To read / 26 May 2023

Forgotten Pasture


Meadow lullaby: The land of silence

Sparkle seen but so shortly glows very little. My dried flowers and tiny beauties of rain-stained windows entertain no longer than a few eternal days. Their lovely letters flee with the first summer storm.

I never rest on anybody’s shoulder. I fit into everybody’s arms but only when I don’t try to. Yellow words fall into unpeeled layers, tenderly sounding through caves to be smothered in the farthest mazes.

My soul does not levitate between petals to the sky of belonging. It’s not a light that would flash your noon reveries. It’s a feeble reflection of my blunted self.

Land of silence shall saunter in the calmest dreams. Liquid sun, wider company of meadows, no claws of reality, naughty spoken in vile human whispers. Heed a radiant play of herbs and wind, garden queens, wildflowers, excluding man-made time. Pencil-drawn pastel clouds chant to your muses and make them dance in your head. Linear skyfires release a perfume of novel subconsciousness that knows no sorrow. It is aware briefly of sparkles seen every night which lighten roads of lost maddened souls.

White hearts, my heart seems to dance on piano keys

What am I missing? I’m young, blond, and my heart is shriveled like an ugly wound. It was stupider than winking angels on poker cards, I always turned across another street to find myself another true love though I am true love of nobody.

... without borders and names, and forced dread of needs, without conventions... Through a slot where curtain ghost hesitates between doors I glanced at my heart dancing on the floor whilst you played, then it danced on piano keys and then it set itself on breeze, feeling no cold, unbonded by distance or physical touch.

In all lucidity of shapes and colors, I quivered in the playground of imagination. Teethy heavy sunrays were shattering on windows as if they could absorb dullness of glass, they have just chosen not to. Although sun’s petals had been silenced by an artificial transparent alien they did project on the other side, clambered as their mother Sun moved on her voyage. Without a barcode tattooed on the bride's neck... Without ether-colored lambent purple, my heart seems to dance in the sun.

It’s not a thing you’d hear from people: love as certain as by moonshine and clammy window dew.

Parades of cool June moon, crowd hearts and saddening morning blueness are over.

The sight on pedestrian bridge

The summer of drawing sounds signed by whistling on hazel acorns, ponderous ambles with full pockets, was jinxed. A poor man on a bridge trembled in a hole-eaten cloth, leg and arm were missing, fingers falling soft to soon never be felt. The unknown beggar was inappropriate for expectations of a wide bridge: street painters, traders, fishermen and mimes.

I began to fear of trees‘ leaves, that it will fall in weeks to river. Of the fear I did not cross the bridge, then there was fall and winter...

Soldiers of steel, whistling into dark, by them I returned. I leaned over a fence. Water was being brushed by the sun. Once again: street painters, traders, fishermen and mimes.

Maybe there is a teakettle floating in the universe and we don’t know about it

I had whiskey to wash down the cake.

The land was muddy with the first leaves, yellow and scarlet stained greens. It blessed to branches in a dried state. As if remote planets, whose names and sounds were useless and indifferent to the shallow kind, did not scan my suffering and trepidation at this hidden earthy place.

Love comes by foot and leaves by train. Not that it would flee. It mostly comes too late, other times you are the one who overslept. It also runs over many people. Insides like grenade blasts smudged along the railways, it’s gruesome and fine, fine in some sort of perspective.

It was to be about longing for lost love and old books with dotted stains, words pressed backward on subsequent pages. You were made of love and mostly alcohol. I was made of rust only to let stars treat my sight. Do we fancy foolish angels, foolish masks? Materialism has a soul, a slush, it pisses with the door open. Maybe there is a teakettle floating in the universe and we don’t know about it. Maybe somewhere else, beneath the ardent overdone passage of trees you kissed me twice on cheeks and once on lips, and nevermore again.

Barefoot days, I wish I would have never turned eighteen

When children play by brooks during desertlike days, busy building boats, aiming to behand lightly flowing fish, they stamp over rocks for the homely, mellow earth.

Sun of fire is sitting on a shore. Vail of heavy sand sticks dust, beads, dirt... Yet this does not crust momentous as the earth warms, of that it loves and cherishes its little souls.

I am wording my onely wish of child coffins for which I am too tall. My boots are peeking out. Summer rite evens ensnare. Bed will swallow the child and digest. Heartless arm dislimbs the flies’ wings. Now, the fork of flies is used for wine of fingers. Why does time come so bitter to me?

To be heading to an eternal holiday, into a missed age which has been unnoticed, timid, effortless and in that was its raindrop kiss, heartfelt fresh promenades, caressing hands – begone! Begone, standing between doors!

The meadow never sleeps, justly oscillating in gale. I cycled up to dandelion wild to be preached by woods in the village of unheard name. And I rode down, down the hill, trail strengthened by tappering swift pathway, topless.

I have dreamt that I was a soccer player who distanced himself in a sneak to lie on soccer field fake grass. Deceiving artificial texture, deceiving tribunes, deceiving game and players. On ground in idle freedom. Doors up to the sky, clouds moved brightly and very fast.

Touch, poetry of extracted teeth

Every opening of eyes is like inhalation after rise from a chlorine pool: from water to air through that nameless line, airwater. Solitary I pressed rhymes on marble paper. In evening, I saw that I possess forty-five on skin. Face hurt up from nurses and cheekbones.

Senses have blunted me even without chemical substances. I fell to my knees, they buried a finger into my head and I puked heavy rhymes on their wandersome boots. Heavy rhymes are purgatory. Light ones are moorbirds.

Poet’s kisses for syllables and, too, to meadows, forests, seasons, love, innovation. From height of thirteen feet, holding hands, we capered into a dried river and became untamed.

Girls who climb the highest trees

Squinting, I cannot see the midnight rain. Night’s velvet mirror twists like clay on a pottery wheel, human illusions get to be too outermost and vanish as mirrors may no longer reflect. You must stand high, feed your eyes and fingers, there are so many.

Wilderness calls, persisting your drive to commit death of your changeable self. I shall be different from now on. Unbonded by statements of my established personality caged by people I know and what they perceive me as. I would sculpt a new person out of the previous one which has been destroyed and thrown shapeless the moment I’ve decided to leave. Everyone gives a piece of their heart to rude girls, those who sneeze quietly like mice, climb trees and don’t cry for pinned butterflies. Nearing summer. Haze. Their ardor for people doesn’t shrivel like an unwatered rose.

A child returning as a figure of the evening by the strike of street lamps would never come home if they could decide because who would? It’s terror on fragile left out souls afraid of loud sounds, who fidget too much and don’t understand anything. It’s too late to have a father but I can still put on that pearly fake Vegas smile.

“Does youth exist only to be sacrificed?” asked H. Miller or who. I am not sure when exactly souls grow up. Why do rose petals fall before their flourishing if they’ve been crushed unbloomed?

After the vanishing of an owner, her foam raspberry-colored dress remains covered in moths, only to age into a couple of hanging strings and spiderwebs. And it doesn’t have a dad. And it doesn’t have a lover. And it even has nobody. But at least it’s obedient.

The arrival of a priest

How much time do you have? Lots of time? Would you like to have a beer? Would you like some butter on your bread? Indeed, nobody truly enjoys poems about love. The majority of eyes feed on despair. They crowd behind a glass door to watch unrightfully jerking off above someone or something fragile.

It’s raining in the bedroom again. You must have left a window open for angels to come. And we got a thick little cloud instead. I always feel so safe just with you but outside you are so cold, distant like asphalt glory towered upon a deserted fountain in a loom.

Longing in flames which render my revealed body full of sobbing illusory cracks coated in latex bark, its diagnosis is psychosis – a beheaded rose which has been lost nameless. You encounter all. You see all. You sense all. You endure cries of all, fates of all, but they will never tell you why. Daisies whisper about lust as their dirt drips down on my head. I feel so scoffed by them.

The worst thing is that I know I’m not going to die anytime soon, decades and decades are approaching and licking their lips when they linger about how they’re going to crush me. I have become a farce of myself and my view is empty, yawning into the farthest lands, belonging only and only to the field, the clock is almost ripe, I should harvest it or I will be out of time by winter, told me the approaching priest. Thus I stand and chant about your eyes that bling like transparent sea mirroring every sunray to all moles so they can eat the crops faster.

Feral artist

to Lukrécia

I want to stay in bed and dream just a little longer.

I want to detangle all the carousels. I want to tell all the people that most of the time they don’t know that they know the truth.

But the square meter I don’t own roars out morning trains with umbrellas under a roof, attacking skulls craving subtle touch. I put a knife on their nude hands: bring me residue of your partle entropy that’ll bestow me with the warmth of wolves. Cats are out on the streets already.

Who taught me to write? My head. My head comes from its own lies and truths that once were or weren’t on a steep white hill without grass, without trees and it felt so lonesome, yet free.

To profoundly come to terms with unity one needs to be alone. Does the world reflect me for I don’t happen to be the reflection of world on its own? Thereby do the works of my mind reflect the mind of yours? There is a balding woman full of codeine and a cold-skin snake of seven miles. They are alive, you see. They want to be your friends. And they cannot speak:

In the East they call me

American whore

and in the West they call me

Eastern block pushover.

The childbirth was hurried

within the blackness of rubber aggregate walls and roadless jeweled sky.

The only missing piece is the light,

a dayless frozen bead of hope I forgot in a stolen blue bus cold enough for aloud lunatics:

the stones bled and my world was made of liberty.


Writing regenerates my soul. Cleanses it from all that filth... Conventions, televisions and car drivers who purposely splash walkers on rainy days. Morning airness nourishing coal spots lowering from heavens. Streets we are unfree to walk coated in blind unbright milk. On a log of departed willow sits a sleepy water nymph and out of boredom she tickles all tulips into venomous delirium. Yet, I no longer slave to uncertain anxieties. I shall no more slouch naked on a bench in the center, asking strangers: “Are you my father? Are you my brother or friend?”

What I knew has been draining me and what I didn’t has made me lost. Old quills seem distant and strange. New quills seem like black veins, lines which cross each other until they eat out the entire page with their hollowness.

It’s impossible to be taught anything. You can be told where to find it, you can be shown or awed by another human being, yet it’s you who must learn it yourself, alone. And the older we grow the less we ask questions.

They have hidden the thirsty moon and dismembered it into silver stones. Skeleton that was left we call Thirsty moon: exorbitant restaurants, unconditional sacrifices of happiness.

“Is it love?”

Voyage of understanding spread to ashes has glued with realization that it is, indeed, love. Then the name which carries today’s date was buried and forgotten.

Awoken in a dream

Our parents had to wait in lines to get flour and meat. And we couldn’t sense the crudeness of the sun nor the wild screams of life. The cleaningness of our mother, furthering touches, Eden, wind. Awoken in a dream, crying. The animosity of the world at schools and works, masks on the streets, nature knows no hatred even with all her infiltrations, all for the money, money and fear.

All we could was to hold among the family and our own beliefs in coincidence, and own hopes that we are not insane, yet. Awoken in a dream, crying? No! Only awoke. Awoken with feet on dry ground and under brushy sun on grass next to your abdomen and curls.

You lived in a ghetto near a factory and it stank like something dying, dust and tobacco of your four pipes, herbal tea of the far East. Sakuras, old molds living forever. We are still learning to live although too soon we'd discover that no dreams are ever to be forgiven. For dinner we had raw cabbage and one hour of piano.

They’d never caught us with your umbrella above my head and they’d never asked for permission cards of free movement, you were carrying luck within yourself, it seems. You will haunt me for the rest of my life. Even after nightly hours, even in liminal spaces, even whilst speeches of literature, philosophy and loss of yourself for something that has nourished us and suddenly we were pierced by it, and it still hurts

and listeners are still clapping in arousal.


Elliotté P. Joel

Elliotté P. Joel is writer of nonsensical impressionism, painter and founder of Žilina Literary Association absencia významu. Born in Martin, Slovakia, Joel always considered writing the ultimate conservation of human soul, having her first book written at the age of 11. She attended Bilingual School of Trade in Martin where she began to write poetry in English, aged 15. Fueled by detachment from society, loneliness, unrequited love and sensitivity, Joel felt chained by the conventional perception of art and society as a whole thus invented her own genre, nonsensical impressionism. For the following four years, Joel was struggling to publish in Western world because of her controversial writing style and Slavic ancestry hence in 2022 she published her first book Wounded Poems in Slovakia. In 2023, she got to publish the second edition of Wounded Poems along with her new book Seek the Upside Eyes, There are Two in the United States. Since January 2023, Joel has been a chief executive officer of Žilina Literary Association absencia významu of post-modernist poets, which she has founded. Currently 21 years old, she is also studying Cultural Heritage at the University of Žilina and attending both local and international readings.


Photo by Kristián Motálik