Tuesday, December 1, 2020





Love loving


we've swathed love into cloth

soaked in blood

drowned in tears

it reached out for a saving hand

and we offered help drowning it

as it whines

squeals and

squeaks till its last breath


so we’ve gotten rid of it

of us

I of you

you of me

each one of us of ourselves


a year later

when we desired to love

when we desired to be loved

it killed us

instead of

the chubby naked-tummy rascal with its piercing arrow

the anorexic dark chick

was sent to us

we’ve reaped what we’ve sowed

even the seed of love

my father’s and your mother’s

your father’s and my mother’s

everything created by them has died inside of us


we were left to read about love

in other people’s verses

we were left to seek it from strangers’ faces

that pass us by

that cannot love us

that we cannot love

because we are not loved by love

because it is unnatural

for the killed to love the killer

no matter if it is

a crime of passion

no matter if it is

a crime by blood

a crime is a crime

love is love


but for us love is just an L



Burnt Sugar


you are young

you feel the strength in your chest

so you think

you own the power of justice

and you think

that gives you the right

to shout out loud the truth

but as time passes

you learn the lesson of life


there will always be someone

who laughs at funerals

and cries at weddings

and you learn the lesson of experience

in moments of fiery rage

to reach wise decisions

to postpone

the truth

for quieter times

for friendly gatherings with wines

to let

people live happily

in the lie

(it is humane, after all, happiness to grant)

in the few short moments

for them sweet

for you sweet by deceit

do not salt it down

offer them friendship

invite them to a cup of coffee

make it sorbet sweet

so let them feel

in their mouths

the bitter taste

of the burnt sugar




On Sunday At 6 Am


Moon defined by the Sun

Sun-birth in its deepest sleep

sleep I, sleep everyone

no one to be seen

‘sept for the ones who hardly see

see they no day, no night

for nor light is, nor dark

high heels, low knees

rhythm in the ears of the deaf music

red cold liquid heats the body

in the body- a hole,

a hole for there is no soul

partly alive, partly dead

the Sun and the Moon

and the streets and the windows

and the people and the sleep

walking as if with no feet

alone with the cold

alone with the dark light

alone with the no-sound

smelling the baking bread

on Sunday at 6 am







ELENA PRENDJOVA is a poet, a slam poet and a poetry translator from Macedonia. She holds an M.A. in Philology Science and a B.A. in English Language and Literature. She works as an ESP teacher. Prendjova mentors creative writing and poetry slam workshops. She is the author of 9 full-length poetry collections and a multi-winner of national poetry awards.

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