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