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Cut Before

Before I start making my slow way through my f-list, replying to some inspiring comments here and posting the rest of the poems from my beginning-of-June flood, now that I finally have time to do so, I’m posting a poem which I wrote down only yesterday, although it started forming in my mind exactly a week ago. Comments of any sort are greatly appreciated.


In the morning I cut the flowers
of roses, heavy in the rich overbloom,
before their pale petals fall and get stained,
before they hang their bald heads in shame
like young women after chemotherapy,
before they drink up the juices
which only the new buds deserve.


The afternoon has come

Another of yesterday’s poems. I’d say it is pretty unusual for me as regards the sort and amount of stylistic means. Next step on the way of changes?


The afternoon has come whispering of summer
and far lands. Then enclosed the city in a cage of heat,
with one look burning out the strength to escape
and leaving nothing but the helpless dream.
The air shimmers in its sleepless fever,
waiting for the crisis to come. For now,
the seconds slow down.


Leave-taking (R/S)

I changed my mind. I am crazy. Writing like crazy. Crazy things.

It’s my first Remus/Sirius poem since, as I’ve just checked, a year: the previous one was “Foundations”, written exactly on the 8th of June 2006 (and posted precisely four months later). So I really couldn’t wait. The next peculiarity is the fact that the poem’s rhymed — although I expect this might soon cease to be a peculiarity.

Just in case, as I don’t include a header: it is Remus’s perspective, sometime after OotP. I would be most happy to hear what you think. Concrit is, as always, loved dearly.


Tending to your dreams, I forgot mine,
And they fled like birds of summer,
Leaving a songless air behind.

So did you. Following their call
You took off and went south to fly
Over the sunny lands. Enthralled,

I watched you leave, a voiceless cry
Burning my throat, until you were gone
Beyond the far horizon’s line.

DRABBLE: I Still Wake Up

Ooh, life is crazy. Since yesterday I’ve written another rhymed poem — but I’m not at all sure I’ll decide to post it, as it’s sort of … funny … or something — and a, let’s say, ‘normal’ poem, which is for some reason also strange. Yet another one is waiting to be written, but for now I have a fresh piece of prose (which started as a poem, to be exact). I count it to the “Seriously” collection, which has until now comprised of poems only.

Title: I Still Wake Up
Rating: PG
Word count: 100
A/N: All feedback is loved dearly, and concrit is rewarded with strawberry cake.
EDIT (1st of July): Changed punctuation in the last sentence. Thank you, opheliet, for first questioning it, and paulamcg, for the suggestion of improvement.

I Still Wake Up

There were no goodbyes or silly letters. One day I came back and you weren’t there, and that was all right.

I’m getting used to sleeping alone. I’ve given up on trying to continue our evening conversations in my mind, and I read good books instead. I also have more space now: to stretch, and toss, and turn, and— And that’s all right, too.

But I still wake up at night like I used to, trying to snuggle closer. I listen in the dark for the sound of your breathing, but of course there’s nothing to hear — so I laugh.

9th of June 2007

My fickle friend …

It seems that I’m going through an experimenting phase in my writing: first line breaking, now — horror of horrors! — rhyming. This particular poem I blame on one Philip Larkin, my most recent love, whose “Collected Poems” I’ve been reading and sometimes translating into Polish (“An April Sunday brings the snow”, “To Failure”, “To My Wife”, “Coming” — I’m considering posting the translations, but who’d read them, really?) for almost a month now. His specific rhythm and rhyming sort of suggested, or even forced themselves on me as soon as the idea for this piece came. In the end I didn’t follow any regular rhythm, however, but concentrated on playing with rhymes (with an invaluable help from my rhyming dictionary, I must admit).

For some reason I wasn’t afraid to destroy the butterfly (an explanation about butterflies in my previous post), perhaps because it seemed to be a playful one from the very beginning. And I’m pretty sure I have not destroyed it, but — although I believe in every word — this piece remains more of a game for me than a real poem, coming “from deep in my stomach”.

Enough ramblings, here it goes, finished yesterday. All feedback is lo♥ed.


My fickle friend, called muse,
she likes to be late:
walk down the steps, hesitant,
waving her peacock fan,
while I stand by the car and wait,
my eyes carefully cast down and penitent.
Of course, she can

afford all the hesitation she will.
She knows I’ll keep standing next to the open door,
I’ll keep standing her moods,
I’ll wait for her ‘till
I fall, and more,
while she laughs, eludes —
this fickle friend of mine, called muse.


That Come

This is a poem I wrote two days ago. As I explained in my thank-you notes to the wonderful comments on “Look”, I make here another attempt to develop the idea of unconventional line breaking, although this time on a much smaller scale.

I’m wondering whether, or actually how the poem can be understood without a key, which is the meaning of the butterflies. Butterflies are a returning metaphor in my poems and I believe that knowing what the idea refers to can change the reading considerably. I decided to offer the answer — behind a cut, so as to not impose my interpretation on anyone. It might be interesting to read the poem without any explanation and perhaps only afterwards look for the key … But I leave the choice up to you.


the butterflies that come in rain,
sad butterflies with the patterns smudged on their wings —
the butterflies that come in snow,
the patterns on their wings carved by frost —
oh, how they can fly!
the butterflies that don’t come at all,
that evade the reach of my fingers,
the patterns on their wings hand-painted —
the butterflies that rule the world,
colourful tyrants of frail form —

The ButterfliesCollapse )

I hope this overlong explanation doesn’t deprive anyone of their own interpretation. Feedback of any sort and length will be most appreciated.


I wrote this piece a few weeks ago, inspired by this wonderful, wonderful poem by Eija (paulamcg): both by a particular phrase, with which I chose to begin my poem, and by the technique of unconventional line breaking in search of ambiguity. This is my very first take on this style and I must admit I was rather uncertain about the results. Thank you, Eija, for your encouragement, and for the inspiration in the first place!

I love comments of any length and dealing with any aspect of my writing.


I don’t
touch you at all
but you
feel it
don’t you
on the corners
of your mouth
I won’t
stop staring



And one more, written (down) yesterday morning. This poem is very special to me for a reason I cannot reveal yet, as I don’t want to influence the reception. I would absolutely love to hear about your possible interpretations, associations, ideas, impressions — everything. No worries, there’s no such thing as wrong answers :-)


I turned around
and her eyes were a garden
a spring garden
where the flower buds had frozen and dropped
a summer garden
with an empty swing
an autumn garden
where no one rakes the leaves

but the winter wouldn’t come



Yet another poem from the 12th of May. I was wondering why I can call it a poem, when the language is so obviously simple and, well, prose. But I do call it a poem — and I believe it is more the concept of the piece, the way it was written and can be received, that make it one, than the language as such. Or do they?


I bought myself today
a small bouquet of lilies of the valley.
I arranged them carefully in a blue vase
and looked at them, while listening to silly old love songs.

It was a beautiful morning.
Every time the cry started to rise
from deep in my stomach,
I just smiled harder.


No One Will Hear

Another poem from yesterday. I see I’m slowly beginning to play with the form. Hopefully it will bring some interesting results.
Feedback is — as always — loved dearly.


Scream, my poems, scream!
No one will hear you.
Claw at the doors and try to tear down the walls,
the only response will be the echo of your cries.
Scream until your throats burn, burn away,
no one will hear you.
No one
will hear
No one
no one