VIS

Very Important Stuff [If you don’t READ IT yOuR kettle WILL boil faster, your CAT will suddenly become all cute AND cuddly — and let’s be honest no one wants THAT, your mother won’t tell you what to wear anymore… you know, all the STUFF, basically, will befall you]


mariija-mrvošević

我 io Я le moi. Ich me ego. Ja, bre! All serious and stuff.


A fresh start

 

Hi, there. All-of-you-who-read-this.

Welcome to this secluded space for my poems and prose.
I hope you find what you are looking for.
If not, well, search some more.
I will ki.. y keep writing, even if you don’t.
Thanks for stopping by. Check these scribbles below
About how this blog was made and why
And something about writing and art.

I hope you had fun.

Cheers!


How This Blog was made and why

 

To commemorate a start of This Blog I’ve opened it with a fresh poem written directly on the Create a New Post page. Uploaded some pictures – and voila! An intro to an entire Corpus was born.
From time to time I will publish some of my older poems (sometimes I may surprise you with a short story) so as to keep the blog going. But whenever Unicorn shines his rainbow upon me, I shall respect his wishes and add to the Wings Corpus.

[ Edit: Two years after. The Unicorn still hasn’t shined. But maybe that is because he is just a horse now. Or he has constipation. I will wait. I am patient. ]

A writer can’t do much without his/her fans, so to speak. I chose this platform to share my poems with the world.

Feel free to comment and share,

like and don’t care,

smile and be mad…

But do read. — there, a small poem for You. 😉


Something about Writing and Art

 

Artists are a special bunch of people who have something others don’t.
That something is called a Mechanism of Creation.

Now, everyone is able to create something. The mechanism I mentioned is a vast network of interconnected elements: thoughts, dreams, experiences (life and reading), imagination, and that little thing called “something”. And in the middle of all of that is a Spark.

No, not the imagination one! Spark of Creativity!

That means:

  1. it’s creative (duh);
  2. it’s created;
  3. it’s alive.

The third one is the most important feature. It means it is susceptible to change. And so It does. So many, many times… until finally It is taken from the centre, pushed through the smallest of particles of writer’s soul, concentrating into one tiny dot which that expands into a line, a light, a bolt, a rush through the body… and BAM!… Well actually, it isn’t a “bam” (unless you are a very loud writer), it’s more of a click-clack sound, or if you are old-timey it’s a pshh-hshh-kshh sound. Who knows what kind of sound other artist make! Well, they do, they know, ask them.
This Mechanism can be used to explain how all artists work. And that is why we are such a weird bunch, we are not human!

No, of course, we are. This is just one of the ways I like to explain how I experience the sensations that happen while I’m coming up with something and writing stuff.

Recent Posts

The Aria of Being

jeremy-bishop-j06lbRyrXgw-unsplash

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash.


Hi Everyone who reads this,

Today is a special day. I have decided to publish this poem.

For some unknown reason, I have postponed the publishing. But I am proud of this work and I want to share it with you.

This is a very long poem, but I believe it is worth reading. I hope you think so too.

Here I go.

Don’t forget to like, comment and share.

And, as always, happy reading!

Sincerely,
Marija M.


‘A fatal idea about a deity

could never be born in nature,

if it didn’t correspond to a certain reality.’

─ Awakened Consciousness, Rastko Petrovic

Dots in softness of the strength of light,

change in the order of smile and heart,

within the scents remind of eternity,

and one temple instilled in everyone by

The Almighty God.

 

Primarily ─ the end, the first beauty of a woman;

with sharp powerful shadow gathers nightly murmur,

a doll on earth enkindles within;

rime eradiates and gathers the sweat of death ─

 

The Almighty God.

 

A tree filled with needles mesmerises the mind of shade, in winter,

when it appears as a youthful rain.

 

The herald that carries the spring on her smile

succulent stem from the skin of that life,

yes, She is happy dewing over the field,

in birth known for the eternal flight within ─

 

The Almighty God.

 

The hues of those birds of paradise, mercy of a colourful hand,

in a flutter of wings and leave without despair.

 

Upwards the bearhaired expands, grows, trembles;

in overview is mirrored in the drop of the Sun,

He searches in the grass for thin thoughts of ants;

the pristine working nature ─ the statue of a guardian

 

The Almighty God.

 

A heap of eiderdown now a scream is cheering a child;

young life like a king’s, near the end a Jester-wise Eden.

 

And when he blows and takes the fire within

he announces the shield and the Sun ─ sunrise

of the dearest, dearest Guest with a drink for a gift;

the sign and the kindred prevail in amplitude ─

 

The Almighty God.

 

The forest and the murmur of waves, rustle of trees,

like laugh and the purple of birth; the eyes seek a view through a hull.

 

Bright unknown core whose king is now a slave

Light’s edge held by the axeman of night’s enjoyment

A drop of ink and pain falls onto the snow, cry

Circular smile pours over the bottom dew

 

The Almighty God.

 

That sign in the haze creates a double image: Raven in a lamp,

a Dove in a hand.

 

With the eyes of a caliper it tears the environment,

when non-cover uncovers hundredfold triple sight;

the main thing is often a merge of chiasm when you love

the smallest of pebbles strengthened by his touch ─

 

The Almighty God.

 

Crossroads of everything ─ my street and May; metal shine of a car,

a sparkle of stars.

 

With the mist of unwritten kept inside the soul

a woman of brave thoughts and knitted heart;

between the principles She offers a strand

for new understandings a fruit of a basket ─

 

The Almighty God.

 

A bridge will always bind two foreign Spaces, when one becomes dark

another is bright from a dream’s light.

 

Fleece of golden needles summons the truth,

if there is silence in response: halt

of the spin; turnover always in the world;

then form a direction comes a thunder ─

 

The Almighty God.

 

Believe in one only made from a multitude; everything is like a soul’s dream

and endless tangle of the mind.

 

A horn sings the primordial, the aria of being,

as seen in a dream the wakefulness eternal,

all-encompassing thought in a brilliant spark;

the purple glimmers sunrise and its union ─

 

The Almighty God.

 

Velvet inside of us with a myriad of shines,

known faces and our faith never dies,

and a steady change takes us upwards, home;

to each their own and a virtue of each is

The Almighty God.

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