Category: travel poetry

Dear diary: Kotor, 65 days left

Boka Kotorska travel poetry travel stories

Dear diary: Kotor, 65 days left

Bioenergetics say that the point where the most of positive energy in Montenegro interlaces is Gumno ( Lovćen), but the point from which Cattaro emerges indeed is the point from which evaporates the most incredible energy of a dead poet who fell asleep so we can sleep peacefully on his chest.

Do not be fooled, a dead poet is the most alive of them all.

Three years, or at this point of my age – one century, represents an illusion of time that I was ready to plant into the lion’s heart of this city. Although my heart, even before it went anywhere, cannot wait to return here. During these three years I welcomed so many beautiful and less beautiful souls to Kotor and to my life. I also greeted them. I craved to be alone here and that moment finally came. If I stayed alone in any other city, maybe I would not lean my head to its back and would not feel a joy of being there. Of it being there. Of us, finally alone, at the very end of the world. As two sweaty lovers, lighting a cigarette while lying on the bones of the Venetian Republic and writing their last verse.

We are so mad.

We foam with madness, laughter and life.

I am young enough to make a dead city alive and Kotor is old enough, so I can stay forever young. Perfect affair in which neither one of us is losing.

Last night, I called my brother:

-I can’t stand this anymore.

-What? – he asked.

-This amount of a beauty. I turn left and I see the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen. I turn right and oh! – I see the one even more beautiful.

-Is it always more beautiful on the right?

We laughed and I realized: this is the only city in the world that isn’t forcing me to look straight in front of me. It’s the only one that is freezing the time for me, so I can stand still, without staying at the one spot and finally – grow in myself to new heights. So I can write the history, as winners do, as Cattaro wrote it once.

kotor, montenegro

Marocco, Essaoura: travel poetry

travel poetry

Marocco, Essaoura: travel poetry

I would give up all the rooftops of Essaouira for your shoulders

Sparkle in your eyes

And a slight hitch when my lips cross your spine

And yet I want you on the rooftops

Your kisses and domesticated seagulls

Smile

Hands

Fingers

The language I do not understand

But that is warm and sweet

Things you are talking about must be wonderful

That’s the way you talk about me

I’m not afraid

I want some of the African sky

And your palms

For my hips

You’re the sweetest stranger ever walked down the every dream (I had)

Kiss Me

Love me through medina in Ramadan

While nobody sees

And everybody is looking

Sin

Fuck God.

morocco

 

Madmazel, are you okay?

travel poetry

Madmazel, are you okay?

On the corner of
Rue Saint Lazare and the NotreDame de Lorette
Traffic lights spill into too sweet French wine
Streets smell of Pervert
Or he smelled on them
Now I do
And everyone who should be here is here
Although we always crave those who are not
Don’t we?
Some is passing by
Asking for money for cigarettes
I take off my shoes
Cause
It doesn’t matter in which shoes you walk
When you walk down the streets of Paris
(for some of us)

I’m at my beginning
I’ve always been good at farewells
(Only then i am incredibly good)
I would make a poem from the last goodbye
But what shall I do with the beginnings
The beginnings are the confirmation that I will forget everything
Already loomed oblivion
Over carefree mornings
Dry wine
The hug in which i felt so safe
Your beautiful features and strong shoulders
The narrow streets and darkness where you loved me.
The road will make me forget
This lovely miles will make me forget
What caressed and what broke all my previous lives
That one with you too.
And I squeeze the remains between my knees
I keep memories
I keep Kotor
I keep places for which no one will ever know
Of which nobody will be able to remind me
So i write poems
I write poems for you
You have the poems boy
I got them too.

We, poets
We are fairies and witches
Psychopaths with the warm heart
Able to create the separate worlds
To freeze the moments forever.
I’m afraid to forget the story in which there is no more me or you
I’m afraid that the paper is not enough for it
But you said I am insane
while you lit a cigarette, not understanding any of my thoughts.
We, poets
We are fairies and witches
Psychopaths with the warm heart
Able to create the separate worlds
To freeze the moments forever.
In Paris, Lisbon, Barcelona
I am far away
Still not far enough
To escape the paper
So, on the corner of Rue Saint Lazare and the Notre Dame de Lorette, I have you.
”I love you” has happened
Didn’t it?
Just have to read two lines before.
I soak my thoughts with wine
I lean my them to the beginning
Over and over again reliving that story
(just one more time)
Cause i told you,
i like to make a poem for the end
To run through the poem
It to run through my throat,
spine,
crotch.
Someplace between the end and the beginning
I leave it:
your lips on my skin
your sighs in my ear
your fingers in my hair
your promises
your attempt to be someone else for me
(as that could be easy)
your abandonment
your spite
you in me.
You died in me when i fell into the arms of Paris
I stabbed our chest with a pen
Easily
With some Koop island blues
With few drinks
And few cigarettes
Blurred view for a moment
And one:
”Madmazel, are you okay?”

 

Paris, June ’16.

paris poetry travel

pariz3

paris poetry travel wine

Porto, Portugal: travel poetry

travel poetry

Porto, Portugal: travel poetry

Porto is everything I could have never imagined. And nothing I tought it would be.

I hadn’t seen a single photo of the city before I went to see it.

I wanted our first encounter to be intact.

I wanted us to be strangers as once upon a time lovers were strangers before the first meeting.

And we were.

The strangers.

The lovers.

Who never went beyond the first touch.

Porto surprised me.

Guarded me.

As only a stranger could.

Was pleasant and gentle, asked me to stay.

Asked me to stay.

No one ever asked me to stay.

No one has ever played with my goodbye.

No one ever fooled me with that much wine.

I’m afraid I will never stay anywhere but I promised I’d be back.

To touch it once again.

It keeps the wine for me.

It keeps fado for me.

It keeps a dancing shoes for me.

The kind of a dance that can be danced only on the streets of Porto.

The kind of a dance I know only there.

porto portugal travel poetry

Have you ever been in love in Porto?

Have you ever been in love?

Have you ever let your joy not to be a hurricane?

Have you ever let the passion to end within you and break like a ripe apple, to never breathe out of your navel?

Have you ever allowed yourself to let off a silent scream downriver to the Atlantic Ocean?

Have you ever allowed yourself to forget under the arch of the city that drowned its pain in a barrel of wine and does not look like Venice at all?

porto portugal

Everything I didn’t know about peace,

Everything I didn’t know about the time standing still,

I saw in the city

Which river I crossed with the eyes closed.

Which river I crossed beleving.

One has to sleep through all the days in which is not bigger than a poppy seed.

One has to be a bird in a cage which door will not open from the outside.

One has to die and be reborn.

One has to drink and sober up.

One has to remain dignified and a women.

One has to breathe where breathing is easy.

I must never forget Porto.

I must never forget the tenderness and  lightness of being.

That much of the fish and wine, and the desire and peace.

That much of the peace.

There is no tears, no catharsis.

Just close my eyes and believe.

Just close my eyes and I’m there, still.

All of my nostalgia(s) I put into a fist.

All of my paths I merge into one.

All of my years I trade for the moment.

A moment on the bridge.

Porto.

My hair is in the color of the roofs

My dress in the shades of Douro curls in the wind

My back is straight and I am mature in youth

All bridges lead somewhere

This had already led me away

Alone

And I’m not lonely

What’s scarier than that?

porto portugal girl

photos by my dear friend: Jelena Jovićević

Love letter to Lisbon

travel poetry travel stories

Love letter to Lisbon

Lisboa, meu amor.

I have never finished a poem while I still laid next to someone. – one poet told me while I was laying on your docks. I couldn’t finish mine when I was yours. When you were teaching me your letters, when you embraced me so tightly that all I felt was an endless freedom. No one hugged me that strong that it finally felt fine not to breath. You taught me longing even before you welcomed me.

Ausiar – longing.

If it’s possible to long for the eyes lost into the melted sun on the miradours of Lisbon. I fell in love with those eyes faster than I fell in love with all those who were lost on me.

If it’s possible to long for Moroccan dresses that were hidding my skin from the streets of Lisbon, as if these streets did not know everything about it even before they touched it with its dust, and bid farewell with its hands.

I wanted to create the illusion in the city which had been built from illusion and what did I got? To be there even now when I’m miles away.

If it’s possible to long for a soul that is not my promised one and an ashtray above the navel – one that is still the center of my universe.

For the lips, police sirenes on the deaf streets in which I leaned my head on the palms of the city whose touch I feel on myself even now, when I walk through the streets of Kotor. Kotor saw others finger prints on my neck, but never remained silent in front of them. Kotor took his balms from the drawer of The Old Town and did everything, that it doesn’t matter how many cities I go through, I stayed untouched. Kotor is silent since I came back.

Lisbon will allow me everything:

Arrivals and departures, kisses on the balconies, rooftops and wine, fado and trams. Everything but oblivion.

You know,

Whoever you are, in Lisbon I would ask you to come to the end of the world with me, but we would be there already.

Then I would say:

Come, sleep with me on the airports.

But on which airport we should wait for happiness?

Someone is reading this, looking for some tips for Lisbon. I don’t have any. I have never had a tip for love.

Mothers, don’t let your daughters to go there, Lisbon is everything what a young girl should not know.

Daughters, don’t ask, pack your best dresses and go. You will make love to your own existence under the skies of broken hearts.

Mothers, if you let them, you will never see your daughters again.

Daugthers, you will never be the same.

When you go to Lisbon it’s hard to come back, even if another fairytale waits for you.

And now I know:

This will never be longing, this will always be saudade.

 

With my purest love, Jelena

only lovers left alive Cascais Cafe do Monte, a toilet

Traveling the world by following poetry

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Traveling the world by following poetry

Just like professor Keating from the Dead Poets Society said: “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”

People on the street, in the park, while they walk, are followed by the imaginary music. Poetry accompanies me. However, I never thought much about the benefits of reading and writing, until I became the author of the novel I published two years ago and numerous verses scattered throughout the Internet, napkins and bank deposit slips. Never after I asked myself this question which now sounds absurd, because there is no verse made just for watching. Verse is an attempt of a poet to make a revolution.

I fell in love with poetry because of Antić and his stars and Bukowski and his whores.

Since then it’s been a lot. List of reading has gone to a brilliant heights, and on the way, slowly but surely, often shy, but with fervor, I made my revolution that has grown and taught me of a completely new, direct and simple use of poetry.

Poetry is, in fact, an amazing way to tell your story so that everybody hears, everyone understands, but also to take a break for a moment, forget to breathe, just as I forgot to breathe in the nineties, listening to Robin Williams in the role Keating.

Take me to the water is a novel that was the lymph which forced its way through my wound. After the greatest struggle of my life, the only thing that was natural for me, was to put my core on the paper.

After that, my growth as a writer in the public stopped – because, all topics seemed insufficient or less important. A novel in itself has the poetic moments that will probably be the part of every next. It is a paradox that, while I was writing a novel, poetry became my greatest love. And exactly that was the most important part of my life for the last two years, after Take me to the water was published.

Everything that happened before and during writing a novel, helped me to comprehend what is worth living for, and gave me the strength to live only for those things that for me are crucial.

From this perspective, it is paradoxical to seek strength in yourself to live your purpose, because any other choice would be more difficult and I really hope that all of you can make that step from triviality to the life with a purpose that you find deep inside, without twinge of environmental influences, your past, beyond the meaning and this world.

Why would you think you’re creatures of this world, or any other? The worlds are the limits, too.

I needed two years to mature from the being that was breaking the borders, to someone who really doesn’t feel that they exist at any level. I’m not saying I’m free. Free in relation to what? Freedom is the limit too. I want to say that I am present. Not in the world, but in myself. Therefore, in the world I have never been more present. In my friends, in my poetry, in all the cities that I love so much and that I allowed to be the home of my stories.

It seems to me that, until the end of the world and the end of time, I could be fed only with travels and verses.

This is exactly what I’m doing. Traveling by following poetry.

I found the way to weave two of my greatest loves into one that makes me what I am at the moment. What keeps me awake and eager.

At the beginning of this great journey I choose, was a man who inspired me and so many other people to travel, solo, without a lot of money. He followed the Sun (1000 days of spring), I follow poetry.

The story for the the second novel was born in me almost two years ago, and all this time I was looking for the the city that will be a home for it. That’s how my first solo trips began.

Last June, I packed up my life in my backpack and started with a trip through Morocco. Morocco was a journey on which I’ve found the path to my heart. If the core of my being is the Holy Grail, that’s where I found it. It prepared me for what was to come.

I fell in love with Fes, Marrakech, Essaouira, Sahara, Rabat … I went to every corner of this magical land, but the story I wanted to write did not find fertile soil for its roots. I did, that’s where I found myself and then left. I brought it with me. Became a traveler.

After that, Prevert happened. Paris happened. Paris is a city to which I would always come back and it brought poetry to me. Milan is also the city in which I created. But all these cities brought poetry to me. I wanted a novel too.

And then I read a poem. Random poem, somewhere on the Internet ( I will write more about that one). I read it dozens of times, but after the first time I knew where is the story I wanted to write. Where it’s born and dies over and over again, while waiting for me, madly in love with it, to go on the road and put it on the paper. To appease it and let it be outside of myself.

I read the poem, I booked the flight, packed up and went to Lisbon.

It was there.

The story.

 

To be continued…

 

 

Kotor, Montenegro: Ain’t no love in the heart of the town

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Kotor, Montenegro: Ain’t no love in the heart of the town

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Two years have passed since i have been living in the most beautiful city in the world, or at least one that is listed as the most beautiful to visit this year. I’m not saying that I’m not happy and grateful for it. In fact, when I started my blog, I wanted to write about Kotor. And I promise, I’ll write.

When I moved in here for the first time I strongly believed in the soul of this city, and then it was so hard to find it. At first glance, Kotor evaporates with it’s spirit, but at the first touch, every stone of this city is so cold and gray. Ain’t no love in the heart of the city! Ain’t no love in the heart of the town!

Kotor makes you feel alone if you spend enough time here. People come and go, and you stay between these stones , and the stones are not the place where you should be. It seems to you that the sea is no the sea anymore and the water is not the water in which you can come to quench your thirst.

But you’re so thirsty.

Oh and sometimes you wake up in the morning, and that view welcomes you.  The view that makes you feel guilty for saying that Kotor is gray. Some mornings are shining painfully, and they makes you feel bad that you’re not glowing with them.

You’re wondering if you’re depressed or if all this city is depressed and at times you can’t find the answer to this question.

I asked for months.

Then I stopped.

Because then came spring and Kotor .. oh, Kotor – lying again.

Or only then telling the truth.

Kotor can bring you a good man, who is just passing by. Kotor can bring you the morning sunlights to wake you up in the morning and the smell of coffee.

It almost brings you that coffee to your bed.

And you forget that it was cold.

As a lover for whom you are attached, and when you play strongly, forget that he played a cold.

And you’re hugging him and kissing, you dance in the narrow streets that are the most beautiful streets in the world.

And my God, they are the most beautiful in the world.

It brings you beautiful people. Friends, lovers, drifters, travelers. It brings you wine, smiles, hugs, stories that you will remember forever.  It brings you yourself. It makes you question yourself as the best psychologist, makes you be alone with yourself, so you can be the best version of yourself when you’re with other people. It makes you become the stone. The stone with a soul. And what, in this world, is more precious?

You do not care, your beloved  took you under his wing, forcing scents and sighs happening after your steps and tells you that you’re beautiful.

A woman is even more beautiful when she walks through the streets of The old town.

And you’re telling to Kotor that it is beautiful.

You’re falling in love.

Write a poem about it.

And you know it will hurt as soon as first winter comes.

But it’s okay.

After Kotor you will be the beautiful, stunning rock.

And you have to be a rock in this mad world.

Just don’t forget the soul.

Kotor haven’t forget its soul.

(just too good at hiding)