Sunday, August 1, 2021





A Woman From Balkan


I am a Woman from Balkan

I respect the laws of the Balkans,

No passport, no across the border,

Outlined by the registrar,

All with a wedding march,

Tens of meters of whiteness,

A few drops of blood after champagne,

The glasses rang,

Like a whip threatening to stretch,

And go around the bare skin,

Down the Blue Streams

To meat I peeled my skin,

While I tinkle as a shackle,

Put around the heart,

I signed a weak power of attorney,

There is no freedom of movement,

Through Balkan feel,

I am a woman from Balkan

I have wrapped a scarf over my heart...

marijanajtheferpopov@ SERBIEN


The Flames Rise Up Again


While the fire was burning inside me,

You were looking for the culprit,

The track led me to you,

I cunningly held you,

In fear that you first

Should not pour sand or water on me,

To be a murderer just in time,

And it was needed only as a candle between two fingers,

Turns me off between two palms,

Clinging to itself like red-hot steel,

And feel a tattoo in my chest,

Like my thirsty mouth

That can no longer find words,

Yet we understand,

Somewhere at this hotspot,

We are still unserved,

We are silent,

The flames rise up again,

To burn us with the touch of fiery union.





I was at the flower-square,

Magical colours of each flower,

Smelt like you mom,

And at one corner,

Broken and painful

An old woman was sitting,

And with the eyes of a black rose dew,

She said to me,

“Please, pack me everything,

Along with the dew.”

And I tied them with a bow

With my fingers,

The old woman looked at me

I found in her eyes,

The look of my mother,

As if in hers

I saw the eyes of my mom.

“Happy holiday to you

Old woman,” I said.

“Thanks kid, I know,

They brought you to your Mom,” She said.

Confused in the chest,

I tightened the roses,

And I kept them clenched to my heart

While I was sheding tears.



By The Magic Of Words


Poetess lights fires

in the innocent game of infidelity.

On the whiteness of paper

she strings words,

forms necklace.

Like the one made of pearls,

while it bounces

on hot breasts,

(by the magic of inspiration)

necklace is offering, giving itself

to the verse which penetrated her

(in the name of the glory

of rhyme and poetry).

The poet is

a lurking temptation

that with a pen can make:

clarity of innocence muddy;

turn skilfully

necklace upside down;

kindle fire, flames, live coals,

madness not understood by everyone,

but lightly judged just the same.

Long live poetry!

Regardless of her destiny…





MARIJA NAJTHEFER POPOV: Marija Najthefer Popov (born on March 11, 1958 in Sivac, SERBIA) explains the world of women, creativity, existence and love, elegance and meaning that direct and give all the colors of life. The author, within her poetic mission, perceives art as a striving for freedom, and lyricism, and nature as a trace of that, a splendor that enables the merging of its elements with the spiritual world.The author, within her poetic mission, sees art as a spirit of freedom and lyrics, nature as a trace of that splendor that enables the merging of its elements with the spiritual world. She is a registered member of the World Association of Poets. The author has received numerous high international ratings; it has been translated into many foreign languages. She is currently preparing for future publications and is working on other synergies in various cultural journals and international anthologies. She is currently engaged as the Author of the grandiose ANTHOLOGY 2021 / SERBIA with the participation of over 350 eminent poets of contemporary poetry from Serbia and around the world. She is a member of many literary and poetic associations, an honorary member, president, ambassador of peace in the world ...She is a great advocate of love and friendship, respect and esteem of all people without distinction, and he believes that poetry is a language that unites the whole world and does not make a difference. Being a poet is a gift from God and a Blessing!


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