Image found HERE

*Poem was originally written in Serbian, you can find the original below


We Paradise-made,
where trees are dreaming
office furniture dreams,
the accountant tangles his tentacles
into the watchmakers last will,
clocking in his hours
and each cloud, like a gossip girl,
scatters its warheads and its Pulitzers –
do not stare into the night,
into the satin,
the nebulosi,
the beats
that carouse with the flame
of an old, greasy kitsch;
do not stare into the night,
it holds the flowery place
within the requiem,
it is here to devour,
to stand and with its sockets fixed
scan chagrin and trouble
laying sea-stones
half-chewed, confused,
beneath its feet –
the voices, like lace,
scratching the records,
of romance laden songs

that hiccup the most
when the tired host
discloses lack of gramophones;
between I and I
a single pair of eyes,
the game’s deaf telephone
tossed between hands
like dough:
instead of flour – snow;
instead of tears – icicles;
instead of love – chemicals
and dried dandelions
twisted into lady’s braids
and in the frames, pictures
of an indigent saint
from whose bones there wont be
any daggers made
no migratory birds,
no beads for the bracelets,
not the moon-soup of daybreak
to drip down
our hollow mouths
and the skies will not howl
its coyote red screams,
its navy blue nail polish,
its arches overladen with viscera;
but will, like an imp,
grabble between busts
of primavera,
mingle through the fingers;
you look up
and there is nothing
but holes.

it’s , lately, how it looks inside the hearts of all.


Rendgenski snimak

Mi smo napravili raj,
gde drvece sanja
snove kancelarijskog namestaja,
mrsi svoje pipke
u amanet casovnicara,
da unovci mu sate
i svaki oblak, kao tracara,
sasipa svoje
bojeve glave i svoje Pulicere –
ne gledaj u noc,
u saten,
u postapalice,
koji lumpuju
plamenom stare, umascene kicice;
ne gledaj u noc,
pred cvetno opelo
dosla je
da zdere,
da pored stoji
i netremice gleda
dok joj jad i beda
pred noge polutke slazu:
glasovi im kao cipka
grebu ploce romanticnih pesama
sto stucaju najvise
kad umorni domacin
objavi nedostatak gramofona;
izmedju mene i mene
samo jedan par ociju,
gluvi telefon
prebacivan iz ruke u ruku
popust testa;
umesto brasna – sneg,
umesto suza, ledenice,
umesto ljubavi – hemija
i sasusen maslacak
uvrten u damske pletenice
i u ramovima
slike uboge svetice
od cijih se kostiju praviti nece
ni bodezi,
ni ptice selice,
ni perlice za narukvice,
ne mesecja praskozorna supa
da kaplje nam u suplja usta
i nebo nece
zavijati kao kojot svoje crvene vriske
svoj teget lak za nokte,
svoj svod
nacickan iznutricama
vec ce
kao akrep
bauljati medju bistama primavera
provllaciti se kroz prste;
pogledas gore,
a ono,
nista sem rupa

takva su nam, u poslednje vreme, svima srca.

~ by Oloriel on March 13, 2022.

20 Responses to “X-ray”

  1. I love it, this is everything that is good about poetry, love the spirit of this piece

  2. This is without a doubt one of your best, O. I’m near speechless. Too many great lines to quote! The night! I could see (visually) a stark comparison between the day dragging on and the night marching through its darkness- but I saw Aborigines under the moonlight, ancient nights their companions. Moonsoup- that alone conjured up the Aboriginal vision- combined with the declaration of no daggers from bones. I’m just absolutely blown away by this. I’d give anything to write like this! When I do go to write, though, it’s more like a tipsy Dr. Seuss…haha… I’d say this is my definite fave among your work. So many incredibly lines. !! (Love that you included the Serbian version as well. Though I can’t comprehend that version, I can still look over it and find it very beautiful.)

    • A would love to read more of your ‘Tipsy Dr. Seuss’! In fact, I do believe I write like that as well, just later on think ‘I should say things in a different way’, and I am pretty sure I do it because of the lines a friend once shared with me, from his native Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, and they went like this:’ The poet is a faker, who is so good at his act; he even fakes the pain of the pain he feels in fact’ , coupled I think with the endless desire we all have to be understood – when I am asked to explain myself, and I do it plainly – I am not understood, so I think ‘How can I say this so the other person understands EXACTLY’ what I mean – and then my poems get written.

      • Plath used to be my favourite poet (poetess? These days, the the whole PC thing + the personalized pronouns I can barely keep up with)- I think I can use poet referring to Plath? (She would’ve definitely approved.) And Plath is still
        A close 2nd! But you take the reins and top place of visual writers because of the incredible images that you paint in the mind. You can be saying/stating one thing, illustriously, yet the image that’s created in the mind can be completely different- well, for me, anyway because my imagination is one of my greatest strengths. (Again, I was a total freak as a child and hope I always am!) And not only that, you ARE a visual artist as well, so maybe that gives you an edge on Plath. She was great but she wasn’t super well known until she gassed herself. Pretty standard stuff: Artist/writer struggles to be mega-known/offs oneself/enters the mega-forever-known club of infamy. Make no mistake though, I think you blow Plath out of the water.

      • Thank you very much for your kind words ❤ What I can tell you I myself always got when reading Plath was that, at the time, it was a very unique voice – one that I perhaps could not equate myself word for word in regards to feelings and head nodding, but I could definitely feel. It was complex, difficult, it was raw and free, which was a direct contrast to what I read and experienced so far with poetry, which I only ever discovered and had access to in school. It certainly did give me the necessary courage to write more openly and less constrained. But before Plath, there was always Poe for me! I have first time heard the Raven, believe it or not, in a Simspons Halloween special episode and it has haunted me to search for it since. Same with Lorca, whose Moonlight Sonata I have found by sneakily reading my mother's highschool diary. As for my number one? Housman. Hands down. Because "Tell me not here for it needs not saying" gives me that head nod, leaves me like a deer in the headlights, and speaks and feels like Mirjana felt in 1995, 2002, and 2022 – and I wish I could write like that and read my own written poem and feel the same things 🙂

  3. Yep, fantastic, miraculous and essential work friend, seeing with x-ray precision the tumor of war in the mind and gut. A mental-emotional landscape is torn and scarred with each bomb-blast in reality, the screams and flames. Interestingly this vision sees past the braided viscera (yikes) to an even darker deeper malaise, where inner ruins “look up / and there is nothing / but holes” — as if whatever soul (primavera) once danced out there is now gut-shot and draining the poetry itself. Or so I read. I sure wish I could read the Serbian original and douse the waters whole. Influence matters — my ghosts are Shakespeare and Rilke and Plath and contemporaries like Jack Gilbert — but our words our own burden. Carried heavily and well here.

    • Thank you very much for taking the time to read Brendan; I do still dream of times we as writers will all interconnect more with some at least weird imagery, instead of the dutifully painful one.

  4. So evocative–those final lines really spoke to me of our current world–disease and war.

  5. THIS is poetry for me…words tumbling out, somehow clicking just right, evolving as one reads….with discoveries to be found..refreshing, hard hitting and I agree…

    • Thank you for taking the time to read and leave me a word of your own. I think ‘the tumbling of words’ that you describe is a perfect way to depict my usual writing style – and I believe that it is because I tend to try and present a poem like it is an image; and I am overjoyed when it is noticed.

  6. Lovely to read in both versions, half of the second one I could just about make out (I know Slovene)!

    • That is lovely to hear! It has been a while since I did a poem where the original is not in English.
      It also always amazes me how the languages in these areas intertwine, and how we understand each other in our native tongues a lot, but also sometimes try to make it “complicated” on purpose.

  7. This is incredibly poignant! I especially like; “the voices, like lace,
    scratching the records, of romance laden songs that hiccup the most when the tired host discloses lack of gramophones.”❤️❤️

    • Thank you very much for reading, Sanaa! The section you selected, while writing, I was just thinking about my peers always talking about how their dates used to be different and how the pinnacle of a date, at least around these parts and with the peers I know, was always being invited into ones home to listen to old records 😀

  8. I love what you did here.. and I think I can understand how wars always merge into wars… I am watching a documentary on world war I… and I feel that the current war is just a continuation of the conflict of that time. the end really touched me and I wonder how many really can see how much it is really about those holes.

    • Thank you very much for reading, Bjorn, and yes, that is the sentiment that unfortunately abounds in this poem of mine – also from a perspective of what comes after. My country has seen a lot of war, and this time around, it is not us with the targets on our chest – so it bewilders me to hear some of the commentary around here and also in public.
      Sadly, I think that one line sounds way too sadly true: “Only the dead have seen the end of war”

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