Author: poetryfest

by & © 2019 Miodrag Kojadinović

I never went to Nanaimo during my four-ish
years long exile to the Lower Mainland that
had sprouted around New Westminster in
200 years ― a local California of sorts ―
because seeing it might have meant getting
to actually like Canada’s Pacific coast, and
that was a major no-no! for me at the time.

I never went to Nanaimo in the nineties of
the last century (we should have here some
witty observation on the passing of time or
on bimillennialism) because unlike Saša, an
acquaintance from before the exile, I had no
distant relatives’ in-laws there. My mom’s
first cousin and his mother who was also my
godmother were in Montréal, the breadth of
the country = continent away. We talked on
the phone thrice during my 43 months in BC.

I never went to Nanaimo, though I did get
to Victoria once, to see its colonial waterfront
reminiscent of ghats in India built at about
the same time when most of the world was
ruled by the UK of my great-grandfather,
a generation too far to allow for settling in
England, getting an EU passport, moving
to Portugal, Flanders, or even Norway, and
being happy. I had to endure horrendous
years of Serbia, Canada, and China instead.

So I never went to Nanaimo, because that
was one of the very few things I had the
option of deciding upon, instead of being
blown across continents by winds of unwished
for perpetual changes, like a tumbleweed.

In the beginning,
there were scissors—
awkward, wobbly things
designed for someone else’s dialect.
I turned them upside down,
angled the paper,
translated jagged edges
into an art no one asked for.

Someone always leaned in:
“No, no, you’re doing it wrong.”

But they didn’t speak my language—
the twisting of paper,
the tilt of the wrist,
the underhanded script
of a pen skating uphill.
Ballpoint pens—designed to pull—
balked at my push,
their ink drying mid-sentence,
a conversation cut short.

The nuns hovered—
guardians of a single alphabet,
their hands twitching to edit
what they couldn’t quite name.

“Straighten that paper, child,” they’d say,

but I wouldn’t.
Even as my script flowed neatly,
their eyes narrowed,
searching for a flaw in my adaptation,
suspecting it wasn’t right.

Maps and driving became another kind of grammar.
North, South, East, West—
a right-handed syntax

I rewrote with left-handed verbs.
Every intersection required
a pause, a translation,
the world flipping in my mind
like a mirror reflecting backward roads.
Impatience buzzed around me—
the shorthand of right-handed speakers—

“Just let me do it!” they’d snap,

unable to read my pause,
to grasp its necessity.
But I learned to disarm them with humor,
a quick turn of phrase:

“Funny, you’re fluent in right,
yet here I am still getting us there.”

The bossy ones—
oh, how they love to edit—
their corrections landing
like clumsy subtitles on a foreign film.
Over time, I rewrote their static,
turned their scolding into background noise.
Sometimes, I flipped the script,
pointed out how their grammar was wrong.

Sometimes, I just smiled,
thinking of the lexicon in my mind,
of scissors bending to my syntax,
of words, lines, and images
unfolding to fit the arc of my left hand.

There is power in translation,
in bending a right-handed language
without breaking it,
crafting stories and art
from the spaces they overlook.

And if they notice?
I let them wrestle with their own incomprehension,
while I continue creating—
or maybe,
I was simply writing a language
they never learned to read.

Drops of rain
kissing my forehead,
my cheeks,
my nose,
whispering into my ears
a sweet lullaby:
that I
also deserve
happiness.

The cold wind blowing
into my hair,
wrapping around my
uncovered
neck.
Hugging me
and pushing away
the dark demons
glued to
my shadow.

The night singing
softly
to me:
“Everything is going to be fine.”

When the time comes you have to spend Christmas alone,
the way to do it is to hit the vigil
service at some strange and distant parish,
and show up drunk.

Drive all morning
Christmas Eve to some god-forsaken
podunk town where you know no one.
Get a room, a greasy diner lunch
and a bottle of Jameson.

(If Irish whiskey
is your go-to, then choose another.
Look for something pleasant but unfamiliar.
Note well: this is not an anesthetic
but a pro-one.)

The two of you
could walk the town a while if you’re
discrete. (Remember, jail is not
the goal, but church.) Take in the sights,
but focus on the whiskey.

If strands
of lights the town has wound around
itself recall some strands of your own
hometown or kin, take off your glasses;
let them blur. (If you don’t wear glasses,
put some on.)

The timely disorientation
of senses, wits, will be your cue
to refind the rented room—you’ll say
to go home. Take care; if you start feeling hostile
you’ve walked or drunk too much.

Now undress
in the middle of the dimly lit but sterile
room just like a million other
rooms, in front of the mirror that’s seen
a thousand naked bodies.

Tidy up
yourself. With greatest ceremony
unbag those finest garments you brought
fresh from the cleaners and wrap yourself
in them as one would a gift.

Now go.
The hour is getting late and you’ll want
to be early. But wait—another sip
and don’t forget your smile, something
to share as you’re filing in.

When the Gloria
comes, oh belt it out with gusto.
You haven’t forgotten the words, but let
Yourself, so you can sing each word
for the first, blessed time.

Go on, belt it out.
They’ll let you know if you’re off key
or too loud, and when they do, though your smile
be overwrought and forced, the liquor
effusing from your pores,

think
of the beautifully ribboned packages
you saw in downtown windows and
remember that you have nothing left
to give, no hopes of receiving

and wish them,
oh heartily wish them (or try) a merry,
a very merry, indeed the merriest
of merry, oh a very merry
if non-traditional
Christmas

Swimming in a pool of happenings
All pretilly sculpted just for me
I sonder amongst my gripping angst
Relinquishing time I stole from thee

In what ideals I strive to further
Swept up are the dimensions of you
Collectively acting in self-interest
We share more than just our view

Sordid gall too heavy to bear
I spin these tales quite thin and bear

Eloping with the true absence of sound
My predilections dominate, forever abound

In a rather strange way; Some foreign piece of me truly aches to coddle the true heart of you. Almost like a fearful child.

Cradling the cryer.

the man who to this day, attempts a repeated stab at my mind despite the many city lights that lay between us.

You are the very act of a pathetic defense brought on by A broken heart.

As a caretaker, I was raised to hold gently, listen carefully, and to enact love with the condition of raw empathy.

disillusioned, I see you.

I watch from a distance, as you fuel the fire with prevarication; in an attempt to justify the flames you lit upon yourself.

All I hear is a pre-sounding resonation of loneliness.

All I see is the child who can’t handle being left alone.

In True distaste, I would mean nothing to you

I’m not worth talking about,
I’m not worth thinking about
and the taste of my name would never brush your tongue.

Instead I’m your favorite topic,

I’m the poetry hidden in the box beneath your bed

You haunt yourself without the help of my ghost;

without my lingering touch, you plague your life with the fog of my memory

As I watch you fan the flickering flame of your solemn laid candle;

I imagine curtains undrawn,

an empty stage.

The show has ended, yet a man stay sitting front row

Watching a still picture, he waits for the final show.

Ignoring the fact that I will never dance that stage again.

I have gone home.

And you-

you’re still waiting for me aren’t you?

………

Wishlist I grieve the innocence I never got to witness-

you grieve the love you could’ve had.

Where are you supposed to look
when nothing excites you anymore?
And the flames that surrounded you
no longer lick, no longer sing.

Do you wait for dormant days
to melt off winter layers?
Or maybe you write another
sad poem that speaks of absence.

And you begin to imagine
all the things that are missing
their magic. Wondering why that
one boat used to call out to you.

You swore you heard her bow
begging you to leap, to find out
what happens when caring seems
to no longer matter.

Or when one sunrise looks like
all the others and you’re out of
love with yourself, no longer
enamored enough to race

to see your reflection.
Why would you? The water’s
gone silent, saying nothing
of tomorrow’s light.

Mother
Two hundred and seventy-seven days, I carried you,
Days were not easy—pain then, pain now.
Now at home, then in a clinic afar,
I never grew angry, only eager
to have you wrapped in my arms.
And when I did have you, I nurtured you like my god.
“Son, now before you show me the way out—think again.”

Father
“Two decades and two years,
Were you ever starving?
New clothes, new shoes, new cycle, new bike.
You smiled, and I relished,
Carried you on my shoulders, gave you all you asked.
You, I thought of when toiling under the sun.
“Son, now before you show me the way out—think again.”

Both
Two decades and two years,
Were we ever tired of you?
Always loving, always forgiving, always supporting.
One day of your sickness, and we were in hell.
“Son, now before you show us the way out—think again.”

-Aman Aslam

If sand is the embodiment of time
Then I’m…
Going to collect it all and become it’s keeper
That way, when I meet Mr Reaper
I can flip my hourglass around
To recapture the sound
Of every heartbeat that fluttered by
Of every moment my ribs caged butterflies
Of every time I uttered “I love you”
Of the moment you stuttered “I do”
Pictures may be worth a thousand words
But your voice, Firefly, deserves to be heard
For infinite lifetimes and more
I used to collect seashells that came across the seashore
To recapture this moment of meeting this girl from my dreams
But now that I met you in real life it seems
Like the shells are decorating the exuberant amount of sand
I’ve collected just to forever hold your hand

I gaze at you from afar, and my sight cannot reach you,
I speak to you in whispers, and my voice fades
like an echo in the vast silence.
I hold you tightly, and your sadness becomes mine,
I grasp your hand in the void,
trying to find you among the shadows.

I look at you from a distance, and little by little you fade away,
I shout your name, but you can no longer hear me,
I embrace you from afar, and my arms touch you only in dreams.
I admire you in silence,
without ceasing to name you in my thoughts.

I have called you Solitude,
I have looked deeply into your eyes,
and you have planted in my face
two extinguished stars