Poetry articulates your hidden parts:
sensitive but beautiful,
vulnerable but brave.
Poetry reveals your long forgotten treasures
strengths to move you forward
intimacy to keep you warm.
Poetry heals your deeply buried scars
allowing you to travel far,
to new worlds, to moments ajar.
Maja S: Todorovic
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It used to be called the White city, my hometown.
And it really was white. I remember, how through my
window I could see where two rivers merge with
sky in the most beautiful lightness…
Yesterday I came to the White city.
Of its entire glorious glow there are only pigeons trying to fly,
not having wings to lift themselves above the grey net
of dark clouds made of sorrows and unlived dreams.
People walk and talk, just as they used to,
but instead of smile they wear masks:
Mask 1: “Good morning boss!”
Mask 2: “I’ll pick up the groceries, dear!”
Mask 3: “What a great game tonight!”
Now, White city is full of labyrinths.
For each room you have to put the right mask.
It helps you navigate.
If you put the wrong one,
streets just swallow you.
The streets…once a safe place to be.
I used to play on the streets of my white city…
Just how many knee cuts they have absorbed!
I’d liked when concrete caressed me on my head.
Streets are now landslides of children cry, abandon lovers,
cars that start only on your yelling.
Skyscrapers don’t exist any more.
Shoe boxes have replaced them.
In public transport,
we have to climb on each other’s heads
in order to move…And that’s the only way for you to know
in which labyrinth room you are.
There are no windows,
and why would you need them?
Sulfur and nitrogen have replaced fresh air.
Is ever light going to return to the White city?
I don’t know. I would like to.
Maybe some new generations
will help rivers merge again with sky
in the most beautiful lightness.
Maja S. Todorovic
Note: This is a poem, published as a part of The Disappearing project by Red Room Company. It was written as my impression of visiting my hometown after longer absence. Beograd I was born in and used to know, really doesn’t exist anymore. Sadly, but true.
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Today, several of my poems have been published on http://www.versewrights.com.
That Moment
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Reading poetry is rather to ‘feel’ than
understand it. Once we accept that as a fact –
then poem becomes piece of art
we appreciate in a whole
different way.
Maja S. Todorovic
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for writing. Well, look
how many syllables I have spilled here.
Now, arrange them in your own order! 🙂
Maja S. Todorovic
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Writing
is searching for that perfect hearth
where you plant your creative roots
and imagination freely grows,
with each breath
and heart beat.
Maja S. Todorovic
They say, if your life
is too bitter then you crave sugar.
And I do remember the acerbity on my tongue
when my father told his diagnose: bladder cancer.
It was like someone filled my mouth with pile of old, rusty
coins and I couldn’t breathe, just in awe, with crucified
jaw I stared at the telephone.
My father soon got better,
yet my body had its own trouble digesting truth:
leaking gut poured all the bitterness of previous months’ uncertainty.
I began to grow sugars, tiny special sugars, cleverly hidden in the pores
of the synovial lakes and joint meanders.
These tiny special sugars, grow and mature
with each season, unharvested,
developing tear membranes,
disguised purple knots in my throat.
Involuntarily nerve-pulsating dreams remind me
how clumsy beginner I was.
Now, with years my skills improved:
I’ve learned with one hand to
keep my stomach intact,
with other to lift my neck
just enough to catch early autumn grapes
in my father’s vineyard,
to erase the bitterness from my head.
Maja S. Todorovic
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It starts with a spot.
One tiny spot.
Soft and gentle,
red, transparent and liquidly
like a drip from a freshly
pressed strawberry juice.
The skin unveils the doors,
releases pressure
and suddenly I’m on the boat
the boat slightly gliding, swaying and my
head tilts to enjoy crimson landscape.
For a minute I think there is
a sunset, reflecting blushing chicks in the water.
Warmth tingles my eyes.
Finally I am wearing that red dress:
red dress made of pleats cascading over the stairs.
The stairs, neatly arranged blocks for kids
to jump, run with their tiny feet,
to scatter red petals and
peals of spring radishes.
The dress grew with each waterfall
and the breath, the breath is a
variegated butterfly trapped in the glass jar.
Maja S. Todorovic
I often play
basketball
with words
in my head:
the one that scores,
ends up on paper.
That’s how my new poems are born.
Maja S. Todorovic
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Your writing is
a finger print
of your soul,
would you agree?
Maja S. Todorovic
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Business in Rhyme 