Alchemy, Poetry, Psychology, Writing

Fairytale Ending

When I was young
& born to rule
the gifts I got
alongside my cot
were all fragile, gentile
& kind.
Gold-plated, laced,
with a silk bind.

A small black box
& the bow of rope —
contained in that wrap
a red wool cap;
this was spun
by a most sinister nun.

It got lost in a flurry
of cheers —
hazy made
by October beers;
pushed around
throughout the years.
So ugly it was &
drained in my tears.

The cap was red,
the bow was black,
the card in it said:
This to be read
when the Moon is full
& the day is done;
When the fruit is ripe
& the tale is spun.

My land was lost
I ruled no more,
all promise was gone,
bereft of lore.
In dreams that rope
was a noose above my head.
Then, one morning, skies
turned blood red.

Carefully, I lifted
this crimson shroud of shame
& whispered a sound –
a sound with no name;

Up the stairs I went —
into the junkyard of my brain.

Searched & searched I did–
until the cot was found.
Cut the black rope,
the box was round.

I placed that red cap
on my head.

Like a crown.

My breath was dry,
my tongue was coal,
the words came out
a twisted growl:
There is no gain,
there is no spill,
there is no freedom,
or your own will.
Born a prince,
a pauper you’ve become
& all because of
this web I’ve spun.

My gift was thus,
in my chains
you’ve toiled –
a cauldron I have now
brought to the boil;
could have had a crumb,
but wanted a loaf;
could have had the bottle,
but wanted a barrel;
could have had a room,
but wanted a house.
Born a lion, you’ve
turned into a mouse.

All or nothing was
your curse from me,
and now you claim
you wish to be free?

Gently I laid
the red crown on
the floor,
switched on the lights
and opened the door —
I did not want to
rule any more.

The road in front of me
was neither light,
nor dark —
but shadows on it
created a spark.
And that was enough for me,
it showed me my
mark.

I washed away the blood
and there was a flood –
gone were the
fears and the barren years.
I reclaimed my name,
with the last of my
tears.

Unrooted lay the family tree.
Its branches bare,
its leaves all free.
And all because of this
mouse, this me.
The smallest things
can move mountains
you see.

© Milana Vujkov, Fairytale Ending, 2007

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Alchemy, Poetry, Psychology, Writing

Netherland Empire

I come from the marshes, the swamplands,
Fish swam around my webbed feet,
Swans sang hymns of the world below;
Storks nourished my tender mind
and whispered
The darkest secrets of water and motherhood,
Tales of the deluge, of air
condensed
With silence.

In the belly of our maker
I found refuge through
Deception and makeshift wit –
The will of lizards, the patience
of the spider’s snare;
Finding spaces where the darkness
can be filled with lightning.
Ancient curses on my lips,
My eyes full of honey;
The tears of the Earth
and all its ministries.

We are the fallen armies
redeeming Nature
From the wicked grasp
of our precognition and fickle
desires of men;
Our snakeskin is a mark
Of the beast and the angel
Entwined as DNA, our fingers
Sunken in the origins of matter;
the primordial mud.

And when we rise,
We must fall again, as it is written,
Into the Netherland Empire
of our brethren;
And only sound will be our witness
As the Word made us.
It will slay us.
Amen.

© Milana Vujkov, Netherland Empire, 2014

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