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Bluebell is a poem concerning the conflicted experience of coming from a migrant background. Using inspiration from my own experience as a Serbian/Greek-Australian woman, I explore the different parts of culture that are suppressed when displaced within an alternate country. I seek to create a mood of serenity and peace in the description of the Serbian landscape, exploring its gem-like experience through imagery of flowy streams and vibrant flora. However, this is contrasted by the harsh dry desert land of the Australian country, expressing the feeling of culture being ripped apart and forced into assimilation. The harshness of the land is a testament to the difficulty of surviving in the new foreign country and expresses the resistance to becoming a part of it. Toward the end of the poem, there is a recognition that the merging of cultures is necessary, and one may never experience their homeland quite the same way again.


For God.


Blood red strokes piercing skinned throats. 

Whispering willows of thistles and thorns 

Wastelands of entombed dirt upon dusted, 

Harsh orange- suckling sun spells dizzied plains.


O, time was a dagger willing me into

Two open doorways leading to a fence line-

Wires choking and entangling gulps of sweet kisses- I remember-


The open blue skies, crows of night, wooden, 

Stoned houses of air, green emerald jewels 

In pairs- of luscious streamline dance.

Along the meadow- where bluebells dressed themselves in violet rain 

Now down pathways leading to nothingness-

Streams of confusion: 

Time is dead.

Time is dead.

Time is dead.


O, harsh country of golden sunrises

Sand like hurricanes in bee studded weeds 

O, harsh summer suns of winter.

Freezing smoke into dead mist and leaves 

O, harsh country with cold-blooded eyes 

Your bails of straw crush spikes of fire.


You kill your precious servants. 

With tied memories fading slow

In between moments of subservience 

Deeply burned wings stump growth.


Bluebell is dead.

Bluebell is dead.

Bluebell is dead.

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