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 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)



The Mechanism of Creation

Universe: Horse Nebula

Hi, everyone. This is something new from me. It’s prose!
“But, where is your poetry?” you ask frightened, uncertain. It’s safe, no one stole it. It’s fine. This is another part of my writing, the other side of the moon, if you will. Unlike the moon’s other side, this one isn’t dark. It’s bright and funny (I guess… it’s funny to me) and cheerful… but, it can be ironic, sarcastic and with just a hint of dark. Don’t let that perturb you, just keep reading, just keep reading… (that Dory is always finding her way into my mind! *holding my fists up in protest*).
So, yeah, this is how it looks like, more or less. If you liked this short intro — well then, thanks, keep on reading, if not — read anyway, the rest is much better, it’s about artists! 😉

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

Everyone is able to create something, of course. But, this mechanism 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:

  • it’s creative (duh);
  • it’s created;
  • 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 center, pushed through the smallest of particles of writer’s soul, concentrating into one tiny dot which then 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 sounds other artists 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.