Summer Blues

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

I hate notebooks

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 06 Apr 2026 01:06:00 +0000

I hate notebooks

I hate notebooks.

The way they look at me accusingly

from across the room.

I hate little scraps of blank paper.

They seem to pop up wherever I go.

I hate book margins and paper napkins,

pencils and ball-point pens,

word documents and phone diaries.

They all seem to judge me.

They all seem to expect something from me

whenever I walk by.

GloPoWriMo26 - Day 5

The night the river remembered

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sun, 05 Apr 2026 02:00:00 +0000

The night the river remembered its true size

All night, it rained, and in the morning,

from our vantage point on the hill we saw

the maps had been re-written while we slept.

There was an angry delta where the bridge had been and

our road home had turned to water.

GloPoWriMo Day 4

Painting a Wall

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sat, 04 Apr 2026 00:39:00 +0000

Painting a Wall

On my wall I paint a house and a sun and

children going to school.

On my wall I write words.

They flow through me.

There is a river of words on the wall.

Noisy words.

I don’t control them, I never did.

They jump and run

and stomp their feet all over my wall.

Silly words.

And the painting on my wall grows.

There is a house and a sun and a road.

A white road.

And it keeps growing.

And it is already a mile long.

And the wall stretches to take everything in.

I love my walls the way they are,

not white, not boring,

but full of words.

And poetry runs here like a river.

I try to contain it, but I can’t.

So, I put a full stop and

hope for the best.

GloPoWriMo Day 3

My Kingdom

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Fri, 03 Apr 2026 00:46:00 +0000

My Kingdom

A math lesson on a hot day.

Thirty children, their eyes

eager, their hands

raised and I on my throne at the back,

a fairy queen, observing

my kingdom, while my subjects

suspect nothing.

GloPoWriMo Day 2

The Key

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Wed, 01 Apr 2026 15:24:00 +0000

The Key

The key did not fit

in the lock, at night someone

had changed all locks and

now I stood outside, the key,

a flightless bird on my palm.

I waited for the

dream to find the lock that my

key fit in. Somewhere

an old memory opened

and beckoned me to walk inside.

GloPoWriMo Day 1 - a tanka

A silly idea my friend had

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Tue, 31 Mar 2026 23:04:00 +0000

A silly idea my friend had

When we were in Stratford-upon-Avon, a friend of mine sat

on Shakespeare’s bed. He wanted, he said, the spirit of Shakespeare

to enter him and help him write. I want that too.

In Stratford, there were tourists everywhere.

They filled the little room, they stood in the doorway.

How did he manage to sit on the bed without anyone noticing?

He was brave, I am not.

I want to be brave too.

I want to go to people’s homes

and sit on their beds

and later, I want to write

about the experience.

Was the bed soft?

Was the pillow fluffy?

How many blankets did the person need?

I want a bed that turns into a magic carpet

as I dream.

I want magic quills and parchments

that write on their own.

I want magic ink smudges

that form themselves into landscapes and trees.

I want this poem to grow like a tree, organically.

Now, I am not implying Shakespeare had a magic carpet,

a magic pen, a magic parchment,

magic ink or magic trees.

That was just a silly idea my friend had

as he sat on Shakespeare’s bed

back when we were in Stratford-upon-Avon

that one time.

GloPoWriMo - GloPoWriMo Eve

Nameless Storytellers

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Tue, 29 Apr 2025 20:52:00 +0000

Nameless Storytellers

A story told and

never written, whispered in

secret, remembered.

Generations of

women, shaping the world, one

story at a time.

GloPoWriMo Day 29

The Silent Procession

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 28 Apr 2025 23:55:00 +0000

The Silent Procession

The orchestra couldn’t come because it was too cold.

The only music – the crunching of the snow

as the procession moved on.

That, and someone’s fitful coughing.

As if they were going to die too.

At one point, the coughing stopped.

I hope that person went somewhere warm.

After that, everything grew quiet.

Those who cried did so voicelessly.

No one wanted to disturb this pristine silence.

Surely it was more natural without music.

The snow kept falling and covered our tracks.

And soon it was

as if nothing had happened here.

GloPoWriMo Day 28

Caller Herring

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 28 Apr 2025 01:47:00 +0000

Caller Herring

There is a painting I once saw.

A girl sitting under a tree.

A basket of herrings by her side.

Her dreamy eyes staring into the distance.

The art critic commented on her shoes.

They were good shoes he said.

And he wondered why she stared so longingly into the distance

with those shoes on.

And I could never decide

what sort of shoes you should have

to stare longingly into the distance in.

And whether there are any rules about that.

The painting is called Caller Herring.

So we know the girl was a fishwife.

She went from door to door to sell herrings.

In the meantime, she could be whoever she liked,

a princess, or a pirate, or a fish.

She could grow gills or a pair of wings.

And I wonder if the art critic would agree,

but I think those herrings are a decoy.

For no one must know that she is not a fishwife,

but someone different all together,

a pirate or a princess or a fish.

Someone with gills or a pair of wings,

ready to take off any moment now.

GloPoWriMo Day 27

Maleficent

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sun, 27 Apr 2025 01:26:00 +0000

Maleficent

I have never liked children.

They walk in here, clumsy and loud,

their fat fingers all over my work.

This girl was no exception.

She wanted me to teach her how to spin,

as if I was willing to share my secrets with any stranger.

She had no talent for art.

She was beautiful, even I could see that,

but not very smart.

Spoiled little brat, used to having it her way.

She should have kept her little fingers to herself

and then we wouldn’t be in this mess.

Everybody blames me now, but how is this my fault?

How was I to know that she would go straight for the needle?

Yes, it is true. I know nothing about children.

I never had or wanted any myself.

My art is all that matters to me.

GloPoWriMo Day 26

A Piano Concert

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sat, 26 Apr 2025 01:18:00 +0000

A Piano Concert

I dreamt of my friend again last night.

In my dream, she was playing Bach,

Wearing a white dress, black shoes

and a large blue ribbon in her hair.

In my dream she was 12 again.

In my dream she played flawlessly,

as she always had.

This time around, I don’t let her skill distract me.

This time around, I know better.

So I watch her face and realise,

with my adult brain,

that she is terrified.

She is biting her lip, nervously.

Her body is rigid on that chair.

And then, here it is.

A tiny mistake.

She stops, briefly, takes a sharp breath,

then quickly continues, beautifully,

like a true pro.

But it is too late now.

I see her father get up from his chair.

and our piano teacher sees him too.

She steps in and tries

to position her pregnant body

between my friend and the audience.

Her arms are spread and with her hands

she is trying to hold the room steady

as it starts to move and shake.

And in my dream, I wonder what she knows

as my friend continues playing

faster and faster,

And suddenly we are on a merry-go-round

as the room starts spinning,

and everything becomes a blur.

GloPoWriMo Day 25

Let me sell this pen to you

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Fri, 25 Apr 2025 00:43:00 +0000

Let me sell this pen to you

This pen rebelled against me.

This pen spoke filthy words.

This pen could speak.

This pen cheated on me.

This pen never said it was sorry.

This pen played tricks on me.

I was tricked into using this pen.

I fed this pen my blood.

This pen spilled my secrets.

GloPoWriMo Day 24

A Duet of Owls

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Thu, 24 Apr 2025 00:24:00 +0000

A Duet of Owls

There might be birds with a song sweeter than theirs.

Some say they sing out of tune.

Still, only her call can help him find his way home.

And only his lullaby can dispel the fear of daytime.

GloPoWriMo Day 23