Long time since I wrote any verse that actually makes sense... Whole process is still same- that strange feeling starts growing inside me, I grab my pen and notebook and write, write.. and.. Ohh my God, what the Hell! Whyyyyyyy? Why me? And what on Earth did I just write down?
Seems I lost the touch with the arrival of the real life issues. Or my muse just.. took off until further notice. Without informing me in the first place.
I wrote my first poem when I was 5. And I was rushed into publishing a book by my dad's friend at the age of 12. After he personally edited all my childish and innocent verses and ( how it hurts still) even changed some verses to what he thought they should be, I spent few years deeply embarrassed and away from writing.
Took few years to allow my feelings form lyrics again. And once I started, I just could not stop. I wrote like never before. And it all lasted for a long time, leaving heaps of notebooks filled with poetry, influenced by my growing-up, by tragedies, by great memories, Baudelaire, Byron, several Serbian poets and long Serbian winters.
Now I am blank. What I write not even I can understand. And in no ways can my poetry be ( out of mere sympathy and good intentions) proclaimed Avant-Guarde and hence.. not usual.. It is plain trash and waste of time for both reader and writer.
And all I want to know is where the hell is my muse these days? Stuck in traffic? Commited suicide? Or also busy with her real life.... Is it a He or a She anyways?
Maybe the real life job of my muse is.. energy- consuming to the limits where she forgets I exist after coming back from office... Don't know..
Seems I lost the touch with the arrival of the real life issues. Or my muse just.. took off until further notice. Without informing me in the first place.
I wrote my first poem when I was 5. And I was rushed into publishing a book by my dad's friend at the age of 12. After he personally edited all my childish and innocent verses and ( how it hurts still) even changed some verses to what he thought they should be, I spent few years deeply embarrassed and away from writing.
Took few years to allow my feelings form lyrics again. And once I started, I just could not stop. I wrote like never before. And it all lasted for a long time, leaving heaps of notebooks filled with poetry, influenced by my growing-up, by tragedies, by great memories, Baudelaire, Byron, several Serbian poets and long Serbian winters.
Now I am blank. What I write not even I can understand. And in no ways can my poetry be ( out of mere sympathy and good intentions) proclaimed Avant-Guarde and hence.. not usual.. It is plain trash and waste of time for both reader and writer.
And all I want to know is where the hell is my muse these days? Stuck in traffic? Commited suicide? Or also busy with her real life.... Is it a He or a She anyways?
Maybe the real life job of my muse is.. energy- consuming to the limits where she forgets I exist after coming back from office... Don't know..
Belgrade Time
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