First Internet Antology of Macedonian Poetry
- 2 -
GRIGOR PRLICEV
1830-1893
Extremely well-acquainted with Hellenistic culture, Prlicev was a poet inspired by epics to a great extent. As an admirer of Homer, he devoted himself to translating his favourite poet. He was given the title 'Second Homer' in 1860 for his poem The Sirdar while he was a student of medicine in Athens. Based on a folk poem, it deals with the exploits and heroic death of Kuzman Kapidan, a famous hero and protector of his people in their struggle with the marauding tribes.
THE SIRDAR
From Galichnik to Reka sighs
and shrieks of sorrow rise;
What dire disaster hounds
The men and women thus to waken
echo with their cries?
What new-found ill abounds?
Have the hailstorm's sharp stones shattered
the fields of standing wheat?
Have locusts stripped the fields?
Has the Sultan sent hard-hearted
taxmen early for receipt
of their most bitter yield?
No, the sharp stones have not shattered
the fields of standing wheat;
Nor locusts stripped the fields;
Nor the Sultan sent hard-hearted
taxmen early for receipt
of their most bitter yield.
Fallen is the mighty Kuzman
at the wild Geg's hands;
The sturdy Sirdar's slain.
Now brigands bold will hold our mountains,
ravaging our lands,
And none shall bar their way.
Peasants, Demeter's attendants,
spread the dreadful word,
the word of dire despair;
And wailing loud and moaning low in horror
when they heard,
the women tore their hair.
It rose and swelled and, growing great,
flew fast among the folk,
like Boreas, swift of wing,
In every village, every home
the fearful whispers spoke
that word of woeful ring.
Amongst the widows and the poor
salt tears in tribute flood,
Among the maidens too;
Like men who have been struck by lightning
all the peasants stood
who heard the mournful news.
II
Near Galichnik there stands a sacred hill,
all sown about
with willow trees, and there
A streamlet rustles, slipping swift
and snake-like, pouring out
its waters, crystal clear.
The bright light of the sun
scarce ever manages to broach
the shady branches here,
And here the cuckoo cries, the herald
of the Spring's approach,
whose call is sad to hear.
Leaning against a willow tree
a pensive man sits here,
weary from travelling.
He listens to the singing of the birds
which fills the air,
the clamour of the Spring.
The man is loth to leave, for
living Nature whispering still
says, "Mortal, linger yet!"
The pale grey ash lies drying
in the dark depths of this hill,
the dwelling of the dead.
It is not seen from Galichnik.
The ancient masters' art
affords no view so fair.
Here sorrow's symbol rules,
here reigns the lowly violet,
which blooms 'midst beauty rare.
Beneath their outspread carpet
the blue violets have concealed
those cold, abandoned graves.
So richly do they spring
the sombre soil is not revealed
between their clustering waves.
The sweet scent wafted on the wind
beguiles the traveller;
His destination fades.
A weeping woman clad in black
is oft encountered here,
among these scented shades.
And higher, if the traveller lifts
his eyes up, he will see
a monument of praise:
A tablet bearing lines
carved out full clearly, and beneath
a death's head stands engraved.
A niche is carved beneath
a cross of marble in the face
that looks towards the west.
Within, a lamp whose pale flame
flickers constantly is placed.
Here Kuzman lies at rest.
Once in a year the maidens come
and sit beside this stone,
Fresh violets in their braids.
In honeyed harmonies for Kuzman
they compose their own
heroic songs of praise.
But hither every day at dusk,
bearing an olive branch
there comes a hooded shade.
She it is who tends the lamp
whose flame is never quenched.
Her tears bedew the grave.
She decks yon death's head,
wreathing it with tender violets young,
weeping her love the while.
And everybody knows her well,
this miserable one -
Maria, Tome's child.
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NIKOLA VAPCAROV
1909-1942
A Macedonian poet who belongs to the Macedonian and Bulgarian literature. He was born in Bansko -- Pirin Macedonia (today a part of the People's Republic of Bulgaria). He was killed by Bulgarian fascists for anti-fascist and communist activities. He is one of the most prominent proletarian poets. His most famous book of poems is "Motoring Verses."
LAND
This land,
That I am treading on now,
This land,
That is woken by the south in the spring.
I do not know this land -- my land,
This land, forgive me for saying: Is somebody else's!
I head out early.
Along a factory road
Countless workers clothes swarm together.
We are merged into one heart, one mind,
But this country....is not mine!
Above my land,
In spring-time
Splendor is reflected
Waterfalls storm from the radiant Sun.
You feel it close to your heart,
And watch as endless rows of flowers blossom.
Above my land,
Up to the skies
Pirin rises.
The pines chant Ilinden stories in a chorus.
Above Ohrid, the azure blends into the space,
And further beneath, rainbows are glistening as one on the Aegean.
I will recall,
And the blood will rush to
My heart, melting into some kind of gentleness....
My birth place! A place so beautiful....
Mothered in storms,
Nursed with blood amid fierce blizzards
FATHERLAND
I have a fatherland, a birth hearth,
The blue arch adorns it during the day.
At night, stars shine blazingly,
In the morning, the bright day chases them away.
At night, when I walk home,
Under the dark roofing,
I can sense it -- the devil is waiting for me
Next to my house, with a gun in his hand!
You told me stories, you taught, mother
To love everyone the way I love you.
I would like to, I would like to,
Only I will need freedom and bread.
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BLAZE KONESKI
1921-1993
Born in a village near Prilep. Studied philology at Skopje University and worked there as a professor. Was the first President of the Macedonian Academy of Arts and Sciences. Corresponding Member of the Yugoslav Academy of Arts and Sciences, as well as of the Serbian and Slovene Academies, and Honorary Doctor of the Universities of Chicago and Cracow. Writes poetry, short stories and essays, as well as scholarly works, many of them on the Macedonian language. Editor of the Dictionary of the Macedonian Language. Translator of Heine and Shakespeare. His work has been translated into Serbo-Croat, Slovene, Albanian, Turkish, Hungarian, French, Russian, Italian, Greek, Polish, Romanian, German and English. Winner of numerous prizes, including the Golden Wreath of the Struga Poetry Evenings. Died 1993 in Skopje.
AMONG THE TREES
You've stopped as if buried
in the ground and rigid
as if you'd sunk roots deep down
to grow,
seek moisture.
It would be better that you did not move -
that your hearing ceased
in the rustle of countless leaves
which give space and shade
to the birds
that sing,
better that you concurred with the wind
on one delightful symphony -
but best of all that you take no step,
lest you disturb the covenant
with all these trees.
SKOPJE
You who will stand on Gazibaba,
you, my descendant hear me:
From here I too have gazed on Skopje,
it was a spring day, one of those
when the fresh outlines of the roofs
are softly interwoven
and every poplar is a green waterjet.
My gaze a little veiled
(that's why I'm silent)
but clear-sighted and bright.
Know you:
I feel that this my call
is the boldest grasp for the future,
an embrace of your soul, I'd say,
and cutting like a fresh-honed edge,
dreaming, teeming, screaming:
remember me!
THE WORD
I've always reflected
on the needlessness of the word
and that is least touches those
to whom it is directed -
whence, then, this need
to say so much,
what's more with rhythm, rhyme,
alliteration?
Regard the pointlessness
of earthly springs,
whether of sulphur, or water,
or gutteral shout.
This is an impulse poem, seek
no meaning!
SINFUL WOMEN
According to the 'Tikves Collection' (15th cent.)
Oh the beautiful women
of middle age!
Oh the beautiful mothers-in-law
still unwithered,
those who, wide open,
have sinned with their sons-in-law -
there's no entry to heaven for them,
not through the strait, not through
the wider gate!
What use to them are all the good
deeds
they performed from the goodness
of their hearts -
they should be put to shame,
and publicly,
because
down on earth
they didn't resist
the lust from which blossomed,
suddenly, sweetly,
and only once,
their wide-open
bodies!
WILD GEESE
This cold morning before Epiphany
the heavenly piano rings out
with intermittent sounds.
Wild geese are flying past.
Flock after flock
like verse after verse
they record a song of alarm
in the sky.
But I don't understand these
winged letters.
Only the cry is the same
as in childhood (over Nebregovo).
BROTHERLY SHARE-OUT
We're left without field,
our candle's buring low,
we share what we have.
You drink my eye,
for three eyes two hands are too much;
I snatch your hand,
for three hands two feet are too much;
you pull off my foot,
for three feet I take two ribs,
for two ribs I give two shoulder-blades.
You've shared out everything
you've not come to the end,
something's still left to you.
You, me, that,
I, you, this,
we'll share out everything to the last piece.
On the boundary
between two voids
a flower springs from the arid soil,
the one they called
two brothers' blood.
from Death's hands
the future still drinks echoes:
Brother, where are you?
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GANE TODOROVSKI
b. 1929
Started writing from his school career. The first book of his poems was In The Dawns (in 1951) and six more poetry collections have appeared until 1974. He has been translated into other languages of Yugoslavia and also abroad. His patriotic poems that depict the sufferings and the longing for freedom, the ideals and the sacrifices of revolutionaries and poets, the struggle of the Liberation War and the exultations in freedom are remarkable pieces in the history of Macedonian literature.
BIOGRAPHY
I was born
That is an absolute fact
I've lived some time
That's indisputable
Who needs me?
Everyone must know himself
Am I in someone's way?
Let him ignore me
It's much too undesirable
To be chosen as the enemy
This life is fiendish
But I'm a fact of it.
I'll die only to prove
that I have truly lived.
PARTING
You're leaving and not looking back
the age-old fear of turning into stone
now germinates in you like pain
that something passes and you're left
alone
You're leaving and you carry much
in that mute threat of yours
without a note, forgiveness, of farewell
cold marble, dry-eyed, no remorse
You're leaving hurriedly and without
voice
and flapping like a startled bird:
you disappear beyond return and soon
become a shadow, neither seen
nor heard
MAP OF MACEDONIA
Would it be possible with such
aloofness,
with two or three talkative lines and
with two or three conversational
colours,
to splash on a canvas the idea of
one's native land?
Well yes, it would be possible!
Our destiny is framed
like something turned upside down,
doubled up in pain the horizons
of hope,
crushed the visions labelled refuge,
truth spread out on the palm
of the hand
and the pictorial perfection
of no way out.
But all you see is a compass and a map
and many pencils scattered about it,
sharpened if not smoothed,
so they can prove themselves
in a proud role:
looking at lines we look at grief,
we look at our history -
What we have framed here
is not just a sigh
preserved in another colour -
That, too, would be possible;
quite possible.
BLACKBERRY
Blackberry, droplet of God
Red-black mystery of earth
Defender of summer
Surrounded by thorns
You are the fruit of ripe pleasure
A gift to all those who need you
You lend bliss to our day
Which was parched and dry
under the lid of midsummer heat
Where you are not: unequalled
barrenness
Where you are: delight in existence
You hang there heavy with
the sun's blood
You hang there with a thousand
eyes of ruby pride
And those who pass you by
you regard with the bloodshot
feral eyes
of dying summer
May he who grabs you scratch himself
May he feel pain who cannot
ask politely
May he suffer who cannot understand
the unattainable mystery of your
unapproachable beauty
You prickly proud beauty
of summer's generosity
Live on as a lasting warning
to all inexperienced wantons
for beauty
that sweet delight and the stars
are only reached through thorns
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ANTE POPOVSKI
b. 1931
Poet, essyist and critic. He worked as a managing director of the newspaper Nova Makedonija, a director of the film company Vardar film, and president of the Struga Poetry Evenings festival. Included in all antologues of Macedonian poetry. Transleted in Italian, Serbian, Slovenian, Romanian, Greek etc.
A MAN, A BIRD...
At dusk a white bird lands on his shoulder,
caresses him playfully, whispers:
- Let me for a single night
hide in your dreams...
- Lend me your wings
I will fly across a single sky...
The bird falls asleep. He still flies
alone across the sky of his language...
FEAR
The wind wandered through the branches
of the young tree,
the branches murmured, pleading with the wind:
We are afraid to be alone at night,
whisper to the bird in the next tree, ask her
to spend the night with us...
MY NEPHEW SINGS
I hear my nephew on the telephone
singing at the top of his voice...
His voice unfurls like a banner
sprinkled with flowers, stars, birds,
and everything around me rises to its feet
to hear the song and say a prayer:
May your voice and your song, dear,
become a precious memory older than the Bible...
BLUE BIRD
You will easily know my blue bird:
it does not peck at bark or the fruits of trees,
nor perch on rocks, nor lurks by carrion and bones -
my bird never descends from heaven.
My bird christens celestial barbarians,
turns light into writing by which
uncertainly, bone-white, dagger-cold
rampages through us...
Only a word could have climbed
so high, to the very stars,
my blue bird,
its beak sounds, its wings verbs.
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MIHAIL RENDZOV
b. 1936
Born in Shtip. Poet and translator. His poema are translated in Serbian, Russian, Romanian and other languages. He translated Gilgamesh in Macedonian. Included in all major antologues of Macedonian poetry.
WE WALK HOLDING HANDS
We walk
holding hands:
Angel and mountain
Nightingale and silence
Soul and darkness
We walk holding hands
We walk
holding hearts
Wild beast and mountain
Sparrow-hawk and silence
Worm and darkness
We walk
holding hearts.
MORNING POEM
Wash your eyes,
open them to the sun
and leave your peacock to puff himself
just as my mirror puffs itself up
when you negligently
pass in front of it.
It is time I told you
that you're beautiful Letter
with which each morning
I begin my poem:
the illuminated initial
of longing.
I WAS RETURNING HOME
I was returning home
by a road of excavations
and gravel piles
And returning with me were
my Little Things:
the pebble with which someone
hit me long ago
the drop of blood from my nose
the fruit I stole at night
the forest where
a bird hid from me
(after some forgotten poem)
the sins I committed
defending myself
the angel I forgot
while quarrelling with friends
the life I let slip by
staring at god knows what
and god knows where.
One night
all my Little Things
were at home
only I was not there
I am lost, they say,
staring at god knows what
and god knows where.
AUTO-DA-FE'
I am on fire.
Red-hot.
Burning.
I am counting the constituent drops:
one drop: birth
one drop: passion
one drop: wonderment
one drop: fear
What the last drop is
I don't know
Probably the drop: nothingness
Something like a possible remnant
of life.
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JOVAN PAVLOVSKI
b. 1937
Born in Tetovo, a professional journalist since 1956 and a member of the Writers' Association of Macedonia since 1962. A correspondent of Nova Makedonija from Paris and Moscow. An author of over thirty books of poetry, prose and journalism. A winner of high acknowledgements for literature and journalism. A president of the Writers' Association of Macedonia for two mandates.
TO IMITATE THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS IS TO DIE
He genuinely takes off
and apparently: his craft
deconstructs all possible theories
of the motion of solid object through the air.
In the airy commotion it
reaches the maximum of vertical pressure.
Its presence above our heads
is both a challenge and a reason for unrest
it announces a new, lasting identify
an unexpacted redistribution of things
and the self-protection system.
While doing it, Otto commits a mortal sin:
he, a reptile, imitates the flight of birds,
trying to displace things from their usual places
and drag the reptiles into airy commotions.
His attempt transcends him in the realm of dreams,
he crumbles.
People sigh relieved.
But beyond the frontier of the visible
Otto Lilienthal's craft
still glides on.
Enlarged.
THE GETHSEMANE NIGHT OF JACQUES FRISCH
Merely shadows over Lyons prison.
And the soft murmur of a prayer-father Oiseau prays.
As Jacques Frisch confesses
you cannot tell if he condemns or curses:
"Nothing is worse nor more shameful
than a generally established, humiliating situation.
People crazy with fear and toil
are eager to kill.
I was one of them!"
Tonight the structure of his personality will be put in jeopardy,
and the cold of the world will inhabit him
and soon he will turn into his forefathers.
Still, he is content: he has met his vital need for destruction
which filled and emptied him again and again.
And happy: he will identify himself with his parents!
Maybe he knows:
he only prolongs the public challenge,
the interaction of several complex situations.
Father Oiseau beholds:
the convict commences a slow, heavy, wonrous,
everlasting ascent.
It is merely an odd kind of insanity, he thinks
himself reconciled with death,
(Ionesco: Frisch deserves death,
since he is indifferent to it!)
Thus he deprives death of its
mysterious, transcedental flavour.
Ultimately,
Jacques Fricsh has one wish left:
to accelerate the separation of spirit from flesh
so that now he is able to begin
the exploration of prohibited areas.
(Based on the foonote on J. Frisch's death in the "Anthropology of death" by L. V. Toma)
WHEN HE CONSIDERS, YET
When he considers, yet:
he had to be possible in life!
He gets bogged downin details, and behold:
whatever he does - all leads to
self-denial, exhaustion,
and his soul
changes from capricorn to iris, from insect to customs official.
Satisfied, he opposes dream
and demolishes the extreme parts of his own past.
Thus, I will save my soul again, he claims,
and prepare its future content!
And he perceives, oh God, how clearly perceives;
The more he digs into himself, the more he gets poorer and poorer!
Something is missing,
something utterly tangible,
which may him fill up the cracks in time,
to withhold the drifting apart of events within himself,
forwards and backwards.
And when he considers: O.K., now things are all right,
he reveals the ruins within himself, in horror!
He digs up only insignificant pieces within them,
some small parts,
and wants to give up, to sigh.
AS THE GIRL BECOMES IMMACULATE
As the girl becomes immaculate
things simplify within him. He is freezing.
As if the sun of established prejudice has multiplied.
The formula of simple living vanishes into thin air:
going home, to work, a game of chess with friends!
Now, there it stands, before him, the unbearable
whiteness,
the soft pleasure,
a skin like skin,
and he is distant, behind changes which linger
around him, dead cold.
- Save yourself at least! she whispers in her ear.
- Save yourself at least! she repeats simply.
He does not listen to her.
Fearful, he pushes her away,
unbinds her arms from his neck,
her whispering braces him: Why save just one
if we cannot all be saved! he wants to explain Karamazov to her.
He waves, and diminishing, tiny
leaves the hostel room with the jacket in his hands.
He is sad and heart-broken,
almost an enlarged prototype of an immature form,
an utterly new image of himself.
THE FOSSILS OF BERTRAND PALISSI
I cannot give up learning
for fossils are, indeed, a proof of the ancient biological
activity of the Earth:
a tree-trunk of the silificated tree,
prints of organic substance,
analysis of the hydrogen which reveals the missing groups
and all that repeats throughtime
leaves and returns.
The presence of gigantic reptiles indicates a relatively
mild climate.
The plants connote the same
because some families of herbs seek a warmer sea.
New animal species appear gradually
with time, while others disappear.
A stratographic level of the sea phaeacia can
hold and husband a good fauna of invertebrates.
Through them I approach the world,
its mists and gulfs, and apparently: I discover it.
I touch and touch: forominifers, radiolarians,
syculas of graptolite, conodonts, flagellates, pollens and spores,
some Devonian fish,
whole mammoths preserved in the quartal ice of Siberia -
these are signs denoting that the limit of existence
has been excended and that I was right.
And despite uncertainty, despite my coming death,
I am still an archaeoteryx,
the first animal ever to fly with feathered wings,
and if I dissolve during the great flight
no doubt: it is the history falling apart,
it is actually, the world returning to its origin.
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VELE SMILEVSKI
b. 1949
Born in a village near Demir Hisar. Studied philology in Skopje. Works at the Literature Institute of the Philosophical Faculty in Skopje. Several volumes of poetry and essays. Co-author of a five-volume publication on Macedonian literary criticism. Selections of his poetry have been published in Serbo-Croat and Albanian translations. Winner of several prizes.
HITTING THE TARGET
Open flesh
Sheltered from wind.
Red curtains over the threshold.
One more step
(since the night passed in a gallop)
to the target
which pops up
as I aim at it.
And you say:
The core has a deeper meaning
and the journey there
doesn't wait
from this sheltered spot
from this unbuttoned room
from this store of overripe seed
life
begins.
BREAKFAST
We exchanged our dreams
and everyone now silently
is stealing the rest of wakefulness
from the mutilated night.
My morning happy pill: vitamin A
Blessed is the bread
and the emptiness filling it
like parted lips
before our
insatiability.
Platefuls of sea
and the aquarium of the sea
roar from the sea's depth
The word which only now
will be ours alone.
THE DOOR
It yawns and chews it,
all that emptiness
which perhaps tomorrow
will harden
into words
And yet blank sheets
and papers fly
I clutch a few words in my hand
to squeeze them out
and dry them for gunpowder.
Easy therefore with the lighter
for, lighting my cigarette,
I flare up like a wick
and blazing, appalled but without shouting,
I'll cross the threshold.
THE BIRD
I drew a bird I drew
the fragrant wind too
so the pencil's lead
could resist
be a
cage
and hear what's unspoken
in the poem
Meanwhile
dense ozone
has open our pores
and the mortar rang out
rhythmically on the wall
and the marble sang
while I was descending
to a blank sheet
And under the whiteness
in the base of the lead
the bird was flying up into the poem
and the cloud under the lightning
carried an egg-shaped quartz
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RADE SILJAN
b. 1950
Born in the village of Zvan near Demir Hisar. A member of the younger generation of Macedonian writers, who appeared in the course of the 70s, he writes both poetry and literary criticism. Has published three volumes of poetry. He edited the anthology of 19th century Macedonian poetry Macedonian Poetry in 19th century and of Macedonian plays from the 19th and 20th centuries Macedonian Drama in 19th and 20th century.
SUCH IS OUR FATE
We were fated to dream of stars
to tie in the end of the dance twice, thrice
to be one with the nameless in our dreams
to look for snakes' eyes in our friends
We were fated to dream awake
We were fated to exchange the word for a look
to undermine the foundations before they were built
to bequeath dark provinces to the future
to name our villages after bad memories
our children will curse us for our greed
we were fated to flee from our own shadows
We were fated to perish thirsty by riversides
to dig up springs, look for ourselves in dreams
distant are the seasons that fertilize the seeds
no longer knowing what tomorrow brings
parting from our children without a word
we were fated to suffer at the hands of our shadows
We were fated to dream of stars
to exchange the word for a look
to flee from our shadows
to perish thirsty by riversides
we were fated to suffer at the hands of our shadows
We bequeath no moral to the unborn
Even freedom is too much for us to bear
WALLING-UP THE SHADOW
Everything we had in secret fades, fades away.
Our reality is like the wind, a windhover.
Each morning we seek the branches of the tree
its roots hide speech's secret
hope alone fertilizes the people's seed
Blood-red clouds are the final warning
decay spreads through the wood
seers foretold:
Your shadow is walled up in the foundations
the greatest curse on future generations
the road is neither up nor down
the sentence is over and done with!
The times echo in our veins
Everything we had now fades, fades away.
Like a memory, like hope, like a lost battle.
DREAM OR REALITY
On the hilltop
dances a secret star
ahead a thorny path and dewy meadows
you bid farewell to hope.
Ahead or behind
mist in your eyes
you suffer from other people's ignorance
a rotten kernel splits in your root
the body is far from the word
On the hilltop
all wilts from a dark nightmare
all falls silent from the pain of your words
our untrod paths
exchange the sun for sleep
our lips are cursed
by the language of secrets
The seed sprouts. It bursts
You travel in secret among churches and minarets.
The blood of the past deceives you
the lodestar on the point of a needle
a wordless meeting is best
in a wakeful column your shadow betrays you
capture it in your jaws
or conceal it below corals.
HUMANS / INHUMANS
There are people
with luxurious capitals in their innards
there are people
deaf to the times
proud of the past
hopeless for the homeland
There are people
oh, there are people, the patriots will say,
like non-people
like non-people.
Where we seek them we dig a grave.
Our traces vanish
we run away before the light
our mothers will search for us
but will they find us
will they find us amidst the sea
or on the black peak in the mountains
where the wind weaves the rainbow?
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