Speckles of Time

Smiješno Ljudi vele da sam hladna Da nemam empatije Da volim kontrolu Da volim svemu biti poklopac No tko su oni Tko su oni da mi sude Kad ne znaju ni tko su sami Obična mala izgubljena bića Koja veličaju svoje postojanje Samo kako bi na nekoliko trenutaka Osjetila da su netko, netko vrijedan spomena No oni su nitko Obični crvi željni pažnje A opet Tako lako sude druge Druge za koje ni ne znaju što su prošli Što je u njihovim srcima Što se skriva iza svih maski Al kako i bi Kad su sami toliko isprazni Jer njihove maske su maske veličine Daju dojam da su vrijedni društva i pažnje No to je sve maska Ispod nje nema ničeg Samo veliki smrad Smrad davno izgubljene duše Duše koja sve više trune Robuje njihovoj žudnji za veličinom No nje nema Nikad je ni ne će biti Jer veličina postoji samo u srcima onih iskrenih A takvi su rijetki Možda ih ni nema I pitaš se onda Čemu onda svi osjećaji koje imaš Kad ih ionako nitko nije vrijedan Kad ih pokažeš ispadaš slab...

Jesi li ikad koraknuo unatrag i jednostavno promatrao fenomen boli, krvi i polakog ništavila? Kako krv polako prodire, najprije nazirući se iza poluprozirne kože prekrivene samo tankim slojem neke beskonačne mreže kožnih stanica sve do samog ruba te špilje stanica i napokon prodire na svjetlost prelijevajući se od ruba do ruba otkinute kože kapljući u tihom ritmu pulsirajuće boli, boli koja je najprije oštra i tjera nas na bezglavno urlanje, savijanje od boli, ali bol koja zapravo prati rad našeg srca, koja zbog nenadane promjene počinje ubrzano lupati, nesvjesna da ljudski mozak to ne shvaća ko dobronamjerno upozorenje već ko užasnu, neshvatljivu bol. No, bol koja iako nastupa naglo, suprotno od krvi, prati njen ritam. Pulsira sve manje i manje što se krv brže izlijeva sve dok se sva ne izlije, a bol potpuno nestane, osim ponekog trzaja kako bi nas upozorila na nedavni događaj sve do potpunog ništavila. Ništavila koje nastupa potpunim zacjeljenjem rane. Ništavila koje ko da poriće pos...

Ležim Oko mene noć Duga, gluha noć U daljini, kao stotinama godina daleko, Čuje se vjetar Hladan zimski vjetar Koji šapuće Pa urliče Pa opet šapuće O staroj ljubavi O onoj noći O onom danu Danu kad se sve promijenilo Još se mogu da sjetim tvog pogleda Pogleda ko u malog djeteta Punog neke meni nevidljive energije Snage Želje Pokornosti Pogleda koji je nepomično pratio svaku liniju mog tijela Mog nagog, blijedog tijela Tijela koje je strepilo Drhtalo Žudjelo Žudjelo za tvojim pogledom i dodirom I tako stajaše Jedan nasuprot drugog Tvoj dječački pogled I moje žensko tijelo Kad bi barem vrijeme stalo u to trenutku Kad se barem nikad ne bi dotakli jedno drugog Ostali vječno svaki na svojoj strani Zureći i trepereći Odvojeni No sreća im nije bila naklona Te se s užasnom silinom Uzbuđenja Želje i Strasti Spojiše Spojiše kao što se nitko do tad Ni niko od tad Nije spojio Tijelo je dobilo što je htjelo A pogled je iskusio što je gledao I žarko priže...

Još se mogu da sjetim tvog zagrljaja. Držao si me toliko lagano kako se drži samo najnježniji cvijetak, a opet toliko čvrsto kao da si se bojao prolaznosti trenutka, mog polakog smicanja niz tvoje prste duboko u vječni zaborav. Osjećala sam tvoj užurban dah na svom vratu koji je savršeno pratio ritam tvoje ruke, ruke koja je moje tijelo približavala sve bliže tvom dok se napokon nisu spojila u jedno. Pogledom sam pratila savršene obrise tvoje druge ruke kako se proteže ispred mojih očiju. Položila sam svoju tik do nje u nadi da će tvoji dugi, vitki prsti pronaći put do mojih malenih, skoro dječjih prstiju i uzeti ih u zagrljaj. S isprepletenim prstima jedne ruke i čvrstim zagrljajem druge ruke pozorno položene na moje grudi držao si me poput najvećeg blaga. Tijela polako kao da su se stapala u jedno. Vladala je potpuna tišina. Jedini zvukovi bili su naši uzdasi. Uzdasi čežnje i tihe požude. Uzdasi želje da naša tijela ostanu zauvijek nepomično slijepljena. Nije bilo ni najmanjeg...

Noć Ležim budan Svuda mrak Tišina Jedno malo savršeno biće Spava pokraj mene Dižem se Promatram je Spava mirno Odlazim do prozora Promatram je U ovom mraku Njena blijeda put Izgleda još ljepše Kosa joj lagano pada Preko mekih usana Skrećem pogled Razmišljam -Otiđi, otiđi sad kad nisi još sve upropastio Gledam van Nikog nema Samo ja i moje misli Mislim: -Bolje tako. Nitko ne će znati Polako se okrećem I tražim svoje stvari Al' evo je Budi se Gledam je sa strahom da ne shvati Polako otvara svoje velike oči i traži me Kad me ugleda Nasmije se zadovoljno I primiri Polako ustaje Dolazi do mene Gledam je Leprša i sjaji poput anđela Ugleda moj pogled Zabrinuto me upita: -Što je? Ja samo odvratim: -Ništa, ne brini Nasmije se Zagrli me i nježno poljubi Pogleda van Stojimo tako zagrljeni Tišina Svuda mrak Odjednom mi šapne: -Volim te Ja mislim: -I ja tebe. Zato moram otići.

Someone asked me lately why I don't write in my mother tongue. Well, I do. Or better to say, I used to. Over time it became easier for me to get my thoughts out in English. For some reason, they seem to be far less scattered. However, for those of you that understand Croatian (or think you do), here are some of my old (dark) pieces I've written, literally, ages ago. Krinka noći Posljednji zagrljaj Uspomena Zrcalna slika boli Identitet

Night Room Room full of people Room full of strangers Room full of music And you. You Standing Standing with your eyes closed And listening Listening to the throbbing music Its rhythm Its pauses Its passages Its completeness. And you float Your whole body floats High above the room's walls, The moving bodies of strangers Going higher and higher Expanding beyond the known world Into the bliss The bliss of light The bliss of sound The bliss of dancing unity of light and sound. And it happens There and then You aren't And yet you are You are nothing And you are everything The unexplainable lightness of being. Slowly, the music stops And you travel back Back to the room Room full of strangers Dancing, drinking, talking And you open your eyes And come back to life Unable to move Unable to say a word Still half paralyzed Paralyzed by the beauty of it all The beauty of the whole world clashing Clashing in one single moment. And so you move ...

There are worlds inside me Worlds that come to life While listening to music Traveling Reading Or simply sitting still. Each of them is different Each has its own beginning and end Its own atmosphere Its own inhabitants Or none Its own bigger picture, Yet they all exist in my head And in my head only Popping up whenever they feel like it And again disappearing as they wish. Sometimes the two of them, or three of them meet And talk Or fight As all friends do. And sometimes they make new baby worlds Magnificent new worlds with no restraint but to get lost in them. ... I guess we all have our set of imaginary worlds Worlds we escape to Depending on what we are escaping from. And they are there Waiting for us Waiting for us to explore To write new stories To be happy. Just a daydream away.

The moment The stillness. The sun. The warmth. Sitting and slowly peeling the tangerine. Enjoying the fresh air and sun's warmth. Suddenly. The smell. The most extraordinary smell. The smell of fresh yellow citrus juiciness. The smell of far-off tropical places. The smell of simplicity. The smell of mindfulness. But wait. Something small. Something small and buzzy. A ladybird. Small, red animal buggy dancing on my hand. Going up and down, left and right, enjoying the sun. Tickling me with her tiny legs and her dotted wings on her way into the big wide world. Slowly she spreads her wings, tickling me a bit more with her restless legs, and off she goes. Towards the sun. To the warmth. Taking with her the fresh juicy smell of tangerine, to accompany her on her long journey into the unknown sky.

Rain. No soul around. Only me The sound of my feet And millions of drops, Slowly guiding my way. But wait. A distant sound. A joyful sound. Getting closer and more familiar with each step. A dancing sound. The sound of Scottish pipes. Rain. No soul around. Just me and the piper, Transcending me to another world, World of highlands, World of sun, World of open sky and green grass, The world of simple joy. So I sit And listen, Enjoying a perfect rainy day.

With four new poems, which were also published in Why nICHt?  (Travel Time edition). Enjoy. Rain Autumn Sun Worlds Unexplainable Lightness of Being

There is something soothing in Expiration date encounters. No pressure No expectations No tomorrow. Only that moment, That night, That day, That week. All that matters are seconds, Millimeters And macro-themes. No small talk, Or no talk at all. No overthinking, Or no thinking at all. Just dance, Dance between two strangers That are no strangers at all. At least not in that moment, That night, That day, That week. They are nothing and everything. They are free. Free to explore The depths of each other's mind. The blinding beauty of each other's body. The deafening horror of their very own passion. They are free. Free to know themselves as they never did and never will. There is something soothing in tick tock moments. We try more. We try less. We give in more. We give in less. And remain lovers forever, And lovers at all. The poetry is born, Lived, Tasted, And forever gone. There is something soothing in late night meetings.

Have you ever experienced that feeling, Feeling of a sudden summer storm in the shape of a person? A storm that stirs your life for a second, Opening a rare window to another world? A storm that leaves you breathless in a dreamlike state? I did. It was her. A human storm. Walking in my life as an innocent bystander, Oblivious to what she meant to me in that moment. The perfect stroll of her body. Her almost dancing steps. Her long black skirt resembling a restless ocean on a dark night. Her yellow, curly locks jumping up and down like children on the playground. Her whole being pulsing with a dreamlike elegance. And, for a second, my life was transformed. Dark night no longer seemed dark And city no longer seemed plain. For a second my life, my very own existence, felt the warmth of poetic blanket. And all because of her. That perfect little human summer storm.

When you feel it. That urge that is no urge at all. That desire that is no desire at all. More of an inclination. The image of soft white bed on a Saturday morning. Two bodies sleeping next to each other. Slowly they awake, Look at each other, And stay gazing. The softness of their gaze matches the softness of the sheets stretching under their even softer naked bodies. A small movement. A hand graciously finding its way to the neighboring body. A gentle up-and-down movement of a hand exploring the contours of this strange body. Exploring each curve, each mark, each bump, Followed by the persistent ever watching eye. That urge that is no urge at all. That desire that is no desire at all. That act of simple getting to know your lover's body under a sunlit white sheets on a Saturday morning.

As the title says, this is a poetry blog where you can find, read and - who knows - maybe even enjoy some of my word vomit containing occasional good chunk of my weirdly wired brain. To start off, I'll be sharing with you three poems that were published in  Why nICHt? 's edition appropriately named Naughty Time. That's right, we're diving head first straight into the murky waters. Saturday Morning Summer Storm Expiration Date