Saturday, July 1, 2023



I Do Not Admit


I do not admit that we are mindlessly


That things are nothing but nonsense

A wheel with no wheelman

A slough

A cat with molted fur

That night has turned everything black

Swallowed the day

Changed the turning of the sun

For a hundred and fifty degrees

Brought some sad women onto the surface

Women with covered faces

With no faces

Only two dead ayes

The ability to turn around

Has made the moon

Flow in one direction only

In order to turn everything

Into a planet of stones

Turning around has to be the way

To establish the door to life

So that these sad women won`t be

Without any choice here

Only in the change of direction

Lies the possibility of being reborn

Body and spirit to turn into one

Without any mirror

Which makes it all simple

When the moon eclipses the sun

Their faded skin

Ticking white

Their soul

In silvery twinkling`s

In  the understanding of two polaroid`s

Keep shining over

The white planet


How To Survive


A needle


You open your mouth

You lock up your pain

You wipe the stains with your smile 

Throw them into the dustbin for laughter


When The Angels Sleep


Hey man

I lack the words

Memories run ahead of me

While I keep looking at this river

I do not know who I am


A puppet on a string

Performing its last dance

A stranger in the night

All alone


I`m depressed so I eat

I`m depressed when I sleep

My belly becomes bigger

My brain gets smaller and smaller


My own master

A lie wrapped in silk

Everything human crushed by a machine

My arms ache

My body swollen all over

Legs give up

The future- full of worries

A sip of wine-it is comfort


Mother`s milk



Hope as the beginning

Hope-the end

Water-peace and sleep

Roading sin-turning it all of

A limit somewhere beyond light

Wipes clean the seed of the knowledge we have


I write what`s been written

I read what`s already been read


The blessing of a kiss

I put it on my palm

With my heart

Of winds and visions


I care no more for pretty dresses

Three-inch heals are long gone

The sickness in my stomach-like a ball


I keep reading

Literature has stooped too low

Poetry is dying

Or so J.D. says

Poetry is the soul of the 21st` century


With no strength to get up

I drag myself trough the daily routine

I gather my plans

Everything that I could have done

And what I am


I shorten my journey

I do not count my steps

The beginning-swollen, double its size

A shrink in a bottle

Makes the whole thing plunge even deeper



Like a dried river bed

I do not paint my feelings

Like some old shoe

I keep counting the pages

I try escape from myself

While my angels sleep



MILENA VUKOJE STAMENKOVIC is a journalist, writer and translator. She writes poetry and stories. She was born in Serbia. She lives and works in Bern, Switzerland. She is a member of the Serbian writer`s society (UKS) and the Swiss writer`s society (AdS)



No comments :

Post a Comment