A
WORLDWIDE
WRITERS’ WEB
PRESENTATION!
PUBLISHED
BY
OPA
OUR
POETRY ARCHIVE
ONLINE MONTHLY POETRY JOURNAL
https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com
email us to:
**************************************
Saturday, April 1, 2023
APRIL 2023 ISSUE NO. 97
AN INTERVIEW WITH BOB MACKENZIE
NilavroNill
Talking With Poet
Bob Mackenzie
April 2023
NILAVRONILL: Why do literature and poetry in particular
interest you so much? Please give us some idea about your own perception of
literature or poetry in general.
BOB MACKENZIE: For me, poetry and prose fiction are simply
media within which one might tell a story.
More broadly, this applies to all literary forms and to The Arts in
general. Whether I may write prose or
poetry, make photographs or other visual art, or create live or recorded
performance works, what’s always important is the story being told. Every work of art has a story to tell. My particular interest in literature and
especially poetry comes from the fact that the written or spoken word is
perhaps the most effective tool we can use to tell a story.
NILAVRONILL: How do you relate your own self existence
with your literary life in one hand, and the time around you, in the other.
BOB MACKENZIE: I am one
with the world in which I live. There’s
no escaping that. There’s a natural flow
through time as the world evolves and changes.
This is not to say that events, even major events, will necessarily
affect the stories I tell or the points they may make. It’s true that events may sometimes draw me
in and what I experience will influence directions I would like my story to
take. Sometimes as well, the story will
take on a life of its own and go to places I had never intended. This is one of the exciting aspects of
communicating through such a fluid medium as language. The storytelling can become a dialogue
between a writer and events as they happen.
The wonder of that interaction is then passed along to the reader or
listener.
NILAVRONILL: Do you believe creative souls flourish
more in turmoil than in peace?
BOB MACKENZIE: In this
class of “creative souls” I include all of humanity, though each individual may
be creative in his or her own way. Among
this mass of human creatives, artists stand out because above all they are the
tellers of our stories. They watch and
listen, feel and respond, then tell the tale to those who will listen. It’s
only natural that these “empaths” if you will may be more affected by turmoil
than the average person. However, they
may equally be as affected by the peaceful ripple of a stream flowing through
the woods, or birdsong on a spring morning.
They will surely be affected by the calm that comes with love of family,
of another person, or even of a favourite pet.
At times the peace of being alone with oneself, of contemplation may
bring a sense of the divine. In all of
these environments, a creative soul may flourish and even excel. I believe it’s possible for such a person to
flourish equally in peace or turmoil, whenever the world and the person make a
connection.
NILAVRONILL: Do you think in this age of information and
technology the dimensions of literature have
been largely extended beyond our preconceived ideas about literature in
general?
BOB MACKENZIE: What we call literature is a codified representation of the spoken art of story which had existed for eons before there was written or printed word. Those are both relatively recent developments that have in some ways boxed in and restricted the full potential of story. The digital information technology of our era has released story from the bonds with which the literary establishment has tied and controlled it. As soon as humans created languages, information was spread by mouth from person to person, tribe to tribe. Travelling poets and troubadours went from community to community telling the news of the day. For longer than memory, this was the only way humans shared information. In those days of spoken-word communication, legends were created, stories of gods and heroes made and told, and even extended communities were built, all by word-of mouth. The creation of writing placed some limits on the formulation of stories, but written word and word-of-mouth appear to have lived side by side for many generations. The innovation represented by the printing press changed all that and the concept that story was to be encoded as literature, the written word, locked the doors. The new technology of our century, and social media in particular, have burst the doors open, and the tyranny of academic literature no longer holds sway over the power of story. Social media, personal communication by email and other online means, digital creation and telling of story in both page and spoken form, live-stream spoken word, and other advances have expanded the sharing of story as art and communication to the universality it had in the beginning, but with an infinitely broader reach.
NILAVRONILL: Now, in this changing scenario we would
like to know from your own life experiences as a poet, writer and a creative
soul: How do you respond to this present time?
BOB MACKENZIE: I’m not sure how to answer this. Many seem to feel this is a new and different
era with its own challenges, advances, and dangers. There’s a sense that many things have changed
and we live in an entirely different world.
From what I’ve observed this is not a true picture of the time in which
we live. This view presents a fantasy in
which one may feel a sense of newborn stability and so safety whatever may
happen, good or bad. But that’s all it
is, a fantasy which separates us from memory of the past and to some degree
from the future that is sure to come. At
times, I wonder if I may have become numb, inured to the joys and tragedy of
this new world. I feel no different in
this time than I have in any other. Then
I realize that’s the point. This present
time is no different than any other.
There are wars ongoing. There is
prejudice and hatred. Evil and often
terrifying things happen. Now as then,
we must live through and cope with these things. But there is also love, and periods of peace
filled with optimism and the will to change.
As the American poet Max Ehrmann wrote a century ago, “no doubt the
universe is unfolding as it should.”
Rather than be numb to it, I simply accept this present time for what it
is, in all of its sometimes fearsome and sometimes glorious variety.
NILAVRONILL: Do you believe that all writers are by and
large the product of their nationality? And is this an incentive for or an
obstacle against becoming a truly international writer?
BOB MACKENZIE: Long ago
I learned that nations are defined simply by lines drawn on a map. If nations are such an artificial construct
then so is nationality, mutable over time and by the whims of politicians and
despots. In my life alone, the maps of
Europe, Africa, Asia, and the rest of the world have been redrawn many
times. Some nations have changed their
shape and name so often it’s near impossible to remember all the variations.
While it may be true that a minority of writers are
products of their nationality, whatever that may be at the time, the work of
most draws on something deeper and perhaps even genetically ingrained. That is the culture into which they are born
and raised. The primary inclination of
humanity is tribal. If one looks, for
example, at the continent of Europe over its long history as far back as humans
have lived there, it will be seen to be nothing more or less than an
aggregation of tribes. In the context of
that long history, the concept of nationhood is very new. A closer look reveals that any nation is a
collaboration of tribes, often aggregated against their collective will. And over time, nations will expand or shrink,
vanish and appear with lines on the map redrawn by war or intrigue and political
bargaining. Through all of this, the
tribes and their cultures remain and shall remain. It’s of these many and varied cultures that
writers and all artists are the products.
While it’s true that such a fragmented world may be an
obstacle for some writers, or at least constrain them to their own ethnic
culture, writers are a curious sort. Seeing
all there is in the world that they haven’t yet discovered, many and perhaps
most writers may see this variety as a challenge to expand their horizons. This presents an incentive to discover new
worlds from which to draw inspiration.
NILAVRONILL: Now, if we try to understand the tradition
and modernism, do you think literature can play a pivotal role in it? If so, how? Again, how can an individual
writer relate himself or herself to the tradition and to modernism?
BOB MACKENZIE: It’s unclear whether this question refers to modernism
itself as a tradition or asks for a comparison between modernism as a literary
philosophy and the philosophy or tradition that had existed before the
modernist movement. While these two
interpretations may seem quite dissimilar, I believe they are more closely
related than we may imagine. So the main
question is what role does literature play in the modernism of our times. The
modernism that arose throughout western civilization in the late 19th Century
had been a reaction to the strictures of tradition, especially during the
Victorian era. It especially blossomed
and grew following the First World War.
By mid-century, though, modernism had begun to become a tradition of its
own as stultifying as the one it had replaced.
This history holds true throughout all disciplines of the arts, but
especially literature.
In this new era, too many writers cling to a “modernism”
which is no longer truly modern or innovative. For example, many and perhaps
most of the poets who had become prominent in the sixties of the 20th
Century and their adherents hew to the tenets of this new tradition and have
modelled their art on the American artists of that era. Over the past few decades, I’ve been pleased
to see the rise of new, younger writers, especially poets, who are exploring
new ground beyond modernism or the traditions that had come before yet
incorporating in new ways much of what had gone before. This direction can both relate to and move
into the future.
NILAVRONILL: Do you think literary criticism has much to
do with the development of a poet and the true understanding of his or her poetry?
BOB MACKENZIE: I believe that the best literary criticism can have a great deal of influence on how the beginning poet and even the more experienced may develop and grow. This is literary criticism which delves deep into a writer’s work, thoughtfully analyzes the art and craft that has gone into the poetry, and clearly advises the poet on what has been discovered in this process. This is a partnership though, in which the poet must also fully participate. The poet must take seriously what he or she has been told and carefully consider what to take from it and apply. The advice given, no matter how erudite, is in the end only one person’s opinion. The poet should utilize what is most helpful, take some suggestions under advisement for later consideration, and shelve the rest in some back closet of the mind as not applicable.
NILAVRONILL: Do you think society as a whole is the key
factor in shaping you up as a poet, or your poetry altogether?
BOB MACKENZIE: I don’t believe “society as a whole” can be
much of a factor in shaping a poet or the poet’s poetry. Such a concept is too large and
flexible. More important influences are
the smaller elements: the family, the community, faith or religion, the immediate
culture in which the poet lives. Each of
these or the lack of any of them can have an enormous influence on the poet as
a person and as an artist. Even the
smallest thing may sometimes mark the poet for life. Early influences from family, friends, and
the immediate community and culture are the key factors to shape a person’s
outlook and so the shape of the poet to be.
I know this to have been true in my life and my development as an
artist. Without the family and culture
in which I had the privilege to develop as a person, I wouldn’t be the poet and
artist I’ve become.
NILAVRONILL: Do you think people in general actually
bother about literature? Do you think
this consumerist world is turning the average man away from serious literature?
BOB MACKENZIE: I don’t believe the general mass of people
have ever been concerned with literature or any fine art as curated and defined
by academics and other such establishments.
It’s doubtful consumerism or the environment it creates have any impact
on this relationship between common people and the high arts. This level of the arts is formalized by the
elites as one wall against the barbarians without. However, art in its various forms has always
been with us and always shall be. The
making of art as communication is foundational to the human condition. Art exists at the street level
that, while perhaps dismissed by elite arbiters, touches the hearts of those
who live in towns, cities, and the countryside.
This people’s art drives progress and revolution, makes history where
high art never can. This is the art of
the Bohemians, Beats, Hippies and of the workers often far removed from formal
academics. If the average man may appear
to have turned away from “serious” literature, it’s because he has never turned
to it for succor or simple enjoyment in the first place.
NILAVRONILL: We would like to know the factors and the
peoples who have influenced you immensely in the growing phase of your literary
life.
BOB MACKENZIE: This
story begins long before I officially began my writing career. It was my parents who first showed me the many
forms that story can take, including the written word. When I was unable to start school because I’d
been born in January of the next year, my parents enrolled me in daycare. This daycare in our small prairie town was unusual,
teaching children the arts. At five
years old, I became a painter and sculptor as well as a teller of tales. Even before that, my parents gave me a
Brownie camera, which my photographer father and painter mother taught me to
use. When I was eight years old, my
parents helped me make a 16 mm movie short which I produced, wrote,
directed, and starred in. My mother and
father were well-educated for the time and literate. Our home was filled with
talk of politics, world faiths, art and literature. My father loved poetry, both literary works
and the humour of writers like the American poet Ogden Nash. My mother was a fan of popular music, sharing
with my sister and me the salient points of excellent song lyrics. And our lives growing up were filled with the
strains of music in every genre and from every era, modern and going back for
centuries. This environment, which also
included aunts and uncles and grandparents, put me on the road to my later
career as an artist and remains perhaps my greatest influence.
At 18 years old, I decided that writing was my calling
and true profession. But I was still
growing. I learned a lot from
professionals I worked with in print and broadcast media and from working
artists who were willing to talk with a beginner. Right at the start, I was fortunate to be
admitted to a writing workshop with successful writers many years older than
myself who were a great influence on my approach to writing. In my varied lifetime, I have met and
learned, formally and informally, from many excellent artists in all
disciplines. Each of these contacts has
certainly been a strong influence on me and my career. Even now, I am still learning and growing.
NILAVRONILL: How would you evaluate your contemporaries
and what are your aspirations for or expectation from the younger generation?
BOB MACKENZIE: I’m not certain who I can call my
contemporaries, so have no basis for evaluation. Here in Canada, the poets of my generation
have mostly drawn from different sources for their work than I have for
mine. Many, perhaps most, look back
a short time for their forms and inspiration.
They are students of the Black Mountain movement and poets of other
similar philosophies in American poetry.
In my opinion, these poets are trying to replicate in Canada a movement
already past its time in the nation of its birth. Many of these same poets and
others appear to look back at the modernists for inspiration and write a poetry
that is even further past its time.
Writing that draws upon either of these philosophies can in some cases
appear derivative or even cliché. In
this environment, I have been mostly the outlier. While I’m sure there are many poets in Canada
who may also be outliers for various reasons, we share no common point of meeting. However, we are all growing old and it’s to
the young we must look. I see many
wonderful young poets in Canada, ranging from absolute beginners to those
already established or gaining a foothold.
More than a few of these poets are also becoming editors at established
journals and small presses or establishing presses of their own. The decisions these new editors make will
make all the difference. I’m not sure my
aspirations for this new generation of poets in Canada matter, but my
expectation is that they will excel and will revitalize our poetry. As for the new generation of poets in the
rest of the world, I don’t feel I know their work well enough to comment.
NILAVRONILL: Humanity has suffered immensely in the
past, and is still suffering around the world. We all know it well. But are you
hopeful about our future?
BOB MACKENZIE: There has always been suffering in the world, and always great joy. This has only ever changed in degree as balance has been achieved then lost once more. Yes, I am very hopeful for the future which is always ahead of us. Humanity is incredibly resilient, whatever may come.
NILAVRONILL: What role can literature in general play
to bring a better day for every human being?
BOB MACKENZIE: The word, both written and spoken, can play a very positive role in the life of every single human being, or it can be very damaging. This awesome power for good or evil lies in the hands of every person who writes or speaks any language. Handle with care is the byword. Early in their evolution, humans discovered that they could communicate with the sounds they make. These inflected grunts and growls synthesized into words, and words inspired sharing and a higher order of thought. Once even the simplest forms of writing were created, communication through words became widespread not only over distance but through time. With the new technology now available to us, communication is enhanced beyond our wildest dreams, through words both spoken and on screens in print. It’s through these media that the language of the street, the language of the people can and does gain an increasingly important role in everyday lives. Each of us must handle the use of words with care and integrity and be always aware of the ways others may be using them.
BOB MACKENZIE: Raised
in mid-century rural Alberta with artist parents, professional photographer and
musician father and visual artist mother, Canadian poet Bob MacKenzie now lives
and writes in Kingston, Ontario. His
poetry has appeared in nearly 500 journals internationally and his work's
appeared in numerous anthologies. Bob
has published nineteen volumes of poetry and prose-fiction and has received
numerous local and international awards for his writing, including an Ontario
Arts Council grant for literature, a Canada Council Grant for performance, and
a Fellowship to attend the Summer Literary Seminars in Tbilisi, Georgia. The ensemble Poem de Terre has released six
albums of Bob's poetry spoken and sung with original music.
BOB MACKENZIE
The Silken Wind
Sliding down the
sun
like a sky hung
hawk in flight
I will follow
you
through this
timeless space
and ride the
silken wind for you.
Like a clipper
ship
on an endless
sea of love
I will sail
beyond
all the worlds I
know
and ride the
silken wind for you.
Like a drifting
leaf
seeking some new
home in fall
I will turn and
turn
though the fires
may flare
and ride the
silken wind for you.
And by you
obsessed
I will fly and
sail and drift
and will drown
for you
and will burn for
you
and ride the
wind for you.
Storms Never Last
All the lonely
people came
then the crows
appeared
and the sun went
blacker
than night of a
winter day.
Parked car
conversations
in the courtyard
of the
hydroelectric
power station:
the wilderness
of mirrors.
Spirits of tulle
whirled
the dark of wind
and rain
raised us up in
transports
of joy and
gossamer terror.
Pressed close by
darkness
stopped hearts
became one-
brave new worlds
in silence-
began once more
to breathe.
Out of darkness
came light
demons of wind
and rain
mist like
wrapped the car:
only the awesome
silence.
No mere sunset
this,
the temple's in
flames,
our world is
burning,
entire nations
weep.
Snapshot: December 17, 2013
in this black
sky there is no noon sun
the dark
smothers all sense of daylight
silence has
fallen across the land
a pall of smoke
forecasts coming death
sirens wail
against the still quiet air
spreading across
the land like cancer
the shadow of
some black predator
hushed hunter
seeking some final end
and the flames!
Oh bright flames growing
sun fallen to
earth to devour all
in the heavens
an ancient man hangs
the shadow
spreading to take him in
fingers of fire
reaching to take him
an ancient man
hangs waiting in hopes
an angel will
pluck him from this sky
the holy choir
below is silent
the seasonal
concert is cancelled
the angel voices
lost in the smoke
the inferno
spreading like brimstone
this is no
occasion to rejoice
out of the dark
and flames sparks of hope
stars against
that terrific sky spread
everywhere light
against the darkness
against the
fire’s eager appetite
human souls
holding back the darkness
The Rain
it seems like
forty days and nights it’s rained;
pennies from
heaven could become deadly,
or hail the size
of baseballs, as I’ve seen,
could batter
even cattle in the fields.
pennies from
heaven could become deadly
ballistic
missiles sent from America,
could batter
even cattle in the fields,
send shopkeepers
fleeing their market tents.
ballistic missiles
sent from America,
indiscriminate
as bees in a swarm,
send shopkeepers
fleeing their market tents,
leaving dogs
howling after in the ruins.
indiscriminate
as bees in a swarm,
death rains down for days on faraway lands
leaving dogs
howling after in the ruins;
as rain falls in
the dark and children cry.
death rains down
for days on faraway lands,
guided by boys
at video terminals
as rain falls in
the dark and children cry
and we ask just
who are the terrorists.
BOB MACKENZIE
BOB MACKENZIE grew up near the
foothills of the Rocky Mountains in rural Alberta with artist parents. His father was a professional photographer
and musician and his mother a photo technician, colourist, and painter. By the age of five, he had his own camera and
ever since has been shooting photographs and writing poems and stories. Raised in this environment, young Bobby
developed a natural affinity for photography and for the intricacies of language. He now lives and writes in Kingston, Ontario,
Canada. Bob’s writing has appeared in more than 400 journals across North
America and as far away as Australia, Greece, India, and Italy. He has
published nineteen volumes of poetry and prose-fiction and his work has
appeared in numerous anthologies. He's
received numerous local and international awards for his writing as well as an
Ontario Arts Council grant for literature, a Canada Council Grant for
performance, and a Fellowship to attend the Summer Literary Seminars in
Tbilisi, Georgia. For eighteen years Bob’s poetry was spoken and sung live with
original music by the ensemble Poem de Terre, and the group released six
albums.
NATALIJA NEDJALKOVA
The Point Of View
It is so easy to
stare with adoration
In front of the
colorful palette.
But much harder
to learn
To dream in
black and white.
ГЛЕДНАТА
ТОЧКА
Лесно е да се
прехласваш
пред цветната
палитра.
По-трудно е да
се научиш
да мечтаеш в
черно-бяло.
Illusion
Sometimes I
think
The light is an
illusion
And we all are
The children of
the darkness.
And after the
racing
Which seems
irrational
Nothing
different is waiting us
Rather than the
bottomless pit.
Then what is the
unthoughtful reason
They continue
with stubborn passion
Our souls go on
seeking for initially luminary,
Which after the
night is rising salvific?
ИЛЮЗИЯ
Понякога си
мисля,
че светлината е
измислица
и всички сме
деца на мрака.
И в края на
препускането, изглеждащо безмислено
едва ли нещо
по-различно от тъмата ни очаква.
Тогава по каква
причина немислима
с учудващо
упорство продължават
душите ни да
търсят изначалното светило,
което подир
всяка нощ тържествено изгрява?
Practical Magic
On the white
sheet
similar to
alabaster
as if we are
carving a sculpture
we sculpt new
words
we look for the
meaning
of the perfect
shape
which will
breathe in life
in our thoughts:
to make them
winged
not caged
ПРИЛОЖНАТА
МАГИЯ
Върху белия лист
подобен на алабастър
като скулптури
ваем нови слова.
Търсим
съвършената форма,
за да ѝ вдъхнем живот
през мислите ни.
Translated By
Dessy Tsvetkova And Zh. Ivanova
NATALIJA NEDJALKOVA
NATALIJA NEDJALKOVA: Bulgarian writer, translator, journalist.
Lives and works in Burgas. Member of: Union of Bulgarian Writers, Union of
Translators in Bulgaria, Burgas Writers' Association, Union of Russian Writers
and Journalists, Bulgaria. Author of the books "In the Theater of
Shadows" (2014), "Railings to Heaven" (2017), "The One
Behind the Door" (2019) and co-author of the bilingual book with the
Russian poet Valentina Sergeeva, "There, after winter ", published in
St. Petersburg," The Self, the Small and the Silent Letter ","
Trap for Poetic Dreams ". Participant in international literary festivals
and winner of awards for author's poetry and translation. Literary works of
Natalia Nedyalkova have been translated and published in authoritative editions
in Serbia, Montenegro, Croatia, China, Northern Macedonia, Russia, Poland,
Albania, Romania, Bosnia and Herzegovina and others.
ISILDA NUNES
The Roses Withered
The roses
withered in the dryness of your gaze!
I no longer
dream of them, my dear! I no longer cry for them!
Our bodies,
which were once just one,
Today are
wrecked in the solitude of the words unsaid.
I get involved
in a feeling of longing and lethargy,
Fixing the old
clock still, at a time that was once ours...
At a time when
we loved each other like the sea and the sky.
And I petrify
myself on that horizon,
Where my body
made anchorage as a boat.
Reality deranges
me!
Maddened by the
echo of your tread on bare walls,
That implicit
farewell in the disquiet of your hands
And in the
sagging of your will!
The slow arrival
of winter disturbs me!
The roses you
gave me have already withered!
The wet kisses
of the older days, are now sinfully dried!
All embrace has
expired!
And the grooves
on my face exude tired memories,
Loose pieces of
a plot that is no longer ours.
The mouth dried
up in the refusal of the farewell,
In this delayed
death, suspended in the solitude of unsaid words!
I no longer
dream of them, dear! I no longer cry!
The roses
withered in the dryness of your gaze!
The Son Of The War
You know mother,
yesterday I heard you crying.
I was scared,
Mom.
I realised that
your tears did not augur a good thing.
Dad hasn't
stroked my head in days,
nor you sing
Nina Nana.
I feel cold,
Mama! I feel night!
I can't sleep.
I hear,
continuously, thunders that shatter my soul.
Sirens that
pierce my body.
Bullets that
assassinate my future.
I sink in the
anxiety that floods your womb in convulsions.
Your heart seems
to explode.
Your body seems
to expel me.
I try to hold on
to the cord that coils around my foot.
In vain. It
slips away.
Mother, I'm
afraid!
Afraid of living
in Humanity.
Afraid of dying
and killing.
Don't you love
me anymore, Mother?
In The Dead City
in the dead
city,
to the cross of
indifference,
flow dreams into
liquid crematoriums.
the madness
decreed ride
shipwrecked
desires,
on common
walkways.
in the dead
city,
Hunger, thirst,
invades hospices.
ghosts play at
children
And old people
get childhood.
emigrated the
hugs.
There are no
bridges to cross the night.
there are sales
in this river,
pain on this
ship.
Charon smokes a
cigarette in the main ditch.
simply blackout.
simply silence.
only tomb
in the dead
city.
and me?
and you?
and us?
The Poem Is Born
Summon up the
gods!
In incongruous
morosity, blaspheme the stars.
The cosmos in
disarray exudes words
that vogue in
the subjective interjections of nothingness.
In the
interstices of dreams
Desires pulse in
bulimic catharsis
And in
alchemical childbirth the poem is born.
ISILDA NUNES
ISILDA NUNES is a writer, poet
and artist who has been awarded with many prizes and recognitions. Her poems
have been published in anthologies, magazines and newspapers in about fifty
countries and translated into more than forty languages. She is co-author of
some sixty national and international anthologies and author of books of poetry
and prose. She has participated and organised numerous national and
international cultural, literary and solidarity events in her country and
abroad. She is: Founder and President of the Assembly of the Association UMEA
(World Union of Writers and Artists); Chairperson of the Language, Literature
and Oratory Art Committee of Modern Pythian Games; President Pythian
Games-Portugal; President of the Continental Union Ciesart and Presidency
Council; Director General of the Ciesart Advisers and President of CIESART in
Portugal; Member of the Board of Directors of Editorial Atunis; Full Member of
the LIK Academy; Ambassador and Portuguese Language Editor of the international
multilingual literary magazine The Archer; Vice-President MEL (Mulheres
Empreendedoras da Lusofonia); International Consultant and Member of the
preliminary Jury for China Poetry Garden Magazine; Chronicler at Helicayenne
Magazine; Ambassador for Peace and Humanity IFCH Morocco; Associate Editor at
Chinese Poetry Circle magazine University; Honorary Member of the Movements:
MIL, ALDCI, Lírio Azul and CEMD.
FROSINA TASEVSKA
Truth Be Told
If the truth be
told
is not that I am
alone
something that
bids me moans
but it’s your
sweet melodious tone
that lined the
sky with gold.
I look at the
crystal moon
She carries me
to you
carefully, not
too soon
as if there’s
more than She can do.
Deep in love am
I
so innocent, so
soft, so calm,
although this
feeling I can’t deny
it is that
thought my sorrow's balm.
Cheers
From my soul the
thirst rise
I take the glass
and I sigh
thou thee dost
not hear me.
Love comes in at
softening eye
comes through it
all the way
flying' through
the skies,
so I wrap my
soul in a rosy wreath
and cover our
distance
with a very air,
I breathe.
I lift the
glass, red-blooded wine
leave a kiss but
only in a cup
lips long parching,
ask a drink divine.
Oh how I would
rather change it
for thine juicy
nectar sup.
Wine comes in at
the mouth
till dawn to
kill the drouth…
In hope, you
thirsty might be
Here’s to you
and here’s to me!
Love Or Thrill
The thought
which blinds me still
was I love or
was I just a thrill...
in your autumn
tint of gold, I was taken
from lightning,
in the eye, I could not be awakened.
You captured me
unlike no other
and since, there
hasn’t been another.
Ah! Yet among
the winds I've strived,
deep into your
eyes, I’ve dive
to know, to
understand
why you held me
and then left my hand?!
I told you
trembling all my heart
you whispered:
we will never be apart.
And this one
thing I want to know still
damn, was I love
to you or just a thrill…
FROSINA TASEVSKA
FROSINA TASEVSKA was born in 1978 in
Shtip, Republic of North Macedonia. She completed her studies in the department
of English language and literature - Teaching direction. At the age of 38, she
published her first collection of poetry "Relic". She writes poetry
for both adults and children, haiku, and poetry in English. It publishes in
Macedonian periodicals and is represented in anthologies and electronic
collections. A collection of poetry: "Relic" – 2016. "Talking
whisper" – 2022
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)