“Transformation”, “That’s the beauty you are looking for” and “A Painter”

In Poetry Issue Two by Katerina Struncova


I like the idea of
The transformation of
My personality
Bound by chains
Made of smoke
Blown out of
Your lungs
And blacker than coal
Every time you
Unstick that rolled lethal stick
From your sealed lips
Every time you
Finish another cigarette
Building a ladder
Pilling a notch on top of the lower
To your heavenly bed
Made by a quilt
Of thorns stubbing your path
Of my open-palm strokes
Sliding your endearing gentle face

I like the idea of
Evolving from a molecule
Into an atom moulded
As I go along
By people’s stories, fights and worries
Accomplishment of one
Can kill the pursuit of
Becoming the queen
Of my own fate

I’m being swindled
– By an invisible finger
– Of Gods’ reigning only
– On pages rendered sallow
– By their growing ages
Into whimsical decisions
Preposterous in their nature
Be that the admittance
Of my mistakes I’ve made

A pang of guilt prickles me
Goose bumps of remorse
Cover my vulnerable thin skin
Sit on my throat
Obliterate my voice
– Now so hoarse
– Out of regretful crying
Whispering in a muffed manner
Your wisdom
Tattooed on my brain
Into the pillow
Of unanalysable dreams
By psychiatrists, but me
Wishing to eat my words
Not my dinner
And to let my apology
Assert itself
Through calling out
Starving messages
Answered by
Your sandy muteness
Pouring through
The narrowest centre
Of the hourglass
Of its used-to-be crystal
Walls tainted
By my puzzlement
– Scratching my hair
– Nodding my head
Never to be disentangled
Due to
– Your obliviousness
– Your resolute thinking
Locked with the key
As iron as Lady Thatcher’s
Parliamental Queendom
Carved out of hippo stubbornness
Bearing your fucking ignorance
Your beautifully rotten
Persistent resistance!

That’s the beauty you are looking for

Uneven stairs
Made of hard roots
Erected paths made of
Tiny naked bushes
Dancing blueberry striptease
Underneath your feet
While the melody of
Trees’ playing blues
Sounds in your ears
That’s the beauty you are looking for

Sunny rays of
A never sleeping star
Are sliding my face
Down across my breasts
Stripped off
By your x-raying stare
Caress my fear
Tickle my solitude
With your beard
With your gaze
Mirroring in the autumn’s pond
Of a never-ending frog’s song
That’s the beauty you are searching for

Leaves and colours
Crossing my way
Up the hill I’m marching
Dressed in a cone
Of today’s well-done work
That’s the beauty
You let embrace your soul
Nature, calm, fresh air and being alone

After fornication
Savage self-satisfaction
After shaking your arse
On the floor of a jealous dance
A peaceful stroll through the woods
Meets your higher needs
Climbing on the Maslow’s triangle
Of ourselves
Our essence

Red hearts
Wine filling a glass
A warm hug
On a fluffy blanket
In front of the hearth
Cracking twigs of love
Of closeness and
Silence and Endurance
Broken by the abundance
Of nothing making sense
Broken by muffed hooting
Of two owls clutching
Their faithful claws
Into branches of night shadows

Behind frosty windows
That’s the beauty
You are in a want of
Feeding your intellectuality
Universally acclaimed ability
Stiffened by critics’ review
Of no generosity
Threatening your potential
Your creativity
Be persistent
Stand up for yourself
Your parents cannot help
Even if you begged
But you won’t be misled
By your inner child
From the direction
Towards which you should head

A Painter

Crossing my heart
And kissing my elbow
Kneeling on a wooden stool
Mouthing prayers
For all world’s sickness
Of the scum
As visible as the morning sun
Of the rich
Hiding it in a poker sleeve
Of a lice
Multiplying into louse

A rose wreath
Looped around my head
Tapered ends
Of our wide life paths
Leading to graves
Raising a flat ground
Into lumps
As plump as the mother’s
oval bun

Agony, pain
Suffering, despair
Acting as a catalyst
For fame in the frame
Tears and sweat diluted with a paint
Dripping into vessels
Of canvas slanting
On an easel a little
Four corners restricting space
For unbound reflections
For what a painter has to say

Sanctified water
Dropping on a newborn tiny figure
Gurgling squeaking
the godmother’s name
Trickling down a chisel carving
Letter by letter
Number by number
Onto the tombstone
Her death

Shrunk as a young nipper
Shrunk as an old crippler
We all are
A Prodigy or a git
Wrinkles don´t mind
and won´t evade
Our faith

About the Author

Katerina Struncova

Katerina Struncova's reason for writing poetry is purely connected to her interest in the English language, which she studied at Masaryk University in Brno where she qualified as an English teacher last year. Katerina lives and works in England as a trainee dental nurse, aspires to become a hygienist, and considers teaching in the future.

Read more work by Katerina Struncova .

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