It came externally, amorphous and hard

Tasteless in origin, without tale or icebergs.


And you compared it to internal one,

so plume look alike.


Navigating system, hanged in an empty space,

perfectly matching much future, more of tomorrow.

reminding me what pure joy is.

Poet and the sky: Poem by Charlotte Amelia Poe

As part of mentioned research, here will be featured poets who agreed to participate.

This poem is an excerpt from Even those some Flowers only bloom at Night:

and i know my light
is dull compared to yours
you are a flower
you are a sunrise
you are both delicate and powerful
the source of your own strength
and i wanted you to know that
because it seemed important
and your light allows me to reflect
and turn my own light back onto the earth
and i can’t make flowers grow
(even though some flowers only bloom at night)
(i don’t know why that is, do you?)
but i can make sure that you know
we may be a sky apart
but sometimes, you know, during the afternoon
you’ll see them both in the sky

Charlotte Amelia Poe

For more, visit her blog here.

Early autumn grapes

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

The Duke of Burgundy

You know how I love it:

tie me up with your purple silk scarf,

cold glide that tights my skin,

pull my hair with your fingers

and lay down my head on a wooden pillow.


Turn off the moon:

invite darkness,

leave two holes above my nose

so I can breathe in freshens of the night.


Place my feet

in a rectangular position:

let them linger just a bit

as you wrap me in the song of

night owls and chirping crickets,

my breasts kiss the feathered leaves

scattered like ornaments around my chest.


Lock me up in the trunk of your soul,

empty tunnel echoing my heart beat

as I bath in the burgundy light of your eyes.


Use me, accuse me, lose me,

amuse me, confuse me, seduce me:


that’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.

Maja S. Todorovic


stiff and strong:

your claw plows my soft skin,

where red streams

follow the trails,

succumbing to tearful river,

as droplets gravitate towards the floor.


My eyes are riveted to the closed door.

I can always wear another skin, fur:

dress in feathers or thorny petals.

But how my scarred heart will

continue to beat,

in between these lungs

as it is like raw egg

smashed against the wall?


Maja S. Todorovic

My poems

My poems are my ideas,

my dreams, my toys,

my stories, my…

the most beautiful.

You can’t destroy a poem.

It can be hidden somewhere in your head,

in little corner where likes to sleep,

until it decides to walk over your lips.

My poems are clouds where I sit and

watch birds fly and sing.

My poems are…

Maja S. Todorovic

*note: this is translation of a poem I wrote when I was 15. It’s been 25 years since then, and I still feel the same about poetry. Strange and beautiful in the same time.

NaPoWriMo day 21: An Intent

Why do I need to pretend?

You say: ”I’ve always had good intent!”

yet your eyes sparkle every time

I plead for your fragile approval?


I’m not who you expect me to be.

I can’t be something you need for you

to continue your life in peace.


I’m confused, I still search

to make that little girl inside me smile

run after rainbow and collect stars;

swing on the moon and walk

across the Sun;


jump over the mountains

and play charades with whales

in ocean fountains.


That little girl is so scared,

impaired by false assumptions

she need to take care of you

instead to accept:

“Here, within myself I belong to!”


And I can tell you

that little girl is very close to finding her truth

lying in between two smooth edges of tomorrow

where she’s conquering beautiful world’s burrow

and yesterday when you held her tight to comb her hair.


Who said life is fair?

Stop to fight, let her go.


Maja S. Todorovic