The Irish Rose


I may not know your name yet,
but I dream of warm, delicate sunset

where I sense you in the sweetness
of summer watermelons

you are too far, distant to fetch
like stars, my hands unable to catch.

I may not know the color of your eyes,
but I would recognize your kindness,

a tender gesture of a stranger passing by
when tired day spits me out

and my heavy, wrinkled sigh is caught
in a gentle grip and contagious smile.

I may not know of your past
but I would hear your silent prayer

where you long for fragile moments
those diamond years crushed to dust,

for missed glittering winter dawns,
erased touch, forgotten so fast.

I may not know your language yet,
but you and only you would understand

the story I’m about to tell:
a story of a girl who’s eagerness ignites

leaves the trail of light behind.
Feathered step, rose petals that excite

like butterfly dance in the stormy wind
tempestuous emotion, shown for a second

a scent, a hint, exhilarating
sting to any sleepy heart

awakening love buried deep,
mending hope that’s teared apart.

Her soul is moon, faint and dim
as seen through tree branches,

but soft and inviting, staunchest
in any life mystery.

Her hair like a wavy tapestry
of cascading Irish basalt

frames her silky face,
cherry lips, slightly apart

with each breath tremble,
like a leaf on a sudden breeze.

Her eyes, deep green
mountain lakes hide secret,

fragments of fear, haunted
deer in the spring meadow,

which only men with pure intentions
could comprehend, could see.

She is small, spindle and thin
always accompanied by a shadow

of red umbrella, bouncing in her hand
as she collects rain and white pebbles

at the nearby river bank. Her dress,
neatly ironed, patchworked cotton

apostrophizes her hourglass shape.
An ivory button adorns

her neck as collar lace
over-brims her firm breasts.

And also something shiny,
an ikon, heavy but tiny

that rests on her belly
while she sleeps

and sometimes dangles,
swings like a pendulum

from an oversized chain
around her chest when she

plays out in the watery stains.
Made of special stone,

mirroring cerulean skies
of the day earth gave birth

to her, anyone mean who touches
it three times, immediately dies.

It hangs there, like a charm
to keep her safe from a dangerous

world, world she thought once knew
but deceived her, nothing she feels

anymore is really true. I want to
tell you of that particular night

when he came, heir of the of the
Southern Land to steal her peace

beauty and innocence. He was tall
and strong, with arms that could build

castle walls and  dark brown hair like
fur of the bear. His robe, unwavering

steel of ocean shells draped
posture a of skerry, resisting

any erosive attempts. But his face was
a kite, furious dragon prepared

any time to strike. Pretending
to be an oak tree where at early evening

she would like to rest, a sudden rustle,
a giant nest appeared on the trunk

to swallow her virgin body, in
such rush of entwining, devastating

hug, braided leafs around
her thighs pressed her deeper and

deeper in the mud. Surprised
by a sudden ravishing thrust,

instead of letting her body
to lie, fragile, limped and

crushed with all the strength
she could collect her pearl

white grin transformed into
a sharp gob, a cutting edge

to obtruncate the choking sedge,
making her relentlessly to sob.

Ripped and curled, instead there
was now a man, man covered

in blood pouring from his head,
in crimson flames searing the rest

of his blame.Feared of that
piece of skin stuck among

her teeth, in overflowing disgust
and shame she pukes out the ear of

that violent scavenger, beast
ready to feast on her naivety.

With no brevity, she began to run,
fast as she could as red drops

dripped from the soft fabric
that caressed her feet. Finally

cradled in the forest’s lap
she swore that no man

would ever dishonor, torture
or taunt her again:

Whoever speaks, thinks or deeds
evil of me will endure excruciating

pain, forever be turned in a
wandering ghost, invisible

soul to be endlessly in search
for love but never finding,

just aimlessly float
in grief and loss!

Then sudden blow, a frisky
wind whirl whispered in

between her tears:
There, where golden and silver

mushrooms mate, near
the Purple creek in a small,

shelved cave, you will a find
a necklace stoned with

clouds to cheer your
spirit stitched with rose

thorns to invigorate your body
and polished with the stalk of rare,

porcelain  ice-poppy
to keep away sordid, jostling men.

This jeweled gem keep tight
nesting on your neck’s skin

for anyone with cruel temptations
who touches it three times,

immediately dies,
in exile damnation!

That’s how she got, stone necklace
her best, inseparable friend.

It took many moons for sun to see
her smile again: she would caress

and keep in between her small
clasped hands a precious charm

and prayed to heavens to give
her back faith in love and honesty,

nobody has to deed any harm.
Seasons passed by and little by little

feeling less bitter and brittle
she would peak out of her forests lap

collect rain and pebbles at
the nearby river bank.

Eagerness that excites radiated
again from her (starving for love) heart.

Sun returned 18 times and
that little girl has grown

but still wears her protective
stone, a one that rejected and thrown

many insane men, far away
in a desolate place. As time

becomes diamond, precious,
but hardened from futile trials

and flinty infatuations
a necklace recalls it’s own fame,

kindling rumors of a
girl named Irish rose,

pretty and redolent
but lethal and malevolent:

no men  appeared to be tough
perspicuous or sincere enough

to past the test of three
or more sensations on their

tipping fingers while holding
protective pendant

that lingers on her body’s,
shining through her hair.

You, who’s name, color of the eyes
or past I don’t know yet

you who are too far, distant to fetch
like stars, my hands unable to catch,

you would understand the language
of erased touch, fragile moments

and the memory of glittering
winter dawns, we often forget so fast.

You would know that women
in your arms is a girl who’s

feathered step, like butterfly dance
in the stormy wind, tempestuous emotion,

shown for a second, a scent, a hint
is exhilarating sting to any sleepy heart.

You would safely unbutton
the  chain swinging over her

firm breasts letting your lustful
imagination do all the rest.

Maja S. Todorovic

So here’s the story of the Irish Rose (thanks Elaine for name suggestion) – it took me only 31 days to write it 😉 I hope you like it.

I wish you all a fabulous New Year, full of creative and imaginative time.

Happy New Year!

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25 thoughts on “The Irish Rose

  1. Maja, it has been a pleasure watching this epic and excellent poem unfold and it has stayed close to the Celtic traditions. Have a Happy New Year and a great 2017 and I look forward to reading more of your work in the new year.

    Liked by 1 person

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