Her name was Vatra


*Image found HERE

Her name was Vatra

She was burning;
like tobacco in a modern art museum,
as a dragonfly strips its wings
screaming beneath a wolf-head totem,
her pulse against the cold door
of a corner dollar store.
She was burning
like rain could know no other arch nemesis,
burning like a fever
of torrents transplant inside begonias,
burning, her fingers like vignette
of dogs allergic to moonlight,
her sweaty brow against
the million limbs of corroded gods;
she was burning
like a deer courting wildfires,
her torso like a pyre
versus the kids who gather to roast marshmallows,
clumsy and ancient,
her mouth a lit matchbox
against the geometries of metros,
she was burning,
keeping the blood of lacerated dryads warm,
her arms like witchcraft
juxtaposed to shades of blue,
burning like Marlboro
between the fingers of delinquents,
her hair like a Molotov of summers
bribed with moonshine.

I tell her the sky is eaten up,
we are re-made from smoke,
our oceans are kerosene,
igniting our bones to burn for nothing.

She was burning,
her eyes flints of fossil hearts,
expired honeydew,
like lanterns wailing for the tummy of the whale,
like lights in bedrooms past 3 a.m.,
like candles dripping over graves,
she was burning and just said
“I know.”


*”Vatra” is Fire on Serbian


~ by Oloriel on October 13, 2016.

6 Responses to “Her name was Vatra”

  1. I really love how you painted the paradox of passion, that flame we’re so afraid of… just maybe we have to feed it with the right amounts… maybe it’s the only the best of arsonists that don’t get blistered hands.

    • Thank you, Bjorn, I really love your interpretation, the arsonist line is perhaps a suma sumarum of my whole poem, and you said it so much better than I could.

  2. And she burns because that’s all there is to do.
    In the bewildering circumstance of life and its myriad elements, what and where we are being led to and by what or whom become insignificant. All that matters is the heat of every moment, inscribed on our skin in the form of shadows.
    The magnanimous imagery makes it all the more painful. There’s acceptance in reproach and reproach in acceptance. But your words are so devoid of that very approach and that’s what makes them so intense and powerful.

    “her mouth a lit matchbox
    against the geometries of metros,”
    Poignant and heart breaking. Because acknowledgement doesn’t make it go away.
    Beautiful, beautiful writing.

    • Thank you very much for your comment, dear friend, I am always beyond delighted to hear from you (and I wish I heard from you more often; I hope you are well, I hope you are hanging in there, I hope you are still dreaming!)

  3. All I could think was super spicy hot sauce you wanted while reading this…

Tell me something

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

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com 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: