Translated by Tatjana Lozanovska
...as if on a line, days drag along, rush, fall over each other,
dead, like mown grass, will they, once withered in a hayloft or a stack,
remember their spring, their summer, or will they just
stare silently in darkness, before a cow eats them next winter,
or before they become rotten and go back into the soil, or maybe in a pot,
to grow into flowers and decorate someone's window; days go away on their own,
without interest in human destiny, in human affairs,
lonesome in their endless chain; everyone alive goes toward
its death, and doesn't want to think about it, or maybe can't,
lonely in the human chain, unaware of the moment when the heavenly reaper
will wipe him out and put him in the eternal hayloft, to be eaten by some heavenly beast,
or to become rotten and go back to the soil, the clay,
who knows when and where, pure as virginity,
invisible and self-sufficient; we have grown old while waiting,
the war is over, children have grown up, we have lost one life, and
based on frail hope, the new one is being built, containing the same things,
somewhat rearranged, but still fragile, hopelessly broken, distorted, apt to
fall and decompose; words flow, while we search them in our hands,
pencils and computers, looking for things we have lost or even never had,
wishing to see ourselves among verses, among Bengal light of metaphors,
to extract from ourselves the meaning of our existence,
which is an echo, a particle, visible every now and then,
a small stain on the clear heavenly road of light;
we search believing that if we exist, that something must exist also,
we play that endless game again, which has, for millenniums, attracted masters of words,
equilibrists, dancers on the rope of meaning, sacrificing their life for mystical quest,
dark prophecies, hesitating and haughty promises and faded hopes; we contemplate,
at the end of the second millennium, about the meaning of poetry, as if we have grasped
all the others, and we have only this one left, this meaning above meanings,
this heavenly horn of Nothingness, May breeze in the valley of corpses, blood, agony and despair; we contemplate about poetic form, whether it represents contents or not,
whether it could, by its demiurgic power of history and fame retain its position,
royal sonnet on the throne, accompanied by ballad, quatrain, rubaiyat, haiku, tanka...
we wonder whether the form could, with a little skill and feeling for the mother tongue rhythm and its melodious pride, whether it could raise itself and reign over empty spaces
of future books, magazines, collections and school curriculums, and if in that contents, great topics of this time, the imperator called Today, could overshadow all the others,
so that Jericho trumpets of this nation and its rights shatter the walls of some art
because of the art itself, pure beauty, rhymed sugar candies, absolutely needless;
"can't you sea death around you, poet," (folklore, heroes, flora and fauna),
"put yourself in service", "it has never been like this before, so now it's time"....
And among all this, silence curled up tightly and something ancient,
The deepest moment when everything falls like in an endless well,
Sky bluer than anything ever seen, fear in the quiet twilight of orchards,
Dust from old memories hugging gleefully children's feet,
Voice proclaiming joy and effort of love, and the other forbidding all that,
The voice you don't recognize any more, even though it calls you by your real name,
The voice, which you don't want to give anything,
Especially not your dark womb, especially not your subtle feeling of
Touching skin with mind; through a closed window and a thick wall,
In dreams and reality, in rain and sunshine, in the air and water - they keep on
Calling and searching, from hear and there, soothing and hitting, promising and
Threatening, offering and denying; and you keep on running into the night,
Into the rescuing darkness, which wraps you in her ancient raincoat, as into the
Only absolute, the only meaning, alpha and omega, promised to us
Once upon a time...
July 12th, 1996
...just as much as to open and close
the door towards the garden, a window towards the sky,
the book cover towards infinity...
but there are too many conjunctions to deprive myself of
their gay rhythmical revelry -
one goes and comes back, walks and stands still, here and there,
there are many points hidden in worms,
coming slowly from the basement,
climbing against walls, windows and roof-beams,
a cricket beats against the wall softly, many times,
while you are falling asleep or waking up alone, in your mother's lap,
next to the back of the man sleeping, without saying his prayers,
...but you cannot get to the place where life is
revived by listing things, back to a child's dream,
back to small hands, which smell of soap
...however, just as much to open the window
towards the valley, where shadows keep calling me...
(Shadows and light, manuscript)
What did the day mingle with, under the pear,
By the open window, above the bed
Where two lives are fighting
The time, which swallows everything?
What did you greet on the umbilical cord,
Which, cut by a sickle, already wails,
And stretches its invisible hands toward the womb
Of the distant and great parent?
What did the day fall asleep with,
Climbed by the spiders of time,
Which collected fallen pears,
Grabbing them from your boars?
With whom, with what, and where to now!
She heard a song, a long cry,
Which came from the side,
And over everything, which is nothing now,
Climbed to sobbing hearts -
Why should she open her womb,
Just a new job for an idle bloody knife,
Under the silent, sleeping hill,
People and basil have disappeared -
A raven is feasting on the bride's womb.
(Dust)
My father was darkness,
Words in the dark, a coil of dreams.
He wasn't there during the day,
Perhaps just a look,
Perhaps just fatigue sometimes.
My father was a story,
Always with a different conclusion,
Grains of beans on the table,
A voice coming from the garret before sleeping:
Who has no grave is alive!
My father was a lullaby
For tiles on the torn down house.
My mother bore him
From the table to the bed,
From her heart to mine.
(Songs of death)
As soon as you open your eyes, glowing in morning redness,
Or in the middle of the night, when your hasty heart wakes you up;
While you are standing in the toilet, empty and lonely;
While you are kissing your wife, with thoughts tender;
While you are holding your daughter on your lap, crying or smiling;
Coming from far away, in the hall already;
Above your taken off, dusty shoes;
While you are arranging papers scattered over your desk -
Take a look again on everything that surrounds you, finally:
As if you have entered someone else's home!
(Dust)
Among morning shadows, on the hill,
Spring dew sprinkles my heart.
Here it is, where it was born,
Little and shivering,
In the year when dew disappeared in smoke,
To be returned today.
Among plum-trees in blossom, on the meadow,
Which I see in distance every day,
My heart decided to settle down,
Overcome by the sunny morning and birds
Forgotten there since time immemorial.
Among a boy's dreams,
My heart repeats its song -
Without words, without music, in dew and light.
(Shadows and light)
May you kneel on the stone,
By my wrinkled feet,
Under blood clots and traces of pain!
May you, in humming around you,
In palpable light covering
The same beggars,
See the glow of the Hill below me!
May you forget your clarity,
At least in that moment clear -
No, turn around without anger -
If it is night, the dawn will come,
If clouds gather in the sky,
Let them be, you ring your bell
And tie thing together.
Rise and go, blessed by
Dead hands and pecked eyes,
Open, more like a flower,
Then like a lump.
And don't be different,
See the right things,
Wood and steel, singing
Blood on the blade.
Rise and sing!
(Hill)
If you kneel on the meadow,
Glowing in your mother's milk,
And sob
A rider will slip down your forehead,
Take a bath in your eye,
Rest for a moment
To dry up
And go away
Only his spear will remain,
And wander through your blood,
To and from
(Sometimes, just like that)
Somebody said that one should put flowers
Among papers and watch, while they are withering,
As time passes through the vase and pours petals
Into the eyes of passers-by
Somebody said that in the morning and afternoon,
Water goes out of the river, and bent in anguish
Leans over my bed
Somebody said that one should give basil
To the confiders, dying under small windows,
When they should have gone away.
(Sometimes, just like that)
Herr, es ist Zeit!
R. M. Rilke
Which moment of sleep,
Which above this one,
In this vase, in this dream?
Which moment if not this one,
Leaning on the tree vigorously,
Waiting to gather the crop, as it was its own.
Which moment, heavy with fruit
In twilight, would be
Similar to sunset?
We will let this hour, though
Slip through our fingers as
Soil or water, as consolation.
Is there a glitter to enter
This shack without windows,
Is there a shriek in this hollow courtyard?
(Abide this caressing)
Do not peer, man,
Don't peep through the cracks,
She is there, by the spring.
Even in trouble,
When you are abandoned,
There she is, by the fire.
While you're rejoicing,
Creating works and children,
Exploring the sea,
She is there, by the helm.
While you're drinking,
Planting trees for the future,
Your sweat dripping into the grass,
There she is, by the tools.
Fascinated, she admires
Your performance
Of the double Hamlet,
And sincerely claps her hands
Watching from the balcony.
Trust her, oh lonely one,
Lean on her hand,
She will help you walk,
With the pollen of life on your face.
(Abide this caressing)
Oh Sun, will you shine today upon my valley,
isolated from the world, remote from the roads,
with three dark and one sunny side?!
Whatever I touch is bone and ice,
So jagged and sharp, it makes my heart halt.
How many times have you, oh unerring Sun,
Given things back their earthly shapes,
So that my hands, my skin and my flesh,
Could touch, hold and absorb,
Without fear of wounds, without any conditions,
Where my signature would have bled at once.
My eyes are dry, and I am looking high above;
Are those oaks lighter,
Where our pigs used to eat acorns,
While our ancestors were lying in the shade,
Their backs turned against the approaching winter.
Will you, at least one more day, as a piece of bread,
Which I will dunk in water, if the ice that froze
All living things melts, will you be given
To us, too, although maybe
We have never deserved it.
To Petar Kocic
"that quiet night, above restless infinity"
Immense are our sighs,
By the fire, or in a cold shack,
With a friend, or all alone.
Immense is the hight of the wall.
And every stone in it,
And every drawing on the stone.
What is a silent spring worth,
Or a shell without a pearl?
We can only hear our voice,
Tumbling between the future,
And even farther past.
We listen to the voice of sleeping fairies,
And shiver like frightened children.
Is there anything surrender could change,
A cunning smile, or maybe just a bow?
A man is getting up from the dusty floor,
His other self is still sitting,
With a noose on his neck - forests mourn for no one.
Ants are coming from the Dark Ages,
Carrying bodies of Radoslav and Gorcin,
As their sacrifice to life and death.
The river sends its soul across the sky.
The stone and the foot become one,
Glowing together.
Morning is always the first, before words;
Morning is always the last, after every word -
Guarding people from fear and dreams.
Voice is travelling down the river, the river is flowing across the sky;
Reverberating in the empty space.
Infinity coming out from dried tears.
That silent evening, above restless infinity,
Once again with other people,
Once again alone.
Like small Bosnian horses,
Climbing a hill, by the water,
Listening to their strong heart beats,
Shrieking and ringing in their bodies.
I want to find a voice with no cracks,
As a bell made of ripe pears,
A voice that will echo down the groves and meadows,
All day thorugh and all the night,
Wild and fast like the roaring sound.
Words grow together like bodies in the ground,
Words like collarbones, like breast-bones,
Or hips.
When you mention Bosnia you should scream;
There's only a wall in front of you, and only a wall behind,
People riding and flying on tombstones.
Like a tremble, the voice travels down the golden string,
The voice of a flute, and a man searching for a stone,
To lay his head.
To my village Kalenderi
"Where my voice keeps roaming"
Did I call you loudly,
Did I shout across woods and mountains,
Stretching from the valley,
Did I yell in your ear,
While the earth was crumbling in the shelter,
While leaves were falling down,
While a wolf was howling,
And cows were mooing in the field,
Was I strong enough?
In the haze, across the orchards,
Across the quarry, to my ear,
Where the river keeps gurgling,
To the cities scattered carelessly
Along the banks and around crossroads,
Where rivers fork,
And a doe comes sometimes,
To see its picture in the water,
Its body still too pretty to disappear
Within damp forests,
Where my voice keeps roaming,
Maybe already too weak to reach
Your subtle ear,
Where empty houses and pens,
Abandoned homes and tired villages,
Nest like birds.
(Bosnian elegies)
To Ivo Andric
"From blue forests and valleys"
Wherever I stop,
Wherever I go
Through these small towns and hills,
I can only see one face,
I can only hear one heart.
Whosever eyes look at me,
Whosever hands touch me,
I can only feel one touch,
I can only take one glance.
Whatever I wear,
Whomever I bow,
I approach only one man
And pay tribute to him only.
I can hear hoofs pawing down the bridges,
And flags waving on minarets,
But only one single voice,
Hovers over all living things,
Like eternal ether.
From blue valleys and forests,
With hundred unhealed wounds,
Only one soldier comes,
Only one soul calls,
Only one humble creature prays.
The noon breaks, shadows disappear,
A book is resting on the bed,
Single one, powerful,
Permanent, only one clear.
(Bosnian elegies)
In the shade, by the water,
While I was listening to a thrush's song,
Time has scattered all around.
A seam opened, a dam was broken,
And time suddenly started to flow,
Over bindweed, houseleek and orchids,
Spreading like daze.
Then it went away, changing nothing.
It has only left more time under the walnut-tree, under the oak,
In the valley, on the slopes and forests from childhood,
Only a glimpse or two, for those who live longer three - and that's the end.
Why did anyone ever sing, were did we jump and call,
If only dust sometimes flies
To blue skies, alone, as if bored
With eternity, which keeps teasing and pulling her skirt.
Everything is unlocked, open and offered;
Only, as if summoning ancestors - time has scattered all around.
(Solitude, Prayers)
There is nothing here any more, only light
From the pit, from holiness, suddenly
Came over us - is it worth stumbling
While climbing barren and wild mountains?
Once, at the crack of dawn, one day,
That people used to sing about for centuries,
Somebody left an invisible flag,
Fluttering now, found by a soul that arrived at last.
And there is nothing here any more, a woodpecker only,
Carving stories all over the world
About the man, who brought the flag,
At the crack of dawn, before time started to pass.
Vultures, spears, eyes from the bushes,
Funerals, endless requiems;
We keep expecting miracles,
But heaven's door is closed at last.
(Solitude, Prayers)
© 1999-2006 Ranko Risojevic, risco@blic.net
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