NaPoWriMo day 4: The Cruelest Month

by Maja Todorovic, posted in My personal rhyme - from time to time

Months for me are usually an easy ride. 28 to 31 days, it passes rather quickly.

But years are the long snakes that drag unpleasant months, we don’t want to remember and recall. In each year, there is an unforgivable month, snake’s mouth that just swallows all of your energy, time, existence and you end up wondering: “Life has a party on his own and I’m not even invited!”

I have that one particular year, when in March everything changed for me. In my country we call March Baba Marta (Granny Marta) and yes! March is a capricious, unstable, sometimes sleepy, sometimes rainy, rarely shiny: like an old grandmother who growls around trying to find her cane.

Through the window I could see the remnants of snow, her silver hair spread across the park. Small snowdrops, random teeth in that deceiving smile, were trying to turn their clumsy heads towards sporadic Sun.

That March wasn’t only the beginning of spring. It was suppose to be the beginning of new life for me. Instead, March brought the cruelty of the unknown, acridity of the uncertainty. Baba Marta was not in the mood.

April came like a young, playful girl, with the greenest eyes I ever saw; colorful dress wrapped her blooming body; teasing me, inviting me to join her; wanting me to forget awful Baba Marta.

Strangely enough, as the Sky was arranging tender clouds and Sun began to caress my skin,  all I could think of is how warm was behind the cold, icy February walls.

24 thoughts on “NaPoWriMo day 4: The Cruelest Month”

  3. Fantastic!

    In each year, there is an unforgivable month, snake’s mouth that just swallows all of your energy, time, existence and you end up wondering: “Life has a party on his own and I’m not even invited!”

    I can relate to those lines. How come we we’re invited to life’s party?

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      7. Exactly. In the beginning of my inception with poetry, I was told by professors & English majors that poetry is suppose to be followed by certain specific rules. I was told I shouldn’t read ‘William Burroughs’, because he was destroyed the traditional form of writing. I went to go and buy all of William Burroughs books. I devoured them all like a sponge. This was back in 2005. Since then, I said, fuck conventional poetry – I’m going unconventional with what poetry means to me. I don’t care anymore and I don’t care if people don’t fully understand me.

        In poetry there are no rules or restrictions! Anything goes. 🙂

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