Saturday, April 1, 2023














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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.





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 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.



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.




Лесно е да се прехласваш

пред цветната палитра.

По-трудно е да се научиш

да мечтаеш в черно-бяло.




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?




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




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:  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.




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 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.




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.




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 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