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Martina Matijević

@vientoverde.bsky.social

204 followers 203 following 208 posts

Croatian poet-artist. Born from a dyslexic child’s imagination. Remember, you are loved.

Posts Replies Media

Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 9h

Enchanted Garden Haiku Journal

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 09/10/2026

@thebrokenspine.co.uk #PoemsAbout #Bites I tried. As much as a woman with a stomach ache on a Friday afternoon can. I will be reading the rest later.

October Drizzle

I am the line between the pink silkiness of a sparrow's chirp and the cobalt anvil of an owl's hoot. Once a blanket of clouds covers me, I turn into an October drizzle. Then, I seep into the basement of your dreams. Slowly, like drops of navy blue onto the remaining song notes.

Even though you're pulling them shut, the doors swing on the threshold of my low voice and an underground quiet. They're ajar, sliding between uncharted moonlight and your carpeted imprints.

midnight —
settling into the background
of your sleep

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 02/10/2026

A not-so-long-ago quarrel and the fact that @thebrokenspine.co.uk is looking for #PoemsAbout #Rot made me write an experimental #haibun. Happy Friday! Cheers!

Rot in Hell

Through the glassiness of suburban stars, I stretch out my hand to tuck them in. With each one, the root of red bleeds as if the devil's a painter. I splay my fingers like paintbrush bristles and sway them across the horizon. They tickle the gates. Suddenly, I become the black ink of the galactic canvas amid the last traces of fiery red. At once, I can hear the shouts of my family and the screams of the doomed.

bathroom mirror —
mouthing the insult
I left unsaid

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 12/09/2026

A haibun up at Heliosparrow Poetry Journal:

Multiverse

shooting stars gods play billiards, or maybe they pluck rocks, throw them like daisy petals and play she is/not with my existence until then I exist like a seed that may/may not sprout gods, lay your moonlight on me I might continue to the next round of your little game my size is a universe of its own which you can’t aim at somewhere near the edge of the universe I/‘ll have roots no one can reach because they are/will be nothing but a deep Prussian blue on the map of the universe

stargazer’s eye
swinging between
the now and the will be

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 21/08/2026

Joanna Ashwell, holy mother. It's been quite a long time since I was this struck by a poem before. It reminds me of healing during therapy.

Liminal

I can occupy both spaces at once, swaying on the threshold of past and present. There is a moment between the light fading and dusk beginning, that I slip within slides of day and night. My voice can contain the hum of a songbird or the silence of a snowflake. The not quite spoken, the almost unheard. A whisper in the ear, before a dream. Starlight gathering on the hem of darkness. The void when a pen hovers above paper. Somewhere a word splashes within the mind, touchdown on a memory. This jumble pushed and pulled together to form the pieces of a process.

transitions
a desert rose
pinned to the heart

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 10/08/2026

fever forgive me I need water

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 06/08/2026

I made a new friend today and took a picture as proof. 🦔

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 06/08/2026

cast in shadow

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 04/08/2026

A piece of mine is up at Mushroom Rain, a new kid on the block that I recommend submitting to because of its unique format. A public place for private notes, as Beth described it. mushroomrain.org

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 03/08/2026

Excited to be a part of a ground-breaking PJCA’s First International Multilingual Haiku Anthology dedicated to the 79th Independence Day of Pakistan. Thank you, Hifsa, for promoting the practice of writing haiku. @hifsays.bsky.social

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 01/08/2026

Can't wait to receive a copy. 🤍✨ It still feels surreal to be a part of something so important.

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 01/08/2026

A poem, "My Red, My Mother," up at The Mad River. Grateful to the editors for the acceptance. www.google.com/url?sa=t&sou...

My Red, My Mother

Red parasols speck the water flesh.
Poppy fields suddenly grow.
I lean in to dive,
but the smell of my mother's womb
pulls me back.

I spell out her contractions
across my right arm.
Faucet breeze tickles them.
Their crimson color is
the evening's last light
when she rubbed my cheeks
for the first time.

Mummy. Mum. Mother.

My red parasols melt like
the milk in my bottle used to.

It's too late for you to fix them for me,
so could your tears dissolve them, please?

Mother.

These meat-waves sting!

If I could only pluck them like poppies!
If I could only pass through them
like your fingers through my hair!
If they could only turn into clouds
that always protect poppy fields!

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 30/07/2026

This is how the sunlight painted nature today. golden hour — the sunlight drips down a plum orchard

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 25/07/2026

A piece up at paragraphplanet.com today. ☺️☺️☺️ Extremely grateful to Richard for publishing it. @paragraphplanet.bsky.social Relatively early graying isn't fun, but at least it makes a good story. 😅

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 21/07/2026

golden hour — the drops of lemon tea on the cup's rim

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Martina Matijević @vientoverde.bsky.social · 20/07/2026

A poem, "Daughter of Slavonia," is out today in PANEL. Many thanks to the editors, especially for creating space for pastoral poetry about Southeast Europe by various poets from the region. It's a landscape and cultural environment that have profoundly shaped me. panel-magazine.com/daughter-of-...

I descended into the vineyard when the grapes were being harvested.
It spread its branches to make me a cradle.
My father brought me down into the lowlands
through poppy-specked paths more undulating than a flock of sheep.
The sun in the yard where he brought me rises and sets
at the cue of a worker's song.
Fine particles of straw fall here more often than snow.
The sheep's bleat bounces off the horizon and returns.

In the morning,
I thrust the pitchfork into the hay as hard as I can.
With its every toss, I give birth to a sunset.
The sheep's tongues withhold it.
With every throw of water into the trough, I give birth to clouds.
Their tongues suck them dry.
In the afternoon, I help with the cooking.
The village cats try to get a share of the lunch.
The women of the family drive them away with sticks.
In the evening, I pen the sheep with the women of the family.
With their every bleat, the sky slowly turns into the bottom of a river.
I want to dive into it, but it is still too early.
It is the only thing that renews itself from morning to morning.

While I'm beneath it,
I wait to return
into its womb from which I descended.
I who was lowered into the vineyard and brought into the lowlands.

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