In

Every
Month
Woman
Is
Reborn
Again

1
 Dedication
To the Syrian refugees who have stepped on almost all European
countries,
to those who were swept away by the merciless fiery wave of war
initiated elsewhere...
To those, who lost their lives under the fallen blocks of their houses,
To those who sought shelter in the cold and gloomy cellars but
found hunger and painful death.
To those who met the frozen winter, unarmed in a ferocious battle
with the freezing wind.
To those packed into frail boats crossing the raging sea.
To those who drowned without seeing the shore of a strange distant
land perceived as a land of salvation.
To those who found the bottom of the sea as an eternal grave.
To those who lost nearly everything except a glimmering light of
hope keeping one duo alive,
the duo of faith and poetry.

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The Table of Content:

Preface from Author……………………………………………………..4

Preface from Hawwa Arche………………………………………………7
Theory on Poems………………………………………………………..9
January…………………………………………………………………22
February………………………………………………………………..27
March…………………………………………………………............32
April……………………………………………………………..........38
May………………………………………………………………….....44
June……………………………………………………………............52
July……………………………………………………………….........58
August…………………………………………………………….........65
September……………………………………………………………….70
October………………………………………………………………….76
November………………………………………………………………..82
December………………………………………………………………...89

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 Preface from Author
As far as I remember it happened during the spring of 2004 when the
name Hawwa Arche first came to me, back then, the name sounded
more like Eva Arche. It was that moment that I now refer to as the
birth, the appearance of the obscure, the unclear non-being of a name
which has now blossomed like the spring in which it was created. It
was the beginning.
Life is a constant interaction of different elements. The thinking
process is similar in that it is an open reaction to the external stimuli.
Perhaps the imaginary personality of Hawwa Arche constitutes as a
literary pseudonym through the continuity of my life and experiences.

The imaginary names of, Eva (Hawwa ) and Arche, are a unique
fusion of two symbolic terms for the beginning. In the history of
humanity, the pre-mother is and in search of the first element with
everything having come from and eventually perish into in pre-
Socratic agenda as an inspiring key concept.

Against the basic math logic, two beginnings let in a symbolic chorus.
This makes one loud hymn of origin and emergence that is persistently
one and singular that bears nothing standing behind for all what is
needed for the future which will be unfolded.

Eva (or in Arabic Hawwa) kindly asked me to wait for such cherished
creative ideas. Now I realise what great advice that was. I understood
that before letting her on the paper (of any style, language, format) I
needed to finish my PhD and continue my life as a mother and a wife.

4
This theoretical knowledge and wisdom favoured with a saving
patience – like two streams helping to fill the banks of a river
(apropos, the author’s name signifies exactly this word in Persian).

Eva sprang from that second rivulet and now I may assume with
certainty that her creative impulses needed no requirements on how to
write and what to write. She prefered to make notes (as much as
possible) her thoughts and transmit them according to her writing
style. Over the last few years, she has been training her imagination in
the domain of poetry. Why? There is no clear-cut answer for such a
difficult question, but the route to it is stretched over 100 pieces of
work in the aphoristic form under the title Theory on Poems.

The guiding emotion and fuel for setting an imaginary machine aimed
to find a key to the personality of a woman is her subjective ( from A
to Z) feeling of empathy. What is empathy in Eva-Hawwa’s
individual perception? Is it a passing or carrying through oneself or an
element similar to the process of colourful threads penetrating
through canvases fixed tightly by hoops in embroidery. Her curious
interest and awaking empathy can be put on a peg by someone who
has produced unplanned thoughts. These thoughts, like first-hand
fresh material, are sufficient enough to build the caravan of imaginary
events dated by the imaginary past tense. Furthermore, the flight of
fantasy has no set borders and depicts the development of the possible
trajectories of future events under the guidance of life’s principle. In
the whirlpool of imagination, the modelled image presents itself like a
kind of form pasted together by the virtuous movements of the
master, the sculptur of human life stories.
Every life story is unrepeatable individuality that sparkles once in
time and space only to never appear on earth again. There is no
possibility for generalization, a totally useless enterprise. Neither
lines of deduction nor induction satisfies Hawwa Arche’s creative

5
curiosity. She adamantly confesses in non-copiable lines drawn by
every personality among the myriads of others.
And the last few remarks, Hawwa Arche feels destined to find
herself between or inside a two screen-trap. The screen reflects her
thoughts but serves as a mirror mostly showing though a real image of
herself. Hawwa sees her personality and the meaning of her life in the
mirror. The puzzling decision is to choose the right mirror. Once
having dropped in the domain of prose she still feels a need to
balance even more so than an experienced tightrope walker in the
circus. . The prosaic vast fields of the potential combination of words
make her feel euphoric , running , trying and finally gets tired. This
enormous choice makes her loose a sense of stability. Like searching
for the saving island after a shipwreck Hawwa may step in the domain
of poesi to meet the noble genre on its unreachable beauty. The
scarcity of words reconstructs in the form of rhymes and the limited
number of lines and stanzas cut the wings of imagination to which one
may object. However, Hawwa Arche would reject this by merely
stating that the mind requires the models and standards to be filled in,
this is why poetry wins over other genres through its closeness to the
charm and power of the norms and standards.

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 Preface from Hawwa Arche.
What can one woman with two children do alone? That woman who
survived from a city destroyed by bombs. The city which is the centre
of her sincerest dreams never to come true. A city which enveloped
her unrealized hopes into a foreign language – a language she
remembered as her past heritage, a thin thread with the University she
was studying at and where she was expecting to work. What can a
weak but resilient woman do, when caged in a centre of asylum
seekers (in city N of Eastern Europe)?
My name is Hawwa Arche, and hereby I intend to present my
storytelling poetry. Above were the questions for me (and about me)
and on them I have already answered. Indeed, after prayer, this
activity -I think- has saved me from sinking into the depths of despair.
Escaping all-devouring boredom and I began teaching my children
(and others who I treated as my own) a language I was long ago proud
to speak at an international standard. It was entirely secret- to take
notes by pen, with crooked handwriting on tacky and shabby pieces of
paper, napkins and the blank spaces of last year’s newspapers.
I wrote –I accepted this process as a blessing like a lifebuoy - what
more could I do?
What is this work of twelve poems about? If not a reflection on a
reflection, an examination of self-reflection, examination of
examination and final commas as a sign of doubt on answering the

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guiding question: what does a poem mean? In fact, what can be easier
than rhyming lines for a busy mother with two small children to look
after and a husband and his mother to be obedient to. A woman who
has limited free time, in a sense that every minute is measured on the
weighing-machine as the golden rings in a jewel store, for whom the
length of the text or number of words to read turns to be a decisive
factor. So, this woman, let me say about myself in the third person,
one day began to put down her thoughts in a rhythmic while still
aware of so called academic standards of citing and retelling the
theoretical background of someone’s inspiring words. Truly speaking
and not having time for it, she decided to experiment, to write and to
give to someone else for checking or peer-review – let one academic
phrase be permitted here.
So, this work-oh how ambitious it sounds – these drafts, are closer to
reality- let them be the outcome of last year’s reflections and
observations of close and distant people around her. The reflections
upon the theme of trying to decipher the easiness and attractiveness of
a genre like poetry with the themes of searching for the stable
foundations of the meaning of life against the stereotypical vision and
perception of a woman’s life and behaviour, with the unending
questions pertaining to each of the 12 poems, the plan of this work,
she has cherished the questions on the meaning of life and the search
for happiness for such a longperiod.

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Theory on Poems

1. A poem sets itself apart from other forms of creative texts. It is still
a piece of writing but with a huge presentation. It is a little lad with a
loud voice entering adult discussions on equal rights. It is a scandal in
accounting: that a minimum of words is capable of spreading a
maximum in meaning, and even to claim the various potentialities to
be invested into further reading and re-readings.
2. A poem is an epistemological labyrinth: a rambling with plenty of
meanings. A blurred idea of exit-final meanings that exist as the
preliminary attempts to grasp the absorption of the previous meaning.
3.A poem intriguingly tempts one with the task of reading it. No
scanning or surfacing is permissible here while with the rest of the text
is accepted.: It must be read properly, i.e. a quintessence of
hermeneutics where the reading and understanding coincide.
4.A poem is both completeness and its scarcity of words. It is as
emotionless as a taut bowstring hurriedly waiting to aim.

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5.A poem as a textual masterpiece demands its careful reading to
begin with the beginning, i.e. a title. The title that is like the top of an
iceberg with a hidden mass underwater making the sense of the
meaning bigger i.e. more significant.
6. The definition of a poem is partly hidden behind the title,
signposting the poem’s peculiarities and features. The apt name is the
embracing of all features. The nicknames are not false names but
highlights of the features that are not defined before. Similarly, with a
poem, the name can be guessed even in the fragment taken from the
native form. The issues of name, size, style, and the rhythm of the
poem might be set as a foreground.
7. Reading a poem is to first detach it from the name (title). Because
of isolation and annoying informality coherent to the fragments of a
poem, they lack identity, belonging, and tradition, therefore they
cannot be taken holistically as a whole. Only a complete poem
embodies wholeness.
8. Any poem (even in a torn fragmentary form) rests on the rhythm.
The rhythm is the inner tempo, spirit, and the absence of what makes
the structure groundless.
9.A poem labelled as a blank verse and the absence of rhythm is
nothing but a piece of prose aligned in the format of the columns. The
absence of rhythm makes it vulnerable and alien in the family of the
poem. This is because the rhythm is a glue which pastes the lines in
pairs under the reign of the common theme. The presence of the blank
verse is a hint which poses the question: what is the principle
difference between prose and poetry?
10.The length of a poem or, simply, the number of lines according to
the known standards culturally varies.
11.If the rhythm is a poem’s flesh then the content is the bone of the
poem. One reading is not enough, the slicing of the content that is
rooted deeply as its natural resources are not shown on the surface. As
the reader moves through the reading word by word, the content opens

10
its enigmas. The methodological outlines are to identify the name, the
structure, and the content.
12.What is the purpose of writing a poem that does not necessarily
coincide with the grand theme that the poet unfolds line by line: the
critique of reality, the imitation of reality, and the modulation of
reality by substituting it with a purely imagined one. The common
core is unchangeable, it fetters with reality, even in the high flights of
fantasy, the poet reacts to ongoing real situations that endeavors to
change it with a pen.
13. Not all poems are presented (or are survived) in full. A fragment
of a poem is like a plant torn forcibly from its native land. It still bears
the smell and the details of the land can be reconstructed.
14. A poem is a piece of creative work by an author that undoubtedly
possesses a meaning.
15. A poem is first met during childhood going on to haunt people
throughout their whole life. Namely, above other types of writing,
poems were the first to be heard by babies.
16. Our first lullabies, both rhymed and not rhymed, are composed
under religious, custom and folklore influences. Small children are
encouraged to learn poems by heart. Reading poetry is a deliberate
captivity.
17. A poem is the cradlesong of humanity.
18.A poem’s easiness is hinted here in terms of grasping and easy
digestion. The easier the rhythm the easier it is to learn by heart, the
more difficult (caused by the rare trope or style) the more difficult
grasping of meaning.
19. And as a piece of art, a poem is subjected to an evaluation under
the angle of an aesthetic criteria. In fragmentary and full shapes, it
bears the stigmata of meaning wrapped in an undeniably aesthetic
form.

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20. A poem is the first and perhaps the last candidate for the title of a
bearer of uniqueness for a meeting place of rhythm and rhyme where
the last presupposes and validates the existence of the former.
21.If a poem as a whole is unique then its offspring such as a piece of
a poem, composed of lines in unrepeatable combinations still carries
out the lucid light of uniqueness but in the small proportions.
22. The severe academic requirements of avoiding plagiarism is to be
satisfied with the poem. A poem will never agree to borrow someone
else’s words and set expressions.
23.The threat of plagiarism in poetry is absent since the poet produces
the masterpiece that does not resemble the rest (from this tradition).
24. Each line that is paired under the domain of the rule of rhythm and
rhyme drops to the idea of drifting with no roots and connections.
25.Each word in the line that occupies its proper place enjoys the
company of the welcoming neighbours, each word pulls a plume of
interpretations and meanings behind it.
26. The line and the order of the words are unchangeable and are
merged into a single ingot and monolith by the author as the street and
buildings could stay for years until some destructions do not take
place, as in February’s snowing, April’s raining, and July’s heat are
potentially viewed.
27. It is only a case of a rude interference as the translation of a poem
can change the order and in some cases the meanings of the poem.
28. What is impossible to find out despite all intellectual efforts (even
when a translator is a gifted poet as such) is a matching of an original
text of a poem with its translations in all world languages.
29. A poem is a categorical lover of one’s own language.
30. A poem is a bitter skeptical uncompromising in its conservatism
towards attempts to change its dressing. For instance, one cannot say
that one’s favorite poet is Homer until reading it in its original
language.
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31. How do you read a piece of poetry in its native language?
Subjectivism is hardly escapable here. Reading poetry involves a
personal interpretation to the vast number that already existed.
32. Inevitably one’s interpretation meets another interpretation and in
one intermingled mixture of meanings the reader confuses themselves.
If the right reading is an aim, it presupposes the right understanding. If
the number of interpretations depend on the number of readers, the
concept of a right understanding is blurred.
33. The hermeneutics-based task (to arrive at the right understanding)-
is intuitively caught in the final meaning modelled by the author. It is
rarely realized by only extremely skilful readers.
34. Hermeneutics expectations float above the level of satisfaction
with personal interpretations.
35. A poem is a thought strained in a form, waiting for co-operation
with the reader to be rescued from hampering conditions.
36. The scarcity of words is to be compensated by the abundance of
the imagination of the reader. Thus, the interpretations multiply.
37. There are no untitled entities in the writing, even a torn fragment
from the motherland of content includes a theme within that can
inspire the name giving process. The lack of rhythm and rhyme is like
a disorder or complete chaos.
38. One remaining verse (from the rest of the poem) is still an
aphorism without rhythms for its laconic exhaustion of extra words.
39. Even carefully reading a verse is a decoding of the meaning where
all probes to catch it are numerous ways to rotate around the core
point not necessarily reached at once. For careful reading, firstly it
must be understood that a poem is a construction, a building, where
each line is a floor with a similar number of apartments. The
symmetry is the inner skeleton of the entire construction, otherwise it
falls. The spontaneous, supernumerary, extra word is not welcome
with no compromises for the spare variants waiting to fulfil the vacant
place.
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40. If each word in the line must occupy its proper place, words must
be suitable in the ad hoc situation and to embody the rightness in the
fitting proposed background: as singers in the choir are chosen for the
voice fitting, as dancers in the group dance are selected by the similar
body paraments, as the glass pieces of mosaic- for the shape and
colour.
41. The layers of meanings in a subterranean way are figured out by
different readers. The plurality and the dissimilarity of the readings are
not merely the obstacles in the triads of the possible interpretations:
the same challenges addressed to the meaning: the depths of
undiscovered meanings and unrecognized senses as unanswerable
questions to haunt the mind for ages.
42. A poem is a skilful hint-maker. In the first layer (but in major
cases in subsequent deep layers as well) the reading is smooth on the
surface and deals with allusions prompting the route to the final
meaning. The route to the meaning that is behind the words (inside the
words, underneath the words) is sketched on the map by the signals.
Reading poems is like diving: the denser the search, the more hints
(treasures) that are met.
43. The route to deciphering the code meaning of a poem is in line
sometimes with understanding humour (of any kind and of any
national coverage). Humour as a message, including the unusual and
untypical interpretation (comedic and fun-like in most cases), of
known and banal events is measured by its skilful presentation of the
masking of content.
44. Similarly, the content, the core, and the route to the final meaning
of the poem is covered. The laughter is the deciphering of its hidden
meaning although not all poems after decoding leave the readers with
positive joyful emotions. It does not necessarily mean that poems
make everybody laugh, the link between poems and humour is
presumed to be intersected merely (in the context of this work at
least). – Namely not providing a prepared product.

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45. Metaphors, comparisons, and deixis, penetrate the content of the
poem. The latter component bears a function of pointing out, showing
directly, or hinting at the route to the meaning.
46. Careful reading is a têt à têt conversation where the reader is left
with the piece of a poem with no help from the side of the
intermediaries. Careful one-to-one reading is a smoothness of non-
disturbance.
47. The reliance on the first-hand reader’s impressions is not enough.
The multiplying of probes assures the approach of the right
interpretation of the meaning and learning by heart the critical
remarks. The semantic meaning is hidden behind each line. Likewise,
in the long or short poetic pieces the arrival at the final meaning is a
simple calculation of the collected meanings from each line. Under
this auspice, this does not lead to a formula: the more lines the deeper
the sense.
48. A poem is a house welcoming the metaphors as expected guests.
The metaphors are the best candidates to the most puzzling but also
the most challenging connections of words. What is a metaphor if it
does not play with words and meanings? It is a celebrated dualism, in
complexion and simplification in a promise of distant beautification
and a harvesting of the nearest half-ripe fruits.
49. A poem in its marrowbone does not allow the arrival of unwanted
word-candidates.
50. As in the case of translation, the poems do not bear any
compromise for unfit form and content.
51. If the alliance is composed in a given way, if the people are sitting
on places they happen to occupy on public transport or sitting in front
of people they do not know and never intend to come across in the
urban cafeteria, the words must not be asked to occupy or fit into
places whether comfortable or not.

15
52. In the rhymed verses the words must be content with the places
they have, the non-comfortability can be noticed in the absence of
rhyme.
53. Poetic rhyme is an inner mechanism of bestowing the words with
the proper place (word order) within a line.
54. In the rules of etiquette an examined poem is ready to get a
protocol, a label, a tag, a sticker, a sign of being reviewed (not
necessarily approved) with the authorized or ad-hoc licenced opinions
in a subjective tone and in well-weighted words.
55. A poem is a place where the quality (not quantity) plays a leading
role, the weirdness of extra words covers an avalanche and paves the
way for a triumphant marching of meanings, for it to be expressed in
some words.
56. A poem is preferably written (and read) in isolated conditions, as
far as it is possible to escape from poem-enemies: the vanity, noisy
streets, and empty conversation.
57. If the writing of a poem comes from inspiration, the reading of a
poem relies on proper conditions. If the writing is an unexpected act
of creativity for the author, the reading needs the before-set
decorations: the quietness of the library or silence of a noiseless
midnight. No noise of neighbouring human activity.
58. A poem passes through stages of development: it is born out of a
splash of ideas. It is read in through thought-provoking words. It
combines uniquely a burst of energy and creativity motivated by the
delivery of a specific message. It is silent in letting go with a slow
process of understanding its enigmatic messages.
59. Agnosticism is not favoured in the reading of a poem; the search
for the meaning is never endangered with the first failures. As every
problem has its high philosophical connotations and solutions, a
poem’s meaning is to be found even in a subjective trajectory of the
search. There is no poem without a meaning. A poem is a manifesto of
meaning, a must-read piece of art abundant with exclusive words (for

16
not every word is welcomed under strict rules of composing each
line).
60. If every problem can be translated into a philosophical language
rested on the concepts authored and enrooted in a tradition, then a
poem with its key words - are unconditionally authored and bound
with tradition.
61. A poem is the squeeze of a person’s life changing one into a
cemented block of messages that penetrate the caravan of ages with
lucidity and the swiftness of a dashing arrow.
62. A poem is a celebration of subjectivism, screaming the core
behind actions and events, mixing, and rallying them together into a
stillness of wide embrace. Thus, the poem is hatched from the shell,
and immediately surfacing on the objects bestowing them with values,
characterizations and even nicknames.
63. A poem is a long-waited freedom of influences. Each word in a
line is an outcome of origin and dignity, but not adopted. It is a
swallowed virus, gone from the polluted air of the imposed standards
and styles.
64. In a poem there is no restriction of academic regulations,
repeating, or fancy literature. There is no uncontrolled human
imagination galloping like Arabian horses. (An academic and
amateurish reading can perform a similar understanding still expressed
with different words and phrases).
65. The rhythmed message of a poem is not from this earth. For
catching its light vaporization, the reading and learning by heart come
as a solution and, thus, ‘’read’’ as an imperative.
66. A poem is crystalized, a modulated perfection spiced up with
exclusive words directly addressed to serve as a finishing piece born
to be used solely in the poetic dressing (otherwise in daily jargon it
would be plagiarism if not cited properly). The words are saturated
with lyrics, unescapably, the poem is a lyrical digression.

17
67. The best wallpaper for reading a poem is sincere willingness. A
poem is for a poem-lover, the careful reading -which each poem
deserves- happens not out of midday boredom.
68. A poem compels every word to speak up on an equal level of
significance still not indulging and not deceiving oneself with all sides
of a vanity of focusing on tiny details. Every word in this poetic
mission as a legitimate part of a poem contains the deposits of the
unused energy and potential of an adamant meaning.
69. A poem is a potentially testing field to admit the thesis that the
scope of the right understanding echoes in every subjective reading of
every poem. In fact, this reflects the hermeneutic purpose spinning
around as a loyal sputnik of a process of reading any poem. In turn
this reminds reader that the banality and significance of this aim of
understanding has never been vanished from a human being's agenda
as the easiest and the most complicated task humanity ever has faced.
70. However, by the process of elimination, neither the construction
nor the deconstruction is a tool in reaching the hermeneutic aim of a
reading a poem is but a raised a curtain which shadows the meaning.
71. The isolation from the annoying agents of influence (including the
facts of biography and search for similarities or dissimilarities with
contemporaries) gives its long awaited harvest in pursuing this
hermeneutic aim.
72. Like every human being, a poem has a unique date of birth, a
destiny, and life trajectories to walk along. It has friends and foes, it
has admirers and intruders, it has a death date or complete
immortality.
73. A poem rests upon the rules of a scarcity of words to cover the
vastness of meaning. Therefore, the measurement and balance
distinguish a poem from other pieces of work much like little bites of
bread that take away hunger, or sips of water that extinguish the
flames of thirst. Sometimes some lines of a poem are cognitively

18
enough to inspire one person’s life to be turned to the refreshing self-
perfection and betterment.
74. A poem in its shortness can express content when thousands of
pages are not sufficient. Some lines from selected poems overload the
several books of rare stores in libraries.
75. A poem is a message to a rare anonymous reader who, after re-
reading it many times, comes to know that it has been addressed to
them. (A poem does not neglect laconism: one meaning can be
expressed with one sentence or copied, flavoured with different spices,
hues, and undertones).
76. A poem is an unexpected formation of a person’s own thoughts.
The author can be stuck with the own written lines and the source of a
stimulus can still be unclear: or divine inspiration, or a good mood or
a well-trained inborn gift tamed to act in a mechanic way.
77. As many readers as many interpretations and no one knows that
one’s hit the target with a dart, i.e. how to caught a right meaning of a
poem. Neither author knows own interpretation of the thoughts
igneous from depths of mind put in the rhymed words.
78.The final outcome is equally unknown (and hidden behind the
curtains of the unseen). To repeat again-even the author does not
know what will be born out of these creative efforts or the turns and
nuances of the born interpretation.
79. If any writing text is not free from exceptions, where are they in a
poem? The play of words, the calembours, one of the favourite
intellectual games of poem-writers, at least in English the word
‘poem’ is co-played with the word ‘’pome’’. Each line of the poem
brings the freshest, the sweetest, the ripest fruits and vigour that is
already imprinted on the seeds.
80. It is not a time-consuming task to count the number of used key
words in a poem. The calculation strengthens the argumentation in
favour of a choice of a theme as a mainstream one.

19
81. Reading and simultaneously commenting on the poem is like
picking up scattered pearls on each step of a spiral staircase, where the
meaning is a gathered pearl necklace.
82. As in a human’s life, the poem in its reading and comprehension
bears the ups and downs, not in the means of style but in terms of
lucidity or the overclouding of the path to its inner meaning.
83. As usual- but it is not a rule- the narration in a poem gains its
speed -like a marathon runner -reaching their peak. Only to then take a
deep breath downstream later to ascend again and so on. The finish is
the summit of the peak.
84. Subjectivity, that is in the blood, manifests itself in the reading of
the poem through individual glasses of a kaleidoscope. The genuine
message stays unaltered and static, but the angles of understanding are
in constant change.
85. The reader of one poem alters their first-hand impression in
subsequent readings. The preferences are to be edited: the favourite
poem or lines of youth made the uncontrolled thrilling admiration are
potentially to be covered with oblivion in the matured period. The
reading of a poem is not exclusively an admiration of an aesthetic
styling of the words in a proper order, but the persistent diving for the
pearls of a meaning hidden in the depths.
86. The attentive reader must be careful in directing their first
impressions in the hunting of meaning. There is no more powerful
deception than self-deception. The catching of a rare bird can be
unexpectedly easy. After that, the attained meaning of the poem must
be tested and then the process of re-reading begins once more.
87. Victory is bestowed on the battlefield; reading can be rewarded
with the unfolding of meaning only and under the condition of staying
within a text (not the additional sources of commentaries or
biographical literature).

20
88. A poem never bears vanity. Do not rush to the end. Do not leave
the poem unread until the last word. A to Z is the motto for a careful
reading.
89. Everyone can read poetry yet not everyone can understand its
deeper meaning. Everyone can succeed in being a careful reader, but
not everyone elevates to the level of a careful critic.
90. A poem does not trust non-careful critics those who never reflect
deeply upon lines. Those who never match words in a metaphorical
sense welcomed by all poems like couples under the hymn of marriage
in one law of rhythm. Thus, an ideal careful poetry critic must be a
past or not a fully-fledged poet at heart.
91. A poem warns its careful reader with the following message: “Be
cautious when listening to other comments for you are opening your
ears and heart for subjectivity.”
92. The meaning of a poem is prudently hidden behind or under each
word. It must be gathered like seashells scattered on the shore. The
quest for it can be simplified by the finding of the culminate point(s)
in the poem, where the meaning is seen in depth.
93. Each part of poetic masterpiece is both the same and different to
others.
94. Reading a poem is a search for matching: poem seeks its readers.
Not one poem is equal to all its guests.
95. Not everyone is prone to counting and reading algorithms.
However, a poem is an unriddled code with the passwords acting as
the first prerequisite for understanding. Truly, poems are for those
who understand.
96. A poem is the solving of hermeneutics, i.e. understanding. It is not
included in the excurses of the retelling of borrowed thoughts. The
right response gives a feeling of catching the shades of the right
meaning but in a second it can slip away. The genuine interpretation is
free from a shameless retelling of retelling.

21
97. The right reading stimulates the proper responses which results in
a unison of the uncovered meaning and solving the hermeneutic
purpose of the right understanding. It celebrates the right sound like
the sounds of a guitar with well-tuned strings. The well-tuned, well-
balanced music climaxed in the right reading of the poem is to keep
the right tune of mind.
98.For a careful reader of a poem being fascinated with poetry and its
consequences in the forms of commentaries is like the quest for a lost
paradise.
99. There is a principal difference between the readers knowing their
own reflections and competence in critical accounts. Despite this, one
who has selected their favourite piece of a poem pays the devotion
with no expiry date.
100. Poetry is an unheard ambition. In a world of constant change,
poetry is a way to find something stable, unchanged, and immutable.
A poem is like a stone untouched by a strong wind, being potentially
close to everyone but neglected in the vanity of daily life. A poem
teaches a careful reader to rise above this vanity of daily life. The
words invigorate like a prayer, inspiring like kind words of a person’s
dearest ones, embracing with the right instructions like a wise teacher.

22
In Every Month Woman Is Reborn Again

January

23
 Or happiness that lasted some endless minutes

Everything begins with punctuality.

One sees how January is the year’s first fragility,
the second comes later in the summer:
all instincts and hopes are coined in one drama.

“In the twinkling of one’s eye, you can be good-for-nothing,”

mother’s motto re-echoes and breathes in the rhythm of her
breathing.
“Never married and not an old maid” -elder sister
matches together a paradoxical compatibility for the listener.

And yet she became almost an old lady; to say louder

the lady who hides her age under powder,
walking along in the calm afternoon hour,
with a loyal dog dressed in a coat or gown.

It is much easier to take care of a dog than a kid

even if it is impossible to endure, to get rid
of the barking. Her maternity of a tender sense
blows the snowflakes out of the puppy’s nose,

scanning a passing mother with her kids

with a more than jealous look, she would never admit
to speak in a regretful tone about her life’s setting sun,
but one moment started to disturb her in a run.
24
A loneliness in its peak: an empty room before New Year.
Her day of birth with no postcards “to dear”.
In her late 60’s the memoir as a light began to gleam
no matched candidate for fun, not for esteem.

After lectures, punctually at 5 p.m. at the bus stop

in the pluvious days or covered with sunbeams and drops,
she tried her best in charming looks and vulgar jokes.
In coldness, her legs were blue under nylon socks.

But he was adamant in ignorance, no lasso to hurl up.

He said: “see you” as swiftly as “hurry up”, “hurry up.”
He was fed up of eating an extra piece of cake (unbaked…)
One dark night, he resisted seeing her naked.

But why is his face only invoked? She was sure

that with him in wedlock she would cure
her wounded half-light and half-dark heart
And she would deliberately overthrow the matriarch.

Her eldest sister’s case recalled in her mind

and her long pursuits for a husband not of any kind.
And today her sister is proud of his younger age
as a naïve bird easily caught in a cage.

25
 Some years have passed but still now in front of her:
her sister’s arrogant look still mocks her,
and a never forgotten taste of regret
“I and the rest of the world lack the courage to bet.”

On frozen January days, the body aches

and millions of variations of one movement
can veil over her, to rise from the ashes
from imprinted calls for improvement.

“Where to find this purity and whiteness of snow?”

At first, she began to clean quickly and slow,
later she preferred neglecting, the unwashed plates
made her reluctant to enter the kitchen’s gate.

And finally, the middle way was patience restoring

not to show off, not for self-advertising and worrying.
Years have passed. She was too tired of immoral dishabille
one part of the body’s covered, the rest-acts of detinue.

Because of the other boyfriends and husband’s attention

she was still keen as mustard fearing her detention,
Dilapidation and her skin desiccation. It is life’s determination:
In a house for the elderly she found her time and dedication,

having a rest in a small white room:

26
 no one is spying in a closest zoom.
“Where is the meaning of life, all actions to gain?
to discipline, to push to one’s aim?”

She questioned herself in the sleepless nights:

a lubrication for her tired mind as a weaponless knight.
It is good for no protection, her hope was not a luck,
and once being lucid, now in lull is stuck.

She dreams of the careless flying of a ladybird:

all phobias thrown overboard.
She would indulge in the most
perfect moment in life (in routine not lost).

The light bouncing mood,

the unlimited joy (reason left not understood),
the acme of egoistic self-enjoyment
and one moment left single in unemployment,

unrealized, untasted, not squeezed till the last sip,

so desirable to the peak of fever or a nervous tick.
Only one man’s refusal is not refunded for all the gold
in the world, for all promises secretly whispered or told.

The caprice of a naughty girl is an attractive doll

27
 sold in the window shop some seconds ago. In scroll
she was holding all the family’s savings ready to pay
just to touch his delicate wrist (nothing more to say).

The rest of life rushed in a flash of light

of the lady too proud to confess her amour and delight
left negative, with particle “no” forever. No tears,
neither her high-class privileges nor juvenile years

made her forget the devastating crash, the flown away kite.
In this high fragility she agreed to be touched despite
her inner-self’s rebel and sound reminders of the uncovered
wish...The meaning of life was not discovered.

One day she was fascinated by an unusual view

in the usual banal circumstances: bus stop and few
potential passengers. And the third unexpected dimension
a little schoolgirl thin and plastic (her parent’s eyes recreation).

She began to perform gymnastics, moving her body essentially.

She did a grand circle; she did a handstand. Amazingly!
The little girl did exercises there (not in a gym) and acted as her own
boss.
These scenes made her stay unmoved, impressed, but bogging in her
own loss.

28
 February
Or the loneliness of a person who is not lonely

Thinking about jotting down what she is bound to,

keeping a piece of paper nearby or closer to
lose control about one tiny lost thought
with a sour look or mood for giving a lot

for thoughts, and now postponed dreams

(as empty envelops with no value it seems)
surround her, but anyway it is her vocation:
to squeeze the remnants of the imagination.

February, when she was born, in her view,

is the best time for writing: when darkness is in hue,
when nearly fallen snow reminds her that it is still cold
and frozen winter reigns, equally for the young and the old.

She is too capricious (one would say) as a child:

when there is an absence of inspiration: she is wild.
It would be better to go out, to blow some steam,
to hide herself away from “the situation in between,”

from the invisible handcuffs, the self-put yoke,

just to fall in oblivion, to forget it as a dull joke.
One day she awoke from a dream, unclear

29
and blur even for a woman who wants to be near

in understanding and keeping it all in order.

The dream was too short, but left only disorder,
bringing her back to the school days.
Suddenly she saw the sun’s rays,

her single life, a routine work...

It passed with no traces to look.
No money can buy; no friend can borrow-
one personally suffered route to follow.

In her dream: a girl declares short rhymes

she was too proud to compose in lines.
And she understood: for bad or good
she needs writing in her womanhood.

And then she became too concerned

with the inner voice calling and prompt.
As a woman not badly shaped, she tends to low
her gaze in public places. Under floor

the intimate issues were left off...

Intimacy is a drink swallowed or tossed off.
After her 30’s she joyfully understood
that sexual hunger left for good.

30
 She heroically proclaimed a new aim
through lonely walks, to observe and gain.
Two haunting images now and then in her head
search for the words and mum’s photo instead.

As if she speaks to her through paper cells (to be understood):

‘’ “All that you’ve done after your 20s isn’t good” ‘’.
In her mother’s eyes, there is a deep tiredness
and a reproach with an abandoned tenderness,

and a sharp disappointment that is in place

of her daughter, she would rather see anyone of better race:
an elegant, and self-confident lady, too busy
Clattering with spike heels, misusing all and all too easy

With inborn femininity seen in official or sloppy

dresses, in natural blushes (never a copy).
In mature age, she faced the impasse of her sacrifice
of all the possibilities: family, kids, and noisy weekends for lies,

for self-disorientation: new words, new articles, new reader

remarks,
new pedestals for the self-presentations around indifferent ranks.
Once she saw a dream with an unclear meaning as usual,
but the wakefulness was painful not casual.

31
 Like being completely alone in the desert
of a dominant grey colour, the rest to reset,
she was too scared to cry or to consider
what is the place as not one’s own mind-reader.

Just one thought haunted her: to get away,

to escape, to have something to say.
No thoughts, no actions, just pressing solitude,
the conditions of calmness, for bad or good?

She could not get in, but still the keen wind
hurting every bone or cell from deep within.
The dread made her try to move on and to leave
the scary place (no one would prefer as gift).

Suddenly there was a light from above

as a child’s ball pursuing own way as a rove.
Alas, this piece of saving light was lost in her jump,
also, for her saving as an additional trump.

Alas, the attempts were not triumphal:

neither external blame nor approval.
Only now in the age of retirement
with no attachment to any determinant.

She is extremely alone even when not alone in the flat with a set:

32
 her aging mother, and tones of reasons to regret.
Again, she relied on her coming dream (next utopia),
the distant heights are not made out with spiritual myopia.

She dreamt of a little girl playing with her shadow,

reflecting on the house and green grass in the meadow.
The sunset went down hour by hour,
the shadow of legs stretched further and further.

The joyful laugh and nonchalance were there somewhere.

With her unanswered questions, she is in the middle of nowhere.
The years run away-now she sighs and concludes:
No glimmering light of the last dream that saves or deludes.

“Why do only religious people have an adamant rod

within?” she raises a request. “For them faith is a road
to a clearly set aim, to survive under unrest age,
but this keeps them through the blessed pilgrimage ...’’

She was storming herself, she was plying

between ambitions and denial of self-denying.
She almost has it all, but more than she lacks
whom to thank and where to direct her track.

33
 March
Or the fragility of the first spring leaf

She was anxious, worrying with a disturbance on her face,

because of other sorrows with no grace.
She got used to treating good health and disposition
as too precious in front of global perilous collisions.

She can be easily moved by a sad story,

unjust murder, violence, all caused too much worrying.
Already in adolescence, her parents were preoccupied
with a kind-heartedness girl lacking in pride.

Yet now in her 20s – no need for jokes on rare Sunday family
dinners,
no fulfilment of her mother's dream to see her daughter as a
winner.
One day she saw a dream: “Mammy, mammy, how did it
happen?
My front tooth cracked, and I had a hole done by no weapons.

For what misdeed was I immediately punished,

an utterance from my month so heavily blemished? ''
Mother said: “It is not as serious as it might have been”
“But I cannot smile widely anymore, can you see?”

As a child, she felt compassion towards a dog with a wounded

leg.
34
She had grown up next to the young lady who had hung a stylish
bag on a peg,
too young, gentle, no -wrinkle face to frown because of
worrying.
This situation dominates her parents mind from evening till
morning.

People in need ask for alms, not a sympathetic and soft look.
One man in wheelchair vilified her with words not from a book.
“How can a good heart be so forlorn if a social life interacts?”
Her parents questioned one another, seeing generosity as an
artefact.

One day her father wisely put: “She needs to get married, it is
good''.
But time showed quickly, the lack of guys to flirt or to woo.
She needed an impulse to shake her life from within, as in need.
She tried to put in order the mulled-up thoughts indeed:

to have a long-waited solace as a shelter,

to be disciplined and not to cause any welter.
Suddenly it happened: no objections no more!
‘’ Go on a date with the gentleman who lives next door!’’

Her parents wanted to puff her up with a sense of deluxe.

Mother bought a pretty dress, father found red shoes.
On her way with a cheerful mood with no tricks,
she dropped a look at the woman walking with a stick.
35
 Her careless vision of the day was stuck by a stabbing pain,
as if the blood had changed the direction of its flowing veins.
No more stimuli or hits in the day she could find in front
Of her, with a changed face, too distorted and abandoned.

The date was ruined, but no regrets from her side.

At home, she locked her door: ' “never the girlfriend or the
bride”.
The sun was scorching, or it was heavily raining, she was
indoors,
laying on the bed or thinking something up: no more.

A favourite activity she needs more than ever, or less

parental supervision made her immature and prone to regress.
Mother hopelessly voiced: “Oh, she is too fragile,
too refined to meet the challenges or vices of life's trials.

She is too naive to oversee the manipulation of quasi-friends,

her pockets are full of coins for alms, not for clothes with
brands.”
Father exclaimed: “She is too sincere to unmask the masked lie,
she is too honest to answer the offender and on it to rely.”

March is the beginning of hope that fits the freshness of grass,

the greenness of leaves, the juiciness of thoughts in mass.
One perfect calendar day happens once (not counted in fingers):

36
 with no sorrow, pain and tears rolling down, with joy never
lingers.

In her adulthood, she sums up: “I am a woman of sincere heart

never fallen deeply and romantically in love.”
In her heart, enormous as an endless field of lavender
with its smell calming down and hypnotising the letter-sender.

She failed to find out the place in her heart for a loving one
instead of millions of ones. The helping hand never
hesitating to be stretched out, turned as a sign of life fever,
of weakness and running from its own basic needs. Out of nerve

like an ostrich she hides her head under the soft and golden-like
sand,
Where it is warm and cosy as in the fairy-tale with the marriage
as a happy end.
The way of life she chose fitted her fragility and weakness in
front of new turns of strife.
For herself she explained: “I am unbelievably strong to be not in
foot with life.”

She puts: “I wasn’t created to be a wife and a babysitter, that’s true,

that’s why
the worrying about suffering nations are closer than a child’s calling in
cry.”
Parents were defeated in the persuading process. The weak urge to be
ready in help won

37
 the egocentric high class call to jump on the freshly baked rich
bandwagon.

To her merit and to astonish the outsiders she was not pragmatical at
all,
who did not squander the parents ‘heritage on small almsgiving, but
invested all’
into launching a charity organization, in some years became popular
among
her class representatives. Her dream came true; it was not a swan
song.

As a “black sheep” in her milieu, she was thanked in the prayers

of pious people she happened to help, she was among low layers
of social stratification. She was too shy to raise her voice, she felt like
a sparrow among crows.
She did good deeds all her life not out of praises or post-human
applause.

“But why?” Such a simple question stuck her head as with a bag of
flour.
In her retirement years, with no answer she was bewildered to ask
again in a loud
voice, falling or feeling? as the age added to the whiteness of her
greying hair, felling that
an aftertaste is left: but what is that? No disappointment, confusion, or
regret.

38
 But what is that? No answer for months. Until after a moral
exhaustion
she saw a dream. A dialogue with her mum, hard and vandal as
extortion,
in fact, never such a tone and reproach happened in real life.
Only a dream rashly opened a locked door and tor the curtain out.

“Out of the window, there is the real flow of life, flux in a rush
of unrepeated trajectory, with the beats of pulsating energy that dashes
through the obstacles to its ultimate end.” To live and to enjoy. That is
the aim.
You are silly; you are left unprotected: with no umbrella under heavy
rain.

Your good heart? What is the reason why are you allowed its demands
to listen to?
Out of pity, fear of God, or reward of others in talks and gossip in the
neighborhood?
Because of an adamant need to donate extra blood to the poor or
those in no luck.
No and again no, you are feeble and as fragile as a crystal glass. In
weakness you’re stuck.

“Am I weak? If so, if mum is right, where is the source

of the force to pull me out of the intaking moss?
Where is the jacket to straighten my bending back
to whom do I plea, my peace of soul, please, bring it back.”

39
 April
Or a woman who wanted to be more than she was

The careless joy borrowed from kids,

to screen from false pretensions
of adults badly played (Mr., Mrs. or Miss).
To live in line with one-aim orientation.

Adulthood is not a skill or fetched

40
 smiling, worrying and popularity,
or spreading rumours stretched,
but allowing a self-neutrality

to rest on her own dignity and

in a clean moral garment
for past deeds with no regret
for some sweets (swiftly eaten).

She thought she gave tons of blood

(after act of violence like being beaten),
she is still hoping for a unit of energy, watt:
if not today, but tomorrow, the day is rewritten.

To electrify her hidden impulses

in motivation, an unfolding beat
to drink pure water with no premises
she suggests climbing high, she would...

All because of inborn acrophobia, poor neighborhood

Left her losing her mind, she’s half-understood:
How and why do dreams coincide with the essence of life?
In her 20’s, 30’s,40's she had steel nerves like a butcher’s knife.

She was a woman of ambition, action, and strong will,

41
 Practical, no need in a spiritual recharge, not a wheel on a mill
but self-boss, never put on a long and loose robe
to confuse own steps and face tasks not to cope.

After a couple of failures: no suitable partner or job to accommodate

she needed some days off, energy to accumulate,
and quickly to rise from self-remorse and to keep going
further and further not turning her head back (for it is annoying).

Simply because her worrying mind ached the point

of getting in a coming bus, to be in time with sales and in joint
with all advertising rubbish. Above all she wanted to control time:
to skim the cream from every situation, sipping the lemonade with
lime.

She adores herself approaching her 40’s: not the wrinkles under her
eyes,
and at the corners of her lips, no extra fat to disguise.
She summarises: I am still of charm that does not sleep.
I can offend, protect, and remain in memory under layers so deep.

A bite here and a bite there, a delicate bite from a creamy muffin
and a huge bite from a cheeseburger, leaving fingerprints on the
screen,
to wash one dish, and to clean the floor with a mop: a cracked layout:
to switch on the washing machine, and to not take the clothes out.

42
 She was fanatically indulged into the brainstorm:
to catch a tail of all flying opportunities, to lead a kingdom,
with trembling fingers, she types and sends CVs,
with a dominate idea of ‘’ “to be on time with all her deeds.”

The motto “to get hold of it, to snatch out faster”

then other idle onlookers (not own life masters).
In her private life she was never deprived of male attention
as a response, she misused those caught in her detention.

She boasted her independence

in her financial and her planning schedule sense,
no official marriage-no obligations, one status “miss”,
a self-breadwinner free of the need of ‘’ “please, buy this”’’.

She was emotionally driven and fallen into passion

because of her pretty blue eyes, she was chosen in addition
by her charming deep azure eyes; she and that
guy were looking at each other sunken into sweet sorbet

of the bursting passion, too large in form as horror.

She was his mirror, he was-her, but two mirrors
looking at each other was never useful for others.
The boosting egoism does not give birth to kids. Alas,

43
 she selected the candidates for a grasping hook,
charming eyes, well-built body, sticky look,
white-teeth smile, sense of humor: all this charming poison.
Within years her criteria thinned: she was going to be chosen.

She said in her 60’s: “there is no sloppy disheveled hair,

But just lumps of tousled hair in pair
(the state of not combining her is too rare).
She accepted the night with no intimate care.

Though her hair is a mess aiming to find the solution,

the idea in mind, the salvation of hope
to avoid good-natured men and persecution
too often it happened, and it is still on the globe.

Old age is a time to catch the thin slippery away

matter, the ether, the catcher of the wind (not eager to stay),
as a little girl pulling her in front of the vortex airstream
who’s not scared to submit to this force (unclear, unseen).

Suddenly like an unexpected letter with news of higher rent

at her aging age, being accompanied by a loyal friend,
simpleton as schoolboy towards scholar, friendly as a dog,
being satisfied may be once in a life long

44
 process, she saw a dream, clear and transparent as seen
that she as a little girl skipping here and there with a smile naïve and
keen
on the questions of curious neighbors: ‘’ “Whom are you going to
be?” ‘’
’’ “A teacher. But for that I need to read a lot my mum said. You’ll
see’’.

In the beginning I will be a book reader”’’. ‘’ “A book reader? ‘’

‘’Yeah, and I need books as seeds to spread as a seeder
or to put them one on one in high tower. And as an alpinist
I will climb higher and higher to see the clear view at zenith.

But age is merciless to a girl’s dream and to choose a husband as a

friend (always right)
with the sincerest intentions of not running a wife into trouble to spoil
their eyesight,
putting efforts into that what wastes a lifetime decided one sunny day
or pitch-black night
to take the colours out from the rainbow tower one by one, and to
switch off the light.

Exactly from the foundation that the fall was not escapable and the
disappointment
was not postponed in the broken heart of a girl. New day’s new life
management.

45
 Something, or someone, or her own hands deprived her from her
dream realization.
She caught a thought: she was aiming to clean her hands in the dirty
streams. Where is the source of purification?

May
Or an untamed sensuality

She felt a feverish shivering, with a noticeable impatient gliding

46
 on the thin layer of ice on a cold January morning. Slightly to
herself reminding
in every step, in any weather and mood that she categorically
must be on the top
at her best, her style of dressing, visage, perfume choice, that she
is a lady, not a mob.

With her pitch-black eyes, she could burn into ashes, to seize
and to hypnotize
with an inborn print: a glaringly demanding look that she could
but realize
that every man (woman did not exist at all as if this gender were
never created)
in a street crowd, bus, or hall- unconditionally men must stare at
her at any rate.

A capricious, shallow-minded, smug woman with demand in her

eyes,
an illustration of blossomed narcissism, a self-lover, for whom
others are in disguise.
The parents were aware not in vain of their coming of age,
knowing
that their daughter could leave them in a house for the elderly,
seeing an abyss they are rolling

down and down, while she was ascending and advancing in

methods
of makeup, charming looks, and coquettish voice, projecting a
dress with no folds.
In only one matter she got an unbending will: to absorb the
gazed and peered look
47
as a fuel for engine, as a free fly for birds, as a last chapter for a
detective book.

And her walking is an absorbing of caught looks that recharge

her as a source
of energy or vital processes, without any kind of admiration she
is not her own boss.
‘’For whom are you applying makeup?’’ her sad mother asked
long before
Her first marriage. ‘’ Just for myself. ‘’ the answer was too
proud-spirited. ‘’Oh’’

The second mother’s sign symbolized the distrust and impotence

to object
or to change her daughter’s life values or absence of them: her
failure was too abject.
The pretty looking, selfish, and stone-hearted creature was born
to enrapture
and to sting in the same moment, the nearest are doomed to be
captured.

But the year had begun for her in May, the season of undressing
in her native sea town.
As a teen she behaved like an adult on the beach, in sensuality to
get down….
And impunity for her small and grand monkey tricks: mocking
at modest
her friends, neighbors-maidens, teasing tennis, and football
players at her best

48
was lasting from year to year making her to be too confident in
own uniqueness.
She was a sower of temptations to fledgling guys too weak to
avoid future stress.
If fruit is mellow, it quickly finds its eater, its fellow. She later
forgot the name
of her first man to her shame. Later she would say to invest her
body with fame

to guys with perspective, not silly poor gals from the playground
with empty pockets.
She was too confident in her own strength; charm is swift and
starts like a rocket
as she made her belief, despite the commonness of every human
being, now and before.
There is no one like she is. She is not anyone and cloning is out
of place, and no more.

She was waiting without a calendar, for the coming of May, the
month of all links
for one principle reason why: summer, time to show off, at its
first day begins.
And in all the months except May as in January, today, she feels
a homesick
for her month, to her legitimated piece of time: to put on red
lipstick.

With her open, half naked feminine charming she hits and kicks
a man’s heart

49
and poisons moods for a whole day or longer. But for her it is a
play, a ‘’what?’’
A rhetorical question to raise jealous reproaching women. Her
tricks:
the tight clothes, the lazy- soporific look, heavy makeup, and
bright lipstick.

Everything began in May: she found a husband, a victim, and the

marriage bonds,
the birth of a child, the first conflicts of the clashes of the
interests (everyone holds).
She was afraid of giving birth to a competitor even in the male
gender.
She overloaded the granny’s retirement with a baby-mum’s
attention sender.

The beauty in many doses is venomous, the captivity by beauty

is long terminated
and the yoke is not removed with one abrupt wave of a hand, in
mind it is located.
Her admirers not in vain and with no agreement beforehand had
one feeling
to knock her head against a brick wall or to drink melissa tea.
The time of drooling

has irrevocably ended up. And the bitter sobering comes on

agenda: the dualism
of feeling or unsolved theorem: heart longs to stay with her, but
mind, (realism)

50
 stenches arms to pack luggage. She is too slimy to catch; the
partner is too jealous
to have a peace of mind. Everyone around her was predestined to
be in total use.

The ones who are strong-willed enough not to fall under the
influence,
the escapees of not projecting in voluptuous dreams a romance
they were few, the majority are the fishes in the net
after grasping her returned home to wives or girlfriends with
regret

and a stamped image of her in their eyes desperately matching

the ideal
painfully questioning the discrepancy between the banks of life:
dreams and real.
Such women test the validity of a man’s attachment with their
own families,
life principles and a good attitude to life as a remedy against all
possible enemies.

She had her tactics in sucking blood sip by sip from the victim
wrapped in a web
and when the intuition gives a clue to the loss of interest and her
voice as said
softens and sweetens in a way every passenger will identify the
artificial tone.

51
 She was of that dangerous kind to demand the attention, no
commas, no colon.

The captive failed to stay firm in front of a tempting

masquerade.
She was not familiar with the undermining exposure of teen
energy at all.
An uncertain period: not yet a child but not yet a woman: a
slippery washed hall.
The college's learners run not to be in time in the classroom, but
to show up to be a bridegroom.

She was too upset: the daily heavy rain, the unexpected quest of
summer refuses
to give her a green light, her, the child of hot May, it abuses
to let her put off the dresses, her hunter’s plans really stresses.
The rainy days are too long, too covering, too old-fashioned and
depressive,

too conservative to the tendency printed in her blood pressure

‘’ minimum with maximum’’: clothes and men’s attention in
geometric progression.
A selfish creature day by day passing thirty doves in the park on
the way to work
could not find out what she really wanted to do, what a sparkle
for the heart that is locked?

52
 After she got heavily soaked to the skin one raining summer
evening
instead of promenading in front of a grasping man’s eyes (just
like the beginning)
and women jealous distracting attention to another side
with smeared mascara under her eyes she looked like no one’s
bride:

wet, thin, no-visage, the real face and body with no grimace.
She came to mum, who was a mum to her 8-year-old son (her
life mess),
Disoriented… mum saw for the first time, with the mixed-up
look:
‘’I lost a bag’’ from her mouth sounded like ‘’I lost a sacred
book’’.

‘’ Cosmetic bag, phone and keys ‘’ the things acting as

lifebuoys.
She was holding her son’s hand on a rare Sunday walk.
Suddenly, in her 40’s she felt like an orphan: without parents
and a son
who fled faster than a cheetah anywhere but not within mum’s
garrison.

One night in a dream, she reconstructed a picture:

on hot summer days of lazy holiday, she tended to walk along
the seashore
to step on the tracks left by her husband walking ahead…
53
But now, what is now? There is no one ahead to follow, instead.

There is no guiding lofty and highly spiritual theme, openly or

under line,
only an aging and fading body, less men’s looks and more
cheating behind,
no dear person to look at her gently, no one to take care of, the
lonely May,
no intentions in an expired heart to admire the breadth and
height of the sky. Nay!

54
 June
Or a sacrificed unanswered love at the altar
Mother being pregnant, ate only peanuts salted and podded,
often sat on the park’s breach as a moored ship overloaded.
The pangs of delivery were forgotten just to see her child
in her weak arms to hold the baby and to grasp happiness for a
while.

The bur-marigold known to young mums: sleepless days,

no make-up, mess, and changes in delays.
And no free moments to read books on the chair
and planned meetings with friends happened rare and rare.

Just to see teen daughter nicely looked, all over there,

well-shaped and admit to myself: ‘’ I deserve it; it is fair ‘’.
To bring up only one lovely child for a single mum
in a painful self-sacrifice just to protect an adored child against
life’s storm.

55
 (…Teen age is a bomb exploded
with undirected energy, street’s bench corroded
as if to trample the calendar’s pages on the floor
‘’now’’ matters, not measure: ’after ‘’and ‘’before ‘’.

Teenager, he, or she (of any gender)

a present-day agenda
treats their own life span too carelessly,
cutting the threads with the future mercifully…)

Mum cherished herself up: let her daughter climb the heights of
which were unreachable for her,
let a motto ‘’ you deserve everything around you ‘’ help her, the
blossoming fleur,
the fragile doll with big blue-greyish eyes, filed to swallow
one thing or to realize:’’ without that cute face you deserve zero
‘’.

She was completely sure on her way to her place of studying

(in her case a place with no education spirit, where all were
lying).
The only achievement she got in those walls: a status of miss
University
typed in red on the big poster in the hall for all coming publicity,

as if the camera had been invented to take photos of her and to

load

56
 on social media, (with banal comments one is ashamed to
forward),
that lazy-looking worker installing a big board, unrolling the roll
was fascinated with the photo of a coquette student-girl

that just for her the digital copy machine was loudly humming
made to wait in a queue and leaflets ready for spreading.
At the top of her teen dreams – now she could recap- to hold in
her hands
the leaflet with her glossy face, giving herself the satisfaction of
conquering lands.

As a young girl she built her life plans as a movie star, leafing
through fashionable magazines
‘’I need a proper marriage partner to invest in if my career takes
off in extreme’’.
And as ‘’she deserves all around’’ a proper guy was captured by
passion’s hurricane.
He was of the spoiled 90’s generation of a well-established
family business clan.

Again, with a habit to have all that he could wish to have here
and now
made him get married in a swift run, somehow…
(He) as sweetheart promises to (his) sweetheart some changes
to betterment in all aspects of the household’s arrangements.

As soon as the new day had begun,

amnesia occupies the mind in speed run
57
 or swiftly hunts for the troffers to get
others were quickly seized with no regret,

or more cunning or tricky to say well,

saying to uninvited friends’ goodbye as farewell.
She was habitually reproaching 5 years of marriage
with her husband, the coachman of the family carriage.

She as a big but already full vessel was spilling

portion by portion, drop by drop (like a self-killing)
in a final quarrel, she was too watered with no dry place,
but feeling a long-waited relief, said all with no grace.

This unhappy love affair as she would call it in a month

made her text unknown men: ‘’ thank you in advance ‘’,
that did not prevent spending the night in a new bed cloth
in the morning to hurry to work: ‘’ woman’s wrath ‘’.

She savaged her ex-husband’s manners: alas, he was a plebeian

and loon
she failed to notice, but now they will be apart so soon…She
remembered her youth’s dreams: a revolt against routine.
How could she fall in love with a man that is not masculine?

After air dryness, it is raining, and after divorce, it is new intercourse.

She quickly jumped into the car of the departing train,
not bothering herself: ‘’what is the destination?’’,
58
 not caring if the end is a complete dislocation.

Still in her 30’s, the ripest juicy peach,

she let dry under the sun on a crowded and sandy beach.
In her 40’s she did not change her mind about her exclusiveness,
as if no one like her will be born in time length.

She always thought that the world was born in a time out of her
will.
What precedes and what will come is void, is unknown still.
The mountain-like arrogance turned her to vapor
the specific air for the bravest ones hard to ignore.

Still in her 40 she was surrounded with male attention in a

moderate degree,
her heels were sniffed by the dogs of various pedigrees,
In line with the motto of her mum ‘’ the only one under the
Moon ‘’,
she collected looks like golden coins of the tributes in her
‘’beauty salon’’.

The higher the man climbs the harder he strikes: the fall is
inevitable
around the clouds the breathing is impossible, suffocating and
stickable.
59
 She broke her leg, her last husband left her in lost paradise,
She could not drop into the elderly house to mum: two lonely people
in disguise.

It happens in her 50, the strong June wind blows: here and there,
throughout the city’s streets for ignorance of sleeping
inhabitants, everywhere
and later, when they have washed their eyes on the run to their
work places,
they would puzzle themselves watching on scattered branches
and laces.

They would raise the question in an indolent and idle tone

just to ask, and to wait for the break to rush home:
‘’ Is not it a mystic matter, each time in hurricane’s dance
some unlucky trees are uprooted and defeated (no cadence

with the still standing ones), those like fallen soldiers

on the battlefield, never to stand up: bullet through the shoulder,
made a diagonal and curve route and burst out in the heart,
leaving uprooted signs: children- orphans, wife-widow, and kin
–limp.

Fate, bad luck, the distant stars’ intersection?

What happened? And why? The answers with no destination.
‘’Did I get all I wanted? Did I reach the heights
my poor mum did not dare to step on (Am I still her eye’s
delight?)’’.
60
 July
Or on the wings of fantasy to the height of self-deception that
a summer will last forever.

She followed her maternal line’s advice: grandma and ma in one

voice
set a pattern of rising level of erudition with no personal choice,
to keep smiling, to be optimistic (in a strained and stifle way), to
insert

61
a comment showing a brilliance of knowledge like a fountain in
the desert.

She was too morally exhausted of mum’s strictness and

discipline
to be a laboratory’s mouse to pedagogical experiments like a
novel’s heroine.
Daddy was softer, and to her children’s naughty ‘’sticking out
their tongue’’
he found a solution: to read books and to retell in the rhyming
lyrics of a song.

But she was close to grandma, who never raised her voice, just
exclaimed voilà,
pronouncing incorrectly the language she failed to learn: un,
deux, trois.
She invented another game, for her, as for a little zebra not easy
to tame
to use fantasy in its brightest and original way, all things not the
same.

She was living in an imaginary world, knowing the taste of

invention,
establishing superiority over the rest of the yard kids (not
tolerating intervention),
pronouncing every word as if chopping and hitting to the beats.
Ma and dad could not realize a refined and sophisticated tone
(where does it lead?)

62
 With artistic speeches and gestures, the circle of friends
narrowed
and adolescence she met almost alone with unrestrained boasting
wallowed.
And she took her will in one hand and changed the tactic
(applying the tones of fantasy).
She did not give up facing the re-writing of codes of behavior:
past and future discrepancy.

She was a kind of girl’s appearance no one could attract to enthuse

with her.
She understood it yet in adolescence: that guys were not
whistling behind her:
no one sweetly gazed at her. She got angry day by day, raged a
lack of privilege
of being attractive as a strawberry cake and thirst-kindling like a
fizzy beverage.

She did not show tears or redness in her eyes: just the outcome
of piquancy.
She got used to adding pepper to a dish: touching with her finger this
poignancy.
She rubbed her eye and it itched greatly irritating her view in
wanting,
but at once it made her look sharper to find the victim of her
hunting.

As a farsighted hawk, in the big distance, she noticed the

weakest field mice.

63
 Else by what means could a girl with no cute features add ‘’
some spice ‘’?
Harshness: to grab by the throat with sharp claws, to capture a
victim of any size.
By that cunning strategy she befriended with guys, who will not
criticize,

leaving aside pretty-looking ladies to this paradox signed:

‘’upth’’,
mocking at others left overboard, she exclaimed with triumph:
‘’ My grannie’s advice served me well, I pretended that I
enthused …
I came, and I pulled out the toy I would use or misuse.

I looked so deeply with such a drilling look, with eyes

hypnotizing
effect, the effect of my obedience, in my fidelity (in a way so
mesmerizing) ‘’
with a well- modulated voice (charming and ready to capture),
she was playing exclusively with the masculine species of weak
nature:

the victims of the wild animals, the sufferers, the herbivorous

prey.
She got a well-paid job, the pink- colors illusions put in disarray.
To and from her workplace she walked easily like a light-winged
kite.
She measured her own and other success in size of salary, giving
it the green light.

64
But, the time of marriage was approaching she wanted to be the
first
among her female milieu, but failed, but she did not want to
make frost
her ambitions and to postpone it for the day after tomorrow and
after and after.
She was in a hurry to get anyone for her house’s walls as a
missed rafter.

She caught the obedient type but too shy and infantile: for her …
it is a decadent.
She was keeping usage of apt impressive words, camouflaging
unwanted present-
her life partner, but fantasy helped to add to a portrait lacking
hues and shadows:
the kite flying independently above was a bit torn by an
accidental arrow.

She imagined that she was falling in love and armed with fantasy
(too carried)
yet years passed in a dashing extreme marathon: her sons got
married
with girls…at first glance sons’ choice was not totally under
approval,
she tried not to show it, occupying with ambitions to the caliber
of Hannibal.

In her elderly age, she skimmed the cream off in a form of well-
prolonged

65
social comfort, emeritus status, her husband sure-fire and trusty
like an old dog.
There is no ground for complaining: in telephone calls or
meeting with female friends.
She was still up to date, planning voyages to the distant
unconquered lands.

Suddenly the cup of tea slipped from her hands: it was a sign of
old age.
The hasty noise in the quite routine life of two pensioners, a
swift breakage
of a set schedule: she woke up later than usual, her daily plans in
a wreckage
and after that the ambitions got revised: there will be no holiday
package.

That what man really incapable to control: it is a time -no ‘’but,

but’’..
No cardiologist failed to explain the sudden pain in her chest
around her heart.
She found the reason- her age: her glossy photo had become a
dimly matt,
her inner self, her will too strong to seize the other cracked

after the number of unrealized plans and failures… Does she

need a breathing?
Sons were apart, immersed in the family worries, the old dog
was sniffing
the traces of a young pooch, non-pedigreed, but nice: all was
slowly drifting.

66
 But, still imagination, her inner self-kite, drew strength from
coffee-drinking.

She turned to the fragile, frail, and brittle old lady, thin like
pieces of spaghetti.
In a time of grave worrying it seemed to her that she would be
crushed by a yeti.
It made her kittling but provoking no laugh but just shower of
unseen tears,
in time of light worrying she saved herself with a yoga mantra:
‘’This I can bear’’.

In one deep winter night, she dreamt of being covered under the
blanket like a cave:
in a yellowed sand desert, she saw a pretty-faced slim teen girl, a
slave,
serving one family in their daily routine of a tribe’s life, day by
day, month by month,
with the unchanged similarity in background of unchanged calm
sand.

But one day, the strong wind made the neighbors run in haste to
their homes.
The slave- girl was playing with a piece of vermillion cloth
embroidered with stones,
But the sudden strong wind seized it away in the sky and made
her run to it, she longed
to catch, a bit hopelessly, joyful, and prankish kite decoded tips
on an elusive piece of cloth.

67
Even if she was a manumitted slave, or an ex-slave, man’s mind
is not manumitted
from prejudices and all biased attitudes so grave as mistakes
once committed.
The poor girl was accused, and all her belongings were
rummaged and thrown away.
She was surrounded by the screaming and shouting of men in a
long-lasting day.

Suddenly, it was like all the good and bad things had happened
as a direct sign from heaven,
lightly as a feather the cloth fell on the foot of tribe men, lost in
words (when
no words needed, but a speechless evidence….) they were still
hesitating
until, the chieftain took the piece of cloth and put it in the hands
of the girl still trembling…’’

‘’Where am I in this unclear dream? Where is my fantasy that

keeps me floating like a lifeboat?
my erudition and imagination now helpless to help me raise a
cup of hot chocolate.
Who am I? A young girl, the accusers, or the elusive piece of
cloth?
My imagination is exhausted; what else is my attention worth?

An imagined world and tricks I used to find myself in between

landed nowhere, no sources for refreshing beta-carotene.
An unreal word availed me to not cope with the dramas of
reality,

68
 no changes to reborn and relive life again for spirituality’’.

August
Or the fear of not harvesting the planted crop
She was born at the end of August,
in the not so hot days of the watermelon-harvest.
For those, who are confused that the month has 31 days,
this day becomes a farewell to summer with no delays.

Her female friend from the playground, a companion in all

games,
was a bit older but they did not feel it, the junction was in their
veins.
It is a matter of fact that the youngest are under the eldest’s
supervision,
but how sweet and creative it can be and full of multiple visions.

But again, in the junction of two peaks: childhood and

adolescence,

69
 suddenly the bosom friends were apart because of life nuances,
not saying '' goodbye'' to each other not even in '' a good way'',
from one side to swallow a bitter crying: “don't go away”.

In the illusions for a better life she jumped from East to West,
leaving her friend with a sample of her country of destination as
a test.
No one is the arbiter of the trajectories of their own destiny and
lifelines.
And now at the age of global migration people fly in airplanes

for something better to have tomorrow than today's piece of

bread,
still it does not save one from the unstoppable feeling of regret…
It remained in history: a friend was left with an unfinished
speech
to deliver to someone her arms cannot reach.

As a child, she learnt poems with her grandmother,

as a schoolgirl, she went to music school as did her mother.
In milieu of new yard friends, she was like a dough easy to form
any shape, readily to fit any type of boy or girl in a new
kingdom.

As a foreigner, she tried not to keep in mind the offensive grins

as '' our girl'' a bit later she became immune to it, '' evergreen ''.
She was too loosely modelled by her parents: a smashed idea of
liberty,

70
 but all restrictions were washed away in the age of puerility.

As an annoying message from the past,

she saw an often-repeatable dream that cast
her from the stable present-day,
not giving for interpretations or delays:

“Mother pushed her forward to show up in the new yard,

in her new family, with her new father, in the new countryside
with the motto: “Be brave and imitate what they do,
and the language and the way of life will easily come to you”.

Not at once the groups of yard girls and boys

stretched a hand to her, leaving her no choice,
staying at home was torture with a crying little sister
and a strange unknown man she called daddy or Mr.

This new man baptized her with a new foreign name,

for his grown-up children, the dog and she were the same.
A hard adaptation for all: from her room to food,
the recollections of daddy's face she nicely understood.

The missing native land. The hidden look of dad

with alarming question in his eyes: “Who will it be instead
of me? Who can be comparable to occupy my place?”
These dreams with no numbers, completely countless.

71
She pushes all her efforts in her dreams to correct the mistakes
of unrealized hugs, kisses, and memories of eating granny's
cakes.
She was forcibly taken from her father's knees
where she liked to sit and to twitter about childish caprice:

on girl's secrets and tiny nuances,

on teacher's nicknames and uncompleted romances,
to hold a hand too tough and let oneself fantasize
on a sunny Sunday walk in the park to eat ice cream of any size.

Her mother’s words to imitate other styles

as a ground for not being alone now and in a while,
in fact, played a negative role: for repetition is not the original,
it made her substitute the real happiness with one fictional.

She gave a green light of passion to erase her mother’s worrying

and from an outcast in the yard she transformed into an easy-
going girl,
a simple trophy in a battle with no serious hampers and
barricades,
Her adolescence and youth turned to signify the 90’s and the
00’s decades.

The shackles with the family she did not choose were torn with
no regret,
and she aimed to open the space to cure the traces that were left.
72
 She liked to fly above the rules, the norms, and duties,
being singled out and dragging her spirit towards her memories.

One picture was clear and tear-provoking like newly fallen

snow:
her daddy in the airport and with one request in eyes: ‘’will you
go?’’…
She was a waitress, a shop girl, with an unfinished course and an
MA thesis,
an office courier, a person without her own niche and mind’
release.

Life is one and tomorrow would not be the same time and space
for correcting yesterday’s mistakes and cheering past sport cars’
race.
She was always in junction of two extremes: to follow her
mother
or to rebel and run to daddy’s soft hugs and no one to bother.

The constant source of recovering in its absence

she saw a dream in approaching the jubilee of 30 years
counting the days, she was apart with a sweetheart.
Drama of her adulthood: attachment with intriguant.

‘’There was an apple tree, yesterday new, now - cropped

and crooked, laid down with broken branches,
around no dogs to bark, no porters to sweep,
a constrained feeling seized her heart from the deep:

73
 She saw the ripen, yellow-red fruits in vain
scattered around, washed by a light rain.
She only screamed: I do not want to be such fruit,
left in ignorance and dreaming to go back to wood’’.

Vain hopes, false expectations, and ruined young years:

he, the sweetheart, her rope above abuse, the reason of her tears,
will not leave his wife, his reputation is to show off his
faithfulness.
At the acme of hysteria and almost losing consciousness

at any price, she would long to see daddy and to hug him tightly
and to yell through all her restrained tears: how I missed you
daily…
‘’Where is the support to lean on, the kind words and gentle
smile to go on?’’
She brought up her extramarital daughter alone, with no king in
the kingdom.

In constant imitation, other smiles, wrongs, mistakes, deeds

all her long life she had performed a pantomime for no viewers.
She lost the thread with the past, the present, and the future in
the day of departure
in a gloomy busy airport. Her daddy was a symbol of an
unrealized rapture.

September

74
 Or the possibility of (self) teaching
It is still sunny; it is time for short-sleeved T-shirts. Dry leaves
are murmuring under her feet. Autumn came like a sea breeze.
The wind blows slightly. And the weather pushes to go outside
to lock out seven gates of heart and dash for a ride.

By any kind of transport, or with a basket on a bicycle

full of kitschy things to enter a new life circle.
The door might be closed, but there is a window on the higher
side.
There is always a glimmering hope that the done deeds were
right.

She is proud of her profession; she delivers lectures with no rest;

she tries to stay afloat, to be ahead, with promise of being
abreast.
What annoys her is wasting time and her peer’s silly comments.
At home, all is under her control: husband, offspring, and a
corner for the cats.

With no mercy to herself and to her nearest ones: a vacuum of

gaps
or doing nothing must be filled with tiny stones (deeds) in some
laps.
A real phobia for her (a woman of a well-disciplined timetable)
is a failure in front of idleness, boredom, and fairy tale with
fable.

75
She has got used to correcting other people’s mistakes with a red
pen or a harsh word
that she almost forgot how to be stuck with the truth like a
sword.
The truth: she too skillfully tried to polish under her self-
imposed duties.
The truth: success in life belongs not only to the pretty-smiling
cuties.

How one can give birth who is from birth infertile?

One is sure of whiteness, but at home the pile of dirty socks
breaks ultra-sterile
standards? Among all in her matured age she recalled one
episode in her mind:
a little boy, the son of friends, persistently asking time to rewind.

It sounded like the correction of the past would not come soon,
the verdict of our attempts: it is impossible to untie the balloon.
She arrived at: ‘’ not all in her hands ‘’. New life page:
Daughter’s rebel.
Not to separate two liquids after shaking: the adult son ignored
her calls as well.

Her husband answered with a cooling voice about his absence

with grimace.
The lonely nights under the three blankets became a constant of
life’s nuances.
In the whirlpool of the golden dry grape leaves, she put on a
muzzle:

76
no extra words to strangers, not even a second to compose life’s
puzzle.

She was in a run all her life, but now she was stuck with one
missed stuff.
She escalated herself so high above the undesirable self-
proclaimed riffraff.
She was of such category or strain or breed, (‘’ to smile first at
no rate’’)
as a teen girl who disgusted being palpated by carnal
schoolmates.

More than ever she intended to eschew the dirty guys’ fingers
prone to touch ‘’ soft places ‘’ after eating fat biscuits with
ginger.
Soon she found a shelter for her subsequent years: within
library’s walls,
avoiding social pressing in standards and presented as norms.

In her view, her girls-mates became easy and caught at random

escaping from mother’s grievance and after-class boredom.
Of modest character, suddenly for herself she preferred to lead
pupils to the source of knowledge where no one should
experience greed.

Now in pre-retirement and silent afternoon hours she takes naps,

just ‘’to murder time’’, the unprecedented before sentiment.
Not ex-romances or first years of marriage in mutual carriage

77
 she dreamt, no: the sexual instincts were raw as an unshaken
beverage.

But something of absolutely another caliber carved out of clay

of the purely perfect state – (if in an earthy life it would happen to
be!),
of something that will satisfy all needs, all wishes beginning with
‘’maybe’’…
She decided after too many hesitations: if not to struggle every day.

The one-floor house she was born in would be ruined in swift decay,
she of disciplined character feared a subordination to any disarray
that must uncompromisingly be fulfilled 24 hours a day…
She avoided the wind of idleness or good-for-nothing deeds with no
delay.

At first, it will blow out the plaster from the walls and the staircase.
Secondly, the roof will fall because of the rat’s galloping race.
Sooner or later the parquet floor will be corroded by termites as well,
the pieces of furniture and shelves stay under the dust and the stale
smell.

One day with underneath floods it will undermine the pile of house
For life principles turned back on what had been espoused….
For pieces of advice she accepted her old friend’s invitation
to drink a cup of lemon tea to promote the discussion as salvation.

78
 Her friend began: ‘’But still I hope in help of God in all situations
rising me from the states of doubts, dragging down in endless rotation,
giving me strength to keep walking in a keen wind and heavy rain,
saving from sudden joy and irritation and all messy thoughts that are
vain… ‘’

As under hypnosis ambit deviating from theme, she wanted still to

mention
in articulating some words or her need for a spiritual spring or whole
ocean.
‘’ O my daddy, daddy, why in the last two years I only saw you on
video,
the screen made the distance vaster than ever, from you, my spiritual
medium.

I miss you so sincere: your wise and apt guidance or speechless nod.
Now please answer for one question: to whom to lean for a man
without rod?
What liquid to ask for in the peak of suffocating? Where is an ultimate
solace,
the sincere, trustworthy, undoubtful and adamant appeasement (with
no ‘alas’)’’.

‘’ Indeed, God rises one as a test for the others’’ her friend went on
as a continuation of her own thoughts, this subjective prolongation.
‘’ What saves from wasting time in egoistic debates and empty
speeches,
from arrows shoot out of scorn and indifferent looks of new riches.
79
 No herbal tea, or winning the lottery made one genuinely happy in a
childish sense,
in the most innocent aspect, for the highest one must pay reverence’’.
She went on: ‘’ O, daddy, if I am on the winning horse, still it is a
temporary euphoria,
If I am under despair’s blanket, still, you confuse the words ‘’glory’’
with ‘’ gloria‘’.

‘’Where are you? How can I reach you through electronic wires?
Once I abandoned the native town for its non-prestigious name and
my desires,
having left you on a rainy platform waving cheerfully from the
outgoing train.
You hardly restrained the surging tears masked as wet spots of rain’’.

‘’What are the norms of female emancipation?

It is from the parental weasel of deprivation?
Why didn’t I live near you during my marriage cruise?
To cure my wounds inflicted by children and husband abuse.
What is the reason of your deep sorrow that dimmed the smile?
Switched off the charisma of your eyes? May I change it in a while?
May I push back the stone of your cave to lead you to the path of
light?
(But first, I need a map and compass which leads to this blessed sight).

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I am a bit forceless; I was not a fair ruler to myself and my nearest
ones, alas.
Where is your understanding meek smile, seen in a grey mass?’’
And after this conversation, each of the friends remained with their
own view, as patriots within own lands.

October
Or the awakening of one true love
How pretty in its calmness the autumn might be for all:
from urban or rural areas, the rich or poor, for body and soul.
The middle of October urges: stay and enjoy the moment
The harvest is reaped, the hands are washed, no duty’s torment.

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 Conversations on themes fetch away from the captivity of
routine
nets thrown from every ad and article of a glossy magazine.
Everyone is not a friend, neighbour, or foe
Everyone is an exploiter, knocking to other’s door.

Exactly this was not hidden in her feminine nature, born to

demand
a toy, clothes, or new caprice of a sum more than a diamond.
Her father was the master of a burning look or of tyrannical
power,
who strained the blood drop by drop from the kith of one or
another.

The authoritative gen in a subterranean way will give birth

to a child in will either stronger or weaker on earth.
And father she recalled: beating, shouting, water flow of offences
and as an unexpected rainbow the sweet words came after
breaking fences.

She got used to swallowing the bitter tears, to hug tight

speechless dolls,
to be a loudspeaker in her milieu or among silent walls,
but at home: the military-like upbringing, child’s joy
exploitation
that in adulthood made her be her father’s continuation.

She preferred to call her father the worst experience of her life,

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 but suddenly to herself she began to follow in his steps after
thirty-five.
As it happened, she adored her father but did not know
that the best masculine ideal is a man who left her unattained in
a row,

who ignored her wishes or whispers about plans in education,

she would be happy with just a tiny bit of praise or half a word
of exclamation.
As an adult girl, pretty and well-shaped with content and form
Not as a lady inclined to the young age rebel or protest as the
norm.

No one could look a bit longer into her blue-sky eyes.

She got used to distracting others by giving false labels to
characterize.
An independent look, dreams rotating around her career and no
more:
with a partner to satisfy the small sexual instincts and to show
him the door.

With no attachment in a close or serious way to a masculine

species
for she was too smart to sink into an illusion of self-crisis.
No one could ever occupy the niche of one ideal type like
Everest
who in real life was lower than any high test.

Every manipulator better or worse is a dictator type

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 (Who is similar only in a political ride)
hides behind or locks within a trauma
a crispy tone is mere a decoration in theatrical drama.

Cold loneliness, boring human relations- all mannequins,

all dependents on her like the bees in a hive: for one queen.
Smile-absent face, bullet-proof, iron will, the rest are subjects
under the dominance of those who treated others as insects.

Her privacy with a constant ‘’no ‘’: no friends, no soft heart that
melts,
no nice greetings to neighbors, no duties, no marriage belts.
But one strange thing happened: an unnoticed sign,
that rumors spread in corridors (just murdering time

as the sarcastic remarks on everyone occurred to pass behind).

During the same days with scared punctuality were realized,
as the boomerang returned to her, like an ironic surprise.
The grin, the mocking, the sharp backbiting blaze

on one lady’s pregnancy, on too fat or too slim female figure

made her feel superior like being dressed, the rest with a leaf of
fig.
Her last romance ended up with an unintended gravidity,
boyfriend calculation’s placed him on the top of cupidity

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 A hasty abortion had side-effects: no one would call her ‘’
mammy ‘’
She started to get weight rapidly: no cakes (big or tiny).
Boomerang effect: all her biting has bitten her
Balzac’s age she met and had no relations to restore.

Sometimes she was scared to comment on other illnesses or

flaws,
sometimes she detached herself too distant ‘’unwritten laws’’,
not giving a penny to almsgiving having pockets full of coins,
or selling her property for charity actions until feeling the ache
in her loins.

But some days she regretted bitterly: no food to satisfy appetite,

to have a bite in the nearest kebab was not bearable for her pride.
She could not satisfy her hunger as capricious gourmand all
purposes wasted.
Her final attack was a disease-nobody knew how long will last
it.

She struggled stoically, but there were no reasons to revel:

her career was ruined: she could not be among the managers of the top
level…
A new career-oriented woman had already made calls from her palace,
giving instructions in a severe low voice, treading down on fresh
grass.

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(So, why to recover dreams of being a leader…this marvel?)
She was sailing alone in her sailing vessel, a caravel.
She went out with no tears, even no words to her inner-self, just
circulation.
All is swallowed: offences, ambitions, and pride…she waits for
digestion…

To escape from her own flat, to go out, to get in a taxi, to say

that she did not expect
‘’ to the cemetery ‘’, or the fresh and calm air she was long
suffocating from sect.
There was one way to be born again, to go to the place – the sign
of land and no return.
It was almost 5p.m in October that meant the twilight soon
would burn.

She felt the cold and freezing wind push her back, her guiding
crunching steps
made her count each second on the route to her father’s tomb,
wind blew away her cap:
‘’When was the last date I was here’’? This question was
meaningless.
She needed something of a higher degree, of pure content, of
white clearness

to re-write her own life history she failed to reach the highest
aim absolutely.
‘’ Happiness ‘’. The word, the feeling, or the state of life she was
not completely

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 familiar with. The dark pavement and orange colored lamps
above.
She stopped near a branch in front of the tomb, she sat: ‘’is this
love?’’

And suddenly she burst out crying, sobbing in a natural way,

and mourning not hiding emotions and supported words:
‘’Doubts away!
Here is my love, I loved only you ‘’sincerest confessions need
no hypnoses,
but calm atmosphere and no self-deception, to dig into final
causes.

‘’ Who I am, and what do I want? ‘’. I looked at you with the
purest eyes of no sins,
to follow your steps and to hold hands in times of walk, to be
docile what it seems.
But you turned away and my eyes started to look dim (from that
very moment),
The aims -selfish and brutish, the man-woman relations- under
torment.

On her way back, she was tired and morally empty, she needed a
place to lean to
or sound to awake the alarming silence of one though-
circulation: ‘’ is death an end or … ‘’
The cemetery was diving into darkness that was marked by a
sudden tintinnabulation.
She took it as a sign, having no choice, she accepted this sound
as a church’s invitation.

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 November
Or the unattained child left under the heavy rain
She was born to light up the grey and rainy days of November
in her rural area of constant wind (sun like a rare guest to
remember)
to cheer up her parents with thorny fingers. It is a household
routine:
no time for discussions, long speeches and reading magazine.

Still in small rooms with shabby carpets, scarcity of toys and

choice,
the little pretty girl made them smile and even laugh in a loud
voice.
Mum had a feeling that her daughter had a blessing: patience,
wit, and charm
to endure parents’ ignorance and social level-almost slum.

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 Her childhood was an outside door activity with a few kids to
play around.
A provincial boredom: when physical work ends, the dust blows
from the ground;
the embryos of ideas; and only a yawn remains to take a TV
remote to switch on
this source of negative influence: ‘’degradation must go on ‘’.

But suddenly like thunder with no rain outside in her

adolescence
her monotonous grey routine was lit up with some hints on life’s
essence:
she got a chance to leave her out from such a desperate
environment in one
moment, a gesture, a twinkle of an eye, a tiny piece of time, (in a
sum).

And yet a ticket to go to college as a reward for winning a school

competition
was in her hands, she was still under pressure from the lack of
personal volition….
Something will change and in the new autumn daddy will be
worried about
harvest, counting loses and profits and all things around.

Mummy will do a proper clean, washing before the falling of

new snow.
The fallen leaves will be burnt, the pavements will be swept, the
TV show
will engorge all idle thoughts and of neighbors, but

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 the number of citizens will be one less. She is not ignorant…

For sure her dog will bark too, lonely, and heart-touchingly (for
everyone)
for no kind arm to give- not to throw-him a bone.
The oldest lady in the end of the village will not wait any more
for her punctual answer to: ‘’ What time is for sure or? ‘’.

The jealous classmates retreated and completely failed

to see the honest intention in her request (not for sale)
‘’ What bring you from…? ‘’. ‘’ From where? ‘’ a sarcastic tone
and even the whole voice dubbed by a laugh. ‘’ A place of no
return? ‘’

Who could believe with a stone heart about sincerity of this sort?
Who could imagine the reappearance to social bottom from
urban comfort?
Her good will was left in neglect, it was trampled and despised.
She was surrounded by parents only in a railway station to leave
the countryside.

In a hurry, she was hung by her parents under the green

umbrella. Train to south.
Mum: ‘’Take care’’. Daddy: ‘’Don’t bring a child as extra mouth ‘’
In the carriage, she was alone to hear the fast heart beating and
self-asking
‘’ What next? ‘’, ‘’Or should I get out in next station and run
home myself unmasking”.

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She wanted to scream:’’ O mammy, who will help you now to
keep the red carpet
clean from dust, smudges, and crumbs, who will water your red
roses instead?
‘’ Who will bring fresh milk and butter from the marketplace, to
make you glad?
Who will clean the dust from the shelves and lastly, take care of
the façade?’’.

Yet in the noisy, rushed hurry city she was a stranger in her first
months confusing
the names of streets, the bus stations, and temptations: day by
day her patience losing …
But it all happened in November in her month, just before the
day of her birth
she awoke in a good mood, as if she had a deep and illuminated
love.

She saw a dream and found an interpretation. She got a message

with no conversation.
She satisfied her inner thirst with no source of water in nearby
dislocation.
In her dream, she as a child asked her mother: ‘’ Have you ever
noticed one tree
Full of red leaves, Bordeaux, and orange colors, you would
see….

But the tree nearby stays undressed one with brown nude
branches, this shame

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 not to cover. Look, one more time, right is full, left is not, the
question is lame
or not lame’’. But was of aesthetic order: ‘’ What branch is a
sign of beauty:
nude, slim, black, and brown and clean with drops of rain; or
with no treaty

a blooming one, with an abundance of leaves, that only pleases

other eyes?
So I am: old-fashioned, not glossy, nude with no attractive
gadgets, with self lies
as a tree’s branch under the cold November rain, washed with no
serenades,
sung by nightingales. Don’t cut me down yet, I ‘m woven as
muslin, for decades’’.

Amidst the November browning leaves she is more than rushing

not to be late to work, to date, not to be out of known places with
dashing
to manage to the point of destination she jumps over
the puddles, the piles of dry leaves, the agents undercover,

spying and laughing at the man’s speedy run for illusions,

too self-occupied more than ants, ignoring collisions
between a dream and its realization. The out-door decorations
is nothing but from a real situation deprivation.

Only work, romances on request, favorite apples because

without them any vitamins do not intercourse.
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 She invited her parents: nobody came to see
urbanized in the self-planned schedule lady to be.

It was her mother who pushed her out of the parental door
to find a niche in the city, leaving aside the treaded parquet in the
corridor,
to fulfil the life dream of a country woman with calloused hands,
constantly irritated and grouchy because of other successes in distant
lands.

In despair, in distress, in self-disguise with no mattress she lies

on the floor
as a yogi, she is beyond the shameful layer of pain, she does not
need anymore
a mirror, a cosmetics box, to look at the depths of herself on the
floor
she ultimately failed to be the person she dreamt to be, she was
playing a stranger’s role for

a bit of care and devotion of distant parents if she could have

placed
all goods on an alter in front of them: they had not nodded to her
side with an aloof face.
Her faltering so called female friends as a backing choir annoyed
her: ‘’ you, at any rate,
are still young, you are 44,’’ adding examples of celebrities ‘’ it
is time to invigorate

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 yourself, to stand, to go outside, to find an admirer’’ and all the
many standard and dull things,
she could not stand to hear a minute, she met with a smile the
telephone ring,
to save her from the mediocrity of the pigeons she tamed to eat
grains from her alms.
She picked up the phone, it was a wrong number. But she turned
away unexpectedly calm.

The light within her never slept, burning with no days -off,
warning her and orphans she liked to treat with sweet toffies.
Light did not attract any man to compose a family. Is it an
asceticism or an escape
from the inner-self’s callings, alarming ‘’ these raisins last
summer were grape ‘’?

She muffled the light within her own hands and by her own good will,
well…
Her parents enrolled her in the list of the unreturned: stigmata of a last
farewell.
Their chronological last meeting was in a rainy dim grey railway
station
in November, never allowing to turn the calendar ‘pages to meet a
new month occasion.

In life’s unstoppable vanity, they threw a ragged piece of cloth

on the bright innocent source of light, never-to-repeat-on-earth.
She fulfilled her parents’ dream; in feedback they did not add praise

94
in their casual speeches, as if there were no chances for the
gloominess to erase.

December
Or a woman postponing the answering grave questions

When snow was abundantly falling, when the end of year

(December) was calling
95
 for a piece of rest for the disturbing mind and exhausted body:
this unheard mourning
for some unrealized smiles, ungifted hugs, and unpronounced
cheering words.
In this time, a family pair was happy at having reached its peak
and uncountable lots,

Holding in hands, the angelic creature with wide blue eyes

folded in a pink blanket.
They began their all-life-long-journey-of-boasting calling all
known of their milieu for a banquet.
It was a presentation: the daughter was the prettiest, embodiment
of Barbie doll,
the best in a capricious tone and demanding the pocket money
for needs not needed at all.

She used to sing to her: ‘’ I am good looking, well-built, well-

shaped, at my best
I ignore my mum’s worrying, the priest’s preaching and putting
myself under the test.
If I am ever punished- in what I doubt much more- let it be later
now I need a rest: my piece of tiramisu and coffee latte: it’s
safer.

In her youth, golden and bright as a bracelet presented by one of

her admirers,
she liked all the long streets close to downtown, a place of
advertising liars,
with her colorful credit card (a meek and soft-hearted daddy
gave just

96
 not to have worries seeing prices in the window shops), she
could decide at last.

She flies like a butterfly from one shop to another, to the

cafeteria under the tent,
postponing and interrupting the coming thought in an unpleasant
content:
‘’ Perhaps all committed by me has been simply wrong, and the
past and the present’’
‘’ But the future? Oh…’’ The disturbing thoughts are thrown
away as a broken element.

In the sporadic beams of the rare January’s sun, she was inclined
to leave a trace
of a high boot’s heel on the snow above the pavement, thin and
grey as lace,
for there were no seasonal handicaps, preventing her from
triumph, to set the pace,
for all girls burnt out of jealousy, envy, and uncontrolled
disgrace.

The spectacular and breath-taking appearance of her walk across

(even old gentlemen hardly took a breath carrying a cross),
and under the snow she saw the easy –going carpet to step softer,
to be viewed sweeter by her neighbour’s admirers –street loafers.

She was not waiting for a unique piece of time: ‘’ I feel that
spring is out there,
soon and soon, I wait for a time of opening all doors, windows,
everywhere,
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 for the yeast dough is not to hold back in the pan and the lid is
lifting,
inner-self jokes, mots and twitters on carnal surface were drifting.

In an open way with no masquerade or double standards

accurately to roll
these jokes unfolded as her dreams reduced or ruthlessly shoved
with no control.
These dreams of a two-way benefit, as she liked to call it, of
fooling around with others
was a play equally interesting for her and her victims, shot up by
her eye lasers.

How unfair, a game where males forget to backlash

the success of a woman is wordless, those left to stay in suits
with dirty splashes.
Apropos, without whom her success was a mere theoretical
projection in the air,
but now they must confess that they were born to be a platform
for her as a layer.

With will of a low basis almost glimmering from the view or its
absence,
for men with no will, who prefer to compensate their own
weakness (as in adolescence)
with a woman’s strength, and to not stay behind, not in the top,
not in between,
almost nowhere being invisible and untouchable even by an easy
wind.

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The past subordinated areas shifted away under a new dominant
power: status
has been changed in a melancholic tune: no marriage till the time
of emeritus.
Year by year, decade by decade with no fading intention to show
up on the seashore
were marked with egoism and the demand to parents: ‘’more and
more’’

She was too occupied with the fulfilled schedule of the coming
day
not having a moment to even take a breath in a softer way,
as being a capricious child of too weak-will parents
always allowing to put on unexpectable garments.

Never giving alms supporting those in need,

one day she felt covered in parasite.
The smell she could not wash away,
the smell panted on her skin’s cells in disarray.

The well flavored soap or delicate perfume

made her efforts evaporate into fumes.
The things got worse when in two or three days
she complained to her bosom friend that smell had stayed.

On that she answered with alarm. in her words:

‘’There is no smell… are you sure of it? What’s
going on with your paranoid presuppositions
99
 calm down, wash your hands and all superstitions’’.

She was getting mad about the pursue of the non-existent smell.
Her dreams were full of crawling disgusting insects in draw-well
imprisoned her within with no ladder to get out
in the frozen loneliness with no one to know of her whereabouts.

Her last chance to feel feminine in her 50’s, at sunset of beauty,

The cute ladies’ man she got hooked by, made her sign the
treaty,
paying with her inherited saving for sharing a bed,
putting at stake her family honor for smile of rascal, instead.

In domino principle, the misery one by one stormed the family

house.
The father was bankrupted: a fat cat was gobbled up by a thin
mouse,
the poor relatives, the constant object of mocking, a desperate
byword,
in a twinkling of the eye, came to the arena with victorious
pretention, with a sword.

The underestimated cousin cooperated with her father’s

opponent
and the family heritage vanished in an explosive experiment.
Under the severe economy after having lost all her past habits of
squander and privileges
the dower chest with golden coins ran out: she got used to
drinking water instead of beverages.
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 And she saw in a dream her mum and grandma:
’’ Your hair has grown so long and so far,
the silver strands could easily
plait into braids to look fresh and virtuously ‘’.

But with a sad smile grandma put forward (suddenly)

‘’The length speaks for the long time you’ve not seen me ‘’
‘’Oh, I had so many cares with my beloved daughter ‘’
‘’Your duty to me is not jumping into cold water ‘’.

‘’ You have given birth to her, but to me a hope

that my old age will be secured against the rain drops,
to cherish my plans and to avoid stress.
You have put a brick into a new fortress,

but time flies, and your marriage was rewarded

to have a double joy, reasons to smile and worry.
Where are the scissors to have my hair cut?
For now, you are combing my hair affected with rust.

Wait, before you run away, let me tell you something:

Your beloved daughter will push you in nothing’’.
In an after-dream foggy semi consciousness she realized:

101
she had wasted her borrowed life, with no payment back, with no
surprise.

102