Mediha Kapetanovic (Bosnia and Herzegovina)

Mediha Kapetanovic (Bosnia and Herzegovina)
Mediha Kapetanovic was born in 1957 in town Pocitelj near Capljina, Bosnia and Herzegovina, where, at the banks of a perpetually green river Neretva, she enjoyed her childhood and youth years . After dramatic events in her homeland, in the fall of ’93 Mediha leaves for Denmark, and shortly after that in’ 94 she moves to the USA , where she lives, works, and creates today.
First poetry book, symbolically named
“ 69”, was published in Sarajevo in 2014.
TNR (Silence of a swollen river) is Mediha’s second book.
She is an active member of the Society of Arts in Bosnia.
Her poems can be found in various collections of poetry.
Infinite and immense
through a scream of
silence and silence
I arise to view starry glow,
maybe I would capture
an abundance of silver
which is on a winding
floating in the open.
I’m a passenger,
in the vortex of infinity,
where I search for hidden beauty
by the space of
my thought
I conquer, down the slope
down the river.
But when I go through
the assembly picture in my mind
emerge days of
sad verses
and bares trees,
I try by Van Gogh’s
dream to
paint songs of love.
The pain overwhelms
me so
the image is drowned
in a drop of valerian.
I’m sitting in the westside
of the ocean,
gray, impenetrable shores.
The sight of lost walker,
Playing the game of destiny.
I’m moving my mind
glowing ball to the east
where the rays are
nicer and warmer
in the mornings.
How nice it is to portray
the crystal beauty of
the mountain streams,
who after prayer
reveal in themselves all of the
of healing
and explain that you must not hate,
because with hatred
and anger
you pollute
river Neretva* within you.
But it is useless
to deaf-mute talk
about the secrets of life,
or nights of oblivion,
memories from time
when a cold storm
blows you away
as it rolls into the bone,
or that the sunny,
morning are reflected
on the cobblestone.
IT is easy to lie to
but how to lie to yourself,
when you become a
lost walker
between east and west.
and you shift the waves
of the icy ocean
looking for
the glare of the sun
and warmth of memory.
And so,
when I turn to ashes
and sail offshore,
do not stop the current of wave.
The wave will seal
life’s story
in the expanse
and writes the book.
The wave speaks word
that I can’t find
a reasonable thought
at the intersection of
the roads of life.
*one of the cleanest rivers located
in south of Bosnia and Herzegovina
In the junkyard
I found the words,
to restore my body,
and rusty
verses to paint.
Shaky legs
hurt with expressions.
In the joints creak,
non- existent
When the stomach starts to churn
the storm is getting ready.
I bite my tongue
not to use
in other people’s terms
not to do
irreversible damage.
Phrases echo in my ears
that I see it on my mind
I wasted my time
searching for words in dictionaries
and people’s
Can’t get rich
on purchases.
I took ink and paper
then I start to write
Carried by the sea,
verses, just
like waves rise
to the surface.

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