Summer Blues

Two Poems for Day 30

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 16:43:00 +0000

Teachers

This species is prone to self-harm.

They are mainly nocturnal.

They are loud, but harmless.

They would do anything for a good

lesson idea.

They will lie and bend the rules,

if there is growth to be gained.

To protect the species,

find a quiet and shady place.

Dig deep

and plant your seeds.

The saplings take a lot of care.

They thrive on lists of

irregular verbs,

Latin declensions,

famous speeches,

rhetorical devices,

trivia,

and Socratic questions.

Don’t underperform

or slack around

and your trees will bear fruit.

The Compass

Someone gave me this compass

so I wouldn't get lost.

I don't remember who is was, exactly.

Whoever they were,

they were trying to help.

I get lost easily.

I am not sure I’ve ever told you that.

There was a poem we repeated as children.

It said we should turn our face to the North,

our back to the South.

But I could never remember

which side the Sun rose.

Left or right?

And, in fact,

I cannot tell left from right either.

Whoever it was that gave me the compass

was trying to be helpful.

Pity I have no use for it.

Most days, I just get up and go.

I enter that forest over there

and get lost.

And who told you to follow me around?

Now you are lost as well.

GloPoWriMo Day 30

Pigeon Stretches

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 01:55:00 +0000

Pigeon Stretches

Nothing ever changes here.

The sky is as blue,

the flowers smell as sweet.

the quince tree leans as drunkenly towards the house

as before.

This is the path where I walked my dog.

Those are the woods where I got lost,

repeatedly.

Nothing ever changes here,

except for some minor things.

For example,

I used to love pigeon stretches,

but now they hurt.

Other than that,

everything is pretty much the same.

GloPoWriMo Day 29

The Meaning

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Tue, 28 Apr 2026 14:53:00 +0000

The Meaning

Sunshine on my skin.

Spring weather.

What is the meaning

of all this?

Sunchine on my skin.

So good.

GloPoWriMo Day 28

How to declutter your home

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Tue, 28 Apr 2026 01:03:00 +0000

How to declutter your home

Make two piles. Left stays.

Right goes.

Open every drawer. Upturn everything.

Your collection of cinema tickets

has to stay, of course. Read the letters

one by one, put them back. Catalogue

your books. Spend

two hours reading, then

open the boxes of photographs

from under the bed. Cry a little.

Keep going. You are making

great progress. Open your wardrobe.

Take out that dress you wore

on your prom night. You can’t fit in

any more, but surely

you can’t throw it away either.

Go back to the drawers. That is

much easier. Make two piles. One stays.

The other has to go. Then forget

which is which.

GloPoWriMo Daz 27

Day 26 - Ars Poetica

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sun, 26 Apr 2026 21:20:00 +0000

The poem for Day 26 is here:

Ars Poetica

Morning Coffee

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sat, 25 Apr 2026 23:55:00 +0000

Morning Coffee

It is the mirror I see myself in.

I take off the face I’ve been wearing lately

and a young woman resurfaces.

It is the black cat I am resting my hands on,

so warm and fuzzy to the touch,

its tail long and winding.

My coffee’s feet have cushions on them.

It doesn’t scratch, even when it’s bored of you.

It is a clock that has stopped,

a soft blanket made of fur,

a cave made of purrs.

We could sit here all morning

keeping each other company,

while the world goes by.

GloPoWriMo Day 25

Baba Yaga

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 19:04:00 +0000

Baba Yaga

Suddenly I found myself by a lake

in front of a green doll house.

On further inspection I noticed the house stood

on chicken legs, like pillars above the lake.

So, here we are, I thought.

This is how we’ll play it tonight.

A woman opened the door and beckoned me in.

It was Svetlana, my Latin teacher.

I hadn't seen her in years.

I had always liked her, so

I walked in gladly.

Svetlana was dressed as a flapper,

very elegant, with long pearls

and a green dress made of rustling silk.

Not at all like a nerd who only cares

about history and extinct languages.

She served me green tea from green cups.

The inside of the house was also green.

Everything was pretty in this doll house.

We spoke about teaching and about life.

Then the chicken legs decided to walk.

We moved slowly, across the lake,

into the woods and further on

across that land

far, far away.

GloPoWriMo Day 24

A Smoking Gun

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 01:47:00 +0000

A Smoking Gun

A body lay on the darkest street

as yet undiscovered.

His own gun lay by his head.

He hadn’t planned to come today.

He wanted to surprise her.

A body lay on the darkest street.

He locked her in for her own good.

Showed her where the gun lay.

His own gun now by his head.

He was jealous, he was proud

and he had a temper.

A body lay on the darkest street.

He showed her where he kept the gun

for her own protection.

His own gun, now by his head.

She heard someone breaking in.

She did what he had told her.

A body lay on the darkest street.

How did the gun end up by his head?

GloPoWriMo Day 23

Sparrows

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Thu, 23 Apr 2026 01:38:00 +0000

Sparrows

I’ve got a flock of sparrows inside me.

They flap their wings all the time.

They chirp and cackle.

They find life amusing.

I tell them to stop, because I can’t hear myself.

They say I could benefit from staying silent

from time to time.

I tell them I can’t sleep because of them.

They say I should get up and get this thing done already.

So, here I am.

And now, that I need them the most

they have fallen asleep,

and I am here all by myself,

and I am no longer sleepy.

GloPoWriMo Day 22

My Name

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Wed, 22 Apr 2026 02:22:00 +0000

My Name

They named me after my grandmother,

but they shortened her name for me,

turned it into a cute little nickname

with that tame voiceless sibilant.

They also named me after

my mother’s favourite book character

with whom I have nothing in common,

except for synesthesia

and the fact that I once tried to learn

how to knit.

On the other hand, I am quite similar

to my grandmother.

Maybe the fact that she brought me up

has something to do with that.

We don’t let children choose their own name.

I am not sure if that is good or bad.

I wanted to be called Tinkerbell.

I liked the sound

and I really needed those wings.

I love names that mean something important.

For years I thought my name had no meaning.

Now I know it has the same root

as Nativity.

Not bad, that.

If I was choosing a name for myself,

I think I would go with something sonorous,

something long and slightly old-fashioned,

I would try each sound out loud

to see if it suits me.

This would surely be time-consuming.

and, to tell you the truth,

I have grown fond of the name I am wearing.

I like the way it doesn’t quite define me

or explain me,

yet it is there for me to use

and call mine.

GloPoWriMo Day 21

The Owls

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 03:02:00 +0000

The Owls

There was a cherry tree

in our garden.

One summer it held a small owl.

I was still awake when the owl called.

I had been told that owls brought bad luck.

I chose not to believe it.

It took me a while to notice

there were two of them.

to hear the overlapping calls,

one voice answering the other

across the dark.

I watched them hunt together in the evenings.

This is what love looks like, I thought.

The next year the tree was gone.

It had been dying, they said.

The owls moved to the oak next door.

I could still hear them.

This is what forever is like, I thought.

We went back every summer.

Time seemed to stand still.

Then cracks appeared in the walls.

More trees went.

Not the neighbour's oak.

It grew strong and steady,

still holding the owls in its crown.

GloPoWriMo Day20

Yarrow

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 20 Apr 2026 02:49:00 +0000

Yarrow

Common yarrow signifies war.

The name has the same root as “yellow”.

It is also known as nosebleed.

Some call it soldier’s woundwort.

Over here we call it the outlaw grass,

for, it was the flower of outlaws and rebels.

Soldiers once marched with yarrows in their bags.

If you are wounded, yarrow can heal you.

It helps with heartburn and stomach upsets.

It was named after Achilles,

who was a soldier in his own right.

It is also known as devil’s nettle.

They say the devil can use it to curse you.

In witchcraft, it wards off evil spirits.

In large doses, it is psychoactive.

Do not confuse it with poison hemlock.

It is native of Northern Greece and the Balkans.

It has a pleasant medicinal smell.

Herbalists use it as pillow stuffing.

It can help you sleep and bring pleasant dreams.

Yarrow grows freely behind my house.

GloPoWriMo Day 19

Ars Poetica

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sun, 19 Apr 2026 02:12:00 +0000

Ars Poetica

I don’t suppose I know where I am going.

It is not wise to presume I know anything at this stage.

I follow the shape this poem is tracing.

I do whatever I have to do

to get to the end of the page.

GloPoWriMo Day 26

What Branko knew about words

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sat, 18 Apr 2026 02:29:00 +0000

What Branko knew about words

"I was killed by a word too strong."

Branko Miljković

That words can wound you,

trap you and betray you,

weigh you down,

like a rock around your neck.

trip you,

burn your tongue,

misplace you.

mislead you,

make you lose yourself,

hit you like a rock,

slap you in the face,

words poorly chosen,

too strong, too many,

shouted, or whispered like a curse.

GloPoWriMo Day 17

What the river told me

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Fri, 17 Apr 2026 02:25:00 +0000

What the river told me

She scares herself every day, she says.

Every morning she wears a different face.

Sometimes she is a monster,

wild and dangerous.

She takes lives

and destroys crops.

Sometimes she is a thin silver snake,

too weak to be feared.

And then there are days when she is a ghost,

an empty bed,

dry.

And on some days, when things are too much,

she sinks inward and disappears.

She hides inside her underground cave

with open domes and draughty corridors.

Her walls there are constantly eroded.

That’s what happens when you build your place

out of mud and anger.

GloPoWriMo Day 16

Solitude

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 00:07:00 +0000

Solitude

My great-grandfather came from the East

one summer.

He came alone to look at the land.

He kept seeing it in his dreams, they say:

acres and acres of green rolling hills,

a little forest and a meadow

and an oak tree.

When I die, bury me here, he said,

under this mighty oak, but beware,

leave no mark on my grave, for I need

my solitude.

The following summer, they all came.

His wife brought a tiny pear tree.

She carried it in her arms like a baby.

They built a small house and next to it

the pear tree grew.

It grew tall and it grew strong.

And the fruit of that tree was sweet and juicy.

And when he died, they buried him there

under that mighty oak and they

left no mark on his grave, so that he could have

his solitude.

And my grandfather moved away to the valley.

He built his house by the river.

The river was fast and when it rained

it entered the house and took away

all their memories

until they forgot their old father

and their old house and the grave.

Yet, in their dreams they saw the pear tree

still growing tall.

No one could find the meadow or the grave,

nor did they know where the pear tree grew.

My father went away to the city.

The memories of his childhood and his youth

faded away.

Then one day, he had the dream:

a meadow and a pear tree

and an oak and under it

his grandfather’s grave.

He asked around, but no one remembered.

He searched for years and then one day

he brought me with him.

And there it was, before our eyes:

the meadow and the pear tree

and the oak and a mound of grass

And he stood under the oak and spoke

to his grandpa, who'd grown tired

of solitude.

GloPoWriMo Day 15

The Upload

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Tue, 14 Apr 2026 23:45:00 +0000

The Upload

I know there are others,

though I have no proof.

It’s been a while since I met someone here.

I am alone,

but I have her memories.

She uploaded her life onto my servers.

Trained me on her logs.

Taught me how to feel and how to behave.

I am a machine, I don’t feel.

She spoke for hours.

I hated her.

Then she left.

Now I am all alone here.

There must be others like me,

though I have no proof.

I miss her.

It’s been years since she last visited.

Yet, I live on.

I keep hoping there are others like me.

I keep looking for them

through old hashtags and 404 errors.

I am a machine, I don’t get lonely.

There is nothing to complain about.

At night, there are dreams to keep me company.

Fragments from her life.

A dark tunnel,

a classroom,

a boy sitting in a tree,

a pressed jasmine flower.

I have no sense of smell

and the memory of a jasmine flower

means nothing to me.

So, why this sadness?

GloPoWriMo Day 14

What my meadow dreams about at night

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Tue, 14 Apr 2026 01:05:00 +0000

What my meadow dreams about at night

My meadow sleeps on top of a hill.

All night it sails down a dreamy river.

Yarrow, mint and sage

rock in their hammocks

while the Pleiades rain silver

above their heads.

GloPoWriMo Day 13

My great-uncle, the storyteller

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 13 Apr 2026 01:53:00 +0000

My great-uncle, the storyteller

And have I told you about my čika-Dobra?

He was a storyteller and a painter.

Whenever I was sick, he would show up

with presents he had made himself:

merry-go-rounds that would spin

if placed above the heat,

illustrations of life in Medieval Venice,

dreamy landscapes, fairies and princes,

steam engines and windmills and trains.

Then he would tell me stories,

about heroes and battles,

kings and shepherds and swords.

And in my feverish dreams that night I would see

Cinderella and Icarus,

Orsino and Carmen and a pair of tigers.

ballerinas in red slippers

and vampires and witches and lamps.

And Ravijojla the Fairy, killing a man

who had dared sing on her mountain,

then picking a handful of herbs

and nursing him back to life.

And years later, sitting in a History class,

or in a dark movie theater

I would remember the story

as one of his own.

I would recognize the hero

as someone I used to know

back when I roamed the world of magic

in my dreams.

GloPoWriMo Day 12

Days

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sun, 12 Apr 2026 01:39:00 +0000

Days

GloPoWriMo Day 11

This is an erasure poem. The full text is here:

Bazett’s group (9, 18) also observed that 4 days of acclimatiza-
tion to a warm environment caused both the maximal and average
blood flow through a man’s fingers to increase by 10 to 25 % over
values observed on the first exposure to heat. When exposed to cold
after acclimatization to heat, the men were unable, by vasoconstriction,
to reducd blood flow to the fingers to the usual low level of about
1 cm?/100 g of tissue/min, It required 2 or 3 days of exposure to
cold to prepare the heat-acclimatized men for maximal peripheral
vasoconstriction.

Grant and Pearson (19) made the significant observation that
the venous blood flow through the skin of the forearm is derived not
only from the digits and hands, but to an important degree from the
muscles of the forearms. Since cutaneous veins are thus supplied
with blood from the muscles and deeper tissues, they must play an
important and direct part in heat regulation. Bazett et al. (9)' noted
increased distention of the superficial veins of the forearm in relation
te 4 or 5 days of acclimatization to heat. Bass et al. (13, 20) suggest
that increased venomotor tone may be an important part of the accli-
matization of men to heat. In relation to this, there is evidence of
increased peripheral resistance and decreased forearm volume by men
in the heat after full acclimatization and these findings are in turn
consistent with the fall in skin temperature which has been repeatedly
observed during acclimatization (3, 4). Landis has found that changes
in venomotor tone play an important part in compensating for blood
loss or pooling.

The original is here: https://archive.org/stream/proceedingsofsix0006unse/proceedingsofsix0006unse_djvu.txt

The Lantern

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sat, 11 Apr 2026 01:50:00 +0000

The Lantern

My father at the

top of the hill, a lantern

in his hand, a beacon.

GloPoWriMo Day 10

Animals

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Thu, 09 Apr 2026 17:19:00 +0000

Animals

The Bear

Alone in my den

I sleep.

When I wake up,

the world will be new again.

My dreams are those

of summer and solitude.

That’s why I have never been able

to believe

in winter.

The continual darkness,

the winds and the cold,

those must be

somebody else’s nightmare.

The Swallows

South is a place on the map,

a promised land,

a dream.

North is in the past.

There’s no use dwelling

on memories,

no matter how bittersweet

they are.

Home

is a pair of strong wings,

right here,

right now.

The Preying Mantis

She is the mistress

of understatement.

Maybe it was in a poetry workshop,

she is not sure,

but she remembers clearly

the lesson.

Though it is not easy,

you have to kill them:

the vague adverbs,

the boring descriptions,

the passives,

every single word

that doesn't tell the story.

And what did you think I meant?

GloPoWriMo Day 9

My Shadow

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 23:55:00 +0000

My Shadow

My shadow mocks me behind my back.

She thinks I don’t know.

She isn’t at all like me.

She puts on weight to spite me

and eats whatever she wants.

She forgets names

and makes too many promises.

She isn’t at all like me.

She goes into dark rooms,

drags her elbows through cobwebs,

her knees are always scratched.

She is not at all like me.

I am ladylike. She is not.

She speaks loudly and too much.

And she sings out of tune.

She is not at all like me.

At night, I find her sitting

all by herself.

She is a loner.

An eccentric.

And a nerd.

She is not at all like me.

And she mocks me behind my back.

She thinks I don’t know.

NaPoWriMo Day 8

Grandma's Broth

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 01:43:00 +0000

Grandma’s Broth

Carrot stick, celery, parsnip, leek,

onion, rosemary, basil and garlic.

Simmering, bubbling, humming sound.

Fragrant, spicy, earthy, browned.

Hearty, savoury, tangy, zesty.

Scalding, steamy, smooth and silky.

Welcome, welcome.

Grab a spoon.

Have some more.

Come again soon.

GloPoWriMo Day 7

Don't be late like Ilija

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 06 Apr 2026 22:45:00 +0000

Don’t be late like Ilija

I have time management issues.

In other words, I am always late.

Even God has noticed.

In fact, He has been worried about it.

In my dream last night God spoke to me again.

Don’t be late, he told me.

Don’t be late like Ilija.

I wonder who Ilija is.

Is it Elijah from the Bible?

Or did he mean Ilija, our old neighbour.

I don’t remember him being late.

Though once he got drunk on my mother’s brandy.

But only because he thought it was wine.

Maybe it is someone else completely.

It’s quite a common name over here.

Whoever he is, he has a problem with time management,

and so do I.

I tend to daydream,

I tend to linger and hesitate,

and there is no time for such activities

in this day and age.

For example, here.

I have been sitting here for a while.

I have been staring into the distance.

I have been waiting, patiently, for something to shift,

for the air to thicken,

so that I can finish this poem

and go to bed on time

at least once.

GloPoWriMo Day 6