As we are celebrating World Poetry Day, this is a quick reminder that each poem you write is reflection of you in that particular moment. That holds its own beauty and value that nobody can’t deny.


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Writing is an act of desired hope and hidden enthusiasm.

Maja S. Todorovic


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fear_writing

Don’t let fear paralyze
your writing. Instead,
think of legacy you’ll leave behind.

Maja S. Todorovic


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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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