Interchange of Words

Dedicated to my Friends, Sandybeach Writers



I used to be embarrassed

of my own words

They poured out of me

and I felt uncomfortable

I kept hearing:

“Your writing is childish bliberish”

“Others are better than you”

“You are average”

Or my father’s,

“Let her write poems,

better than going with boys”


I met friends

they told me:

“Your words are beautiful”

“You are an artist”


I didn’t believe them

At first


Their words

Dangled with mine

And taught me acceptance of the beauty of both

Ellina Zipman

11 May 2016


My Writing

My writing

Brings me to life

from the bird I was

burnt off feathers

with soul deflated

a drunken vessel


It grants freedom

fills my cup

with the liquor

of words

and sounds


It returns my song

Of the birth

Long ago

Reincarnates me

From ashes

To new life

ellina zipman

Melbourne/2014- 5Nov15


I am a closed book.

One can’t read me from the beginning to end

Some can get a pick from a page

For others I am beyond comprehension

Nobody can get all of me

A poems collection

One can open me randomly

at selected pages

With one piece to be consumed at a time

One for my children

One for people I love

One for soulmates

One for acquaintances

I only open to few

No one can read me in full

Like blind men reading an elephant

They can only see an ear, or a trunk

Or a foot, or a tail

They can’t see the majestic creature

I am an abstract painting

A dotted art work

Moved from accustomed images

I am not a story

I am a single piece of fruit

To be tasted and savoured

I am a closed book to most

But some may get a pick

Ellina zipman

4 Sept 2015/Melbourne

the search

i can’t find my music

my words i found

my music is hiding

inside my head

i put it there myself

when i was a child

i used to sing

shower melodies

the sunrise dew

the tones of steamy summer

the bells of childhood Sundays

dancing to tapes

they told me

i howled

screeched like a razor on glass


buzzed like a water pipe

i locked my music away

into the cellar of my mind

into the deep pond

of discarded thoughts


i can’t find my music

the words found an escape

from  my weed-overgrown soul

the music is still searching

for a hole to come through

ellina zipman


Birth of a Poem

It starts with a single line

A dot of sunlight

knocking on the window,

stirring you in the morning,

urging to wake up


Pick it up

Run with it

See where it will take you

It weaves its way

into your subconscious

stays there



Accept this free gift and fly

Bend it into shapes

Colour it in the rainbow shades

Bury it in the sea

By ellina zipman

Nothing words

Words, words, words…



With no meaning

Just words

Nothing words

Words that turn your anger up

Or switch a button

On to happiness station

Words that turn you yellow

Or color the face red

Or splash a shade of green

In your complexion


That make you jump

Up and down

In excitement

Or roll over

On the floor

In devastation

Words that heal

Or move

Or inspire

Words are real

Not just air

Spoken into nothingness

Words hurt

And  words love

Ellina Zipman


Melbourne, Sandybeach


I write on the train

at the traffic lights

in bed

before shower

I interrupt conversations

to write something down

Sometimes I don’t have

a pen and a paper on me

and the poems leave my head

and move on

Poems have wings

they travel

they gift me with sounds

ellina zipman



Some words flow

And some I have to search for

Some I have to write lots of

And some I have to discard

But some are gems

Inside of trash

I pick them up slowly

Out of dump

And give them clean and polish

So they shine

Like stars

On un-rainy sky


4 February 2012


To Write or Not To Write

To Write or Not to Write

That is the Question.

Shakespearean Man has asked that

Once before

To Pour Love and Hate on Pages

Or never mention

That Thing that Bleeds inside

While it atones

Who says you’ve only one chance

To state your business

Who’ll estimate your tryings till the end

To cut it open all

And listen

To dripping words

That heart to mend


Melbourne/Ellina Zipman

On a point of inspiration

I wrote a poem in five minutes. In the car. While waiting to pick up my daughter from school. Then, at home, I entered ten poems into a poetry competition.  The judges chose the five minute one. I was surprised. I didn’t consider it that good.  I thought the others, that were worked on for weeks, edited and polished, were much better choices.
This begs a question. Should I have not worked so hard on the poems that were rejected?  Should I have waited for that perfect poem to come to my mind and illuminate me with its brilliance?
Yet, it is not as simple as that.
That perfect poem was brewing in my head for years before it was ready to come to the surface; a baby growing in the womb for months and shooting out fast when its time has come.