You know of the love subliminal:
it’s like when your deep voice comes
from misty darkness
in waves of the love subliminal;
when every cell of my body rejoices
in the rhythm of drums
playing melody of the love subliminal;
when my tied hands spasm around
dance of the lonely body parts
living in the house of the love subliminal;
when only sound of your guitar exists
and purpose floats towards final silence.
Maja S. Todorovic
He is always there.
Whenever I turn, he is there.
When I stumble and fall
or when I cry and break a toy
he is there with his huge hands
to caress my face
and smile made of star pearls
to secure my peace
to put everything in place.
And there is she:
no matter how many broken bones
hearts she cradled with
her pillowed breasts
she is always there to light
my darkest fears
with teary eyes
Guardian of my dreams.
And there is her:
big, taller than house roofs
important picture
I looked upon so many years.
Family Brain
went for search for Pangea roots
simply despises rain.
And there is me:
in constant quest
for how, why, where and when
instead of just accepting
here is just than
with all gifts
with all flaws
my family is like
everybody else’s:
just wriggles through tight
life’s claws.Maja S. Todorovic
Lately I haven’t been writing much poetry and my attempt to improve that is by participating in this year NAPOWRIMO challenge. For the next 30 days I’ll be posting here, (along with my regular posts on the blog) poems I have written. Most of them, I suppose will be as a result of my free writing (that’s gonna be fun 🙂 ), but I will also try to respond to some of the given prompts.
Keep fingers crossed for me to endure in my writing this month and see how it goes 🙂
Day 1 NaPoWriMo
Strawberries
with first spring rays
Earth again tears, gives birth to
these red like blood, sweet, melting blubs
to satiate my thirst, sprouted taste buds;it’s like an eclectic kiss from the ground
comes every year back around.I wear it on my lips
remember it,
through out the winter,until green petals
hidden beneath thinned white coat
show their smile again
ready to fall in love.Maja S. Todorovic
I could see the island from my window. During summer we used to go to swim and play there: At Lido beach. The alluvial plateau verved with life and deep, green bushes. In the middle of the island was a small lake where fish in love would go on a date at night; secluded from the city lights youngsters would play in my hands. As I would dig in the sand my little feet, with one eye I would count all 17 archaeopteryx species that I new and with other I would admire the Kalemegdan walls, standing proudly above the river bank. “The Beautiful Blue Danube” did exist. You have to believe me!
No, it’s not like the story I used to tell about wired fences, birds with plastic wings and hatcheries of oil spill rings.
Maja S. Todorovic
I snuffle around with my muzzle.
Ladybug jumps from grass to pebble, here near
the stream. Then on my horns.
It’s a nice sunny day.
No winds or rain on the horizon.
Perfect for hunting.
That’s how I see above my just shot body.
“What a stag!” – one voice said.
These horns will lovely decorate my
cottage wall!”
“With rest I’ll make a stew,
the one that tastes the best!”
-said the other voice.
Then they pulled my flabby body,
leaving trail of red juice, staining the flickering water.
Their heavy leathery boots rooted deep rills in the mud,
carrying my unclenched, loosen flesh on their backs.
They packed everything very quickly,
so didn’t recognize the rustle movement behind the oak tree.
I tremble on this cloud of nothingness,
watching the scene of my terrifying dreams:
This time my son
my large body shielded you,
so you could carelessly play in the grass.
What will happen when leathery lethal boots return?
small, bluish sinews branch into
letter M.
One side of the trunk is darker
due to Sun exposure, with amorph
golden-yellow spots.
As it breathes blood, exhales warmth
to feed small hill above its flesh.
It’s like a map, containing my life line
trimmed at several places.
It used to go all the way around the hill.
Bark is depleted, almost erased.
I cannot count to see how many rings of heart
have left me?
Humming bird’s song
echoes my soul
in the upcoming dawn.
Maja S. Todorovic
You decided to leave,
over the cliff of promise
where the verve takes calm.
Disintegrated I walk through your flesh.
Limbs linger in ambiguity:
Why and How?
I don’t have any questions.
As I drown in memories
I pretend cold marble stone is your chest.
I press my cheeks, needing to hear that heart beat,
you whisper in my ear:”I exist in you, that’s the moment I live”.
Look at this leaf.
Where did it come from?
Stuck in a mud, like a
discarded grief from a weeping willow.
I like its shape.
Follows my hand. Pair it
in two and you can make a glove
or a puppet doll that says “I love you!”
It’s full of wavy hurdles,
a catepillar’s slalom track.
Can be frozen, curled or wet,
wears all season’s colors like a traffic light.
Enjoys to float, especially in waters of Hoogvliet
rushes to meet other leaves,
while gives a ride to marsh fleas.
Once it went disguised,
I couldn’t recognize it.
Dressed in the lost feathers of
floating white hearts and undived “quack, quack”
pretends to be a Sioux Holy Man.
It may come in different sounds too.
Like a bandmaster, it orchestrates winter winds in dramatic
symphonies.
Or, when a thickening fog occupies city parks
still dark and tainted from night,
you hear a crunchy, cranky sound as it get’s
crushed under lover’s heels or
sporadic brave joggers,
in short sleeves.
Dissipated in the air
it’ll wait for its turn,
to blossom proudly again and stare
how spring Sun in the west burns.
Hey little leaf
you would like to crawl into my pocket
like a sneaky thief?
I’m lonely too,
keep me company
in my autumn view.
Maja S. Todorovic
Nordic, Greek and Roman mythologies are very well known and explored in literature – through science fiction and poetry writing, from anthropological, religious and ethnological point of view. Old Slavic mythology is lesser known and popular, yet very rich in folktales, rituals, mythological creatures. It was a part of the belief system that Old Slavs treasured and celebrated: a multi-theist system of Gods, spirits and “lower beings” that influenced each part of their lives. To old Slavs their Gods are the founts of life, power and happiness. Gods, worshiped for millennia gave the meaning to existence, and protective notion to old Slavs. They were celebrated through rituals and songs – similar to many indigenous traditions.
In some remote Balkan regions, these rituals and songs are still present. Probably due to the reason that when old Slavs adopted Christianity, many of the old, Pagan customs found their place in the new belief system, just disguised under another name and purpose. My father, for example used to tell me about the songs and customs that were performed in his village during spring and summer – because peasants believed that it will influence the yield of the harvest and that it will help them to ‘cheer up’ the will of the Gods (like God Perun, that governed thunders and fire). In order to invoke the rain villagers would perform ritual: a girl, called do-do-la wearing a skirt made of fresh green knitted vines and small branches, sings and dances through the streets of the village, stopping at every house, where the hosts sprinkle water on her.
Following and celebrating religious holidays actually still impacts agricultural activities in many Balkan regions.
This poem I wrote below “Raingirl” was inspired by the ‘dodola’ ritual:
The face of the Earth is crunched,
wrinkled in furrows
burrows, like mouths are widely open
towards the sky with prayer for dull clouds.
Bodies of trees are broken and bowed.
Meadows bald,
leafs curled in sears, in the color of hell.
Some of animals can be seen
soulless, crouching on their celebrity red carpets
dreaming of rain.
It’s time for a Raingirl.
You will recognize her as a young maid,
dressed in rugs, with wreath around her head
adorned with wheat, flowers and grass.
Barefoot she would walk across the village,
her long hair trotting after her. She dances
and sings dow-down-la, dow-down-la while
milking her heavenly cows.
An orphan, as such adored among hearths.
Sometimes she would fly over woods and fields,
to awaken blossoms and green parchments,
as messaged by the God of Thunder.
As first drops appear, tree hands, grass blades, uprooted sinews
unroll their palms, tongues,
tired of summer soberness
in hope to imbibe a little bit of milk.
Raingirl smiles and as she suddenly appeared
in same fashion she evanesces in the mist
with her downy flock.
When we will see a raingirl again?
Once the Sun becomes this angry, heavy. In pain.
Our ancestors, not only in Slavic traditions believed that songs and poems do have a tremendous power to help us sustain even the most difficult times – that type of strength we still can nourish inside ourselves.
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not what I think
nor what I do:
it arises from a feeling;
it’s a clue,
how life that lies before me
is eager and true.
Maja S. Todorovic
Business in Rhyme 