SARAH TUN - POEMS - BOSNIAN SERIES

Sarah Tun writes because it is the best way to stay sane, keeping ideas flowing and cobwebs at bay. First published at age 7 by her school principal, she’s been writing ever since. Poetry most recently has featured in Pangolin Review, Soft Cartel, Ariel Chart and Scarlet Leaf. Find more at: www.laruspress.com

Scars of the Bosnian War
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Bullet holes stare into me 
their vacant looks: despair 
Mortar once had life; now
only shells stand there
which penetrate the back of me 
as I breeze past on the road 
the haunting — it remains within 
unburdening its load. 

Sarajevo victim 
of war and hate and strife 
decades now have passed 
time now: return to life!
Hard faces focus straight ahead 
war wounds embedded within 
scars invisible, yet laid bare
expose where they have been.

Sarajevo Rose 
embedded in the ground 
tell your tales of victims 
without making a sound:
the screams of shells fill my ears 
images cannot touch; 
the truth of horrors tho unseen 
speculation knows so much.

Wounds of silenced guns 
hang empty in the air 
a city once a-thriving; 
lacks hope or joy or flair. 
And yet a firmer grip 
remains within this place --
a staunch commitment, inner strength 
Survival speaks this race. 

Sarajevo Jewel 
a dream beyond despair 
where life promises renewal 
now let hope repair.

​

Cold Night

A home of soiled garments 
stench so strong 
breaks my heart 
for warmth you long. 
You live in a shack: so dark
no candle glow, no life, no spark
so poor, so lonely 
heart can’t claim 
hope. No-one knows 
'till now, so maimed 
inside you cry.
Yet bravely on you 
and your children 
beg for yarn 
or food or money to pay for heat 
yet nothing comes - there is no meat. 
Today will pass, tomorrow come 
Look what poverty and war have done. 

​

War Widow

Woman you are angry 
puffing on your cigarette 
You did nothing wrong 
yet face ultimate regret. 

Your child has been abandoned
your husband has been wronged
you — raped and broken watched them die — 
how you’ve suffered for so long. 

Face hard and full of anger
from hatred you received;
yet proudly, silently you linger 
over memories you do not need. 

You brush them past your eyesight 
into darkness stuff them down 
and lapse into a blanket stare 
no peace behind your frown. 

For hanging onto anger 
and bitterest despair 
will keep you sane and stronger 
than hope or vacant air.

​

Rug Man
​

So enthusiastic he was 
as he explained his wares to me 
The rug man and his carpets 
were so beautiful to see. 
And more than that 
there was his joy 
at Bosnian craft and skill; 
If I could have stayed 
an hour or more 
I would have had much thrill
to see within his face a light 
I had not seen to date, 
a hope and pride within this man 
that was otherwise lost to fate. 
The country's woes are clear to us 
who walk beside this race 
a nation's sadness, clear to see 
except in Rug Man's face. 

​

​Mr —Vich

A gentle blend of pride and shame 
I wonder where he casts his blame 
this staunch man with a friendly grin
unhappy, but it is no sin;
a man who has no work 
what is he worth? For him
his family needs to see 
confidence not sad-faced grim. 

He came to find salvation
yet hangs on to his past; 
he needs respect, a useful point 
to find solution that will last. 
He loves his wife and family 
this is clear and plain to see
yet it must be hard not to complain 
hold on to hope and victory. 

He came to find a way to flee
instead he’s turned away; 
zero points to win his place 
in a country far away.



What of his self respect
when he has no place to go? 
For the morning shift that never comes 
does he persevere or bow 
to disappointment, pressure 
surrender in the face 
of obsolescence, failure
does he feel a harsh disgrace? 

There is no shame in trying to leave
when there is no hope to gain 
a job or recognition.
It’s amazing he refrains 
from madness or alcohol, 
abandonment or shame. 
You are a wonder Mr —Vich 
the man that bears no name. 

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