Operational Absence


Designed by Mary Matshine aka Marija Mrvošević.

Hi Everyone-who-reads-this,

I am back… It’s not like I went far, just to the hospital. But, more on that later.

Here’s a poem as a little tease for what is to come. That being an entire NEW Corpus titled (probably) The Peninsula of Healers. The poems are awaiting translation. By moi. So… it will take a while. 😅

Also, you guys are the first ones ever (well, except my mother) to see a part of the cover page for that new corpus I’ve mentioned.
If you like Groups of Poems in general, here are some other options: Wings, Oblivion.

Had a pokey day.
They stabbed my gut,
Released the pain,
No vein left untouched.
All is well now,
Without the blind part.
This ─ a matted spark,
A stingy start.

Don’t forget to like, comment and share!

And, as always, happy reading.

Mary Matshine

The Big Rapture


Wonderful work from an old Friend and colleague. This one is from the album, the collection called “The Epiphany”.


A slow beginning; Spark the imagination
Am I just dreaming? Is this truly our salvation?

We’re flying faster
With every 
Going into the Cosmos castle
Through atmosphere removed

Countless stars are shining
Pouring their essence on me
We are taking in everything
Waiting for the Heavenly

All the 
Through my eyes
You’re begging
These are not lies

Thanking you, breathless
So ready for that moment
I’m overjoyed and restless
Feeling it
             I’m open
So it comes surging in
The feeling 
of the whole


Through me

Continued Survival

Hi Everyone-who-reads-this,

Here is a fresh poem, written yesterday. It is inspired by a story that a colleague of mine wrote. Have fun figuring it out! 😉

I would like to hear your thoughts on it. What do you think it’s about?

Don’t forget to like, comment, and share!

Mary Matshine


Architect of the Universe by DGrayFox.

Searching. Debris flying about.
The meaning is not
Can you feel them?

Sparks trail their ends, mist sprouts the thoughts, eyes
Black holes.
It's not the matter — it is Them.

Waiting. As if we are the ones
To pull the plug.
Universe abound

Vermilion stars glaring
At us.
We are alive?

Never mind.


Love Poem [Video Reading]


Hi, Everyone-who-watches-this,

Here is one of my older poems, dedicated to my Love, Marko.
You are free to dedicate it to whomever you Love, and share those beautiful feelings with the world.

I apologise for the watermark that is across the entire screen, but I had no clue it would be there and that big. Next time I’ll try to move it somewhere.

Now, I’m going to study.

Don’t forget to like, comment and share!

And, as always, happy watching!

Mary Matshine



While my words slit the air around
I imagine myself getting out
of my body. And that girl
is not who I am,
But a mere reflection
of the anger I felt.

I wish I could just grab
those words in midair,
crumple and then
throw them away.
Slap myself over the mouth,
and yell aloud:
“Shut the fuck up!”

But I ran. From the rage.
From my own tale.
Out the door and into rain.
I ran.
Though I didn't get far that day.

And you, my love,
found me on the stairs
where I hid;
“There you are!” you said.
“It was cold outside.”
“Come here.”
Nestled in your warm
embrace, I cried.

The Smell of Rain [Video Reading]


Hello, Everyone-who-reads-this,

This is a poem you all should know by now. So enjoy it. I won’t bore you with a long intro this time.

Don’t forget to comment, like and share!

What do you think?
Do you like the voice of fake-Selene?
Should I read, instead?
I would like to. But I’m not sure my mike is very good.
I’ll do it tomorrow, and we shall see.

And, as always, happy reading!

Mary Matshine

The Mynah [Video Reading, for your convenience]


Hello, Everyone-who-reads-this,

Here is the VIDEO edition of my newest poem The Mynah, inspired by the great Edgar Poe. I hope you will endure until the end. There is a little firework-surprise there for you! It’s mignificent!

I found a semi-volunteer to read my poem. Thank you, Rod, Mike, or any other generic text reader name. Please, thank him as well, it’s hard work. Imagine having to hang out all day on a website, without being paid? Being used, clicked on, forgotten. Poor guy. Send your love to him. [a disclaimer: he is not a real person if anyone missed that].

If anyone missed the link up above: TAKE ME TO THE RUDE MYNAH

Be bold. Comment, share, like.

Tell me your opinions, I’d love to hear them.

If you would like more videos like these, do tell, because depending on the likes and request, I will or will not make them.

Cheers, and, as always, happy listening!

Mary Matshine


The Mynah

Hi everyone-who-reads-this,

First of all, I want to thank everyone who reads my humble writings. This is because I know some of you may want to stay away from that after you read the following poem, which is not entirely written by me.

Second, I have to emphasize just how much I love the writer and the poem this one is satirically parodying. This is because I know that out there are some gentle flowers who get easily offended.

Thirdly, I hope that, despite all I’ve said above, you still like this work which was in my thought for quite some time, and today it is finally realized.

A disclaimer: I am not aware of similar works, nor do I associate with them. I haven’t checked if there are any, because, well, I’m kind of lazy, and, I think this one differs, at least somewhat.

Enjoy the poem. Don’t forget to like and share.

I would love to hear your thoughts on it. Have I stayed true to the original? Do you find it literary blasphemous? Does it strike a nerve? Do tell.

And, as always, cheers and happy reading!

Mary Matshine





Once upon a midnight boredom, while I nodded, high and sordid,

Over many a naked and morbid ladies of  The Hefner’s Hall —

While I nodded, nearly rapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently… tapping, tapping at my bedroom door.

„Tis some visitor,“ I uttered, „tapping at my bedroom door —

          Only this and nothing more.“


Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the warm September;

And each separate crying treble wrought its rhythm on the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow

From my Mac surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Backdoor —

For the rare and radiant sphincter whom the angels named Backdoor —

          Nameless here for evermore.


And the silken, rad, uncertain rustling of one yellow curtain

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic tremors never felt before;

So that now, to still the greetings of my organ, I stood beating

“Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my bedroom door —

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my bedroom door; —

          This it is and nothing more.”


Presently my pole grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “Madam, or Whatever —  your insecurities I ignore;

But the fact is I was… napping, and so gently you came tapping,

And so faintly you came rapping, rapping at my bedroom door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

          Darkness there and nothing more.


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, dreaming,

Doubting, squeezing squeezes no mortal ever dared to squeeze before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Backdoor?”

This I whispered, and a roommate murmured too, “Backdoor!”—

          Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the bedroom turning, all my blood within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my part be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

          “Tis the wind and nothing more!”


Open here I flung the shutter with many a splintered clutter, when

In here stepped ignoble Mynah of the nowadays of snore;

Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a chest of J. Love’s just above my chamber door—

          Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this bluish bird beguiling my lad-fancy into smiling,

By the knave and kern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and spiny, thou,” I said, “art sure so whiny

Vastly fat and recent Mynah wandering from the Copy shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Copy’s Pastonian shore!”

          Quoth the Mynah “Pay for More.”


Much I marvelled this banning fowl to hear discourse in planning,

Though its answer little granting — little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —

Bird or beast upon the sculptured breasts above his chamber door,

          Without the name “Pay for More.”


But the Mynah, sitting lonely on the titillated teats, spoke only

Those words as if her soul with those words she sold long ago.

Nothing farther then she muttered — not a feather then she fluttered —

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before —

On the morrow she will leave me, as my Whores have flown before.”

          Then the bird said, “Pay for More.”


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some gleeful merchant whom unmerciful Production

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that enthusiastic burden bore

          Of ‘Free to — Pay for More’.”


But the Mynah still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bosom and door;

Then, upon the pleather sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of snore —

What this knave and kern, fat, and ominous bird of snore

          Meant in croaking “Pay for More.”


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose watery eyes now starred plainly into my chest’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s pleather lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose pleather-beige lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

          She would press if I, ah, paid for more!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-balls tinkled on the linoleum floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy god hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Backdoor;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and give me this lost Backdoor!”

          Quoth the Mynah, “Pay for More.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Populated and all daunted, on this plentiful land enchanted —

On this home by Money haunted — tell me truly, I implore —

Is there — is there balm in Dogecoin? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”

          Quoth the Mynah, “Pay for More.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends beneath us — by that god we both adore —

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a tainted maiden whom the angels name Backdoor —

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Backdoor.”

          Quoth the Mynah, “Pay for More.”


“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Copy Pastonian’s shore!

Leave no blue plume as a token of that dread thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bewbs above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

          Quoth the Mynah, “Pay for More.”


And the Mynah still is sitting, bill is sitting, still is sitting

Upon the valid chest of Love, just above my chamber door;

And her eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er her streaming throws the shadow on the floor;

And white soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

          Shall be li… Pay for More!


1. Original: THE RAVEN, Edgar Allan Poe (my first literary love, a big influencer of my writing, and a truly awesome innovative king of American Romanticism)



Hide and seek

Hello everyone-who-reads-this,

Since today is poetry day, I thought it was an amazing opportunity for me to publish a poem I have written a few months ago. I believe the best poetry is one which is stored for a while. Like a good wine. 😊

I hope you enjoyed some wonderful poetry today. Cheers!

Mary Matshine



Photo by Rodolfo Marques on Unsplash.


Under the mind’s dome, a spark tickles.
Heavy heaviness blunts the brunt
under the chest. Dark.
Playing hide and seek
the poem and me.

Sleeping doesn’t help, much less reality,
the middle insults with perfidious vicinity.
Dreamknitter asleep.
Playing hide and seek
the poem and me.

Crumpled thoughts,
the spark flickers then changes its mind.
Playing hide and seek
the poem and me.

Sometimes in the bottom of the night I find a word —
a particle of spark. It leaves a trail behind.
A hunter on the unspoken; on a hidden thing
I run, rush, dash, writhe;
eyelids in pain from keeping them closed;
hands cold from motionless joints.
No turnover.
We are just playing,
The poem and me.

Fiftieth Birthday

Finally, another poem. It took me awhile to gather the strength to post it. I wrote it in December.


Dad and me, 1992.

You would have been fifty today.
We would go out to lunch perhaps;
My mom would be there
and grandma would leave the house, for sure,
and your friends, who would remember you then
because you sold them cars cheaply, gifted them,
lent them money, and forgave…
It would be a nice celebration; I would have made you
a cake with fifty candles.
I would have cried out of happiness and pride
as you try to blow them all out in a single breath.
Those tears would have been colder, gentler and brighter
than those I cry today.

No, this is not a dream
it is your countenance
looking at me from the mirror;
this is a reality of a thousand chimes
that rattle from a ray of light;
from there your outline reaches out
and reminds
that you are my part.

I would gift you a video game.
And we would play for hours,
like when I was little.
I watched you play, and even today
it reminds me of you.

Surely you would joke around; on purpose and by accident,
like that time we went to a party
and you got us out of the car just to show us,
all happy, the place where the “prain tasses”.
We laughed for days.
I never understood why kids didn’t like dad’s jokes,
because I always loved yours.

No, this is not a dream
it is your countenance
looking at me from the mirror;
this is a reality of a thousand chimes
that rattle from a ray of light;
from there your outline reaches out
and reminds
that you are my part.

Sometimes I think about parallel worlds,
and how in one of those you must celebrate just like this.
So, because of that picture, in which my double is hugging you,
I wish you a happy birthday, dad.