It hatched out of a stone thrown

 

It hatched out of a stone thrown

It hatched out of a stone thrown

Branko Miljkovic

It is small and clumsy, newly

Hatched, yet its teeth are sharp already. You can see a whisp of smoke coming

Out of its nostrils. Too late to disown it. It has claimed you now.

Of all the things you could have chosen to build a poem, you had to pick

A red fruit full of words that burned your tongue. You pretended you had nothing to do with the 

Stone you found inside, though you could hear cursing from within. Words like that carelessly 

Thrown around will find their way back to their creator. You cannot pretend the poem is not yours. It even looks like you now.

GloPoWriMo Day 6 - an acrostic that reproduces a phrase with the first words of each line

I used Branko Miljkovic's Sonnet about the bird

Mountain Fairy Gets a Divorce

 

Mountain Fairy Gets a Divorce

My mother always told me to stay away from humans.

They are weak and insecure, she said.

That’s what makes them dangerous.

But love is blind

and I convinced myself this one would be different.

I thought he knew what he was getting himself into.

Then, why did he ask me to choose between his world and mine?

And when I tried to leave, why did he steal my wings?

As for the village, they had it coming.

They should have known better than to chase after me with torches and rakes.

I am glad I spared the children and the horses.

They were not to blame for anything.

GloPoWriMo Day 5 - a mythical creature doing something unusual

How to Write a Haiku

 

                         Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

How to Write a Haiku

1. Get up at the crack of dawn and write 750 words before your first morning coffee.

2. For easier handling, use paper, not a notebook.

3. Do not worry about the style or content of your writing.

4. Carefully cut the paper into slips, so that each slip is an individual word.

5. Throw the word confetti into the air.

6. Pick the word that lands closest to your right foot.

7. Wait until midnight, then plant the word in the garden.

8. The word is now a seed.

9. A tree will grow from the seed. It may take a while.

10. Now you must wait for the tree to bear fruit.

11. Whatever it is, you must cut it in half and eat it.

12. Preserve the pips. These will be the words of your poem. Learn them by heart.

13. Put the pips under your pillow as you go to sleep the next evening. You will dream.

14. The dream is your poem.

15. You will have forgotten most of it by the morning, so just write the first three lines from memory. 

16. If you don’t remember anything, repeat the exercise.

GloPoWriMo Day 4 - a poem in the form of a poetry prompt

Once Upon a Time There Was a Number

 

                                   Image by Cheska Poon from Pixabay

Once upon a time there was a number

“v

"It began to reckon with itself

It divided multiplied itself
It subtracted added itself
And remained always alone"

Vasko Popa

Most fairy tales begin in a similar way.

A fairy-tale needs a hero in order to be a fairy-tale.

The hero feels lonely to start with,

so he goes on a quest to find that special someone.

A best friend, a bewitched swan-girl, or any other type of soulmate.

He has adventures and commits acts of heroism. 

At the end, the hero is never lonely.

But this number was different.

There was nowhere to search except inside, so

it began to reckon with itself.

This was a mistake, since

this number was one of a kind.

It was destined for loneliness.

It was pure and round and perfect,

self-sufficient and shiny,

just like the Sun.

Yet, the number was a true hero.

It wanted to rescue swan-girls and slay dragons.

It wanted a soul-mate and a dangerous quest.

It wasn’t afraid to look deep inside, so 

It divided multiplied itself

The result was always the same.

Yet, the number never gave up.

Maybe it just needed more practice?

What if it hurt a little?

What’s a hero without a few wounds?

But the wounds always healed and the number

remained perfect, round and lonely

indivisible and unmultipliable. 

It found friends, but they all disappeared.

Other numbers said it was cursed and ran away

every time it showed up, so

the number had only itself to reckon with.

It subtracted, added itself.

This time other numbers accepted its company,

but they hardly noticed it was around.

This number was pure and round like the Sun.

It was nice to look at, but what use

could it be to anyone?

So the number shut itself inside a cave.

The cave was dark and quiet.

No one but the number itself to reckon with.

You know someone is a hero when they refuse to give up.

A hero could also be a hermit.

A hero could look inside, even though the emptiness was scary.

So the number continued to reckon with itself in perfect darkness

and remained always alone.

GloPoWriMo Day 3 - a glosa

This glosa is based on Vasko Popa's poem A Forgetful Number

For those interested, here is the Serbian original of the poem.

Longing Marks

 

                                   Image by Eugenio Albrecht from Pixabay 

Longing Marks

It was distances she longed for.

One night she snuck out all the way to the main road.

She saw headlights.

She heard sirens honking.

A tiny red car passed by.

Inside, a woman like her,

free to go wherever she wanted.

She gazed at the car for as long as she could see the rear lights

and long after that she followed it

in her mind’s eye.

Freedom was what she longed for.

To start the engine and get going and never ask herself where to.

But right now something was stirring inside her,

something new and unseen,

little feet running,

running, running, running after the car.

The little heart was beating the rhythm of that engine

The little hands outstretched towards the horizon.

She knew the baby was a girl.

She knew the girl would be born with these marks, invisible to everyone but the two of them.

One was on the heel, shaped like a rear light.

The other one, deep inside the little heart,

beating the rhythm of the engine.

The third one, which came out in the girl’s dreams only,

a white road, winding, 

a little red dot far away,

free.

GloPoWriMo Day 2 

The Pale Knight

 

Image by Devanath from Pixabay 

The Pale Knight

 

The screams woke her up. It was the young man next door, her room-mate told her. His lungs were full of fluid and needed to be punctured in order for him to breathe again.

Milutin was his name. He had been wounded months ago in one of the many wars that raged in the region. She thought she might have seen him before, in passing. A cheeky young man. He had been here longer than anyone else, her room-mate told her. Wasn’t he handsome? Her room-mate was smitten with him and so were most women here, even the nurses. Handsome and cheeky, yes, her room-mate told her, but he was crippled for life. A bomb had wreaked havoc in his stomach. Half of his organs were damaged or missing. He could no longer father children or, you-know. Still good with his hands and lips, her room-mate gushed.

Funny how everyone is obsessed with sex at hospitals.

She saw him two days later. He was thin and almost transparent.

You are the new girl, he said. I almost died the other day, he said. He had the air of someone who had been to the other side and back and now knew some secrets.

But he was still good with his hands and lips, as she soon found out. He came every evening and gave a Good Night kiss to every girl on the ward.

He brought her a book to read after that. They were both feeling better now, so they walked up and down the corridor. He told her how he used to be a weight-lifting champion before the war. He told her about the women he had loved and the children he had fathered. Whenever he spoke about a woman, he used the word love. Then he spoke about the war and his voice never changed. He was sorry he couldn’t go back. He missed the action and the fighting. A war movie was playing in his head all the time and he was the protagonist. The Enemy had no face. The Enemy was just someone to shoot at.

He had been evaluated by a psychiatrist, he said. Do you have any nightmares, the psychiatrist had asked. No, I sleep like a baby, he had said. Do you feel remorse about anything, the psychiatrist had asked. I have no idea what the psychiatrist was talking about, he told her.

She was still very young and had had a sheltered life. She had never encountered evil before, but surely it didn’t look like this?

That was in March. They saw each other one more time in May, as he was finally released from hospital. She was wearing a lot of make-up on that day. She wanted to look like a woman, not a silly little virgin girl who couldn’t tell good from evil.

You look different, he said. I am going home, he said. Then he talked about love. The love between the two of them. Let’s not talk nonsense, she said.

I am glad he has left. I never liked him, her best friend said. Well, neither did I, she replied. He might be a war criminal, for all I know.

She kept to herself the memory of the pale knight standing by her bed that day in March. The hero who had been pierced by a spear, yet survived. The man who had been to the other side and back and now had knowledge that other mortals lacked.

GloPoWriMo Day 1 - a story about the body

The Melody

Image by Artie_Navarre from Pixabay

The Melody

 

“The absence of the Witch does not / Invalidate the spell”

Emily Dickinson

 

 

I sometimes remember the scraps of the melody in the morning.

I can never recall the lyrics.

Dreams are useless nonsense, anyway.

Morning coffee takes care of all that junk.

I have my coffee strong and bitter, on an empty stomach.

Then I go about my business.

I never strive for what I can’t achieve.

I know what I can or can’t do.

No one needs to remind me of my limitations.

The melody sometimes returns at lunch time.

I try not to stay alone with my thoughts for too long.

Busy hands and a busy mind and another cup of bitter coffee.

I always smile.

Never cry in public, she said.

Others will pity you and you don’t want pity.

You know what you can or can’t do.

You know what your limitations are.

Crying won’t fix that and it is childish.

You are not a child.

I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror in the evening.

A middle-aged woman now.

The image is somewhat blurred because I need new glasses,

so it may or may not be her after all.

Maybe it’s me now.

I’ll never be quite sure.

GloPoWriMo Early Bird Prompt - the poetry of Emily Dickinson