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NA LISTI Od 04.8.2010.g. /
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Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc Sarajevo & Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI... WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES |
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Craig Czury, Reading, Pennsylvania, USA
Craig Czury (1951) grew up in the coal region of northeastern Pennsylvania. He spent 15 years hitchhiking North America, working in carnivals, warehouses, canneries, construction crews, restaurant kitchens, and organizing community poetry readings. Author of 20 collections of poetry, several have been translated to Spanish, Italian, Lithuanian, Russian, and Albanian. He is the editor of two anthologies, FINE LINE THAT SCREAMS from his N.E. Pa. Prison Poetry Project, and UN SEGUNDO EN EL TIEMPO/ONE SECOND AT A TIME, poets of the Reading Hispanic community. Czury works as a poet in schools, homeless shelters, prisons, mental hospitals and community centers throughout the world. Named Laureate of the XV “Ditët E Naimit” International Albanian Poetry Festival in 2011, Czury has been awarded many national and international fellowships to continue his collaborative poem fusion performance and poetry mural projects. An avid blues harp and bocce player, Czury earned an M.F.A. from Wilkes University and is a lecturer at Albright College. He lives in Reading, Pennsylvania where is is Berks County Poet Laureate. craigczury.com
CRAIG CZURY, Poet Laureate of Berks County, Pennsylvania (2010-2012).
Poetry Books
KITCHEN OF CONFLICT RESOLUTION, FootHills Publishing, 2009, Bath, N.Y.
AMERICAN KNOW-HOW: Patent Pending, Paper Kite Press, 2006, Wilkes-Barrre, Pa.
KAM FRIKÊ TA THEM / I’M AFRAID TO SAY, (translated into Albanian by SilkeLiria Blumbach) International Literary Manifestation, 2006, Tetova, Macedonia
DNEVNIK BEZ IMENA / DIARY WITHOUT NAMES, (translated into Croatian by Milos Durdevic) Literature Live, 2004, Zagreb, Croatia
GOD'S SHINY GLASS EYE, FootHills Publishing, 2004, Bath, N.Y.
IN ATTESA DI BREVETTO / AMERICAN KNOW-HOW, (translated into Italian by Riccardo Duranti, illustrated by Dino Patanè) Edizioni Empirìa, 2003, Rome, Italy
TECNOLOGÍA NORTEAMERICANA - PATENTE EN TRÁMITE- Y OTROS POEMAS / AMERICAN KNOW-HOW -PATENT PENDING- AND OTHER POEMS, (translated into Spanish by Esteban Moore) PapelTinta Ediciones. 2003, Buenos Aires, Argentina
IN MY SILENCE TO JUSTIFY, FootHills Publishing, 2003, Bath, N.Y.
ANGLIAVAIZDIS / COALSCAPE, (translated into Lithuanian by Mariaus Buroko) Vario Burnos, 2002, Vilnius, Lithuania
FACES IRRECONCILIÁVEIS / UNRECONCILED FACES, (translated into Portuguese by Narlan Matos) Red Pagoda Press, 2002, Reading, Pa.
CLOSING OUT, FootHills Publishing, 2000, Bath, N.Y.
PARALLEL´NOYE TECHNIE/ PARALLEL RIVERTIME, (translated into Russian by Irina Mashinskaia) Petropol Press,1999, St. Petersburg, Russia
UNRECONCILED FACES, FootHills Publishing, 1999, Bath, N.Y.
SHADOW/ORPHAN SHADOW—SOMBRA/SOMBRA HUÉRFANA, (translated into Castellano by Rosann DeCandido y Alicia Partnoy) Pine Press, 1997, Landisburg, Pa.
SCRAPPLE, Nightshade Press, 1995, Troy, Me.
OBIT HOTEL, Pine Press, 1993, Landisburg, Pa.
EXCEPT…, FootHills Publishing, 1990, Bath, N.Y.
HACKING AND SMOKING, FootHills Publishing, 1989, Bath, N.Y.
Anthologies and Book Series Edited
MONTANA POETS SERIES, Vol. 2, Six Books by Montana Poets. FootHills Publishing, 2012.
MONTANA POETS SERIES, Six Books by Montana Poets. FootHills Publishing, 2010.
UN SEGUNDO EN EL TIEMPO / A SECOND IN TIME: Antologia de poesía Berks y más allá / Poetry Anthology of Berks and Beyond. Albright College Press, 2002.
FINE LINE THAT SCREAMS: Prison Poetry Anthology from N.E. Pennsylvania. Endless Mountains Review Press, 1992.
Translations
Shaip Emërllahu, LIFE’S RAGS, English versions from the Albanian by Craig Czury, with Elvana Zaimi-Tufa, International Literary Manifestation, 2009, Tetova, Macedonia.
Liudvikas Jakimavičius MEDINE / WOODEN. English versions from the Lithuanian by Craig Czury, with Alma Valevičiene. Also translated by Laima Sruoginis, Mara Almeniene, Galina Čepinskiene. Lithuanian Writers’ Union Publishers, Vilnius, 2001.
Antanas A. Jonynas, LAIKO INKLIUZAI / INCLUSIONS IN TIME.
English versions from the Lithuanian by Craig Czury. Also translated by Antanas Danielius and Jonas Zdanys. Lithuanian Writers’ Union Publishers, Vilnius, 2002.
CRAIG CZURY, Poet Laureate of Berks County, Pennsylvania (2010-2012).
Poetry Books
KITCHEN OF CONFLICT RESOLUTION, FootHills Publishing, 2009, Bath, N.Y.
AMERICAN KNOW-HOW: Patent Pending, Paper Kite Press, 2006, Wilkes-Barrre, Pa.
KAM FRIKÊ TA THEM / I’M AFRAID TO SAY, (translated into Albanian by SilkeLiria Blumbach) International Literary Manifestation, 2006, Tetova, Macedonia
DNEVNIK BEZ IMENA / DIARY WITHOUT NAMES, (translated into Croatian by Milos Durdevic) Literature Live, 2004, Zagreb, Croatia
GOD'S SHINY GLASS EYE, FootHills Publishing, 2004, Bath, N.Y.
IN ATTESA DI BREVETTO / AMERICAN KNOW-HOW, (translated into Italian by Riccardo Duranti, illustrated by Dino Patanè) Edizioni Empirìa, 2003, Rome, Italy
TECNOLOGÍA NORTEAMERICANA - PATENTE EN TRÁMITE- Y OTROS POEMAS / AMERICAN KNOW-HOW -PATENT PENDING- AND OTHER POEMS, (translated into Spanish by Esteban Moore) PapelTinta Ediciones. 2003, Buenos Aires, Argentina
IN MY SILENCE TO JUSTIFY, FootHills Publishing, 2003, Bath, N.Y.
ANGLIAVAIZDIS / COALSCAPE, (translated into Lithuanian by Mariaus Buroko) Vario Burnos, 2002, Vilnius, Lithuania
FACES IRRECONCILIÁVEIS / UNRECONCILED FACES, (translated into Portuguese by Narlan Matos) Red Pagoda Press, 2002, Reading, Pa.
CLOSING OUT, FootHills Publishing, 2000, Bath, N.Y.
PARALLEL´NOYE TECHNIE/ PARALLEL RIVERTIME, (translated into Russian by Irina Mashinskaia) Petropol Press,1999, St. Petersburg, Russia
UNRECONCILED FACES, FootHills Publishing, 1999, Bath, N.Y.
SHADOW/ORPHAN SHADOW—SOMBRA/SOMBRA HUÉRFANA, (translated into Castellano by Rosann DeCandido y Alicia Partnoy) Pine Press, 1997, Landisburg, Pa.
SCRAPPLE, Nightshade Press, 1995, Troy, Me.
OBIT HOTEL, Pine Press, 1993, Landisburg, Pa.
EXCEPT…, FootHills Publishing, 1990, Bath, N.Y.
HACKING AND SMOKING, FootHills Publishing, 1989, Bath, N.Y.
Anthologies and Book Series Edited
MONTANA POETS SERIES, Vol. 2, Six Books by Montana Poets. FootHills Publishing, 2012.
MONTANA POETS SERIES, Six Books by Montana Poets. FootHills Publishing, 2010.
UN SEGUNDO EN EL TIEMPO / A SECOND IN TIME: Antologia de poesía Berks y más allá / Poetry Anthology of Berks and Beyond. Albright College Press, 2002.
FINE LINE THAT SCREAMS: Prison Poetry Anthology from N.E. Pennsylvania. Endless Mountains Review Press, 1992.
Translations
Shaip Emërllahu, LIFE’S RAGS, English versions from the Albanian by Craig Czury, with Elvana Zaimi-Tufa, International Literary Manifestation, 2009, Tetova, Macedonia.
Liudvikas Jakimavičius MEDINE / WOODEN. English versions from the Lithuanian by Craig Czury, with Alma Valevičiene. Also translated by Laima Sruoginis, Mara Almeniene, Galina Čepinskiene. Lithuanian Writers’ Union Publishers, Vilnius, 2001.
Antanas A. Jonynas, LAIKO INKLIUZAI / INCLUSIONS IN TIME.
English versions from the Lithuanian by Craig Czury. Also translated by Antanas Danielius and Jonas Zdanys. Lithuanian Writers’ Union Publishers, Vilnius, 2002.
Our Editor in chief, Sabahudin Hadžialić and Craig Czury in Sarajevo, BiH, 2012.
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Craig Czury in Sarajevo, 2012.
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VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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LP vinyl sell from
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6.6.2012. Poet Craig Czury (Reading, Pennsylvania, USA),
our author (http://diogenplus.weebly.com/craig-czury.html),
has been selected by The Waverly Community House (1115 N. Abington Road, Waverly) as the recipient of its 2012 Belin Arts Scholarship.
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OUTLAWS OUT
SCHOLARLY PROSE Czury was awarded the scholarship to fund his “Marcellus Shale” series of poems and “Thumb Notes,” which is a work in progress that, according to Czury, “chronicles the distinctive voices of local residents and gas workers who have told me their stories and views of the changing social and physical landscapes” affected by gas drilling in Susquehanna County. Czury is self-employed at Springville Schoolhouse Art Studios in Springville and teaches part-time at Albright College. He is a graduate of the University of Montana and has a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. |
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Oči čovjeka
Dok priča unutar stihova pred nama se otvaraju promišljanja sveobuhvatnog pjesništva. Onoga koji praznine misli popunjava nadahnutim sloganima koji odjekuju kao vapaji snova unutar nečega što bi se već moglo nazvati "Czurijevskim" načinom. Kakvim? Onim koji razara osrednjost iskaza kreirajući veličanstvene stihove proznih nadahnuća. On čita Svijet oko sebe dok mi želimo, kao Juda Iskariotski, pronaći alternativu vlastitom snebivanju. Postajemo kraljevi u nestanku. Craig Czury je čovjek. Ali i pjesnik. Nadam se da će u našim očima uspjeti i pronaći čovjeka. Sebe. Riječ urednika Sabahudin Hadžialić 24.11.2011. |
The eyes of a human being
While he is telling the story within the verses, in front of us opens the considerations of comprehensive poetry. The one who filled the gaps of thoughts with inspired slogans that echoes like a cry in the dreams within something of what could already be called "Czury" way. What kind? The one who destroys mediocrity of the statement, through creating of the magnificent verses of prose inspirations. He reads the World around him while we want, like Judas Iscariot, to find an alternative to our own embarrassment. We are becoming kings within the disappearance. Craig Czury is a human being. But, also the poet. I hope that he will find in our eyes also a u human being. Himself. Editor's note Sabahudin Hadžialić 24.11.2011. |
Every Day I Discover A Length Of Breath
it doesn’t matter
what’s forgotten
once I get this close
the voices
all the weight
in tone
judgment
when the next word dissolves all punctuation
someone I love very much
is trying to say something to me
the air granulates between our faces
notice the wingspan
in a room where the bed should have been
between lying down
and
(in any language)
falling
remembering what makes us
but not without stretch marks
saying our names
and dedicating them to someone close
or to bring them closer
passion & vengeance
forming halos
aureolas of light
around a grain of sand
with leaves
so no one can see your face in tree light
in the film negative held up to light
you could play yourself for a while
So In The End It’s Perception
a little sacredness in the midst of all the profanity and mediocrity
to hear the action you make surrendering intention
you have to turn around and be behind the other eyes
vanishing into those places at the edge of seeing and sight
place and destination are completely unavailable for a while
toying with the floral arrangements
as if your eyeballs were a leaf and a great gusting wind was let loose
you won’t know where you stand moving the words around until they feel right
it might be a place where people are gathering according to tone of voice
I need to hear someone speak who can really delay the background noise
in the midst of getting ready the particulars escape me
Opening A Tremendous Silence Between Us
I measure inheritance in a tone of voice
underneath that certain look
What was it we were promised
a particular gesture traced back to
What was it we had to let go
someone somewhere recognizable a long time ago
Where in the Bible does it say unconditional
I read the newspapers
Was there something eating you
from what you didn’t get last time
Here
I give you everything I found since a boy
a few hard-placed words and this moment reading
Each Day A Legendary Search For The Lost Cry
of children in the woods
each day a woman leaves her house
walks into the woods looking for her children
each day she falls in love with a tree
makes love to it and walks home before it gets dark
each day a woman leaves her home
walks into the woods looking for her children
each day she wraps her arms around the trunk of a tree
rubs herself against it until the tree quakes
until she becomes a rope of hair
then walks back home before it gets dark
a woman searching for her children
walks into the woods but there aren’t any trees
she keeps walking to the other side
silvery and shimmering
ahead of her the gravel is shimmering
For Years
I look at people in the eyes
to see if there’s somebody in there
wide digital almost sky
with the strength of an answer
almost a hope in how vast
and curious in the same place
the same troubled half-squint
faraway like a question
or tedious wish to be somewhere
like last night left over from something
forgotten and seen inside a book
looking up carried into a smile
I saw you with my same eyes
we were tired and old
Mrtva Sabota
But even in a cemetery you can't eat without music
the waiter has just set down a plate of grilled meat mushroom sauce bottle of red wine
I'm hunched over my coat pulled tight warming
my fingers on the small sterno lamp
lips kissing a glass of rakia
small upstairs room where the lake hews driftwood
into benches steaming cold breath each table its own kiosk
each of us our own thoughts touch wood be a doorway
reading poems of a poet now dead about the dead
it's not me alone who can boast being a cemetery
the musicians are playing the old way like a secret lifted out of its broken thought
their violins splayed open for the petals they’ll row across this murky light
before looking up
Walking Around
it was almost morning
and I wanted to crawl back in with you
where we sleep alongside the jetty
but the tide had come up
just about covering the stones with sand
and I couldn’t find our bed
I was surprised the sea washes over us when we sleep
and started digging with my hands
then pounding the wet sand for you to open up
let me slide in beside you
scratching and pounding the sand
calling your name to wake up
but it was my sister’s name I was calling
and I woke up knowing it hadn’t been you I loved all those years
in your house along the shore
go back to sleep
In My Country
you’ll die in some desolate town
thinking it’s a movie
surrounded by people who don't look
anything like you
just to see if you fit in
just to see if you can hold your breath
you’ll die holding their breath that long
toothless mouth-to-mouth
not speaking wide open
you won’t have a say
that laughing moon face we loved
I loved you this whole time
sewn into the star of your breast pocket
spiritual afterthought of my harmonica
pulsating kiss
In My Silence To Justify
we’re sitting in dark corners smoking
the middle of the day
sitting in dark corners talking in low tones
middle of night
in dark corners filled with our dead
hours into centuries
the dead who are also tucked away in dark corners
as if they’re thinking
as if they’re quietly reading the situation
as if almost an air of self-satisfaction
walking our women home at night
confident nothing’s wrong
our women who’re acting uptight
nervously pretending nothing’s wrong
Once Night Falls
there is only room for so many
night makes sure of that
soaked with adrenalin
by morning more of us are gone
some weird twist of choice
where one is born or being born
your horoscope reads arm yourself with that look
beyond language your shadow crosses over
mother leaves you the persian rug in her dream
you know she’s really not just sleeping
roll it up
music carries its own gunshots and weeping
once night falls our bodies convulse
It’s True
in the cemetery the softest grass to lie down on
is a woman
I have many times rolled on and across
lips of the angelic dead
but tonight
I drag my dark bones overlooking the river bed
to drink your legs
there is no dreamy look of innocence
on her face turning stone
no moaning hollow of her breasts
I have come here to sleep the absolute sleep
of wings rising from your breath
a rootless wet green in the mouth at night
from CLICK
Among the poets of my generation from the former soviet, former dirty war, current troubles, current jihad, ethnic cleansing...poets, journalists, professors, survivors sliding in and out of prisons, shelters, mental wards, community centers, schools...
I have no language to speak this beyond
or in some personal knowing
to say yes it’s like that with me too
in time
how we’ve been together
will grow to resemble a way
to linger to pass by
especially to laugh
that heartiest absurd brief moment
that the world didn’t get us
glance or gaze
look of knowing they didn’t kill us yet
or even if they did it didn’t matter
in those first ephemeral signs of a smile
just to laugh
it doesn’t matter
what’s forgotten
once I get this close
the voices
all the weight
in tone
judgment
when the next word dissolves all punctuation
someone I love very much
is trying to say something to me
the air granulates between our faces
notice the wingspan
in a room where the bed should have been
between lying down
and
(in any language)
falling
remembering what makes us
but not without stretch marks
saying our names
and dedicating them to someone close
or to bring them closer
passion & vengeance
forming halos
aureolas of light
around a grain of sand
with leaves
so no one can see your face in tree light
in the film negative held up to light
you could play yourself for a while
So In The End It’s Perception
a little sacredness in the midst of all the profanity and mediocrity
to hear the action you make surrendering intention
you have to turn around and be behind the other eyes
vanishing into those places at the edge of seeing and sight
place and destination are completely unavailable for a while
toying with the floral arrangements
as if your eyeballs were a leaf and a great gusting wind was let loose
you won’t know where you stand moving the words around until they feel right
it might be a place where people are gathering according to tone of voice
I need to hear someone speak who can really delay the background noise
in the midst of getting ready the particulars escape me
Opening A Tremendous Silence Between Us
I measure inheritance in a tone of voice
underneath that certain look
What was it we were promised
a particular gesture traced back to
What was it we had to let go
someone somewhere recognizable a long time ago
Where in the Bible does it say unconditional
I read the newspapers
Was there something eating you
from what you didn’t get last time
Here
I give you everything I found since a boy
a few hard-placed words and this moment reading
Each Day A Legendary Search For The Lost Cry
of children in the woods
each day a woman leaves her house
walks into the woods looking for her children
each day she falls in love with a tree
makes love to it and walks home before it gets dark
each day a woman leaves her home
walks into the woods looking for her children
each day she wraps her arms around the trunk of a tree
rubs herself against it until the tree quakes
until she becomes a rope of hair
then walks back home before it gets dark
a woman searching for her children
walks into the woods but there aren’t any trees
she keeps walking to the other side
silvery and shimmering
ahead of her the gravel is shimmering
For Years
I look at people in the eyes
to see if there’s somebody in there
wide digital almost sky
with the strength of an answer
almost a hope in how vast
and curious in the same place
the same troubled half-squint
faraway like a question
or tedious wish to be somewhere
like last night left over from something
forgotten and seen inside a book
looking up carried into a smile
I saw you with my same eyes
we were tired and old
Mrtva Sabota
But even in a cemetery you can't eat without music
the waiter has just set down a plate of grilled meat mushroom sauce bottle of red wine
I'm hunched over my coat pulled tight warming
my fingers on the small sterno lamp
lips kissing a glass of rakia
small upstairs room where the lake hews driftwood
into benches steaming cold breath each table its own kiosk
each of us our own thoughts touch wood be a doorway
reading poems of a poet now dead about the dead
it's not me alone who can boast being a cemetery
the musicians are playing the old way like a secret lifted out of its broken thought
their violins splayed open for the petals they’ll row across this murky light
before looking up
Walking Around
it was almost morning
and I wanted to crawl back in with you
where we sleep alongside the jetty
but the tide had come up
just about covering the stones with sand
and I couldn’t find our bed
I was surprised the sea washes over us when we sleep
and started digging with my hands
then pounding the wet sand for you to open up
let me slide in beside you
scratching and pounding the sand
calling your name to wake up
but it was my sister’s name I was calling
and I woke up knowing it hadn’t been you I loved all those years
in your house along the shore
go back to sleep
In My Country
you’ll die in some desolate town
thinking it’s a movie
surrounded by people who don't look
anything like you
just to see if you fit in
just to see if you can hold your breath
you’ll die holding their breath that long
toothless mouth-to-mouth
not speaking wide open
you won’t have a say
that laughing moon face we loved
I loved you this whole time
sewn into the star of your breast pocket
spiritual afterthought of my harmonica
pulsating kiss
In My Silence To Justify
we’re sitting in dark corners smoking
the middle of the day
sitting in dark corners talking in low tones
middle of night
in dark corners filled with our dead
hours into centuries
the dead who are also tucked away in dark corners
as if they’re thinking
as if they’re quietly reading the situation
as if almost an air of self-satisfaction
walking our women home at night
confident nothing’s wrong
our women who’re acting uptight
nervously pretending nothing’s wrong
Once Night Falls
there is only room for so many
night makes sure of that
soaked with adrenalin
by morning more of us are gone
some weird twist of choice
where one is born or being born
your horoscope reads arm yourself with that look
beyond language your shadow crosses over
mother leaves you the persian rug in her dream
you know she’s really not just sleeping
roll it up
music carries its own gunshots and weeping
once night falls our bodies convulse
It’s True
in the cemetery the softest grass to lie down on
is a woman
I have many times rolled on and across
lips of the angelic dead
but tonight
I drag my dark bones overlooking the river bed
to drink your legs
there is no dreamy look of innocence
on her face turning stone
no moaning hollow of her breasts
I have come here to sleep the absolute sleep
of wings rising from your breath
a rootless wet green in the mouth at night
from CLICK
Among the poets of my generation from the former soviet, former dirty war, current troubles, current jihad, ethnic cleansing...poets, journalists, professors, survivors sliding in and out of prisons, shelters, mental wards, community centers, schools...
I have no language to speak this beyond
or in some personal knowing
to say yes it’s like that with me too
in time
how we’ve been together
will grow to resemble a way
to linger to pass by
especially to laugh
that heartiest absurd brief moment
that the world didn’t get us
glance or gaze
look of knowing they didn’t kill us yet
or even if they did it didn’t matter
in those first ephemeral signs of a smile
just to laugh
Assalamu alaikum
The photographer’s hunched over his camera screaming, That’s it! The same moment Big Nana shifts to her champion bowling pose Miklós Radnóti is being exhumed from a mass grave, blood mixed with mud was drying in my ear, his last poem I’m reading in the bulb flash, blood-crusted from his overcoat pocket. Underdeveloped glimpse of Anna Akhmatova staring out of the torpor common to all of us in those days, faint smile of the woman who gave birth to me, her lips blue from the cold. That was a time when the dead could smile. My old man exhales a plume of cigar smoke, the afternoon is all fallen plaster, black stones, dry thorns. The afternoon has a difficult color made up of old footsteps halted in mid-stride. Yannis Ritsos coughs up a glob of tubercular phlegm. That’s me, second to the left, spiking my flat-top with the palm of my hand, squeezed between Kafka and Calvino, who prop me up between sense and direction. Of course I’m late for school. Everything I need and reach for as I’m racing for the door breaks off in my hands. When I grab the door it doesn’t open. It doesn’t open, and I wake up running through the neighbors’ yards where women are hanging sheets on clotheslines I brush, tangle, and, pumping my arms, lift myself off the ground, up, clear of the clotheslines, clear of the power lines. I’m treading the air above a crowd of tiny people who are chasing me when I wake up standing in the wings of an auditorium being introduced as a very important person I don’t recognize and I’ve grown a beard. Walking out across the stage I’m not wearing any clothes. The house is packed with everyone in a tux or a gown with hairdos, I walk behind the podium feeling protected as I begin to read from a sheet of paper all the words are mixed up and what comes out of my mouth is gibberish when I wake up peeing the bed I’m covered with seeds it’s my birthday and I’m 50 years old all my friends are teenagers
The photographer’s hunched over his camera screaming, That’s it! The same moment Big Nana shifts to her champion bowling pose Miklós Radnóti is being exhumed from a mass grave, blood mixed with mud was drying in my ear, his last poem I’m reading in the bulb flash, blood-crusted from his overcoat pocket. Underdeveloped glimpse of Anna Akhmatova staring out of the torpor common to all of us in those days, faint smile of the woman who gave birth to me, her lips blue from the cold. That was a time when the dead could smile. My old man exhales a plume of cigar smoke, the afternoon is all fallen plaster, black stones, dry thorns. The afternoon has a difficult color made up of old footsteps halted in mid-stride. Yannis Ritsos coughs up a glob of tubercular phlegm. That’s me, second to the left, spiking my flat-top with the palm of my hand, squeezed between Kafka and Calvino, who prop me up between sense and direction. Of course I’m late for school. Everything I need and reach for as I’m racing for the door breaks off in my hands. When I grab the door it doesn’t open. It doesn’t open, and I wake up running through the neighbors’ yards where women are hanging sheets on clotheslines I brush, tangle, and, pumping my arms, lift myself off the ground, up, clear of the clotheslines, clear of the power lines. I’m treading the air above a crowd of tiny people who are chasing me when I wake up standing in the wings of an auditorium being introduced as a very important person I don’t recognize and I’ve grown a beard. Walking out across the stage I’m not wearing any clothes. The house is packed with everyone in a tux or a gown with hairdos, I walk behind the podium feeling protected as I begin to read from a sheet of paper all the words are mixed up and what comes out of my mouth is gibberish when I wake up peeing the bed I’m covered with seeds it’s my birthday and I’m 50 years old all my friends are teenagers
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Craig Czury as Laureate of International Poetry Festival "DITET ET NAIMIT", October 2011.
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Craig Czury with colleagues poets
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Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: [email protected];
Narudžbe/Order: [email protected]
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
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Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
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Contact Editorial board E-mail: [email protected];
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Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
