SELECTED POEMS
THE BALKAN END OF CENTURY
it was increasing and decreasing
the kolo – at the crater of the volcano
the flight of the holy and the damned hummed in the sky
at the field of the whirlwind avalanche
busy about picking the carnations
women – they were pushing the lament into the clouds
the burning surroundings were celebrating
newly composed luminaries
the moonlight illuminated the master-victims
the spring children of the underground time
were assembling the bones
in front of the temple
the medieval cross was decorated with the Kalashnikov
2000, Krakow
BALKANSKI KRAJ VIJEKA
raslo je smanjivalo se
kolo – na krateru vulkana
na nebu je zašumio let svetih i prokletih
na polju lavine vihora
brale su karanfile
žene – gurajući lament u oblake
zapaljene okolice su slavile
novokomponovane korifeje
mjesečina je rasvjetljavala remek-žrtve
proljetna djeca podzemnog vremena
sastavljala su kosti
ispred hrama
srednjovjekovni krst krasio je kalašnjikov
2000, Krakov
AND I DON’T CARE ABOUT PAIN TONIGHT
I don’t care about the pain. I’m smoking my third cigarette, and the coffee has cooled.
Heaven, tonight you are generous, like the wind that carries my hair,
to the south of happiness and blood, where laughter is as important as a knife.
I fear for the life of the cat, which just came from outside
with a trampled paw. He writhes in pain on my couch,
and I don't care about the pain tonight. I say and cry, what does such a calm kitty see
an iron gate, through which it will never be able to pass again.
Old and infirm. Meows her little cat heart.
Heaven, you are weak, and I don’t care about pain tonight.
We die, we perish... A Kosovo girl weaves braids in a Kosovo field.
Blood, blood... ah, that black blood... the burnt flags are marching,
because tonight Kosovo is going into the distance of unhappy memories from which it will never get out.
Oh, War! Death! Whore! Traitor! We fly beneath the wasteland.
Our heads are marked with a white stone. White as a sheet
in which we are thrown into a hole of wickedness.
Coffins are too expensive and precious for us... for mere mortals.
For whose heads there is no place in the fields of cursed Yugoslavia.
Baby, sweetie! Do not worry! The ashes are spilled on the ashtray,
not over you. You will survive, as we survived. Amen!
A MENE NOĆAS NIJE BRIGA ZA BOL
Baš me briga za bol. Pušim treću cigaretu, kava se ohladila.
Nebo, noćas si velikodušno, kao vjetar koji nosi moju kosu,
prema jugu sreće i krvi, gdje je smjeh važan isto koliko i nož.
Plašim se za život mačke, koja je upravo došla izvana
sa zgaženom šapom. Izvrće se od boli na mome kauču,
a mene noćas nije briga za bol. Kažem i plačem, što takva mirna maca vidi
željezna vrata, kroz koje nikad više neće moći proći.
Stara i nemoćna. Mjauče njeno malo mačije srdašce.
Nebo, ti si slabo, a mene noćas nije briga za bol.
Umiremo, ginemo... Kosovka djevojka plete pletenice na Kosovu polju.
Krv, krv... ah, ta crna krv... Marširaju spaljene zastave, jer noćas Kosovo
odlazi u daljinu nesretnih uspomena iz kojih se nikad neće izvući.
Rate! Smrti! Kurvo! Izdajico! Mi leţimo ispod puste zemlje.
Naše su glave označene bijelim kamenom. Bijelim kao plahta
u kojoj smo ubačeni u rupu pakosti.
Lijesovi su za nas preskupi i dragocjeni...za obične smrtnike.
Za čije glave nema mjesta na poljima proklete Jugoslavije.
Maco, dušice slatka! Ne brini! Pepeo se prosipa po pepeljari,
a ne po tebi. Preživjećeš, kao što smo mi preživjeli. Amin!
MY MOM
My mom is picking roses
collects snails for lunch
digs a garden and drives a wheelbarrow
my mom experienced the war
info static
my ma-ma-ma
has walls attached to her in tears
she cultivates hope by cooking it
with snails for lunch
she sprinkles them with vegeta
rosemary leaves
and fry in hot oil
she is waiting, waiting for the curtains to be removed tomorrow
wears snail houses on her head
and marches towards me.
My mom tra la la la has patched herself up
the dress of life
from cement, brick and sand
builds non-stop builds
every brick is pulled down by the wind
she is strong and has freckles on her hands after giving birth
every freckle is a mega pain
I love when she tells me about her
past stars
while stuck in cabbage and with a smile
it starts all over again
a new tired face
and so beautifully decorated with my heart...
MOJA MAMA
Moja mama kida ruže
prikuplja puževe za ručak
kopa baštu i vozi ručna kolica
moja mama doživljela je rat
info statična
moja ma-ma-ma
ima pribijene zidove u suzama
gaji nadu kuvajući je
sa puževima za ručak
posipa ih vegetom
listićima ružmarina
i prži na vrućem ulju
čeka, čeka na otklonjene zavjese sutra
nosi puževe kućice na glavi
i maršira prema meni.
Moja je mama tra la la la zakrpala sebi
haljinu života
od cimenta, cigle i pijeska
gradi non-stop gradi
svaku ciglu vjetar ruši
jaka je i ima pjege na rukama nakon poroda
svaka pjega to je jedan mega bol
volim kad mi priča o svojim
prošlim zvijezdama
u kupusu i sa osmjehom
počinje ispočetka
novo umorno lice
a tako divno ukrašeno mojim srcem...
THE BOTTOM
The depth of the passerby’s eyes,
shone like an iconostasis in Špitalna.
No, it’s a big burden
to sew apparitions again at that crossroads
and look at the back of the wall.
Let the Sevdah soul play now.
Those were never my violins.
The depth of the passerby’s eyes,
they are hidden secrets, intentions and address.
An address where perhaps no one has ever lived,
except imagination and a few ants.
Maybe once there the spider also wove tears,
and that scream, noise and doom...
Maybe it was the distance
between the pole and the electric chair,
between the Arena of God and Campo di Fiori,
between the shell and the sky...
No, the whole truth does not sleep there!
There in the notebook of the eyes,
in a smile and a prayer.
Maybe it’s the depth, the ordinary temperature
and a calendar with no date
a memory in the vinegar...
DNO
Dubina očiju prolaznika,
blistala je kao ikonostas u Špitalnoj.
Ne, to je veliko opterećenje
da na tom raskršću opet šijem priviđenja
i gledam leđa zida.
Sevdah duše sada neka zasvira.
To nikad nisu bile moje violine.
Dubina očiju prolaznika,
to su skrivene tajne, namjere i adresa.
Adresa, na kojoj možda niko nikad nije stanovao,
osim mašte i nekoliko mrava.
Možda je nekad tamo pauk takođe pleo suze,
a taj vrisak, šum i propast...
Možda je to bilo rastojanje
između stuba i električne stolice,
između božje arene i Campo di Fiori,
između školjke i neba...
Ne, čitava istina tu ne spava!
Tu u notesu očiju,
u osmjehu i molitvi.
Možda je ta dubina, obična temperatura
i kalendar bez datuma
u ocatu uspomena...
THE DIRECTOR’S WIFE
defective cameras
torn umbrellas
the wet streets of Paris
the courtyard in front of the cafe
drowned in mud
pensive
he was smoking a pipe
covering with hair
her shy body
she was going out
the pigeon pushed
a dress
it shaped with its eyes
partitions of time
pressing a brooch on the chest
an angel flew in
sharpening a screen
the petrified crowd
he was awakening an ornament of the sky
1999
ŽENA REŽISERA
defektne kamere
potrgani kišobrani
mokre ulice Pariza
dvorište ispred kafea
utopljeno u blatu
zamišljen
pušio je lulu
zaklanjujući kosom
stidljivo tjelo
izlazila je
golub je gurnuo
haljinu
očima je oblikovao
pregrade vremena
sapinjući broš na grudi
doletio je anđeo
izoštravajući ekran
skamenjenu gomilu
budio je ornament neba
1999
WOMEN’S OPEN POEM
Mrs. Svjetlana put on a chiffon dress
the biggest number
she lit a cigarette
Mrs. Svjetlana
above average woman
mentally destroyed
Mrs. Hanka
she loved the chemical world
women and makeup
she liked to talk about herself
and believe in tomorrow's formulas
she put on the next creation
Mrs. Magdalena
half an hour has passed
from the last one
a new color of lipstick
the mouth will scream
they chased her
chased her every night
when the lights were turning off
Jelena stayed in place
she liked to buy me donuts
every donut
it was a smile for a kiss
Marijana turned gray
life is emptiness
the void is the school
military
tragic and Ana’s
Zdenka had a husband
a plate of soup
an orange juice from Tesco
tears on the shoulders
fear of bathing
now she has freedom
Dorothy’s bed is her whole life
the whole space the whole being
her bed is a backpack
which contains some other world
without a father
the burnt fingers
the cigarette lit
in the lungs
stiff and strong hands
raped for eternity
Daniela remained
the average poetry
Mrs. Marlene
the braid
wrapped in hysteria
peace over time
a man’s face
a lady’s face
madwoman’s face
Maja’s face
book in the eye
marks on the back
a stranger to herself
it was Milena
makeup has a measure
to seduce ex-husband
Vukosava tried
the seal on the head
it is whatsoever beginning
ŽENSKA OTVORENA POEMA
gospođa Svjetlana je obukla žipon
najveći broj
zapalila je cigaretu
gospođa Svjetlana
žena nadprosječna
psihički razorena
gospođa Hanka
voljela je hemijski svijet
žene i šminke
voljela je govoriti o sebi
i vjerovati u sutrašnje formule
obukla je narednu kreaciju
gospođa Magdalena
prošlo je pola sata
od posljednje
nova boja ruža
usta vrištaće
gonili su je
svaku večer gonili
kad su se gasila svijetla
Jelena je ostala na mijestu
voljela mi je kupovati krofne
svaka krofna
to je bio osmijeh za poljubac
posivjela je Marijana
život je praznina
praznina je škola
vojna
tragična i Anina
Zdenka je imala muža
tanjir supe
naranžadu iz Tesco
suze na ramenima
strah od kupanja
sad ima slobodu
Dorotin krevet je cijeli život
cijelo prostranstvo cijelo biće
njen krevet je ruksak
koji sadrži neki drugi svijet
bez oca
spaljeni prsti
pripaljena cigareta
u plućima
ukočene i snažne ruke
silovana na vječnost
ostala je Danijela
prosječna poezija
gospođe Marlene
pletenica
ovijena u histeriju
s vrijemena mir
muško lice
damino lice
luđakinjino lice
Majino lice
knjiga u oku
tragovi na leđima
stranac sama sebi
bila je Milena
šminka ima mjeru
osvojiti bivšeg muža
pokušala je Vukosava
pečat na glavi
to je bilokakav početak