Summer Blues

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

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

Ikebana Lessons

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Wed, 23 Apr 2025 01:16:00 +0000

Ikebana Lessons

When I was a child, I attended ikebana lessons. I have forgotten most of what I learnt there. I remember how we posed for the local newspaper. I have my flower arrangement right there in the photo, frozen in time, the way real flowers can never be. Our teacher used to say there’s beauty in imperfection, that I remember. She tried to teach us how to remove anything that was unnecessary from our arrangement. That was a hard lesson for us to learn. I remember how just three flowers can tell a story. The tallest one is your subject, the middle one is the object. I don’t remember the name of the shortest flower. I have never been much good at gardening. Yet, I admire flowers and how they grow, imperfectly and simply, how they arrange themselves effortlessly into a story each time.

The tallest flower

is the subject. The other

two tell the story.

GloPoWriMo Day 22

How to Write a Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 21 Apr 2025 23:21:00 +0000

How to Write a Poem

This is easy.

Go into the woods and get lost there.

Find yourself a tall tree.

Observe its roots and the unevenness of its bark.

Hear the flapping of invisible wings in its crown.

Do not try to see the bird.

Do not attempt to identify its call

Or search for it in encyclopedias.

Then sit next to the tree and lean against its branch.

Allow yourself to fall asleep.

Do not try to remember your dream.

Even if you succeed, the dream will mean nothing.

It will not point to any wisdom.

When you come back home, write a single word in your notebook.

Let the word be important.

Then nothing.

Repeat this for a year.

Each day, get lost in the woods.

Then find a tree.

Let it be a different tree each day.

Wait for the bird to come.

It will be a different bird each day.

Take a nap.

Get back home, then write a word in your notebook.

After a year has passed, you will have a lot of words there.

Light a fire, then proceed to burn the notebook.

Now you’ll be on your own.

Sit down and write your poem.

That’s it.

GloPoWriMo Day 21

Tree of Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 21 Apr 2025 01:42:00 +0000

Tree of Stories

Once upon a time in a kingdom of old

there was a hidden garden and inside

a tree of stories grew.

Each piece of fruit a fairy tale,

a dream come true, a piece of magic,

a promise made.

If only I could find that garden,

if I could see that tree of stories,

I would sit and watch the fruit

as it grows.

Each piece of fruit a fairy tale,

a dream come true, a piece of magic,

a promise made.

Once upon a time there was a dark cavern

And inside it there sat a spinner.

She spun her yarn of dreams and stories,

of treasures lost and treasures found

And those who came to her at night

would sit across from her and wait

as she revealed her magic yarn

just for them.

If only I could find that spinner,

if only I could stay and watch

as she spins her yarn of dreams

of treasures lost and treasures found,

as she reveales her magic yarn

just for me.

GloPoWriMo Day 20

Protection

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sun, 20 Apr 2025 00:42:00 +0000

Protection

Her husband had an old gun that he kept in the bottom drawer. He showed it to her the day they got married. In case she needed to protect herself when he was away, the gun was right there, he said. He even taught her how to shoot. They practiced in the back yard. She found it scary, but she did her best to learn, because you never knew when you might need protection. He was often away and at first she found it hard to be separated from him. He was the love of her life. He was also the reason why she didn’t speak to her family, but he was worth it, she thought. She had been only 15 when she had ran away with him. So, now they were alone in this little town, and he was the only person she knew here. She didn’t mind, he was her whole world. He was often away and soon she learnt to cherish these times of solitude, when there was no one in the little house and when the shadows on the walls became long. Every time he went away, he would lock her in, for her own protection. Before leaving, he always told her to use the gun if she heard someone at the door. So, was it her fault that she did as he’d told her? Because someone was at the door. And how was she to know that it was him?

GloPoWriMo Day 19

My Friend the Wind

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sat, 19 Apr 2025 01:12:00 +0000

My Friend the Wind

There was that one summer we decided to travel through Europe.

I don’t remember how old I was, but I was still a child.

We would start before dawn to avoid the heat.

Everywhere we went, it smelt like burnt asphalt.

My father drove our old Renault 4.

I mostly slept on the back seat.

My mother was in charge of the music.

She played cassettes on our white Hitachi.

My parents had bought it before the trip.

They were proud of it.

Look at how small it is, they would say.

Look at how cute it is.

My mom played the music my dad liked.

He was the driver, after all.

My Friend the Wind was on repeat.

My dad sang along, although he spoke no English.

He even danced a little in his seat.

It kept him awake, my mother said.

My mother kept playing the tapes without pause.

She was always afraid that he could fall asleep.

She fed him sandwiches and he ate them from her hand.

She made him stop often and drink some coffee

We had a red thermos with large white polka dots.

There was that one night we slept in the car,

as all hotels were full.

It was in Italy, I believe.

My mother held vigil the whole night.

I remember I awoke to a blue sky

And the sound of the sea by the side of the road.

We saw a lot of beautiful places that summer,

But I remember that morning best of all.

GloPoWriMo Day 18

The Witch

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Fri, 18 Apr 2025 00:55:00 +0000

The Witch

And have I told you about my mother’s best friend?

There were rumours that she was a witch.

I wouldn’t know.

I just remember that she was really good with tarot.

She always told you what you wanted to hear,

so, of course, you would wave it off

as too good to be true.

But then sometimes it would happen the way she’d predicted.

Not always, though, but sometimes was enough.

You can’t have good things happening to you all the time.

She baked the best chocolate cake and

I guess you could say it was bewitching,

but in a good way.

And there was that one time she convinced my parents

not to go to the cinema,

but to stay in with her,

and she was baking those divine cheese rolls.

And it smelled so good at her place that my parents decided to stay.

And they had a great time, but still felt a little sorry about the cinema.

And then the next day they heard there had been a bomb at the cinema

and no one had survived.

Later she claimed that she’d simply wanted them to stay

and there was nothing more to that.

Yet, that one time I’d almost died, I’d dreamt of her the night before.

And she was already dead back then.

“Don’t come in here!” she said and I didn’t.

She didn’t want me to join her, well not yet, anyway.

And I didn’t.

Maybe that was a coincidence too, I don’t know.

So, I honestly don’t know if she was a witch or not.

I guess she could have been, after all.

GloPoWriMo Day 17

As the orchestra plays Tchaikovsky and Shor

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Thu, 17 Apr 2025 00:01:00 +0000

As the orchestra plays Tchaikovsky and Shor

My meadow sleeps,

floating over a lazy subterranean river.

At midnight, the fairies dance

a suite from Nutcracker

They wake the river up.

It surfaces in a gracious crescendo

It spreads its long arms and

hugs my meadow.

The fairies wade happily through the water.

The full moon hangs low over my meadow

as the orchestra starts playing Shor

and the fairies hang their clothes onto trees to dry.

GloPoWriMo Day 16

Arrival

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Wed, 16 Apr 2025 00:53:00 +0000

Arrival

On top of a hill

my house sleeps.

Wild mint, yarrow and basil

whisper in the wind.

Robins and larks sing its praise.

My key in the lock.

GloPoWriMo Day 15

Coatimundis

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 14 Apr 2025 23:36:00 +0000

Coatimundis

I wish I could get adopted

by a pack of coatimundis.

They would teach me how to hunt,

their tails upturned in the tall grass

like a beacon for me to find my way home.

They would cackle like a flock of mad birds

to see me come back from a hunt with nothing again.

They would stomp their little feet as they circle around me,

creaking like rusty chains in their happiness to see me

Like a car with a burnt exhaust valve they would growl

at my clumsiness and my inability to learn.

I am sure they would kindly let me sleep with them,

nuzzling me with their long snouts,

beeping in my ear

like a pack of angry foghorns

on an especially foggy night.

GloPoWriMo Day 14

A Pea Hen’s Lament

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 14 Apr 2025 01:48:00 +0000

A Pea Hen’s Lament

Does it look to you like I am happy?

I didn’t choose these feathers or these wings.

Bewitched into this form in my dream one night,

I have no appetite for human food or the joy it brings.

All I really care for are those apples.

Up in the tree I hide and eat those apples.

GloPoWriMo Day 13 - Donald Justice's form

This poem is a part of a longer project

The Nine Pea Hens and the Golden Apples

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Mon, 14 Apr 2025 01:08:00 +0000

The Nine Pea Hens and the Golden Apples

Part 1

He fell asleep in his back yard under a barren apple tree.

At midnight, the garden was alight

as if at dawn.

And then he saw the tree had borne fruit of pure gold.

Next, he saw a flock of peacocks in the tree,

devouring the apples.

And then he saw a pea hen land in front of him.

She unzipped her plumes and took them off,

as if they had been a tight dress.

Underneath them was a woman of rare beauty.

In the morning she was gone, and so were the apples.

No one believed him.

The following night it happened all over again.

This time, he stole a lock of her hair, to prove his story.

She looked at him with sadness in her eyes,

then turned into a bird again and flew away,

never to return.

And so he searched for her day and night,

And so he asked around, and people told him

that once upon a time there’d been an exiled queen

turned into a peacock by an evil wizard,

bewitched to roam the world with her sisters,

until the power of true love shall set her free.

GloPoWriMo Day 12

Based on this fairy tale

Hydrangeas

noreply@blogger.com (Natasa) — Sat, 12 Apr 2025 00:51:00 +0000

Hydrangeas

And did I tell you about my other grandmother,

the one who lived in the country,

weaved her own carpets,

and knew how to cast a spell?

I am sure I did.

Anyway, she had a garden,

messy and beautiful in a wild way,

just like she was.

There were apples there

and wild strawberries

and sweet pears,

But mostly there were flowers.

I remember those blue flowers,

later I learnt they were hydrangeas,

but back then they were just blue flowers to me.

I was a child, you understand.

I would pretend I was lost in this garden.

I was a princess, or a fairy.

Anyway, those hydrangea bushes were beautiful.

They were big and I was small, and I could hide behind them.

But mostly I sat on the ground and just looked at them.

Later we sold that house and that garden and my grandmother came to live with us.

In our city home, she somehow became ordinary.

I remember she cried a lot when she thought nobody could see her.

I wonder what had happened to those hydrangea bushes.

I saw my grandmother cast a spell with my own eyes.

She had good intentions, though.

I was ill and she wanted me to stop hurting.

The spell failed, but I never told her.

A few years later she died.

I never went to see the place where she had lived.

I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize the garden.

Maybe it too had become ordinary by then.

GloPoWriMo Day 11