Daughters’ poem

I used to go into the forest

When I was sad, these days I just take a bath

And more and more I see eternity

As watter that keeps on flowing somewhere

We ran out of watter this morning

So all those daggers , glass, sabers and spears in my back

Are heavier, well more than usual

I am in my bed

Father is in the kitchen

He cooks when he is sad

His hands smell  like cooked meat

My hair smells like cooked meat

Our house smells like cooked meat

Whole universe smells like cooked meat

Father is cooking since yesterday

He is coughing his heart out right into those pots

With cooked meat

Ones that he will threw out

To the dogs


Fathers’ poem

Today I made Beef Bourguignon

Road to Zen served in deep bowls

Paved with velvety mashed potato

If I was carrying whole worlds burden

On my back

I would forget about it in those couple of hours

French made delicacies, known all over the world

Out of their peasant dishes

We did the same thing in first half of the 90´s

We even invented new ones

In the second half we tried hard

To forget everything

New millennium brought oblivion

And bumps on the floor

All those things we threw under the rug

I used to make this dish in a vacation house

For my brother and our friends

My brother is long gone, and our friends,

Lucky ones, isolated in their homes

I served it in my living room, among the books,

In front of the TV

News looked like SF movie

People in white uniforms and masks

Throwing bodies in bags, one over the other

That ruined my effort and my Zen

So, I changed the channel and watched

Masha and the Bear

Today I saw one of my friends,

I used to share Beef Bourguignon

With him

Anyway, he didn’t see me

Because he was in one of those bags

On a pile





Naida Mujkić & Mirza Okić
Photo of Italian Graffitti by Rupert Loydell

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