Tag: prose poem

It was typical rainy day: grey, wet curtain hid tired steps of people passing by. At the end of the street, just below the tiny slope, every tortuous creek plunged into the porous mouth of the busy, thirsty drain. Water blunged in the rhythm of soft, muffled sobs as young women, with unvoiced stone face, continued to cradle her empty hands.

Maja S. Todorovic

He says: “I’ve done everything for you.

I’ve struggled all my life because of you!”

“I didn’t ask you to”,  calmly she says.

“What I was given is guilt, nonacceptance, hurt.

All I needed was kindness, sporadic smile, a brief touch

– all that doesn’t cost much – or it does?”

Maja S. Todorovic

Starts with the a drop, hardly visible to human eye;

migrating through phases, changing shape, evoking sounds.

From below and from above together

becoming river; running unmercifully through

heavy stones and soft sands:

it’s a burble in the nearby forest

sometimes is a messenger of a tempest, cobalt-sparkling weather

when at last, becomes an ocean

remarkable and vast, yet infallible and modest

the giver of life, the purpose of any notion.

Maja S. Todorovic

It had a triangular shape – reminded me of a miniature souvenirs you would find on the crowded streets of Cairo..But it was light as feather, as a snowflake resistant to melt on my fingers. It had the color of sinking west Sun. The skin was crisp and fragile. I played with it in my hand for a while. It’s cookie like any other cookie you are eager to eat. But this one, instead of delectable white, sweat cream  hid just few words I was reluctant to read.

Everybody believed:

The truth, curled in this  little floury shell is just waiting to hatch out like a baby lizard from its egg, wanting to develop into u full grown destiny, a path that is a head of me?

“It’s a game, just a game!”…everybody cheered around me, but I didn’t hear their voices any more. From that moment I knew:

There is only one writer

of the unfolding book

of my life.

Maja S. Todorovic

Months for me are usually an easy ride. 28 to 31 days, it passes rather quickly.

But years are the long snakes that drag unpleasant months, we don’t want to remember and recall. In each year, there is an unforgivable month, snake’s mouth that just swallows all of your energy, time, existence and you end up wondering: “Life has a party on his own and I’m not even invited!”

I have that one particular year, when in March everything changed for me. In my country we call March Baba Marta (Granny Marta) and yes! March is a capricious, unstable, sometimes sleepy, sometimes rainy, rarely shiny: like an old grandmother who growls around trying to find her cane.

Through the window I could see the remnants of snow, her silver hair spread across the park. Small snowdrops, random teeth in that deceiving smile, were trying to turn their clumsy heads towards sporadic Sun.

That March wasn’t only the beginning of spring. It was suppose to be the beginning of new life for me. Instead, March brought the cruelty of the unknown, acridity of the uncertainty. Baba Marta was not in the mood.

April came like a young, playful girl, with the greenest eyes I ever saw; colorful dress wrapped her blooming body; teasing me, inviting me to join her; wanting me to forget awful Baba Marta.

Strangely enough, as the Sky was arranging tender clouds and Sun began to caress my skin,  all I could think of is how warm was behind the cold, icy February walls.