Vesna Andrejić Mišković (Croatia)

Vesna Andrejić Mišković (Croatia)
Vesna Andrejić Mišković was born on July 10, 1964. in Kruševac, Serbia. She grew up and was educated in Trstenik,(a small town on the banks of the West Morava), and lived for 38 years in Slavonski Brod, Croatia. She now works as a caregiver for the elderly and infirm in Karlsruhe, Germany.
Behind it, three independent collections of reflective poetry have been published. She has also published her works in over 220 international and joint collections and anthologies.
Some of her poems have been translated into nine foreign languages. In addition to writing poetry, Vesna also writes prose but a short form-haiku.
She has won several valuable awards in Serbia, Croatia, Italia and around the world.
And so the moment came
when among the snowflakes
stray ripe apples
from lonely years,
and barely holding on
for frozen clouds
keep the secret
of hidden dreams.
Watching them
I wanted to skip
a vault full of doubts
but she must have slipped
clutching a dry branch
thinking that there
is salvation in her.
She released all the birds
from the cages
and sang a lullaby
a grain of sand
making my eye itch,
and these restless hair
taught the east wind
to make thin strings
musical instruments
on the horizon.
I outgrow my stature now
all suspension bridges
and touching with ease
heavenly lat,
I pick apples
among the snowflakes
stacking them in a basket
of intertwined dreams.
Biting loose soil
(like Antigone)
I acknowledge
the universe and myself,
that I became myself
one of the apples
which may be (not) damaged
fell out of the lap
of unrequited love.
If you ever want to
forget the street
by which we once were
walked barefoot
and go outside
the horizon of the stars,
I’ll put it into operation
from dried tears,
not to look in vain
hope over his shoulder
irreversible illusions
and allow
to burn my eyes
while sprinkling
a cloud of ash
in token of dead love.
Don’t look away
crescent moon,
while blood on my lips
like Amaryllis blooms.
Don’t mention your death.
In the fight with windmills
I lost my life
in the unwritten
an acrostic dedicated to you.
Landing failed
per month to an ordinary bird.
And so is my loss
ground underfoot,
it did not get a deeper meaning
except that I became
like cellophane transparent
and light as the feather of a bird of paradise.
I don’t need any more dresses
which will cover stretch marks,
no patent leather shoes
of seven miles
in which I would (if I were alive)
ran over
all possible meridians.
I have enough cloud now,
to hide the nudity of a bird,
one wide smile
and Neruda’s face,
in space
of celestial verse.

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