I feel like Antonio Vivaldi now, for so many reasons. Just like him, I feel I’ve succeeded in completing the masterpiece of my life. The masterpiece, just like in the case of Antonio, also consists of 4 parts and each of them is devoted to a separate season. My work required as much talent, knowledge, effort and artistry. And, yes, I do hope that after my death (and during my life as well) the work shall attract as much interest, admiration and acclaim. Hell, why not? (And, please, don’t tell me there are a million reasons why not.)
More seriously speaking, last summer I decided to write a little poem, the so-called 55 worder with the first line counting 10 words, next 9 etc. until the last line containing one word only, that could start a sort of series entitled “Four Seasons”. Each of them was created at the beginning of a new season to be able to get into the right mood before writing. Well, I’m pretty happy I came up with the idea, as the writing turned out fun, and quite satisfied with the result. Well, the pieces cannot be so bad since all of them were published by the incredible Trisha Traughber in “Vagabond Voices”. If you’re curious, you’re free to check below, as I’ve collected them for you in one place. Enjoy!
Summer has arrived. Together with it everything I dearly love.
The sun on my skin, the sea salt in
my mouth, the beach sand in my sandals.
The illusion life is a treasure box.
No worries, no trouble, no stress.
Let’s take it slow,
relax and simply forget
that after summer
Autumn has gifted us her wonders: ripe fruit and vegetables,
the magic of all turning yellow, orange or red,
thick fogs in the mornings and evenings to
lose oneself and be suddenly found in
the gold of the setting sun,
the wisdom of passing, transcience.
Nothing really matters. Nothing
lasts forever, so
carpe diem -
Winter is a lady of narrow eyes and tight lips.
No use begging her for mercy. You cannot succeed.
She’s come here to flog us with
stiff winds, freezing cold rain or sleet.
Bing Crosby is just another flop
she adores laughing heartily at.
You’re a fool
to dream again
The warm sun finally breaking through dark, gloomy clouds.
The single blades of bright green grass fighting for
the right to life among their dead relatives.
The shy buds rising out of nothing
on black branches and the birds
singing again after severe months.
In spring this everything
whispers one word
©2021 Marta Mozolewska. All rights reserved.