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Showing posts from January, 2020

Identitet

Smiješno
Ljudi vele da sam hladna
Da nemam empatije
Da volim kontrolu
Da volim svemu biti poklopac
No tko su oni
Tko su oni da mi sude
Kad ne znaju ni tko su sami
Obična mala izgubljena bića
Koja veličaju svoje postojanje
Samo kako bi na nekoliko trenutaka
Osjetila da su netko, netko vrijedan spomena
No oni su nitko
Obični crvi željni pažnje
A opet
Tako lako sude druge
Druge za koje ni ne znaju što su prošli
Što je u njihovim srcima
Što se skriva iza svih maski
Al kako i bi
Kad su sami toliko isprazni
Jer njihove maske su maske veličine
Daju dojam da su vrijedni društva i pažnje
No to je sve maska
Ispod nje nema ničeg
Samo veliki smrad
Smrad davno izgubljene duše
Duše koja sve više trune
Robuje njihovoj žudnji za veličinom
No nje nema
Nikad je ni ne će biti
Jer veličina postoji samo u srcima onih iskrenih
A takvi su rijetki
Možda ih ni nema
I pitaš se onda
Čemu onda svi osjećaji koje imaš
Kad ih ionako nitko nije vrijedan
Kad ih pokažeš ispadaš slabić
Kad ih štitiš podalje od svih
Ne…

Zrcalna slika boli

Jesi li ikad koraknuo unatrag i jednostavno promatrao fenomen boli, krvi i polakog ništavila? Kako krv polako prodire, najprije nazirući se iza poluprozirne kože prekrivene samo tankim slojem neke beskonačne mreže kožnih stanica sve do samog ruba te špilje stanica i napokon prodire na svjetlost prelijevajući se od ruba do ruba otkinute kože kapljući u tihom ritmu pulsirajuće boli, boli koja je najprije oštra i tjera nas na bezglavno urlanje, savijanje od boli, ali bol koja zapravo prati rad našeg srca, koja zbog nenadane promjene počinje ubrzano lupati, nesvjesna da ljudski mozak to ne shvaća ko dobronamjerno upozorenje već ko užasnu, neshvatljivu bol. No, bol koja iako nastupa naglo, suprotno od krvi, prati njen ritam. Pulsira sve manje i manje što se krv brže izlijeva sve dok se sva ne izlije, a bol potpuno nestane, osim ponekog trzaja kako bi nas upozorila na nedavni događaj sve do potpunog ništavila. Ništavila koje nastupa potpunim zacjeljenjem rane. Ništavila koje ko da poriće po…

Uspomena

Ležim
Oko mene noć
Duga, gluha noć
U daljini, kao stotinama godina daleko,
Čuje se vjetar
Hladan zimski vjetar
Koji šapuće
Pa urliče
Pa opet šapuće
O staroj ljubavi
O onoj noći
O onom danu
Danu kad se sve promijenilo
Još se mogu da sjetim tvog pogleda
Pogleda ko u malog djeteta
Punog neke meni nevidljive energije
Snage
Želje
Pokornosti
Pogleda koji je nepomično pratio svaku liniju mog tijela
Mog nagog, blijedog tijela
Tijela koje je strepilo
Drhtalo
Žudjelo
Žudjelo za tvojim pogledom i dodirom
I tako stajaše
Jedan nasuprot drugog
Tvoj dječački pogled
I moje žensko tijelo
Kad bi barem vrijeme stalo u to trenutku
Kad se barem nikad ne bi dotakli jedno drugog
Ostali vječno svaki na svojoj strani
Zureći i trepereći
Odvojeni
No sreća im nije bila naklona
Te se s užasnom silinom
Uzbuđenja
Želje i
Strasti
Spojiše
Spojiše kao što se nitko do tad
Ni niko od tad
Nije spojio
Tijelo je dobilo što je htjelo
A pogled je iskusio što je gledao
I žarko priželjkivao
No kamo nakon tog
Nakon silovitog …

Posljednji zagrljaj

Još se mogu da sjetim tvog zagrljaja. Držao si me toliko lagano kako se drži samo najnježniji cvijetak, a opet toliko čvrsto kao da si se bojao prolaznosti trenutka, mog polakog smicanja niz tvoje prste duboko u vječni zaborav.

Osjećala sam tvoj užurban dah na svom vratu koji je savršeno pratio ritam tvoje ruke, ruke koja je moje tijelo približavala sve bliže tvom dok se napokon nisu spojila u jedno.
Pogledom sam pratila savršene obrise tvoje druge ruke kako se proteže ispred mojih očiju. Položila sam svoju tik do nje u nadi da će tvoji dugi, vitki prsti pronaći put do mojih malenih, skoro dječjih prstiju i uzeti ih u zagrljaj.

S isprepletenim prstima jedne ruke i čvrstim zagrljajem druge ruke pozorno položene na moje grudi držao si me poput najvećeg blaga.

Tijela polako kao da su se stapala u jedno. Vladala je potpuna tišina. Jedini zvukovi bili su naši uzdasi. Uzdasi čežnje i tihe požude. Uzdasi želje da naša tijela ostanu zauvijek nepomično slijepljena. Nije bilo ni najmanjeg pomak…

Krinka noći

Noć
Ležim budan
Svuda mrak
Tišina
Jedno malo savršeno biće
Spava pokraj mene
Dižem se
Promatram je
Spava mirno
Odlazim do prozora
Promatram je
U ovom mraku
Njena blijeda put
Izgleda još ljepše
Kosa joj lagano pada
Preko mekih usana
Skrećem pogled
Razmišljam
-Otiđi, otiđi sad kad nisi još sve upropastio
Gledam van
Nikog nema
Samo ja i moje misli
Mislim:
-Bolje tako. Nitko ne će znati
Polako se okrećem
I tražim svoje stvari
Al' evo je
Budi se
Gledam je sa strahom da ne shvati
Polako otvara svoje velike oči i traži me
Kad me ugleda
Nasmije se zadovoljno
I primiri
Polako ustaje
Dolazi do mene
Gledam je
Leprša i sjaji poput anđela
Ugleda moj pogled
Zabrinuto me upita:
-Što je?
Ja samo odvratim:
-Ništa, ne brini
Nasmije se
Zagrli me i nježno poljubi
Pogleda van
Stojimo tako zagrljeni
Tišina
Svuda mrak
Odjednom mi šapne:
-Volim te
Ja mislim:
-I ja tebe. Zato moram otići.

Mother tongue pieces

Someone asked me lately why I don't write in my mother tongue. Well, I do. Or better to say, I used to.

Over time it became easier for me to get my thoughts out in English. For some reason, they seem to be far less scattered. However, for those of you that understand Croatian (or think you do), here are some of my old (dark) pieces I've written, literally, ages ago.



Krinka noći

Posljednji zagrljaj

Uspomena

Zrcalna slika boli

Identitet

Unexplainable Lightness of Being

Night
Room
Room full of people
Room full of strangers
Room full of music
And you.
You
Standing
Standing with your eyes closed
And listening
Listening to the throbbing music
Its rhythm
Its pauses
Its passages
Its completeness.
And you float
Your whole body floats
High above the room's walls,
The moving bodies of strangers
Going higher and higher
Expanding beyond the known world
Into the bliss
The bliss of light
The bliss of sound
The bliss of dancing unity of light and sound.
And it happens
There and then
You aren't
And yet you are
You are nothing
And you are everything
The unexplainable lightness of being.
Slowly, the music stops
And you travel back
Back to the room
Room full of strangers
Dancing, drinking, talking
And you open your eyes
And come back to life
Unable to move
Unable to say a word
Still half paralyzed
Paralyzed by the beauty of it all
The beauty of the whole world clashing
Clashing in one single moment.
And so you move
Make that first step
Step back to the room

Worlds

There are worlds inside me
Worlds that come to life
While listening to music
Traveling
Reading
Or simply sitting still.
Each of them is different
Each has its own beginning and end
Its own atmosphere
Its own inhabitants
Or none
Its own bigger picture,
Yet they all exist in my head
And in my head only
Popping up whenever they feel like it
And again disappearing as they wish.
Sometimes the two of them, or three of them meet
And talk
Or fight
As all friends do.
And sometimes they make new baby worlds
Magnificent new worlds with no restraint but to get lost in them.

...


I guess we all have our set of imaginary worlds
Worlds we escape to
Depending on what we are escaping from.
And they are there
Waiting for us
Waiting for us to explore
To write new stories
To be happy.
Just a daydream away.

Autumn Sun

The moment
The stillness.
The sun.
The warmth.
Sitting and slowly peeling the tangerine.
Enjoying the fresh air
and sun's warmth.
Suddenly.
The smell.
The most extraordinary smell.
The smell of fresh yellow citrus juiciness.
The smell of far-off tropical places.
The smell of simplicity.
The smell of mindfulness.
But wait.
Something small.
Something small and buzzy.
A ladybird.
Small, red animal buggy dancing on my hand.
Going up and down,
left and right,
enjoying the sun.
Tickling me with her tiny legs
and her dotted wings
on her way into the big wide world.
Slowly she spreads her wings,
tickling me a bit more with her restless legs,
and off she goes.
Towards the sun.
To the warmth.
Taking with her the fresh juicy smell of tangerine,
to accompany her on her long journey
into the unknown sky.

Rain

Rain.
No soul around.
Only me
The sound of my feet
And millions of drops,
Slowly guiding my way.
But wait.
A distant sound.
A joyful sound.
Getting closer and more familiar with each step.
A dancing sound.
The sound of Scottish pipes.
Rain.
No soul around.
Just me and the piper,
Transcending me to another world,
World of highlands,
World of sun,
World of open sky and green grass,
The world of simple joy.
So I sit
And listen,
Enjoying a perfect rainy day.

Expiration Date

There is something soothing in
Expiration date encounters.
No pressure
No expectations
No tomorrow.
Only that moment,
That night,
That day,
That week.
All that matters are seconds,
Millimeters
And macro-themes.
No small talk,
Or no talk at all.
No overthinking,
Or no thinking at all.
Just dance,
Dance between two strangers
That are no strangers at all.
At least not in that moment,
That night,
That day,
That week.
They are nothing and everything.
They are free.
Free to explore
The depths of each other's mind.
The blinding beauty of each other's body.
The deafening horror of their very own passion.
They are free.
Free to know themselves as they never did and never will.
There is something soothing in tick tock moments.
We try more.
We try less.
We give in more.
We give in less.
And remain lovers forever,
And lovers at all.
The poetry is born,
Lived,
Tasted,
And forever gone.
There is something soothing in late night meetings.

Summer Storm

Have you ever experienced that feeling,
Feeling of a sudden summer storm in the shape of a person?
A storm that stirs your life for a second,
Opening a rare window to another world?
A storm that leaves you breathless in a dreamlike state?
I did.
It was her.
A human storm.
Walking in my life as an innocent bystander,
Oblivious to what she meant to me in that moment.
The perfect stroll of her body.
Her almost dancing steps.
Her long black skirt resembling a restless ocean on a dark night.
Her yellow, curly locks jumping up and down like children on the playground.
Her whole being pulsing with a dreamlike elegance.
And, for a second, my life was transformed.
Dark night no longer seemed dark
And city no longer seemed plain.
For a second my life, my very own existence, felt the warmth of poetic blanket.
And all because of her.
That perfect little human summer storm.

Saturday Morning

When you feel it.
That urge that is no urge at all.
That desire that is no desire at all.
More of an inclination.
The image of soft white bed on a Saturday morning.
Two bodies sleeping next to each other.
Slowly they awake,
Look at each other,
And stay gazing.
The softness of their gaze matches the softness of the sheets stretching under their even softer naked bodies.
A small movement.
A hand graciously finding its way to the neighboring body.
A gentle up-and-down movement of a hand exploring the contours of this strange body.
Exploring each curve, each mark, each bump,
Followed by the persistent ever watching eye.
That urge that is no urge at all.
That desire that is no desire at all.
That act of simple getting to know your lover's body under a sunlit white sheets on a Saturday morning.

Chunks of my brain a.k.a poetry blog

As the title says, this is a poetry blog where you can find, read and - who knows - maybe even enjoy some of my word vomit containing occasional good chunk of my weirdly wired brain.


To start off, I'll be sharing with you three poems that were published in Why nICHt?'s edition appropriately named Naughty Time. That's right, we're diving head first straight into the murky waters.



Saturday Morning
Summer Storm
Expiration Date