. She was stronger than ten men and she sang like an angel. Yet, history will remember her best by her hair. It was long and thick and beautiful. And strong. 

Once Ravijojla used her hair as a rope to help a group of villagers build a church.  On more than one occasion, she invited birds to nest in her hair. She got on well with all animals, big and small. Yet, her favourite was always her winged white mare, Bela. The two of them understood each other without words. They flew together through thunderclouds and brought rain to thirsty arid lands. Ravijojla was not afraid of thunder. In fact, she would hold a lightning on the top of her palm and she often used it as a weapon.

Ravijojla’s best friend Marko also had a horse. His horse’s name was Šarac, which means the colourful one. The four of them would often sit together around a fire and drink wine. By the end of the night Marko and his horse would be sleeping in drunken stupor, while Ravijojla and Bela would just get up and fly away. Wine had no effect on them.

Once Marko got in trouble with some people and almost got himself killed, but luckily Ravijojla was there to help him. She single-handedly fought an army of fifty men and killed them all. 

Once a handsome young king fell in love with Ravijojla. He became quite a nuisance and chased her on his horse. Ravijojla was on foot. She outran the king and his men and all their horses. When they almost caught up with her, she plucked a hair from her head and threw it onto the ground. A thick forest grew from her hair and the king and his men got lost in it. When they found their way out, they resumed the chase. Ravijojla started crying. Big tears fell from her cheeks and onto the ground. And, where her tears fell, fast rivers would form. Everybody drowned except the king. Ravijojla took pity on him and pulled him and his horse out at the last moment. Yet she decided to teach him a lesson, for his own good. She climbed onto the king’s horse willingly and she let him take her to his castle. The king’s castle was on the top of a mountain, high above the clouds. All night they rode and all night he talked to her, painting a beautiful picture of their life together. In the morning, when he arrived at his castle, he finally turned around to look at Ravijojla, but there was nobody behind him. 

GloPoWriMo Day 12  - a tall tale

In this "tall tale" I have mixed various Balkan legends about fairies and especially about Fairy Ravijojla, who appears in several Serbian epic poems, usually as a friend of Kraljević Marko (our national hero and a superhuman being in his own right). I have irreverently inverted the myth of Marko and ascribed some of his feats to Ravijojla. Throughout this blog post, I have used the images I have generated with the NightCafe AI. 

 

Five Sad Love Stories

Five Sad Love Stories

I

That was the first time his hand touched hers, and the last.

II

The best years of my life, she thought as she looked back at  what had been her home for one last time.

III

Alone in his cell, he realised he had given the passcode to the wrong girl.

IV

And this is where their story ends, she thought, before it has ever had a chance to begin.

V

She was someone else’s wife now and he was that man’s best friend and that was all right.

GloPoWriMo Day 11 - monostichs

 

Things Money Can’t Buy

 

Things Money Can’t Buy

Apparently, they won’t sell you the Eiffel Tower,

no matter how much you need it.

It is not easy to steal it either.

I am not saying it is impossible.

Like any other skill, theft needs to be practiced.

A man, for instance, stole a mailbox once.

He said he wanted it to be his.

And it was.

It is as simple as that.

This is easier for animals.

A stray dog once usurped a bed,

kicking the humans who had slept there out.

Should you fail with mailboxes or beds,

you could always steal some detective novels from a library.

Those librarians are very nice.

They will be easy prey. 

If you can’t have the Eiffel Tower,

detective novels are the next best thing,

much better than mailboxes or beds.

People want different things.

I, for one, want to write a poem right now.

I would be willing to steal a mailbox for that,

or to kick a sweet old couple out of their bed.

Now, detective novels are easy.

I am not saying I’ve done it.

I will admit nothing at this point.

I am like that cartoonist who is resisting the urge to draw himself

whenever he runs out of ideas.

I am resisting the urge to talk about my inability to write,

or about the appallingly low quality of my previous work.

You will never hear me talk about those things.

I am just sorry you can’t get that Eiffel Tower.

You deserve it. Pity it’s not for sale.

GloPoWriMo Day 10 

The resource used for this poem is here

To my holiday home

 

To my holiday home

Planted in the fertile ground,

you come alive

every spring.

You are a mighty tree

of a kind never seen before.

Your hexagonal trunk speaks of unusual stability,

a rare virtue these days.

Your cracked bark,

a house to ants,

is witness to your old age.

You stand on a cliff spreading your arms,

Protecting the village from landslides.

Each new rain leaves you more exhausted.

Yet, you are still attractive,

and those yellow flowers you share your bed with

guard you jealously from idle views.

In your magnanimity,

you have opened your lodgings to many, 

including us.

We stand before you every spring,

counting your numerous scars,

tending to your fresh wounds,

watching for traces of treacherous instability.

We stand before you today, oh mighty one,

our keys at the ready,

as we fight an army of angry wasps

who live in your mailbox.

We stand before you, oh wise one,

as we breathe in the aroma

of wild mint and yarrow.

We are ready to listen

and to learn, 

while squirrels run about in the attic

and the owls stand vigil in the night.

GloPoWriMo Day 9 - an ode

What the cat knows about the total eclipse of the Sun

 

What the cat knows about the total eclipse of the Sun

It is perfectly round

and perfectly missing,

like a cookie stolen from the table

when no one is watching.

It used to be pleasant on the skin.

It is broken and useless now.

These types of changes are not welcome,

but let’s hope it’s something temporary.

Let’s not make any hasty judgements 

at this point.

GloPoWriMo Day 8

Wish you were here

 

Wish you were here

Wish you were here,

inside my head.

We could sit on the bench

and stare at the lake

and feed the koi fish.

GloPoWriMo Day 7 - a postcard

Declutter

 

Declutter

You need to take those boxes out first, throw them all away. 

Declutter your life. 

No furniture, four empty walls. 

Silence the inner critic.

Empty your mind, 

carry your thoughts out of the room. 

Then just sit in silence. 

Just wait for your Muse to show up.

Then write it all down, no censorship.

You might need to pop out first, to buy yourself a pen,

and a piece of paper, and a desk.

Also, a chair to sit on

while you create your masterpiece.

GloPoWriMo Day 6

They said on time

 

They said on time

Time is an illusion, said the hourglass. Nothing ever changes, the sand never runs out. There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Just the endless flipping about.

Time leaves its traces on everything, said the mirror. You are a reflection of who you were yesterday, but your image is never the same. For all we know, sand might be seeping through that tiny crack in your side as we speak. 

That doesn’t prove anything, the hourglass said. I don't believe in a dynamic aspect of time. For me, time doesn’t pass and I don’t believe I have a crack in my side.

The cat jumped up from where she was sleeping and knocked the hourglass off the shelf. The hourglass broke into a thousand little pieces.

The passage of time is a real and mind-independent phenomenon, she said.

Then she went back to her spot by the fire and immediately fell back to sleep.

GloPoWriMo Day 5

Living “Stars” in Caves

 

Living “Stars” in Caves

An underground river,

a brightly lit heavenly dome

a cavern full of stars,

like a palace with a thousand lights,

each one a pair of eyes and a greedy mouth.

As moths to a lamp, they fly to the light.

A thousand hungry mouths come to life

until the prey is no more.

The river underneath is warm and still.

If you want to see them for yourself,

you must enter the caves in silence,

lest they sense the danger and extinguish their lights.

GloPoWriMo Day 4 - The strangest things in the world

Inspired by Living "Stars" in Caves

The Water Fairy

 

The Water Fairy

Finally, one night, she came with the flood. Fingers scraping against the wall, she pushed her head in and looked at me. What shall we do with the wall, I asked. Who is going to mend it now? She said nothing. The water kept dripping from the ceiling, seeping through the walls, a steady clank, clank, clank against the coffee-table. The neighbour must have forgotten to close the tap again. She had big indifferent fish eyes. She was not at all what I had imagined her to be. Do you eat fish, I asked, and are you a fish yourself. She still said nothing. Water was oozing down her face and hair. There was a puddle around where she stood. It was bound to leave a stain on the parquet. And then she spoke.

“Let me show you my sunken city”, she said.

GloPoWriMo Day 3 - a surreal prose poem

To my Coffee Mug

 

To my Coffee Mug

Do you remember how you used to wake me up,

your bitter kiss on my lips,

making no promises about the day ahead?

And there was that one time 

I decided to become a photographer,

so I took pictures of you,

then ran them through different filters.

Finally, I made you the star of a short film

and there was even a modern poem

all about you.

The camera got stolen the next summer.

The digital art is still online, I guess.

The Internet remembers.

And then there was that time I chipped you, 

then refused to throw you away?

You haven’t changed much since then.

And I don’t know why,

but I don’t use you at all now.

I can’t tell if you feel the same indifference.

GloPoWriMo Day 2 - a platonic love poem

Spoiler Alert!

 

Spoiler Alert!

 

It is that book

in which the actor did it

And, when they catch him up, he says:

“Curse be upon you”, or something like that.

And Poirot is retired. And he is bored and he does gardening,

or is that really the same book?

And Miss Marple sees a murder from her train window.

Which can’t be right, she never put the two of them together.

And Miss Marple never witnessed a murder, did she?

But they are both great, and then there is that one

About a beautiful house and the murderer is telling the story.

And you really believe him.

I hope I haven’t spoiled it for you.

There is that one with cyanide.

Actually more than one, I believe.

And the one where everybody dies, including the killer.

And the one where everyone is the killer.

I love that one.

You really have to read those books.

I am sorry I have forgotten the names.

All I remember is who did it

in each and every one of them.

I hope that helps.

GloPoWriMo Day 1