*Image found HERE


Distilled inside second-hand china,
the cartilage remembers
the bruised body where the sparrows
built their hawthorn houses.
The bunker in which all disintegrated,
where I bled out a noon from my thighs,
gave birth to July, mourned with the marbled, white
statue, about the lack of daisies.
The hills I’ve climbed to try and reach the Moon,
but never the Sun.
A pair of amber eyes leaking
into rooms with thousand empty chairs,
the deep blue of a secret
hidden from razors, hidden from oneself,
admitted only to fluff stuffed companions
while Death was busy elsewhere.
The broom closet of Hades,
full of cogwheels spinning on empty,
burned plastic etching its smoke
into the threads of my clothes,
inevitably soiling my soul, for the good of it.
The remains of what was devoured,
in glass jars,
the belief in the world nothing more
than a whiff of a mad scientist’s mind
and chlorine for the stains.
The mouth twitched like the ground pregnant
with the laughter of a goddess,
innocence under the thundering storm;
an incision that stayed,
father, son, brother, friend,
latched into the softest, darkest corner
of the vertebrae,
a song that measures distances
of countries. Heads. Chess pieces. Hearts.
A lonely lark, whistling in the shadow
of the sleeping birch tree,
like I descend an inherited tea-spoon
into the adorned mud, and spin;
like I dispute with the mercy of the madrigal
of a starless night,
like bone dust of the wings I outgrown
crescending slowly
into the sea;
the nothing of me that loved me too well.

*For NaPoWriMo day 18, where the prompt was to travel back and recall the language of home. This was, so far, the hardest prompt for me to even think about. The language of my home has for decades been not quite nice (horrible), so thinking about this prompt brought back many ugly memories. This is why I decided to write a poem that commemorates all the places that felt like home while I was growing up (which was mostly internet cafes, the street, bookstores and the great, big outdoors!)

*I am aware crescending is not an actual verb. I wanted to combine crescendo and descending, and when I can’t find a word, I invent one 🙂


~ by Oloriel on April 19, 2016.

19 Responses to “Anamnesis”

  1. Beautiful imagery… filagreed, delicate, full of melancholic music.

    • I do wonder which tunes do my poems provoke in readers and am glad to hear both of us found my poem to have melancholic tones. Thank you very much for reading!

  2. Make up all the words you want…

  3. Wow! This is so good – so much imagery and, on each read, I see /feel more! This is one I will keep coming back to….

  4. You paint the darkness so well.. I feel like I descend into a world of Dante or Goya… the broom cupboard of Hades… what a place…

  5. So you’re not only a word-weaver, you’re a word-inventor as well? 😀 I like that word and I too enjoy creating new words. 🙂

    Another wonderful piece by you (needless to say). I especially enjoy the title. Anamnesis… That means ‘memories’ in Greek. At least in its modern form. Ancient Greek is drastically different, surprisingly.

    • Upon further investigation, I see that I am obviously not the first one who got the idea to coin this word, but it does make me wonder, since many others thought of it before, does it not get into the dictionary? We put Yolo and Selfie in it, why not this? 😀
      I specificaly chose the title of the poem because of it. I am fascinated by the fact that there is so many words and names for stuff in Greek that we still use nowadays, but they don’t get much mention, where I live, outside of specialisation schools like Medical University.
      Thank you very much for reading and I hope you will one day make a post with amazing Greek words we all use and feel, but perhaps not know we are 😀

      • Creative minds tend to think alike. 🙂

        I agree. It should be in the dictionary. It’s a much more pleasant-sounding word than “selfie” or “yolo.”

        Most people don’t realize the origins of many words. A lot of people in the past have told me that there’s no use in being fluent in Greek because it’ll be a dead language before I know it.

        Mostly any phobia you can name has its origins in the Greek language. Science and Astronomy, too. (Astro literally means star.) And of course, you can’t forget about Latin.

        You’re welcome! I used to write my poems in both English and Greek, but that’s a bit too much work for me right now. I should get back into it!

  6. A lot of dark twist and turns but well weaved.

  7. you’ve let out those dark memories in a beautiful and creative way, Mirjana… the rooms with thousand empty chairs is a haunting image which is very emotive for me personally for some reason…

    • I had the same feeling when writing that sentence. Recently, one of the internet cafes where I practically grew up closed. It had a lot of rooms and on the closing days it was just darkness and rooms with empty chairs. I remember the feeling seeing that evoked, I have seen it on a surreal photomanipulation, where the chairs host was a field under darkened clouds. It was that same moment, vicariously, then for real and I really wanted to depict it.

  8. Kinda lost me on this one…it’s woven in your stile, yet I find none of you in here…
    It is memories, yet they are just lost and no yearning is felt…
    Well crafted!

Tell me something

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s


Arts & Lit Collective

Shawn Kilroy Was Here

my life as an unknown musician



Darkness of His Dreams

Poetry & Prose by John W. Leys

she is not fragile

look what she has withstood

Green Not Hazel

one leaf, another, a blade of grass, a tree, a forest - a story


Poetry, short stories and idiosyncratic gobbledygook

Book Monkey

Book Reviews and Nature Walks

Silently Smouldering Words

Poetry and things like that

Otisak na displeju

Od izvora dva putića, do izvora samo jedan...


sketches of life and clips of dreams

Syl65's Blog

Poetry, creative writing and a desire to inspire..... Isaiah 40: 31 But they who wait upon the Lord will get new strength. They will rise up with wings like eagles. They will run and not get tired. They will walk and not become weak..

Clacks Header

A massively unofficial fan site to remember Sir Terry Pratchett

Poet's Parlor

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

%d bloggers like this: