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

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

Days

 

Days

GloPoWriMo Day 11

This is an erasure poem. The full text is here:

Bazett’s group (9, 18) also observed that 4 days of acclimatiza- 
tion to a warm environment caused both the maximal and average 
blood flow through a man’s fingers to increase by 10 to 25 % over 
values observed on the first exposure to heat. When exposed to cold 
after acclimatization to heat, the men were unable, by vasoconstriction, 
to reducd blood flow to the fingers to the usual low level of about 
1 cm?/100 g of tissue/min, It required 2 or 3 days of exposure to 
cold to prepare the heat-acclimatized men for maximal peripheral 
vasoconstriction. 

Grant and Pearson (19) made the significant observation that 
the venous blood flow through the skin of the forearm is derived not 
only from the digits and hands, but to an important degree from the 
muscles of the forearms. Since cutaneous veins are thus supplied 
with blood from the muscles and deeper tissues, they must play an 
important and direct part in heat regulation. Bazett et al. (9)' noted 
increased distention of the superficial veins of the forearm in relation 
te 4 or 5 days of acclimatization to heat. Bass et al. (13, 20) suggest 
that increased venomotor tone may be an important part of the accli- 
matization of men to heat. In relation to this, there is evidence of 
increased peripheral resistance and decreased forearm volume by men 
in the heat after full acclimatization and these findings are in turn 
consistent with the fall in skin temperature which has been repeatedly 
observed during acclimatization (3, 4). Landis has found that changes 
in venomotor tone play an important part in compensating for blood 
loss or pooling. 

The original is here: https://archive.org/stream/proceedingsofsix0006unse/proceedingsofsix0006unse_djvu.txt

The Lantern

 

The Lantern

My father at the

top of the hill, a lantern

in his hand, a beacon.

GloPoWriMo Day 10

Animals

 

Animals

The Bear

Alone in my den

I sleep.

When I wake up,

the world will be new again.

My dreams are those

of summer and solitude.

That’s why I have never been able

to believe

in winter.

The continual darkness,

the winds and the cold,

those must be

somebody else’s nightmare.

The Swallows

South is a place on the map,

a promised land,

a dream.

North is in the past.

There’s no use dwelling

on memories,

no matter how bittersweet

they are.

Home

is a pair of strong wings,

right here,

right now.

The Preying Mantis

She is the mistress

of understatement.

Maybe it was in a poetry workshop,

she is not sure,

but she remembers clearly

the lesson.

Though it is not easy,

you have to kill them:

the vague adverbs,

the boring descriptions,

the passives,

every single word

that doesn't tell the story.

And what did you think I meant?

GloPoWriMo Day 9

My Shadow

 

My Shadow

My shadow mocks me behind my back.

She thinks I don’t know.

She isn’t at all like me.

She puts on weight to spite me

and eats whatever she wants.

She forgets names

and makes too many promises.

She isn’t at all like me.

She goes into dark rooms,

drags her elbows through cobwebs,

her knees are always scratched.

She is not at all like me.

I am ladylike. She is not.

She speaks loudly and too much.

And she sings out of tune.

She is not at all like me.

At night, I find her sitting

all by herself.

She is a loner.

An eccentric.

And a nerd.

She is not at all like me.

And she mocks me behind my back.

She thinks I don’t know.

NaPoWriMo Day 8

Grandma's Broth

 

Grandma’s Broth

 

Carrot stick, celery, parsnip, leek,

onion, rosemary, basil and garlic.

                     Simmering, bubbling, humming sound.                     

Fragrant, spicy, earthy, browned.

Hearty, savoury, tangy, zesty.

Scalding, steamy, smooth  and silky.

Welcome, welcome.

Grab a spoon.

Have some more.

Come again soon.

GloPoWriMo Day 7

Don't be late like Ilija

 

Don’t be late like Ilija

I  have time management issues. 

In other words, I am always late.

Even God has noticed. 

In fact, He has been worried about it.

In my dream last night God spoke to me again.

Don’t be late, he told me.

Don’t be late like Ilija.

I wonder who Ilija is.

Is it Elijah from the Bible?

Or did he mean Ilija, our old neighbour.

I don’t remember him being late.

Though once he got drunk on my mother’s brandy.

But only because he thought it was wine.

Maybe it is someone else completely.

It’s quite a common name over here.

Whoever he is, he has a problem with time management,

and so do I.

I tend to daydream,

I tend to linger and hesitate,

and there is no time for such activities

in this day and age.

For example, here.

I have been sitting here for a while.

I have been staring into the distance.

I have been waiting, patiently, for something to shift,

for the air to thicken,

so that I can finish this poem

and go to bed on time

at least once.

GloPoWriMo Day 6

I hate notebooks

 

I hate notebooks

I hate notebooks.

The way they look at me accusingly 

from across the room.

I hate little scraps of blank paper.

They seem to pop up wherever I go.

I hate book margins and paper napkins,

pencils and ball-point pens,

word documents and phone diaries.

They all seem to judge me.

They all seem to expect something from me

whenever I walk by.

GloPoWriMo26 - Day 5

The night the river remembered

 

The night the river remembered its true size

All night, it rained, and in the morning,

from our vantage point on the hill we saw 

the maps had been re-written while we slept. 

There was an angry delta where the bridge had been and

our road home had turned to water.

GloPoWriMo Day 4

Painting a Wall

 

Painting a Wall

 

On my wall I paint a house and a sun and

children going to school.

On my wall I write words.

They flow through me.

There is a river of words on the wall.

Noisy words.

I don’t control them, I never did.

They jump and run

and stomp their feet all over my wall.

Silly words.

And the painting on my wall grows.

There is  a house and a sun and a road.

A white road.

And it keeps growing.

And it is already a mile long.

And the wall stretches to take everything in.

I love my walls the way they are,

not white, not boring,

but full of words.

And poetry runs here like a river.

I try to contain it, but I can’t.

So, I put a full stop and

hope for the best.

 

GloPoWriMo Day 3

My Kingdom

 

My Kingdom

A math lesson on a hot day.

Thirty children, their eyes

eager, their hands

raised and I on my throne at the back,

a fairy queen, observing

my kingdom, while my subjects

suspect nothing. 

GloPoWriMo Day 2

The Key

 

The Key

 

The key did not fit

in the lock, at night someone

had changed all locks and

now I stood outside, the key,

a flightless bird on my palm.

I waited for the 

dream to find the lock that my

key fit in. Somewhere

an old memory opened

and beckoned me to walk inside.

GloPoWriMo Day 1 - a tanka

A silly idea my friend had

 

A silly idea my friend had

When we were in Stratford-upon-Avon, a friend of mine sat

on Shakespeare’s bed. He wanted, he said, the spirit of Shakespeare

to enter him and help him write. I want that too.

In Stratford, there were tourists everywhere.

They filled the little room, they stood in the doorway.

How did he manage to sit on the bed without anyone noticing?

He was brave, I am not.

I want to be brave too.

I want to go to people’s homes

and sit on their beds

and later, I want to write

about the experience.

Was the bed soft?

Was the pillow fluffy?

How many blankets did the person need?

I want a bed that turns into a magic carpet

as I dream. 

I want magic quills and parchments

that write on their own.

I want magic ink smudges

that form themselves into landscapes and trees. 

I want this poem to grow like a tree, organically.

Now, I am not implying Shakespeare had a magic carpet,

a magic pen, a magic parchment, 

magic ink or magic trees.

That was just a silly idea my friend had

as he sat on Shakespeare’s bed

back when we were in Stratford-upon-Avon

that one time.

GloPoWriMo - GloPoWriMo Eve