Ivana Komel, PhD, writer
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Adele: 21, Lovesong by Ivana Komel
Ivana Komel,
PhD, writer Adele: 21, Lovesong
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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
PhD, writer
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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 ·
· 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®
C O N T A C T
Published by Urban Book Circle on December 2, 2014
Urban Book Circle® (UBC)
C O N T A C T
Published by Urban Book Circle on December 2, 2014
Urban Book Circle® (UBC)
Urban Book Circle: a circle of the gifted, literate and brave.