My Jogi

A.H. Starlingsson
1 min readNov 15, 2021

A jogi in Afghanistan is a gypsy, both ethnically as well as by forced lifestyle

my jogi
who lived on the streetcorner
lives there no more
perhaps she is walking
to where life is a little more fair?
no, just walking anywhere, rather than nowhere
but nowhere is the only home
she knows —
a nobody knows no other home

‘Bury me standing,’ they say, the gypsies, the invisible ones who walk this earth in search of………well, in search of bread. One has to be practical faced with hunger. Many of the gypsies scattered across this globe are not even disillusioned: with what? How can you be disillusioned with something that does not exist?

So you sing. And dance. Why not? And you beg. Through the prism, another world that exists all around you, but not in you, never within, because it is that which would break you, in the end, if you are still breakable.

A quadrille is a poem consisting of exactly 44 words. There are proper, or conventional ways to go about this, using rhyme and rhythm techniques, however, I struggle with both. This quadrille was written for dverse, where quadrille originates from.



A.H. Starlingsson

—dispatches from Ukraine🌲currently writing "Distant Taps The Woodpecker,* Mastodon contact: starlingsson@gmail.com_