The trickiest is to write a love poem, the poets say. Words
get stuck in throat as proteins between the brain cells in
Alzheimer’s disease and thus you look for them in memories
– in anthill of people, in plums, cuts, succession of blood,

            in trembles of father’s gray beard and that cherry tree,
            which blossomed for the last time. I don’t know if I
            ever told you, but cherries were delicious, sweet and

cold as those Williams’ plums. And as red as the computer
Red Caps game, which you loved to play, before you met me,
red signs with skulls and inclinations: Watch the mines. But
after 5 years and 8 thousands kilometers, you still believe,

            you met an angel. That day I was waiting for you
            under clear blue sky, with smile on my lips and you
            came with hug and kiss … Zero melted into one,

into two, into us and our hands, laid on our hearts, yours
on mine, mine on yours and roaring whisper arose in chest:
Michie hiechie, my love, everything will be OK. Don’t
tremble, because I am not made for great things. Yours

            168 centimeters is Sybil for me, full of striking
            prophecies, major disasters, yet major salvations.
            So shsh, love, shsh, just stay here with me, in our

dreams, simple and only sometimes big as Arges, Brontes
and Steropes in one. Let us be stars, which Shine onto one
another. Shine on me with chords of Satriani’s Ten words
and I'll shine on you with words - I love you very much and

            forever my dearest man. Maybe then some things
            in the universe will find the suitable place. Dam of
            emotions will endure, rain will clean the wounds

and the river will wash up only small deaths, and wash away
the big ones. Maybe. Maybe. Some things are after all just
wishes that resonate loudly in the dark. In the daytime, you've
got to tame them as lions at the circus. Punish with whips and

            reward with... Wikipedia says that we are born with
            308 bones, but die with 208. Smaller ones merge into
            larger and it appears that nature elegantly ensured that

even great wishes bite properly great things. Like for example
November’s celebration of your 37 – common number, which
is allegedly between zero and hundred randomly picked by
majority of the people. And we will be common, my darling.

            Without endless talks via Yahoo Messenger and
            unbearable yearnings on the phone. Without aimless
            waiting, rotating as the Earth around the Sun and the

Moon around the Earth. Painful songs, sad rhythms, incisions
in the lines of life – all will disappear in yesterday’s memory
and the whole universe will with open eyes finally get
appropriate port. The gods of Olympus, drunk with love,

            beauty, poetry, lost and found iron hearts, will be
            breaking glasses of divine nectar and glorify small
            events. Nothing more than what they are... words:

light hustle of kisses on the wings of leave in the air, patterns of
Tagore’s lamps on our cheeks and our own heaven born in small
lives of sad marries, who are singing: Play to me, autumn is
coming, my Dunja, but slowly, so no word is missed … not even

            a second, minute, hour with you. Not even autumn or
            winter of our lives. Not even death, my darling, which will
            someday With heavy and solid steps demand our pirate tax

of pleasure. Our survival in senseless sense of existence. Even
then it will be the same. So what more can I say. That’s just it
and that’s how it will be. If you believe that you can write with
mutilated right hand of numerous things over which you can

            despair, why you cannot use the healthy left one for steady
            heart beats and en garde to the masks of evil. For temporary
            peace, which sometimes shows up to all of us as fireflies in

the summer night. For all those crossed paths. For this winter. For
next spring. For next summer. For here and now, where I am no
longer myself, drowning in the isolated dictation, but poured into
10 important words, into 74 verses, 37 for me and 37 for you and

            into 21 strophes as an attempt to write a love poem. For two
            that change into one as bridge between two soft pillows
            made out of Ljubim te and A ngu ani se ho. Poured into

bitter-sweet memories and dreams, which are now pouring into
you, because, what else am I then just memories of past and dreams
of future, as just a poetess, my darling, who is trying to write a
love poem, because that is the only thing, she knows and can do.
Ivana Komel,
PhD, writer
C O M M E N T S
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· Poem & Photographs: Ivana Komel / All rights reserved 2014. Copyright © Ivana Komel ·
· Ivana Komel – photos by Nina Medved / All rights reserved 2014. Copyright © Nina Medved ·
· Design & Artwork by Djuradj Vujcic and Prvoslav Vujcic · Illustrated by Sarah Riordan and Deidre McAuliffe ·
· Edited by Djuradj Vujcic, Prvoslav Vujcic, Deidre McAuliffe, Sarah Riordan and Danijela Kovacevic Mikic ·
All rights reserved 2014. Copyright © Urban Book Circle®

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Published by Urban Book Circle on December 2, 2014
Urban Book Circle® (UBC)
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