Thursday, February 1, 2018




I don’t like winter,
snow smoothes everything,
evening out bare branches
in the whiteness
of geometric figures,
and straight lines.
I don’t like winter,
I like to dream about it.
Glittering drops,
reflections of moonlight,
scattered strand of pearls,
and a light flutter of the branches
while they are trying
to shed the snow
from their bodies,
thousands of white particles
swirling in the wind,
their dizzying dance
and a sharp smell of frost
in my hair.
A dream of winter
is a reflection of a longing,
invoking the warmth
of your fingers,
smoldering sparks
which dance on the skin.


Between the pages,
a captured Sun
yields under the weight
in the petals of a pressed
Faded purple,
the crimson mantle
of meadows bees
is just a withered skeleton
of a being once fragrant.
A wet trace of fingers
on the delicate stem
and a moment of love.
Trapped beauty
is a sad memento
of the hunger for the ever after.


A circus arrived
to my town.

They drove pegs
into dry snow covered ground
to raise a tent
on the frozen turf.

Thin legs of the giraffe
are sinking into whiteness,
she looks around surprised
by the profusion of silver leaves.

Clowns are doing turnovers,
becoming balls
which roll on their own.

The bearded lady smokes a pipe
frost has caught smoke
into tiny icicles
on her moustaches.

A monkey is making snowballs
polishing them
with his saliva.

The girl in a thin red
dancer’s costume
with her nose glued to the frozen pane
looks longingly
into scattered trees.

She connected their tops
with a thin icy wire
and dances.

A flaming snowflake
in the sky.


She lost her glass slipper,
at the ball.
she waits,
hopping on one leg.
Between the covers
of a thick old tome,
the Prince remains.


She woke up
in the castle,
without a prince,
while everybody slept.
She walked through the chambers,
king and queen on the throne,
the scribe at his desk,
fried chicken and wine on the table.
Hungry and thirsty
she dared not disturb the tale's harmony.
Parting the heavy brocade curtains
she let the Sun into the poem.
Thick thorns and brambles surround the castle,
roses don't blossom without a magical kiss.
Sad and weary,
fearful of the stillness and gloom
she went back to sleep
waiting for the evil spell to end.


MIRJANA M. STAKIĆ was born in Vladičin Han (Serbia) in 1973. She graduated from the University of Prištini Faculty of Philology and defended her PhD thesis in didactics and methodology at the Teachers' Training Faculty in Užice. She works as the docent for Serbian Language and Literature and Teaching Methods of Serbian Language and Literature at the Teachers' Training Faculty in Užice (University of Kragujevac).  She is engaged in literary and scientific work. She has published more than seventy papers in the field of literature and literary criticism and participated in over forty scientific conferences and meetings, both domestic and international. She writes poetry and prose and has won two valuable literary awards for her poetic efforts. She was a long-time member of the editorial board, as well as the editor-in-chief of the literary magazine Međaj. She is a member of the editorial board of the journal Učitelj and Proceedings of the Faculty of Teacher Education in Prizren – Leposavić. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia, permanent member of the Maticasrpska and winner Prize for the contribution of LiteratureRosetta world literature –(21. 09. 2017. in Istanbul).

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