Waiting on the roadside. What for? To be ticked off, Ground and minced, A pile of drying meat Left to rot and repel Everyone but hungry worms Obese, rolling heavily Yet famished, craving flesh. Is […]
Category: Poetry
Disintegrating
Dreams fall apart In my hands Seep through my fingers Into the cracks Through the floor And into the river Of tears and sweat Flowing down the canyons Of the aged face where Dead dreams […]
Writer’s Block: Getting Out of the Rut
I’ve been working on my novel long enough to expect to get stuck in a rut at least once a week. What I make sure, though, is that these ‘recovery periods’ as I call them, […]
The Worm
A worm Lives in my throat Gnaws at the core The rotten apple Force-fed every day Eggs pregnant with doubt Wants me to shout Whenever they say ‘Hold your tongue’ ‘Speak not your mind’ It […]
Finding Inspiration – Part One
You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfume and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. – Ray Bradbury
All writing starts with words – your own, or someone else’s, but where does one find these words?
Do you remember the first book that had an impact on you? Was there a book in your childhood that had a significant influence that you didn’t notice at the time? What about classics – Austen, Dickens, Stevenson, James? Where to seek for inspiration beside between the covers?
Imagine
Imagine being alone Here In this room All on your own No hope No one will appear No expectations The door won’t creak Resigned Ready Aware Of the quiet Of the unspoken whisper Of the unbroken […]
Sarajevo: What to Read on Your Way Home
Every day, one way or another, I end up being asked about my identity, which I need to express in the way that will be the clearest to my interlocutor. I end up bringing up my national, professional, private, or whatever identity I am required to present at the time. However, the more I think about it (and I think a lot, about everything) I realise that there is one underlying identity that has given shape to all my other assumed ones. I do not identify myself with my homeland, or my family, or the schools and universities I’ve attended, or the countries I’ve visited, or anything or anybody else for that matter. I identify myself only and primarily with the city that I was born in, that I grew up in, and that I eventually had to leave – with Sarajevo. I grew up in the Old Town, in the valley, surrounded by hills, mountains, rivers, and all the relics of past conquests, wars, and regimes, which I have embraced and carried around with me wherever I have gone.
On a Cloudy Day
The sun appeared out of nowhere and cast its golden breath across the furniture. It stroked the pillows, ruffled the plant’s rowdy leaves, upset the candle. I blinked a couple of times, and it was […]
Someday
‘OK, we’ll go there someday,’ she said and I said ‘Fine, great’ and walked away since then I’ve been waiting, every day hoping I would not sooner drop dead waiting for her ‘someday’ to come […]
Erna Grcic 