Never did I know this will happen:
inappropriate courtship of my feelings.

Announced it happens and
it doesn’t recognize
day or hour.

No age  and no place
exists in a love play.

With rushing wave and
crushed to ground
I drink possibility from
your salty lips before
I enter inviting sweetness.

Darkness envelopes me
in sudden expectations
and skin awakens with memory
of buried wanting.

Your eyes still haunt me,
apparition in every corner.
And I hurry back to my old life
before impossible turns me into dust.

Maja S. Todorovic


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writing_comparing

A leaf never compares itself

to another leaf, but rather

enjoys his journey in the wind. So do you:

stop comparing yourself to other writers

and instead invest in yourself

in developing your skills

and enjoy the ride.


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My new poem ‘Life journey of an apple’ has been published in Oddball Magazine. I hope you’ll enjoy humorous take on my obsession with fruit. And definitely check out some other beautiful poems there. 🙂

 

Life journey of an apple

An apple knows it all:

“I’m succulent and deceiving,
run, run before everything turns
rage in Eden!”

“I’m attractive and mouth-dreaming
come, come the beauty in you,
calls into me – screaming!”

“Gravity is your friend or foe”,
I whispered in the Newton’s ear,
when I bounced off his head,
on my way down to roll in leafy
autumn bed.

“Have me one a day, keeps
the doctor away.”

But now as it sleeps calmly
a part of still decor,
my eyes cheer: “go for it!”
and taste buds rejoice:
“yummy in my tummy!”

 

 

Maja S. Todorovic is an educator and writer from Belgrade, currently living in the sunny Hague. After finishing her PhD in Organizational Sciences and years of academic work, she switched her scientific pen for more creative expressions. Business in Rhyme is her creative corner where she blogs about…

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Cannot name that color: looks like wet white, an ivory with shadow or grayish that we used to call ‘pigeon dirty’. Painting of a horse head in ochre tonalities suited very well, especially with engine strokes so beautifully placed above the horse’s mane. Dark wooden frame bounds like it borders something very important. But the head was turned sideways, it listened carefully but didn’t have the guts to look around. Even the picture! Next to it, a playful aquarelle of Bruges, centered around innocent afternoon and lazy clouds. Water pretends to be still, but cannot hide the reflection of reddish bricks, red like cheeks of girl on the first date. This one stood tall, a painting bought as a remembrance of one hopeful day. In the next corner, 45 degrees further hanged a tapestry, old and out-worn, last twitch of the hand that wants to forget tradition and robust lines of family roots. And there was our floor lamp, high and dignified crown of an early spring tulip. This fragile light-keeper claps its metal cold hands in the curled handshake – even it’s lifeless and heavy body  prays for a minute of contempt, minute of sound and minute of everything else we didn’t manage to achieve in the empty room of our lives.

Maja S. Todorovic


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A photo by Oscar Keys. unsplash.com/photos/AmPRUnRb6N0

Any written poem –

just like language is ever-evolving,

changing, as each time

we can perceive it, experience it

differently.

Maja S. Todorovic


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How do you make writing a habit? By making room, time and prioritizing your writing, until it becomes habitual, just as breathing is – when you don’t have to think about you need to write – you just do it.

habitualwriting


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Is made of tears,
No bricks, no wals
you spin, haunting
your own fear

and recklessly try to climb
But day retreats, cowardly, in guilt,
Quilted with shy stars and mourning moon.

And I say, restore and watch
How streets glitter instead
Like fireflies caught in the rain.

Distant, but intense,
Those closer are warmer.
Snow rolls in between breasts
Of this curvy city,
Snow dry and crumpling like fine
wheat flour.

Feel the moment with your palm
As enters your nostrils, pinches and itches
Rub  it with your index finger.

I am a slug and I leave trails
For those lost among vowels
Sincerely meant but never fulfilled.

It’s not a broken promise, just
A miss, mismatch of right colors and
Puzzled shapes.

You’ll grow your own tale
When night falls
A tale you’ll trim with each coming dawn
And sew yourself in the mouth of the world.

Maja S. Todorovic


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reading_book

I never manage to escape a good book,

as I’m often lost in the labyrinth of its

captivating pages.

Maja S. Todorovic


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We made it through! I congratulate all bloggers who participated in this challenge and who have produced some astonishing writing pieces. It was a real pleasure to read and follow your progress. I would love also to read your comments on how this challenge impacted your writing.

Considering my own experience, I must say it was quite different from the NaPoWriMo. For me it was much easier to write every day new, fresh poem than continuing one from the previous day. Especially in the beginning, when I wasn’t sure in which direction will poem go. But later with some input from your comments I found my inspiration in Irish mythology and poetry. The main character, Irish Rose, was inspired by the Celtic Goddess Aine, – a goddess of summer, wealth and sovereignty. In one of the tales she has been associated with the semi-mythological King of Munster, Ailill Aulom, who in one instance ‘ravished’ her, which ended in Áine biting off his ear. In such way she managed to destroy his sovereignty as he became unfit to be King. Some parts of the poem were also inspired by the Leda and the Swan from W. B. Yeats.

This writing experience has certainly contributed to me in a sense how to train my creativity and be patient. Sometimes I had an urge to write a lot, but I had  to keep in mind that it shouldn’t be too long in each day – who has the time to read especially during holidays. So it did involve some planning and outline for the whole story in the poem. It’s so easy to get lost in the moment and suddenly you forget what you wrote couple of days ago – a perfect way for story to become disconnected and run out of proportion. I hope I avoided that 🙂

This is for sure my longest poem ever written and hopefully you enjoyed it. If you would like to read more poems/stories of this type with mythological influence, please comment below so this can be a start of even larger project, who knows?! As Business in Rhyme will get more professional ‘look and feel’ this year there will be more challenges, prompts and additional interesting things coming your way.

For now I will let you once more enjoy the most popular articles on blog during 2016:

  1. Poetry is Art
  2. Will Poetry make you any smarter or wiser?
  3. Why people don’t like Poetry
  4. Hidden poetry gem: using power of language for improving persuasion skills
  5. 6 life habits that allowed me to become a writer I always wanted to be
  6. What poets do?
  7. 4 simple ways to make your poetry blog stand out

I wish you all have a blast this year and write some amazing poems! 🙂


To learn more about the challenge, click here

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irishrose_aine

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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