First Internet Antology of Macedonian Poetry
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KONSTANTIN MILADINOV
1830-1862
Born in Struga and graduated in Philology at Athens, Miladinov embarked on further studies in Moscow. With the help of his brother Dimitar, he brought out a 'Collection of Folk Poems' (1860), which helped in arousing the Macedonian people. Miladinov, the first notable poet of 19th century, wrote a total number of fifteen poems in which the elegiac note is dominant.
LONGING FOR THE SOUTH
If I had an eagle's wings
I would rise and fly on them
To our shores, to our own parts
To see Stamboul, to see Kukus;
And to watch the sunrise: is it
Dim there too as is here?
If the sun still rises dimly
If it meets me there as here
I'll prepare for further travels
I shall flee to other shores
Where the sunrise greets me brightly
And the sky is sewn with stars.
It is dark here; darkness surrounds me,
It covers all the earth,
Here are frosts and snows and ashes,
Blizzards and harsh winds abound.
Fogs all around, the earth is ice,
And in our breast cold, dark thoughts.
No, I cannot stay here, no;
I cannot look upon these frosts.
Give me wings and I will don them;
I will fly to our own shores,
Go once more to our own places,
Go to Ohrid and to Struga.
There the sunrise warms the soul,
The sun sets bright in mountain woods:
Younder gifts in great profusion
Richly spread by nature's power.
See the clear lake stretching white
Its blueness darkened by the wind
Look at the plains or mountains:
Beauty's everywhere divine.
To pipe there to my heart's content!
Ah! let the sun set, let me die.
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KOSTA-KOCO RACIN
1909-1943
One of the founders of the new Macedonian poetry and an active member of the Marxist and Revolutionary Activity in Yugoslavia. His collection of poems White Dawns, the first book of poetry in pre-war Yugoslavia, appeared in 1938 under much unfavourable circumstances. Racin died tragically as a partisan in 1943. His poetry, with its folk basis, expresses the most vital social and spiritual experiences of the Macedonian people during their difficult years of deprivation of national rights in particular and oppression of individual human rights in general. The poetry books The Lyrics, The Gospel Of Itar Pejo; the novels The Village Behind The Seven Ashes, The Sleep Walker, The Stubborn Heads; and the story collection The Clans And the People are his note-worthy contributions.
ELEGIES FOR YOU
I
Yesterday I set out, walked
through yon green wood
beneath the tall branches
on yon shadow carpet broad.
I walked, my head stunned,
drooping, dead, listless;
I walked, a load on my heart
and a black stone in my breast.
The greenwood of the heroes!
Cool water of the heroes!
Birds sing while you weep,
the sun shines as you darken.
What if you hide the bones
of brave young heroes
lying there beneath you
in your dark groves,
why conceal their songs?
Why do the trees
and the branches of the trees
and the leaves on the branches
whisper so secretly, so sadly?
II
Beastly, beastly is the labourer's life,
walled up in darkness
we are pressed down into beastliness
in this fair world.
Who broke our white wings,
wings of white doves?
who fouled the clear springs,
springs of pure souls?
And who shut, who shut
man off from man with walls?
And who made, who made
man slave to man?
Man from man
to suffer
and crawl
and flee
from cradle to grave!
III
Pour, plunder,
sweat and labour and bare your flesh;
close your vain mouth
lest it speaks of its pain.
Gouge out those black eyes,
let them not look;
break those manly arms,
wound the burning heart.
Put out the lights!
Let there be dark-black stone!
There is, there is still in the dark
something alive to shine out
there is the soul's pain,
there are wounded souls.
The pain aches, the pain burns,
the pain smarts, the soul afflicted.
But when the pain shines out -
'ware, beware, 'ware of its curse!
TO HAVE A SHOP IN STRUGA
It has burnt out - desire has burnt out,
burnt out and gone to ashes!
Only do not rouse the grief
of good old master-craftsmen!
Heavy times are come
and heavier ways,
men are dying daily
their souls are gathered in.
Sing not the song of suffering -
leaves drip in the woods,
waters flow, breaking their banks
and dragging off young aspens.
The markets are dying,
shops abandoned -
all has fallen, crashed;
the golden craft is rusting.
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SLAVKO JANEVSKI
b. 1920
Born in Skopje. Studied at the College of Technology. Member of the Macedonian Academy of Arts and Sciences. Writes poetry, short stories and novels: several volumes of each genere. Has been translated into Serbo-Croat, Slovene, Romanian, Czech, Italian, Russian, English, Hungarian, Albanian, Turkish, German, French, Polish and Esperanto. Winner of several prizes.
PASTEL
There the hungry wolf
with his teeth
has ripped out the hot entrails.
There the fugitive convict
stone by stone
has dug his grave.
There the naked dead
on a table of their bones
have chopped up the moon.
There the rutting stags,
their antlers entangled,
have turned into skeletons.
There on hard arid ground
sorcerers have woven
a wedding feast banner from their veins.
The groom is the wind,
the bride is the mist.
Amazingly in their cradle
(a handful of earth and hope)
a nameless flower opens.
Let's go and name it:
let it be called Dream.
LOOKING FOR AN ANSWER
It left his skin on a stone
and turned into stone. A viper.
It grunted from rifle shots
and turned into mist. A wild boar.
It washed its eyes in foam
and turned into a sigh. Day.
In the village of Vrazi Dol
Old father Time has sat down on a stone
and on his fingers
of wisdom
calculates
how many drops of blackberry wine are needed
to prolong his life.
You can ask yourself and still you won't know:
Does time die with man?
MARKINGS
This race,
this wonderful race!
Here it kisses the hangman
with a golden noose round its neck;
here for a fistful of mulberries
it fights to the blood with a brother;
here it gets drunk with rage,
foaming at the mouth,
here it plucks the live heart
from a dove.
This race,
this wonderful race!
In its furrows
under the sun awakens
a flower with a biblical name:
Mother-of-God's-heart.
BREAKFAST WITH DEATH
He doesn't come the way you thought
from rose-coloured glaciers
with a dead stag in his arms.
Quietly he creeps out of
the sunflowers' sparks,
his eyes are golden,
his hands those of a ploughman.
We meet like friends
on an ant's trail:
Death with a primrose in his teeth,
you with a cake under your arm.
The primrose of salamader skin
the cake of sweat and sand.
He with primrose wine
you with a mouthful of cake,
both in the jaws of time.
As you lay down together
on a bed of nettles
Death's nine larks
began a lullaby.
And the warm breezes too
fell asleep under the stone.
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ACO SOPOV
Participated in the Yugoslav fight for freedom about which he has composed the poems Love and Partisan Spring (dedicated to the brave Vera Jocic). Author of a number of poetry collections. Won many literary awards including the Anti-Fascist Council for the National Liberation of Yugoslavia Prize in 1971.
IN SILENCE
If you carry within you something unsaid,
something which pains and burns,
bury it within the depths of silence -
the silence will say it for you.
TO THE SEAGULL CIRCLING MY HEAD
Seagull of mine,
do not land upon my eyes.
There is no way to capture those estranged waves.
Swoop down to all depths,
Soar up to all heights
and enable me to see.
I no longer have eyes,
Seagull of mine.
Do not land upon my heart.
My heart is no longer mine,
Seagull of mine.
Fly beyond all unknown regions
to all the living, unknown, dead.
See the lonely, the alienated,
the icy peaks, the green fields
and listen -
As long as your as your wings peacefully flutter above,
my heart beats restlessly with them.
Do not descend seagull of mine,
but return again to your flock.
I am a boat drifting alone
in the uncharted unknown.
READING THE ASHES
Burn within the fire, poem,
which you lit yourself.
Words scatter and disappear
within the ashes of flints.
Reader of the ashes,
do you see the historical drama there,
that comes from the bottom of that dark spring.
I rescued you, poem, from the beak of a bird,
which flies through my blood,
through the red sky of my burning veins,
through the cables of two contradicting worlds,
through sunrises of unknown change.
I rescued you from the anger of the icons;
those unappreciative spectrums,
capturing the lightning as it strikes
the spear of a stone warrior,
and from the dreams of those
who are greater than the dreams that entice them,
and are reborn as soon as they are extinguished.
Now we are two worlds, two enemies,
two conflicting sides,
which are now at war without a truce;
dagger against dagger.
Who is defeated? Who is winner?
Who arises with significant scars?
Burn within the fire, poem, which
you lit yourself.
WOMAN IN IVERNAZ
Night overflows. Vehement rain.
Night and rain. Rain and night. Ivernaz
and a woman alone in the night and ivernaz
beneath the distant thunder of the tom-toms
serpent-like she writhes in the rain
as in the arms of a man.
A woman in the night; an old and squeaky car,
a woman awoken by the noisy rain,
a woman insane from pleasure -
dances in the night, in the rain,
naked and alone.
And the rain falls like a cure
for severe wounds;
a cure from the dark powers and passions.
The rain falls like a murmur, a caress:
Arise and grow!
The rain falls and there
is no end to the ivernaz
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MATEJA MATEVSKI
b. 1929
Studied French theatre and literature at Paris in 1962-63. He delivers lectures on world drama and theatre as an Associate Professor at the Faculty of Music and Drama at Skopje. At present, he is Chairman of the Republic Commission for Cultural Relationship Abroad. Rains, Circle, Holiday's Romance, and Sundown are some of his published poetry collections. His writings have been translated into Slovenian, Albanian and Italian languages.
THE BULLET
This bullet so carefully manufactured
from a lump of heavy ore
into a cruel grain
in some country
in some place
this bullet this wild beast
this dark messenger of death
which memorizes every letter
of my name
traces my ancestors
hounds my shadow
this bullet which seeks me
in the universe
which penetrates my sleep
which buries itself in my fear
without reason without asking without
by-your-leave
a grain merely on its way
to its target
from the muzzle-flash
to the shattered skull
This bullet from an unknown hand
from an unperceived breath
that wants to take the breath
from my body
when it discovers me and hides under
my forehead
it will kill no more
CRIMSON, CRIMSON CRIMSON
Like a song carried off
into the blue sea
of mountains
the sunset
drowns...
From grass to shepherd's pipe
from flock to cloud
all luxuriant
inflamed
From breasts to song
from step to fountain
all phenomenal
and pampered
A flock enamoured of the shepherd's
pipe
a bell lost in a song
an eye crazed over a peony
Crimson, crimson, crimson.
THE LAKE
After many a year and many a dream
I again returned
to the lake
with the sweet waters
hidden in the hill's loins
The sun's diamond's
still cutting it
Not a stone in its depths
nor grass to obscure its throat
under the waves
nor the bird with its prey
I'm only an eye the eye of the sun
that ruffles its ancient
waters
Oh leave me by this lake
leave me there
by the bitter lake
dead
RETURN
You're coming to me and I sing
of your non-return
From azure heights
from deep shadows
with years
with suffering
Why are you hastening
with your dying
through slow living
The earth has long absorbed
my song
my curses
Deaf time is not awakened
even by love's howling
The heart has forgotten you
only the wrinkles on my face
remember you
On my face
on your rock-face
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PETRE M. ANDREEVSKI
b. 1934
Born in a village near Demir Hisar. Works for Skopje Television. Several volumes of poetry, several novels, some plays, some children's poetry. He has been translated into Serbo-Croat, Romanian and other languages. He translates from Serbo-Croat. Winner of several literary prizes.
HARVEST
Two armies are facing each other
neither yields
Each soldier on one side
grips a crescent moon
the others have nothing
nowhere to flee
Yet there are so many of them
their shadows are blending
Above them the sun's bee-hive
sings hymns to the summer
(The earth burns skyward
fetch the well in your jugs)
Two armies are battling
the smaller one is victorious
LOVE LETTERS
from a cycle FIVE LOVE LETTERS
I.
Nothing is more visible
and nothing is more present than your absence:
not the childish whispers which I discovered
in the crops of the rain,
nor the hint of storm in the cobwebs
in little roadside bars,
nor aerial paths lit up by swallows,
nor that which acquires shape only in my hearing,
nor my hearing while a belated cricket
winds up its nocturnal clock,
nor the birthpangs of the scattered seed,
nor the flaming fire on the cockerel's head
while it runs from the shade that descends from the sky,
nor the space which remains to me between your hands,
between your two hot suns,
nor the snake which ruffles the top of the corn,
nor the snowdrifts and hailstorms in poppy fields,
nor the flame which rises like autumn mist
in the fields of pepper,
nor the love and hatred between key and padlock,
nor the hidden light in a purchased match;
nothing is more visible than the trail you left
before me, behind me, with me and in me.
V.
And I sought you in textbooks, I sought you across the ages,
in the wind's ambushes, in winter's mortars,
in uncomprehended shame on the horizon before sunset,
in uncomprehended longing of a strand of tobacco
which twists and crumbles between the fingers,
in the displaced light of the blind and the dead,
in the equilibrium between past days and future nights,
in the captivity of souls of glass-blowers.
I sought you in the accents of unknown languages,
in the unsaddled evenings and empty beds in the field,
in the surprise primrose behind the herb-seller's ear,
in the punctuation in the speech of whining children.
I'm seeking you in the wild chance of unification
of my scattered nation,
in a stalk of sorrel, in the unused air
which annoyed and appeased the neighbouring villages,
by the anvils of hot and feminine afternoons,
among the fruit hastening towards its seasonal goal,
in the needle which sewed up darkness and light.
I sought you, listening for the underground drumbeat
that was the heart of sleeping harvesters.
I sought you beyond the sky, in heavenly molehills,
in the unread electric meter of an extinguished firefly,
in the assassination attempts by my people against my
people,
in the undistinguished constancy of the points of the
compass,
undistinguished, and understood as a constant waste of
time.
I sought you in the unfinished fear of the shooting star,
unable to reach anything in space.
I sought you, I'm seeking you in all and everything.
I sought you, and seeking you I might only have met you,
but not found you, no, not found you.
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PETAR BOSKOVSKI
b. 1936
Born in a village near Krusevo. Works for Skopje Radio, mainly on cultural, scientific, educational and documentary programmes. Several volumes of poetry. Co-author of anthologies. Has been translated into Serbo-Croat and Albanian. He translates from Serbo-Croat. Winner of several prizes.
BUTTERFLIES
Lightly they descend on the landscape,
the colourful butterflies of spring,
like tremulous sighs,
like blossom from heaven.
Innocently they settle on the greenery
which last year the merciless caterpillars
stripped down to sadness so it should give them
the wings for this year's beauty.
But now it gives you the right to flee
fiercely as if seized by madness,
and let no one ask
what's happened to your good sense.
SPRING IN THE FOREST
Something aroused me from a dream
and I went
to see my own eyes
As I bent over
a wild forest grew up
from them, touching the sun
Then I was seized by a fast current
of gentle falling,
demanding only my soul
From the topmost and softest air
I separated the purest water
and kissed its brow
Yet I don't know where it began
to tempt me into madness,
the silver restlessness of an undiscovered legend
But the first yellow leaf of the old forest
dropped to the ground before my eyes,
sending me back
Since then
that silver restlessness
has remained in my heart
And in my blood
ceaselessly teams
that undiscovered legend
And I no longer dream of the spring in the forest.
DRUM BEAT
You beat in our blood
you knit us tight
you let blood speak.
From an unknown age
you bring before us
a woman in black.
The healing pulse
of your voice
unbinds our souls' beauty
and the devil of black despair
is beaten swiftly down,
his gambit doomed
his fifes are caught up
in the spell of rich old wine.
New rebellions are in the waters.
Throughout the wedding is heard
the pulse of the dead's tread;
the bridegroom gives it room.
But what can we think to say
to that woman in black
who knows the veins of fire?
Inside our veins, the ache,
the sweet address of old hills,
the epiphany of sound is within us.
They will never die,
never,
these syllables of time.
FRESCO
On the left sidewall of the church in Glusino,
painted with talent and skill,
you'll see a small area left as a riddle:
a patch of bare plaster big enough for one more saint.
It's not that they didn't know what to do with that spot
or that there wasn't any money left for that small patch,
or that a quarrel had arisen about the orthodoxy of the
painting.
It must be a sign of some blind misadventure:
it was struck by a gang of bandits and cut-throats,
swamped by an army of unbelievers and dragged away,
struck by cholera or mown down by the plague...
It was something that kills the god in man,
but was not recorded by our impoverished ancestors.
The little church remained as it was then.
One might say that this isn't the work of a human hand,
that this spot of a slap in the face was not a place
where, thinking of its master craftsman, you should think
of a man.
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RADOVAN PAVLOVSKI
b. 1937
Born in Nish, FR Yugoslavia. Poet, essayist and travelogue writer. Translated in over 50 languages. and included in various anthologies of Macedonian contemporary poetry.
THE YOUTH THAT SLEEPS AT NOON
The Sound of death
makes you sleep
Oh, youth
Wake up.
You have a field resounding of herbs and hoes
The morning sun is a large table
whereupon ploughmen break their bread
The noon hides black threads of the night
You have buried under you stones and moon.
Ten riders from ambush
fly closer like waves of fear
A tender herb ties your fingers
to the ground and does not let you go
until you gave
a dark kiss in the middle of the noon.
A chorus of dead lovers raises from the grass
Wake up oh, youth
My ship built of grapevine
with husky throat is at sea.
There is an hour when everything
is dead of a dream
There is an hour when I study myself
to see if I am mad.
It is evening
And many people come to wake you up
You draw the map of the stars
And breathe deeply
Wake up oh, youth
And tell us your dreams
And on a nice horse we shall come
to Zelezna Reka
The wind of the mills to refresh us
with a wounded blossom I button
the shirt of wind
and come home oh, love.
Tell me what do you drink in your dream
When you do not wake up oh, youth.
MESSAGE
If I die
carry me
on a litter of metaphors
Do not descend me anywhere
From the shore of one sea
To the shore of another sea
Let me rest
Let the distance weep
If I die
Do not close my eyes
Keep on loving
With blind insignificances
If I die
Do not take me dead to Reka
Bury me
In the pupil of the world.
MAJA
I
It was like a curse when I saw
the stars in daytime:
I was approaching you, my hands
full of darkness and speech,
like a vagrant I feared sleeping on roads
for the great ants would tear at my skin
but you lifted me in air
I perched in your tower like a bird
and my soul quenched the crowd's
thunder and lightning.
Then we chose a wide place, of flowers and bells.
I came there as a reaper, full of whistling,
you came full of fruit.
All round us were thieves' tracks.
We lost dawn through our fingers.
The crickets stored the beauty
of flowers against winter.
It was like a curse when I saw
the stars in daytime:
I was clearing a road to protect you
In the air were the cries of our children
I destroyed other good things
so I could see our pure treasure
with its fiery heart.
When you were coming I spread my arms
on the ground.
Proud bells shook the sky
scented with thyme.
II
Give back to the waters the blue stone
where grass flowers and tides are enclosed.
My heart ripened with the wheat.
In the afternoon the sun breathed life
into the sickness of the rooms
I set out the flower to breathe air
Heroes were struggling in the fields
Everywhere was the smell of war, invisible war
and then a wedding.
For Maja and I were born queen and king,
wed by tide, destroyed by rain.
A red fruit lit up the bed,
a shadow from the forest
lingered in the window.
It was the shadow that hid us
when we hid in the forest,
That was the time when the golden dogwood
blossoms fell on the snow;
that was the month of our love.
The moon like a black nun
wandered through tall flowers.
Where was the centre of things?
O Maja, dew and fire,
may the bread rise, the milk overflow
on the fire; it is useless. A ghost-actor
wanders lost on the roads.
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PETRE BAKEVSKI
b. 1947
Born in Kavadarci, Macedonia. He worked as a journalist, theatre critic and editor. At the present, he is Director and Editor-in-Chief of the Publishing House Detska Radost, at NIP Nova Makedonija in Skopje.
THE SECRET DOORS TO SILENCE
In Troy -
The secret doors to silence open,
He, the Great One, who sets ablaze
with heavenly light
the shadows of the ruins,
Who walks with red fire through the lucent
silence
that clings to the dry face
of the stone
With a white star on his palm, he holds
the day
drawn out
from the silken mantle
of the dawn
He, the Great One, silently stares at his
unseen star,
And as the silence revives the deaf
chime
of time,
He unites time -
And gives it meaning once more: to come awake,
To come awake - in the campaigns!
Will he reach the dead voices
of the vanished
warriors,
In the torn down stones,
The face of silence has been twisted,
The ruined walls in
the invisible
wind,
The sky lies open to the healed wounds
of silence,
He comes from the sunrise,
And down the gilded beams of the morning,
Measures his dream in the silvery whiteness
of Troy,
Where the sword of Achilles is buried,
Where the shadow has harvested
the chill
of loneliness,
Where the stone becalsm the noiseless
roar
of the sea,
And the birds fly,
And the birds fly down the magic paths
of time,
To reach -
The hero's invisible might!
Winds from the sea blow,
Over Troy -
Clouds gather,
As if a black flock of birds pecks at the day,
As if thunders roar in the mountains,
And in a fiery echo cling
to the bronze face
of the Great One,
And he -
Amidst a storm of dark clouds,
Raging winds,
And black rains from the sea's roar,
With naked body,
With naked body,
Braving the lightning,
Runs around the grave of Achilles,
Runs around Achilles,
Runs,
Runs,
Ties time up in circles,
Amidst a storm of dark clouds,
Raging winds,
And black rains from the sea's roar
With naked body - naked in the lightning
He runs,
Runs,
Runs,
Runs the course of his future,
And opens the secret door to silence!
With naked body - naked in the lightning
He, the Great One,
In the awakened time of Troy!
DOWN THE GOLDEN PATHS OF THE BIRDS
One should go down the golden paths
of the birds,
Troy does not change the vanished face
of time
The Great One has roused from the dream of his
thunders
The silence is illumined for new campaigns,
For new campaigns...
The new Achilles is in his golden armour,
He gazes at the sun,
He is in the sun and of the sun,
He is in the burning distance
of the conquests,
Oh, one should go down the golden paths
of the birds,
Down the golden paths of the birds...
And from the dust,
From the awakened sleep of Troy,
From the petrified time of destructions,
From the ashes,
From the silenced cries,
From the doused hearths,
The unheard voice of Hephaestus
The burning fires of the blacksmith
of Olympus,
The doused stars of the starry sky
on the golden shield
of Achilles,
From the dust
From the yellow spears of loneliness,
All is turned towards the Great One,
All is turned towards the Great One,
Oh, he lifts the golden shield,
He lifts Troy on the shield,
Time merges with the shadow of his sword,
In new campaigns,
In new campaigns,
To guard the sleep of the warriors,
To guard the silence on the battlefields,
And to sense,
And to sense -
The pathway to the sun,
Oh, one should go down the golden paths
of the birds!
The Great One sets forth!
The Great One sets forth!
Oh, one comes to Troy but once!
THE WALKING STICK OF BLAZE KONESKI
Titov Veles, November 24, 1988
The poet mounts the platform -
it's pretty high and has a microphone.
He leans on his walking stick -
to fortify the thought, to sharpen
the word!
Behind him, a picture of Racin!
The poet turns to the face of Racin!
two looks - two destinies,
some silence flows between the lines,
unsaid things -
what can the two poets
talk about!
They look just enough to greet each other.
All has been said between them -
like between old friends
the poem spoke for the poets!
The walking stick turns to the hall,
supports the old poet,
and it seems -
the ceremony's over!
But he -
lifts the stick and speaks -
he was the first and his rhymes are the first!
Time still nourishes the poems
The legend should be finished
The dogmatic powers are defeated!
The old poet's walking stick dangles
Points at the hall,
makes some strange circles,
someone's sharp look shoots at somebody's eyes,
perhaps it will hit somebody's conscience!
The walking stick dangles and cautions
Outside it is winter, it snows,
The night slowly passes into oblivion,
The people are leaving the hall,
outside it is winter, it snows,
we leave and go to our solitude,
the night slowly passes into oblivion -
Oh, God, what did the poet say
and where he and his stick disappeared!
Outside it is winter, it snows!
Did our poet say anything at all!
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KATICA KULAVKOVA
b. 1951
Born in Titov Veles. Studied literature in Skopje: works at the Literature Institute of the Philosophical Faculty in Skopje. Several volumes of poetry and some literary criticism. Has been translated into Serbo-Croat. She translates from Serbo-Croat and French. Winner of two prizes.
THE MYSTERIOUSNESS OF YOUR TONGUE
The tongue is never sufficient unto itself
The hymens of words are bursting
spattering blood - an unlyrical saliva
penetration lubricated in sagacity.
Fragrant lances sink inside
but right inside
the tongue's anagram is
an insatiable game
from my gullet to yours
The more archaic
the more festive
the dialect of love
the hymn of the lips
the red forecourt of the throat
give it to me
spirally
spiritually
ritually
honey-baked
peasant bread, tongue-bread
tongue on the spit, earth rust-red
take it from me
give it to me!
We think up lingual digressions
excursions to pure regions of the world
reciprocal situation plays:
The god of our tongue is dead
(therefore he's God)
now we have every right
to reshape him
to change him
between us, so that magnanimously
we're consumed by fire
both in dream
and in reality.
THE NECK
- a neuralgic spot -
The neck - a gateway to Mycenae
(not all the tombs are open to the public)
from the dregs of the subconscious - history
there turns its objects of value
forward and backward
art not for art's sake
the twentieth century arrives unexpectedly
The general bewilderment is not enough
to change woman's appearance
the provocation of her neck
"In certain conditions
the archetype is detrimental to..." or
"The cult is organic matter: it is not lost
- it is transformed", etc.
news that makes us happy:
youthfulness of appearance (Modigliani)
vines of a new kind of beauty
- and Tsvetayeva's invisible fingers
on the back of a long stubborn winter
a mime of silent protest
all in all
the anti-grammar of despair
- know thyself
moreover (by association from the neck)
straits which pulsate - hope squeezed tight
a gorge in which a double bass groans
and manly argonauts
from other worlds
do not abandon their pursuit
the entry into woman is infinitely long
your will be done
your free will!
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source: http://www.mian.com.mk/eizdanija/eizdanija.htm