When I was a tree
within the twiligth beside the willows
I stood the light
with the hope almost dying
under the fingertips
I marked by a sunbeam path
the circles of time around my neck
when I was a tree
deep down in the root
the strength of my growth was squatted
it weaved the web of a beginning
under a rough core the trunk
sucked in all the water of a dawn
within the bare boughs there nested
a prayer of mine for the end
the leaves like mirrors reflected the sky
when I was a tree
I stood motionless
and all the movements were there within
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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When a morning got clothes pinned on the sky
with the garment clouds dressed in hues of sorrow
I saw a blade child cutting through the breath
towards a flake spilled white to be washed away with snow slides
I saw the ice melting into knives falling from the edges
of the buildings built too high to scraper aspire the limits
I saw the footsteps falling apart into pools of dirt
that was mis-named for the first sign of spring
the pigeons that used to come to my window sill
to eat the crumbs of the words I left unspoken
they window pane fly around the treetops in the park across the street - that street that will never come in
I saw things missing from the torn out pages of the books burned
in the name of new readings and old interpretations
I saw them crying out at me helpless enough ever to utter them
saw them floating up in the sky alongside who knows where dragged clouds
with a tear of a lover, the thorn of the beloved
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Heraclitus Fr.30
The world is becoming the bruise in my heart
The desert skin wearing the burns of the dark
The burns of the light
It’s placed in the accords of infliction
The thought of the rain and wind the volcano and the grain
A re-creation of endless circles
The spheric cages of the sky and earth
Dressed in moss my chilly waitings are
The soul of the north freezes my breath
Reality swallowed in a piece of question
Infinitely pushes the edges of the fall
The finite stuck within a dream
Where have I heard the eternal rhythm of the tribe
The beating of the earth within its step
The breathing of the water dripping down
The walls of the caves
Where have I seen the volcano lava
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Not a single thing
Not a single thing could comprise
The secret geography of this body
Limbs stretching close alive
Hands weaving the lines fingers apart
The head bountiful pillowed
And the beating beating of its heart
Not a single thing to account for
The rhythm of the footsteps
A horror vacui sealed in each step
Feet silent directions bespoken by the sand
The sand dust of eternal walks
Through the mind in the mind
Head caput over heading horizons crowns
Or silver coins of the Moons engraved
Deeply cut into the doors of the night sky
I waited there long enough to learn
Not a single thing can totally define
The lenghts of the smile on the lips then dry
Before the blue was taken away
Into the sunrise red and the ocean
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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It’s the night
the babushka night with thousands of lunas inside
growing from a granny to a little girl’s sickle moon
cutting through the night as guilty of a night as charged
even though the stars don’t know that as yet
and keep blinking flirting with the night blamelessly
it’s this night that I found the night made of my eyes
written in a name that wants to call my name now mute
engraved in the jewelry stones of the nights I threw away
battling the night’s charges of the Moon that got insane
spread across the laughter on a fool’s paradise throne
crying dying within all in around me my tease-me nights
it’s the night that looks like stamps of all the towns I ran away from
enveloped in no special colour to make a night delivery less painfull
addressed to the last moon beam that dared touch the coats buttoned
by little moons with two tiny holes for needles to cross to the other side
to sew a different night spill silk colours unto the snarls soothe them
so that there’s nothing left at night to bark at so that the night can peacefully sleep
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Calender Day 9
The living and the dead
They want answers beyond the measures of their time
And times easily crash into each other's spaces
All knowledge is there waiting to be discovered revealed
Poured into half empty hands of the mind and the mind of power
Whose credibility rests on the implements of moral codes
Inscribed into now malevolent signs of philosophia prima
Of the doors closing down
Whose vulnerability lies in the whole world of dreams
And hopes hopelessly lost on a broken brow
I fear the world will be really dropped on head
The way it drops its subjects once they're too hot to touch
I once had this little book of colours
The leafs are still turning my life
Never really let me in
My ancestors were there denied as well
And I was sad
You're too endless for its pages
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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When you turn the other page of a cheek/Kad okreces drugu stranicu obraza
When you turn the other page of a cheek
A slap of morn written abyss down your neck
A glove that you lift right from the floor
To throw it into the face of the tree swallowers
That keep growing faster than the boughs
Up to the sky lid in the cauldron of each word
Does it ever come to your mind
What it is there that bursts out in a dream
Do you then think of streets those winding snakes
With their tongue dipped into the poison paths
The buses that turn questionless to a wheel
Insanity spinning both Alladin and the lamp
A sign post in the dark
Do you then think of the houses windows and doors
And heart beats facing the gate of the entrance
As if it was the first time to come into a human
Not knowing whether the host was inside
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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This is not my face/Ovo nije moje lice
This is not my face
This thing oozing out of your insipid reflection theories
When you're putting it into A is A A is B B is C
You know
C is maybe a newly born naked
Syllogism pointing at a tzar
So that you can ask him ask him
‘Tzar tzar oh master tell us what's the time'
And the tzar cannot hear you for he's got a goat's ears
This is not my face
This thing you're folding after you've ironed it
And placed it among the skirts trousers and shirts
You know
A shirt is perhaps a flag of my home
Put on a post to limit the borders of pain
So that you may ask it ask it
‘Does it hurt does it hurt tell us what's the time'
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Fire forever (Nafaka)
the rings of fire I’ll throw into the sky
let the twilight burn let it burn the night
the fires of souls down the river flow
fire and yesterday fire and tomorrow
fire forever
the thought of fire I’ll burn under my fingers
let the breath into the chains into the chains
let there be a fire
let there be a darkness
the morning in chains let it burn
hundreds of bracelets decorate the hands
what you can hear is the sound of their ashes
let them butn the touches into the dust
big fires upon the horizon
the fire of dawn
the fire of twilight
the fire of midnight
fire forever
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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This World Is Your Brainchild (Unite Unite Europe)
You self-proclaimed mother of all the cultures and civilisations
You blue-eyes girl who does not remember the colour of the sky
Are you still swaying the continents in your cradle
With your spiritual tentacles
From Africa to Asia from Australia to America
Are you still taking on your morning boots
Your Nazisms Communisms
Your Democratic Simulacrae Civilisms
Your Natio-Philic and Open Society of your Voids
To run over the world once again
And spit into the face of Atlas
You neatly construed in a plundered haiku
Within a tanka syllable an open cave
Of Plato's anxiety
You performed at the botox party
Among the fields of deceptions
That you plough up and down your face
You fat burned
Casting fat of your own greed into a river oblivion
And the river doesn't want it
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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