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NA LISTI Od 04.8.2010.g. /
LISTED SINCE August 4th, 2010 among leading European magazines: 
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All Rights Reserved
Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc Sarajevo & Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI... WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES |
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Preporuka za 2014 - Narudžba knjiga / Purchasing of the books / Bücher bestellen
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Goran Simić, Canada & Bosnia and Herzegovina
Prominent former Yugoslavian writer Goran Simic, born in Bosnia-Herzegovina, immigrated to Canada in 1996 after Civil war under the auspices of PEN Canada.
In his native country he was recognized as author of published poetry, short stories, puppet plays, librettos for opera, radio plays, including career as editor and columnist for magazines and radio network, at that point his books has been translated into eight languages.
In 1996 he was a Senior Resident of Massey College, University of Toronto, 2000; Fleck Fellowship at the Banff Centre for the Arts; 2004, Writer-in-Residence at the University of Guelph, 2006 ;Writer in Exile at the University of Alberta, 2011 .
Since 1996 his literary work has been translated into 15 languages, and was included in several world anthologies, such as Scanning the Century (Penguin, 2000) and Banned Poetry (Index of Censorship, 1997), and in numerous anthologies in Canada and the former Yugoslavia. He got the Helman-Hammet award/PEN USA Freedom to Write award (1994), and the People’s Award, Canada, (2006), including numerous literary prizes for work in puppet theatres as well.
Recently his book “Sunrise in the Eyes of the Snowman” was awarded by Canadian Association of Authors as the best poetry book in Canada in 2012.
PUBLISHED WORKS
POETRY:
Kada umreš kao mačka, new poems, (translated in Bosnian by Lidia Lyda Hrgić), Bosanska riječ, BiH, 2012
When you die as the Cat, selected poems, (translated in Estonian by Catlin Kaldmaa), PEN Estonia, Estonia,2012
The Sunrise in the yes of the Snowman, poetry, Biblioasis, Windsor, Canada,2010
My happy days in the madhouse, selected poems, Bosanska knjiga, Sarajevo, BiH, 2010
Immigrant Sorrow/Penas del Inmigrante,(translated in Spanish by Veronica Garza Flores),LyricalMyrical Press, Toronto, 2008
From Sarajevo with Sorrow. (translation into English by Amela Simić), Biblioasis, Windsor,2005
Immigrant Blues. Brick Books, Toronto,2003
The Book of Wandering. RAD, Belgrade, Serbia, 2002
Alledaagse Adam/Everyday Adam. (translation into Dutch by Rada Gavrilović), Atlas, Amsterdam, Holland, 1999
Peace and War (with Fraser Sutherland),limited edition, Toronto, 1998
Sprinting from the Graveyard. (English version by David Harsent), Oxford University Press, UK, 1997
Sorrow of Sarajevo. (English version by David Harsent), London , Cargo, UK, 1996
Sarevska Tuga- Sarajevo Sorrow, (translated by Amela Simić), IPC Sarajevo, BiH, 1995. This book was published as Sarevska Tuga, IN Press, Belgrade, Serbia,1995, Studio B-92, Belgrade, Serbia, 1995 and in Ljubljana by Vodnikova Domacija, Ljubljana, Slovenia,1994
Sarajevos Sorg, (translated by Svein Monnesland), Oslo: Sypress Forlag, Norway, 1995
Sarajevos Sorg. (translated by Đorđje Žarković), Stockholm: Studiekamraten, Sweden, 1995
Sarajevo - ojeblikke af en krig (translated by Per Jacobsen), Gyldendal, Copenhagen, Danmark, 1995
Placz Sarajewa. (translated by Bozena Nowak), Pogranicye, Warsaw, Poland, 1995
Sarajevon Suru. (translated by Leevi Lehto),WSOY, Helsinki, Finland, 1994
Maštovanka (Fantasy Book). Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1989
Korak u Mrak (A Step into the Dark). Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1987
Pjesme o Strahu (Selected Poems). : Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1985
Mandragora. Sarajevo: V.Maslesa, 1982
Vertigo. Sarajevo: V.Maslesa, 1977
Tačka do kruga ili put (A Period Next to a Circle, or a Journey). Svjetlost, 1976
OTHER BOOKS
Somebody told me Tito died, (stories),Dobra Knjiga, Sarajevo, BiH, 2011
Looking for Tito. (Short Stories), Frog Hollow Press, Canada 2010
Anthology of Canadian Poetry (Editor and translator) Buybook, Sarajevo, BiH, 2008
Yesterday's People. ( stories). Windsor: Biblioasis, Canada,2005
Tri lutkarske igre (Three Plays for Puppets), ZPPBiH, Sarajevo, BiH, 1998
Three New Plays for Puppets, Zonex, Sarajevo, BiH, 1997
Marchen uber Sarajevo (A Fairy tale about Sarajevo), Roentgen S ,Freiburg, Germany, 1995
THEATRICAL WORK:
The Taxi Project, PEN Canada, J. Gordon Shillingford Publishing, Canada, ,2010
Differences in Demolition. (opera libretto) Opera Circus, UK,2007. The opera, with music by Nigel Osborne, was produced and performed in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Scotland, Austria and England.
A Ballad of Baggage (with Fraser Sutherland, Aleksandar Bukvic, and Berge Arabian). (Mixed-media show with poetry, video, slides, and tape) Toronto: Michelangelo Gallery, 2000, and Hart House
Wind in Uniform. Performed in Toronto and San Francisco in 1999- 2000.
London under Siege (Opera libretto). The opera, with music by David Wilde, was produced and performed at the National Theatre Hannover, Germany, 1999.
Opera Europe. (Opera libretto) The opera, with music by Nigel Osborne, was produced and performed at the National Theatre, Sarajevo, 1995.
PUPPET PLAYS:
Legenda o Dunjaluku (Legend of Dunjaluk). Studio Lutkarstva, Sarajevo, 2007.
Bajka o Sarajevu (A Fairy tale about Sarajevo) Pozorište Mladih, Sarajevo, 1995.
Gdje je zima (Where is Winter?) Produced in various theatre in Sarajevo and Mostar, 1988, 1989, 1996.
Marko Kraljević i Vila (Marko the Prince and the Fairy) Pozorište Mladih, Sarajevo, 1988.
Kockasta Lopta (A Cubical Ball) Narodno Pozorište Zenica, 1987.
Proljeće, Ljeto, Jesen (Spring, Summer, Fall) Dom Mladih Skenderija, Sarajevo, 1986.
Djevojčica sa Šibicama (The Little Match Girl) Narodno Pozorište Zenica, 1985.
Palčić Dugonja (Thumbellino the Lanky) Pozorište mladih, Sarajevo, 1986
In his native country he was recognized as author of published poetry, short stories, puppet plays, librettos for opera, radio plays, including career as editor and columnist for magazines and radio network, at that point his books has been translated into eight languages.
In 1996 he was a Senior Resident of Massey College, University of Toronto, 2000; Fleck Fellowship at the Banff Centre for the Arts; 2004, Writer-in-Residence at the University of Guelph, 2006 ;Writer in Exile at the University of Alberta, 2011 .
Since 1996 his literary work has been translated into 15 languages, and was included in several world anthologies, such as Scanning the Century (Penguin, 2000) and Banned Poetry (Index of Censorship, 1997), and in numerous anthologies in Canada and the former Yugoslavia. He got the Helman-Hammet award/PEN USA Freedom to Write award (1994), and the People’s Award, Canada, (2006), including numerous literary prizes for work in puppet theatres as well.
Recently his book “Sunrise in the Eyes of the Snowman” was awarded by Canadian Association of Authors as the best poetry book in Canada in 2012.
PUBLISHED WORKS
POETRY:
Kada umreš kao mačka, new poems, (translated in Bosnian by Lidia Lyda Hrgić), Bosanska riječ, BiH, 2012
When you die as the Cat, selected poems, (translated in Estonian by Catlin Kaldmaa), PEN Estonia, Estonia,2012
The Sunrise in the yes of the Snowman, poetry, Biblioasis, Windsor, Canada,2010
My happy days in the madhouse, selected poems, Bosanska knjiga, Sarajevo, BiH, 2010
Immigrant Sorrow/Penas del Inmigrante,(translated in Spanish by Veronica Garza Flores),LyricalMyrical Press, Toronto, 2008
From Sarajevo with Sorrow. (translation into English by Amela Simić), Biblioasis, Windsor,2005
Immigrant Blues. Brick Books, Toronto,2003
The Book of Wandering. RAD, Belgrade, Serbia, 2002
Alledaagse Adam/Everyday Adam. (translation into Dutch by Rada Gavrilović), Atlas, Amsterdam, Holland, 1999
Peace and War (with Fraser Sutherland),limited edition, Toronto, 1998
Sprinting from the Graveyard. (English version by David Harsent), Oxford University Press, UK, 1997
Sorrow of Sarajevo. (English version by David Harsent), London , Cargo, UK, 1996
Sarevska Tuga- Sarajevo Sorrow, (translated by Amela Simić), IPC Sarajevo, BiH, 1995. This book was published as Sarevska Tuga, IN Press, Belgrade, Serbia,1995, Studio B-92, Belgrade, Serbia, 1995 and in Ljubljana by Vodnikova Domacija, Ljubljana, Slovenia,1994
Sarajevos Sorg, (translated by Svein Monnesland), Oslo: Sypress Forlag, Norway, 1995
Sarajevos Sorg. (translated by Đorđje Žarković), Stockholm: Studiekamraten, Sweden, 1995
Sarajevo - ojeblikke af en krig (translated by Per Jacobsen), Gyldendal, Copenhagen, Danmark, 1995
Placz Sarajewa. (translated by Bozena Nowak), Pogranicye, Warsaw, Poland, 1995
Sarajevon Suru. (translated by Leevi Lehto),WSOY, Helsinki, Finland, 1994
Maštovanka (Fantasy Book). Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1989
Korak u Mrak (A Step into the Dark). Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1987
Pjesme o Strahu (Selected Poems). : Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1985
Mandragora. Sarajevo: V.Maslesa, 1982
Vertigo. Sarajevo: V.Maslesa, 1977
Tačka do kruga ili put (A Period Next to a Circle, or a Journey). Svjetlost, 1976
OTHER BOOKS
Somebody told me Tito died, (stories),Dobra Knjiga, Sarajevo, BiH, 2011
Looking for Tito. (Short Stories), Frog Hollow Press, Canada 2010
Anthology of Canadian Poetry (Editor and translator) Buybook, Sarajevo, BiH, 2008
Yesterday's People. ( stories). Windsor: Biblioasis, Canada,2005
Tri lutkarske igre (Three Plays for Puppets), ZPPBiH, Sarajevo, BiH, 1998
Three New Plays for Puppets, Zonex, Sarajevo, BiH, 1997
Marchen uber Sarajevo (A Fairy tale about Sarajevo), Roentgen S ,Freiburg, Germany, 1995
THEATRICAL WORK:
The Taxi Project, PEN Canada, J. Gordon Shillingford Publishing, Canada, ,2010
Differences in Demolition. (opera libretto) Opera Circus, UK,2007. The opera, with music by Nigel Osborne, was produced and performed in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Scotland, Austria and England.
A Ballad of Baggage (with Fraser Sutherland, Aleksandar Bukvic, and Berge Arabian). (Mixed-media show with poetry, video, slides, and tape) Toronto: Michelangelo Gallery, 2000, and Hart House
Wind in Uniform. Performed in Toronto and San Francisco in 1999- 2000.
London under Siege (Opera libretto). The opera, with music by David Wilde, was produced and performed at the National Theatre Hannover, Germany, 1999.
Opera Europe. (Opera libretto) The opera, with music by Nigel Osborne, was produced and performed at the National Theatre, Sarajevo, 1995.
PUPPET PLAYS:
Legenda o Dunjaluku (Legend of Dunjaluk). Studio Lutkarstva, Sarajevo, 2007.
Bajka o Sarajevu (A Fairy tale about Sarajevo) Pozorište Mladih, Sarajevo, 1995.
Gdje je zima (Where is Winter?) Produced in various theatre in Sarajevo and Mostar, 1988, 1989, 1996.
Marko Kraljević i Vila (Marko the Prince and the Fairy) Pozorište Mladih, Sarajevo, 1988.
Kockasta Lopta (A Cubical Ball) Narodno Pozorište Zenica, 1987.
Proljeće, Ljeto, Jesen (Spring, Summer, Fall) Dom Mladih Skenderija, Sarajevo, 1986.
Djevojčica sa Šibicama (The Little Match Girl) Narodno Pozorište Zenica, 1985.
Palčić Dugonja (Thumbellino the Lanky) Pozorište mladih, Sarajevo, 1986
VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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Domovina, utroba i
bezimena, bezlična lica. Snaga toka svijesti u susretu sa etičkim otiskom čovjeka koji ne mijenja stavove u skladu sa vjetrovima nesklada što život čine. Snaga autora čije stihove ne treba objašnjavati vivisekcijom forme, već implantacijom suštine. Domovine. Odjeka njenog. U njemu. Snaga pisanog otiska koji povratkom u prošlost budućnost vabi. Majčinom utrobom pretpostavke adresiranog lika. Koji traži odgovore. Čak i tamo. Snaga čovjeka koji, iako zna da svoju snagu crpe iz kleveta upućenim njemu, nije u konfliktu sa bezimenim, bezličnim licima. On ih ne mrzi. Žali ih. Poezijom prije svega. I, iznad svega, autor od koga se može učiti. Načinu predstavljanja čovjeka. Poezijom, prije svega. Riječ urednika Sabahudin Hadžialić 31.3.2013. |
Homeland, womb and
nameless, faceless entities. The power of flow of consciousness encountering with the ethical imprint of a human who does not change stands in line with the winds of discord that life makes. The power of author whose verses does not need to be explained theough the vivisection of form, but with the essence of implantation. Of the Homeland. Echoes of her. Within him. The Power of written mark that, through the return to the past invites the future. With the mother's womb of the assumptions of character. Seeking for the answers. Even there. The power of the man who, although he knows that they draw their strength from the calumnies directed to him, is not in conflict with the nameless, faceless entities. He does not hate them. He just feel sorry for them. Through the poetry. And above all, the author from whom to learn. How to present the human. Through the poetry, first and foremost. Editor's word Sabahudin Hadžialić 31.3.2013. |
VJETAR U LUĐAČKOJ KOŠULJI
„Sve dok lavovi ne budu imali pisce svoje istorije
sve priče o lavovima će uvijek slaviti samo lovce“ –Afrička poslovica
1.
Umorio sam se od sebe kao žrtve.
Skladište praznih flašica of parfema preraslo je
gomilu promašaja koje sam napravio,
a gigantska olovka sa srcem od kreča
nadrasla je moju običnu potrebu da bilježim
malog sebe.
Umorio sam se od samokažnjavanja, od izvinjavanja
zbog pigmenta kože koji može podnijeti samo mjesečinu,
od mene koji ličim na psa koje ponekad zaurla poput vuka
u kartoteci Biroa za Izbjeglice.
Korice zabranjenih knjiga uselile su se u mene
u formi ostataka hrane
na papirnim tanjirima demonstranata u parku.
Pretvorio sam se u kič,
u slatku nakazu koja više ne sakriva svoj vjenčani prsten
od bodljikave žice.
Postalo me je stid što sam sebi dozvolio
da po mome krvnom pritisku bankarski službenici
naštimavaju brojeve za proizvodnju sirotinje,
što se moja tuga može staviti na vagu i upakovati
one iste šarene kutijice
koje su ostale neotvorene ispod prošlogodišnje
novogodišnje jelke.
Sam sam kriv što sam u stablo javora urezao ime domovine
koja se potom počela sušiti
i sad skupljam lišće da bih napunio makar jednu jastučnicu
za moje pretke koji me ne prestaju mititi ampulama krvi.
Leđa su mi se pretvorila u grudi,
niski podrumski plafoni napravili su me grbavim.
Kupujem cipele na odjeljenjima za djecu,
zaboravljam kako to izgleda isprsiti se pred metcima
i kakva je razlika između vojnika i heroja.
Umorio sam se od poruka koje šaljem sam sebi
iz zemalja za koje nikada nisam ni upamtio,
iz gradova koji mi naplaćuju porez na velike oči,
sa plaža na kojima iste stare kronjače sa podsmjehom pregaze
novog starca zatrpanog u pjesku.
Nema na tim porukama adrese pošiljaoca,
nema ni imena.
Tek u daljini zvuk kamiona za smeće
koji melje flašice od parfema što podsjeća na himnu,
tamo, par ulica dalje,
gdje počinje moja tuga.
2.
Šta sam to propustio prije nego sam rođen.
Ništa čini mi se, ništa
što se nije ponovilo u istom obliku.
Kao što se na isti način neprestano ponavljaju psovke majki upućene
grobarima pripravnicima koji dokono sjede pred kapijom porodilišta
i piju crno mlijeko.
Kao što svaka kokoš uveče lježe maštajući
kako će se jednom iz običnog jajeta izleći zlatni paun
prije nego što postane omlet
i hrabro stati pred ruku
koja u kokošinjac poseže za pernatim vratom.
Govorim o milionima školjki koje cijeli svoj život žvaću vlastiti mozak
računajući da će neki mali biser zablistati u ogrlici
na vratu neke buduće kraljice iz bajki.
Prije nego što se ista kraljica odluči
da okeane pretvori u ogledala.
Govorim o svojim malim rukama
koje na štokove od prozora ugrađuju debela vrata
sa ogromnom ključaonicom
kroz koju mogu viriti u svijet.
Onaj svijet koji sam napravio takvim da mi se ne sviđa
i na koji uvijek mogu pljunuti.
Uveče navlačim zavjese zbog nekog ludog snajperiste
preostalog iz starog rata kada nisam ni bio rođen.
On jednostavno puca na obične zadovoljne ljude,
Na policajce prerušene u odoru propovjednika,
Na ratne veterane zaposlene kao direktori obdaništa,
Na političare u uniformama poštara.
Puca na ljude sa nekog od crvenih oblaka
iznad moga uplašenog grada
i pogađa samo metalne nazive ulica heroja.
I debele krvožedne golubove na dimnjacima.
To nisam ja. Još uvijek niko ne sumnja na mene.
Mada komšije tvrde da se radujem kad me uveče uspavljuje
zvuk kiše koja dobuje po krovu kuće
i da se pretvaram da ne znam da se tu ne radi o kiši
već o ispaljenim čahurama
koje ću jutrom morati pomesti ispred vrata.
3.
Odćutao sam svoje rođenje i onda sam se navikao
da odćutim i događaje koji se mogu izreći samo suzama.
Larva leptira u mojim pelenama nikada nije poletjela
već je samo pokorno odgmizala na ogledalo
i tu se pretvorila u ružnu mrlju.
U oko, koje gleda samo u sebe.
Moja mašta je rođena iz moje navike da ćutim
umjesto da zaplačem,
jer samo tišina posjeduje boju za kojom čeznem
a koja ne postoji niti u jednom katalogu.
Koliko puta me je obalna straža sprečavala
da ronim duboko prema dnu okeana.
Molili su me da odustanem
jer dolje nema ničega osim mokrog mraka
a ja bih uvijek ronio dublje u potrazi za nečim
što mi je obećano i što mi pripada
i što nikada nisam definisao.
Možda je to nešto za čim sam tragao bilo ubilježeno
u moju kožu
u formi ožiljaka od zlatnih sprudova pored kojih bih ronio dublje,
u ranama od ujeda riba koje su ljubomorno žvakale svoj vijekovni mrak,
u mom vlastitom dahu pod maskom koji bi me davio
dok bih poražen,
sa osmijehom na licu, isplivao na plažu koja ćuti.
Ko zna
Možda je dobro što sam se oženio ćutnjom
i što mi je krik postao ljubavnica
koja ne pravi razliku imeđu ribarskog čamca
i podmornice.
I kojoj je svejedno da li udišem crnu vodu
ili bijeli vazduh.
4.
Ne nisam to bio ja,
Onaj koji je u zoru u uniformi ribara
odlazio na sjever da pomiri pametne pastrmke
i stotine glupih mamaca
a vraćao se uveče sa kanisterima nafte u rukama .
Nisam to bio ja koji je iz čizama
od krzna polarnog medvjeda
istresa pustinjski pjesak.
Porođen sam na vojničkom ćebetu iz vojnog skladišta
i baterijske lampe su bile prve zvijezde koje sam ugledao.
Možda sam gledao u pogrešnom pravcu i kasno naučio
da samo poraženi imaju pravo na slavlje
a da pobjednicima preostaju samo brige
i strah od onih koji slave.
Na putu od majčine suknje do očeve vojničke torbe
rečeno mi je da je u lov na krokodile najbolje poći
u čizmama od krokodilske kože.
Još uvijek mi se znoji kažiprst dok palim slavljeničke petarde
ispred izbjegličkog kampa,
dok mirišem kerozin u krilima lešinara
i čitam užas na usnama stjuardesa koje se pred polijetanje
smiješe poput trudnica.
Ali nikada nisam bio onaj koji je išao na sjever
da bi sjekao šume
kako bih od ćutljivih stabala napravio propovjedaonicu.
Bog mi je svjedok.
Ako je i jedan svjedok ostao.
5.
Toliko puta sam se selio od mjesta do mjesta,
da se više ne sjećam ni svoje prve adrese.
Gradova se sjećam po voznoj karti
a kontinenata po štambilju u pasošu.
Ništa drugo i ne nosim u gladnom koferu
osim mapa gradova i geografskih karti.
Ne iznenađujem se više kad na mene zalaje
torba kad je zatvaram.
Hranim se osmijesima stjuardesa,
opijam se pristojnošću konduktera na vozovima,
pijem jutro iz plastičnih čaša,
koje i ne znaju gdje im je domovina.
Pored mojim očima se množe krajolici
koji se opiru foto aparatu,
autobuske stanice bez imena i ljudi koji će me zaboraviti.
Iza mene nebeski plav pada snijeg,
na vreli asfalt ulice kojom sam tek prošao .
Stranci izgovaraju ime svoje domovine
kao da izgovaraju
ime neizlječive bolesti od koje boluju,
od koje se umire samo u motelima bez imena.
Glasovi stranaca su telefoni koji ne zvone
u hotelskim sobama,
email poruke koje se na kompjuteru pojave kao laste.
Potom se iste laste pretvore u rode
koje strpljivo čekaju na ledenom dimnjaku
porodične kuće
i onda odu
na neki drugi krov .
Stranci umiru od refrena stare zavičajne himne
zaglavljene u grlu kao riblja kost,
sa iskolačenim očima koja ne mogu progutati
premalene pejsaže
koji više mirišu na svježe posteljine
nego na zastave izblijedile od kiše i vjetra.
I ja sam jedan od njih u traganju za domom,
u traganju za toplinom majčine utrobe.
Mojom prvom adresom.
6.
Kada si izašla iz kafane
ostavila si mi u džepu pantola svoje ledene rukavice.
Pretvarao sam se da iza tebe nije ostalo ništa
osim otiska karmina na čaši
koji će jutro doručkovati.
Samo barmen zna zašto te je izbacio iz kafane,
samo kelner zna
zašto si mu ostavila prezrvativ umjesto bakšiša,
samo ja znam koliko dugo sam tvoje rukavice
grijao u džepu
da bi se smekšale i počele mirisati na sladoled.
Nisam trebao sjesti u automobil
u kojem su tvoje rukavice već stajale na volanu.
Nisam ti trebao pokloniti lančić od moje upletene kose,
nisam smio primijetiti da te je medvjed
istetoviran na mojim grudima
ujeo za šaku spremnu da izbaci kandže.
Znao sam da će jednog dana tvoj novčanik
pokucati na moja vrata i obavijestiti me
da si ukradena.
I da neću sebe kao i obično okriviti
kako te nikada nisam ni pokušao upoznati.
7.
Kad sam se prvi put zaljubio
zaviještao sam svoje organe za transplataciju
bilo kojem jadniku koji ne vjeruje da se smrt događa samo onima
koji vječno, kao hrana na policama samoposluge,
lutaju od sebe do nekog drugoga.
Možda bi moj mozak mogao produžiti život nekom starcu
koji misli
da postoji razlika između mozga načetog rakom
i mozga inficiranog životom,
nekom samoubici početniku,
propovjednika kojeg nebo kažnjava što je ruke
uprljao tijelom.
Čisto sumnjam da bi od moga mozga ima neke koristi.
Moja jetra, moj podrum,
u kojem miris vina živi u zabranjenom braku sa maloljetnicom,
mogla bi biti od koristi nekome ko nikada nije okusio sram
zato što će ga pojesti hrana koju sam nije napravio.
Moraće se navići da u mojoj jetri brige i sumnje
u potaji neprestano vode ljubav
i da trudnoća ima oblik duvanskog kašlja.
Možda će u novom tijelu eksplodirati kao balon
kad joj novi vlasnik počne tepati na način kako se tepa
kučićima.
Ta soba je premalena za jedno a prevelika za dvoje.
Moja koža je geografska karta
po kojoj se sudaraju otisci nježnih prstiju i masnice od pendreka.
Samo ja lovac
znam u njoj pročitati otiske očiju srne u bijegu,
samo srna iza mene iz moje kože
može pročitati zašto polazim u lov
sa ogromnom olovkom na ramenu i
plastičnom puškom u džepu.
Nikada od nje nisam uspio napraviti zastavu koja se može prefarbati
i prilagoditi bojama košulja
koje mi se nude na svakom koraku.
Mogla bi se upotrijebiti
kao zakrpa za ožiljak na obrazu
ali ne mislim da bi ga ijedna djevojka prislonila usne
a da ne osjeti da ponavlja poljubac.
Moje srce bi se lako moglo presaditi u grudi nekog mladića
koji se tek sprema za pobune
a koji nikada nije osjetio sreću što nije imun na poraze.
Osim ako taj srećković
mistične otkucaje novog srca,
već modrog od starog mastila,
ne počne porediti sa otkucajima sata koji žvaće novu krv.
Onda pomislim,
ko bi zaboga uopšte poželio takvo srce u grudima.
Već inficirano ljubavlju .
8.
Zagrlim te toliko čvrsto
da ti se na koži pojave kapljice mastila.
Ti mi uzvratiš zagrljajem i pratiš
kapljicu narančinog soka
koja klizi sa mojih prsiju i ostavlja na koži ožiljak
u obliku puta.
Tvrdiš da je tvoja koža nepregledna pustinja
razapeta na kičmama zalutalih vođa karavana,
tješiš me da to što sam poprimio lice kamile
samo je odsjaj tvojih maštanja.
Kako je ljepo biti zaštićen rešetkama od riječi,
tom religijom nijemih.
Domovinom upitnika.
9.
Ako danas ostanemo u krevetu i ne odemo u crkvu
na jutarnju molitvu
šta će pomisliti raspjevano nedjeljno jutro gledajući nas
kroz surove komšijske prozore
kako bez stida dišemo jedno drugom u lice?
Šta će reći sat za buđenje,
kad za doručak bude žvakao ustajale minute
čudeći se što je tamni trag noći
sa tvojih očnih kapaka
ostao na mojim usnama?
Šta će reći ruže samoubice kad se ne pojaviš u vrtu
sa makazama
dok linije sa mojih dlanova budu ostavljale
otisak na tvojim grudima?
Šta će reći glupa ulica koja se više ni ne sjeća imena tvoga bivšeg muža,
registracije Mrtvačkih kola, koja već odavno trunu na groblju automobila,
niti tebe u suzama.
Šta će reći zbunjena kapija Crkve kroz koju si
samo jednom prošla u vjenčanici
a puno puta u crnini?
Šta će reći ljudi koju su navikli da te tješe godinama.
Hoće li se propovjednik ljutiti kada vidi kako na klupi za udovice
već sjedi neka nova crna haljina umjesto tebe ?
Ako na našim priljubljenim stomacima otkriješ
dvoja otškrinuta vrata ispod kojih se ne čuje žamor sa ulice,
ako ti se moj zagrljaj učini kao gnijezdo,
ko mari za njih.
Dok te volim,
zaista više nije važno
šta će ko reći.
10.
Postoje zli vjetrovi kojima smo dali imena žena
samo da bi uplašili muškarce.
Ali postoje i bezimeni vjetrovi.
Ima jedan vjetar koji se dodvorava državi
njišući zastavu na jarbolu ispred Parlamenta.
Ima jedan vjetar koji uđe kroz stomak Željezare
dodvoravajući se gladnim radnicima
i izađe kroz dimnjak kao crni anđeo od dima.
Ima jedan vjetar koji se pojavi pred sirotinjskom kućom
kada majka počne kačiti odjeću na štrik,
prije nego dim sa fabričkog dimnjaka
padne na bijele dječije bluze.
Ima jedan vjetar koji uživa da otrgne kišobran
iz ruke penzionisanog fabričkog računovođe
i spusti ga pred vrata žene koja čeka
da joj se muž sa platom vrati iz Željezare.
Ima jedan vjetar koji uđe kroz vrata kafane
i zatreperi bluze djevojaka
koje se nađu za šankom u vrijeme kada radnici Željezare
dobiju plate.
Ima jedan vjetar koji bez stida zadigne haljinu
supruge direktora Željezare
što drži za ruku muža dok radnicima saopštava
da se fabrika zauvijek zatvara.
Ima jedan vjetar u kući pored nas što guši plač djece
dok u kofere pakuju igračke koje će se
na putu do nove kuće smanjiti.
Ali ima jedan vjetar koji je govorio samo tvojim glasom.
Topli vjetar kojeg sam u grudima osjetio
tek kad si me izvukla iz kafane,
odvukla kući,
i u kadi isprala iz mene
onaj teški metalni miris Željezare.
Taj vjetar mi je rekao da me voliš.
I to je jedini vjetar kojem bih volio nadjenuti svoje ime.
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WHO AM I
1.
I dedicated myself to studying my enemy
on the other side of bank .
I read all books written by my enemy and then burnt them,
just to warm up my feet next to the fireplace.
It was pleasure pretend not to hear the request of the fictional characters
who begged me to give them a little bit more time,
so that they could get used to ash.
Their love proverbs Vocabularies ,
that we used to use for school teaching our square head pupils not to trust,
their round head friend bastards across the bank ,
Screamed in the fire.
But I would turn up the radio,
where you could listen to the our wordless hymns,
Ashamed of their songs that sounded like ours.
After I threw out the all CDs with enemy music,
into muddy river that separated us,
I heard mute fish singing.
I watched all their movies,
Searching for the hidden messages about difference between us and them.
Cheep propaganda talked through the fake tears of their mothers visiting mass graves .
They must have a huge budget for make up.
I was thinking and laughing watching for hundred time they colorless flags
Rain bleached them away.
But I couldn’t deny the repulsive beauty of their side of the riverbank.
Where the future terrorist lovers were kissing under the blue sky.
But they stare at the stars
on our side of the river.
Occupied by my secret mission,
I went to the daycare to pick up my children that I don’t have.
Come to pick them up after the Statutory day, I was told.
I sent flowers to the address of my darling that I don’t have.
Come to pick up dry flowers next week ,I was told.
Than I find myself cry ,watching me in the uniform
In front of the mirror
wondering why my enemy smile strangely at me,
in the reflection.
2.
For Kahlid Ali Mustafa and Yitzhak Laor
We are riding the same bicycle the way that nobody knows
who is in control of the wheel, who is taking care of the pedals.
Our burning heads dive into the dawn while our fragile spines pretend
to be strong whenever our flat tires drive over the hungry soil
that chewed on so many generations of students who believed that
dust decides the difference between different colors on the flags.
If I ask my mother to wash my dark clothes in the sea water
for as long as the pain in my stomach has lasted,
if you ask your mother to wash your black clothes
as much as the length of your suspicion has lasted
both of us would wear just pure white clothes.
Just stupid fabric ready to embrace in the same way
a new born baby and a man ready to die.
We are riding on the same bicycle toward the sunrise
and pretend not to see pupils going to the school
with their backpacks that smell of fuel instead of fairy-tale books.
They wave to us with handkerchiefs soaked in fear
upon seeing one body with four hands and four legs
driving toward the place that used to be the homeland of a lullaby.
We wave back with our helmets too small to carry our heads.
We are riding on the same bicycle
through the devastated villages, houses built by the bricks
that some invisible hand replaced from the torn down Berlin wall.
A man waives to us with a death certificate, a woman waves to us
with baby diapers so transparent that we can read the expiry date
on the faces of future mothers.
The baby bed and the death bed seem the same
when the desert wind starts blowing in our face the sand
with no homeland and with no knowledge of the people
who ride the bicycle.
This is not the end of the ride we used to ride every day, I tell you,
wiping out the cement-heavy sand from your shoes.
This is just the beginning of the day, you tell me,
wiping out the dark clouds from my face.
And we get out from the flat tire bike to go in different directions
wondering on our way to our devastated homes:
Did we ride together some stationary bicycle in some foreign country?
Or the bicycle was real. As we are.
3.
There are ferocious winds that we give women’s names
So that we can fear them
But there are also nameless winds.
There is a wind, which bows to the government by waving its flag
on the flagpole in front of the Parliament building,
There is a wind, which enters through the stomach of the Steel Plant
gnawing at the hungry workers
Then exits through the chimney like a black angel made of smoke,
There is a wind, which appears in front of the pauper’s house
Where a mother hangs newly washed children’s clothing on a clothes line
Before the smoke from the factory chimney falls on the children’s white undershirts,
There is a wind, which likes to tear the umbrella from the hand of a retired factory bookkeeper
And drop it in front of the door of a woman waiting for her husband’s return from the Steel Plant,
There is a wind that enters through the pub’s door, and quiver the blouses of girls
who found themselves at the bar on the workers’ payday,
There is a wind that shamelessly lifts the skirt of a Steel Plant supervisor’s wife
Who holds her husband’s hand while he informs the workers about the plant’s closing.
There is a wind that smothers the sound of children weeping in the neighbour’s apartment
While they pack their toys in moving boxes that will never be the same
And then abandon the apartment.
But there is also a wind that spoke in your voice
When you dragged me from the pub and brought me home,
And then washed the heavy Steel Plant metallic smell from my body.
That wind told me that you love me.
And this is the only wind I would like to name.
4.
You bought me shoelaces at the flea market,
The day when matches became more expensive than dynamite.
They were too long, so I shortened them and from the remnants I made a ring.
The first one for our engagement.The second one for our wedding.
If I knew that my murderer would tie my hands with the same short shoelaces
I would have forged the ring from the golden crown on my tooth.
Then maybe my murderer with his finger on the trigger
While looking at my golden tooth, would not remember
That his wife’s engagement ring was made of shoelaces
from his military boots.
The day I married you I dreamt that Angels smelled of the lilac tree.
The morning that they took me I dreamt that the same Angels,
have the form of spiders and that they live
in the wall calendar where they eat months and years for breakfast.
Who would have known that they would go to lunch through that dngy entrance,
Over there where long ago lied my golden tooth.
And that they would come back from the same darkness,
Quietly,
Like when they cross the black line between Thursday and Friday on the calendar.
So they could lie down on the net made of shoelaces,
And an relaxed watch another sunset.
Shoelace’s shadows,
Become shorter and shorter from one year to another,
and shinier,
than the wedding band, I noticed, with the pain.
5.
If we stay in bed today and don’t go to the morning mass in the church
What will think the exuberant Sunday morning, watching us through the mute windows
How shamelessly we breathe into each other’s faces.
What will say the alarm clock when I push it fall from the night stand
Before the trace of the night on my eyelids remains on my lips,
What will the suicidal roses say when you don’t appear with your shears in the garden
While I leave the impression of my palm lines on your breasts,
What will say the stupid street that already forgot your husband’s name, you in tears,
and the Plate number of the hearse that has been rotting in the car cemetery for a long time.
If my embrace looks to you like a nest,
What will say the confused church entrance door, which you only once crossed in your wedding dress
And so many times dressed in black
If our bellies get glued by sweat and reject to separate
What will the priest say when he doesn’t see you on the widows’ bench
And find somebody else is already sitting there
They will forget us as soon as new gossip became old
And some new woman in black sleep over morning Mass
Wrapped in lovers skin like an baby
Who doesn’t know difference between diaper
And flag.
6.
Muddy shoes tied with two different laces,
Pair of dirty socks with Mickey Mouse picture,
Brown trousers with dry grass glued to them,
Belt,
Shirt soaked in blood and endless bullets holes
Loose tie with the image of a mosque at the bottom,
Pair of broken glasses without the lenses.
That’s it .
Where is the man, I screamed
Where is the man, I shouted at The Official
Busy trying to put together pieces of the nameless skeleton
As if I am trying to solve the puzzle.
“You are not allowed to scream inside the Forensic Centre”,
I was warned by The Official ‘s shadow.
It was my longest walk from Death to the Exit door.
Outside,
Summer in the shape of golden ring smiling at me,
As if to an accomplice
As if nothing has happened
Leaving me with my darkness
To find out the answer to the bitter question .
7.
My beloved wife, where are you going so early in the morning
With a rose in one hand and a shovel in another.
My darling, I am going to bury you in our garden,
So I wouldn’t have to look for you in other people’s gardens,
Before you got devoured and chewed up by the bowels of military trucks,
These are the same boys who, until yesterday, had tattoos of their friends’ names on their shoulders
And now they are tattooing military ranks.
My beloved, do not leave your house. The house is a dear grave.
Between the four walls unfinished coffee is still smelling,
A cigarette smoke is kissing the window from inside.
There is nothing outside.
I only ask you to stop those workers’ boots that keep on marching
From the bedroom to the children’s room, and back,
So that the children wouldn’t wake up too early and go to school
And meet in the classroom their crucified teacher.
Now I have to go, I need to bury you before the smell of gasoline gets stronger then
The smell of roses. Before I start seeing you as the shiny bones on the shovel In somebody else garden
8.
I collect November dry leaves to extract perfume in April
for you
Who sits at the corner of our bed to look outside through the window
Into the gray stomach of the sky that eats sparrows
to give birth to the owls.
But you don’t see me anymore.
You don’t hear the moles chewing the silence in the pillow
As I write messages over my skin
Using my own blood as neon ink.
The words of joy that I recite to your
Bounce back to my mouth in the shape of rotten flower roots
That I planted in your ears
Waiting for Spring to come.
Like an abandoned tin drum in the orchestra of violins,
Like a horse rider in the camel race
I waive to you with a black scarf from the starting point
Hoping it would turn to white
Sometimes before the finish line
Before I became ill
Waiting for November
To start smelling like April.
9.
So many times I moved from place to place,
That I don’t even remember my first address.
I remember the cities because of the train tickets
And continents because of the stamps in my passport.
I don’t even carry anything else in my suitcases
but city and road maps.
I don’t even get surprised anymore when the suitcase bites me
when I try to close it.
I live in flight attendants’ plastic smile when watching suspiciously
plastic rose in my hand.
I drink the train conductors’ politeness
when asking me for the origin of my face scars.
From the plastic plate I eat somebody else bitter bread
with country of origin written on the bottom of each slice
that will eat me before I reach my stop.
My camera resists to catch up the sunny landscapes,
my pen is dead to describe
nameless stops and faceless people.
Pocket flash light is my guide
when thinking of my true love who agree to live in my imagination.
Behind me, blue snow falls from the sky,
on the streets that I have just passed.
In front of me Hotel rooms still chow the bones of the lovers
that walked away with new dreams.
Strangers pronounce the name of the country they come from
like they are pronouncing
the name of a terminal illness,
that one die from only in front of the turned off TV screen.
Strangers’ voices sounds like telephones that don’t ring in the hotel rooms,
like Email messages that appear on the computer screen as swallows
on the roof of the old family house.
Afterwards the same swallows turn into storks
after patiently waiting on the frozen chimney
and then leave
for some other roof.
Every strangers dive into the dreams with the old country anthem
on its lips
and wake up in a cold silence after pillow start smelling
on the flag bleached by the rain and wind.
I am also one of those in search of home
in search of the warmth in my mother’s womb.
My first address.
10.
The war is over. I guess.
At least that’s what the morning paper says.
On the front page there is a picture of the factory
that until yesterday produced only flags.
It is starting to make pajamas today.
On the next page there is a report on the posthumous
awarding of medals and then there are crossword puzzles
and national lottery results
in which they regret to inform that this month
again nobody won the grand prize.
Pharmacies work all night again,
radio plays the good old hits
and it seems as if there never was a war.
I enter an old clothing shop
and on the hangers I recognize my neighbours:
There,
Ivan’s coat. We used the lining for bandages.
Look,
Hasan’s shoes. Shoelaces are missing.
And Jovan’s pants. The belt is gone.
But where are the people?
I run along the main street
to look at myself in the shop windows
but the shop windows are smashed
and there are only naked mannequins
that will wear new pyjamas tomorrow
according to the morning paper.
Then I run into our apartment
and look at myself in the glass
on your picture on the wall
and I don’t care if I am not the same anymore,
the one who cried when they were taking you away.
You told me you would come back
my love
when the war is finally over.
The war is over.
At least according
to the morning paper.
1.
I dedicated myself to studying my enemy
on the other side of bank .
I read all books written by my enemy and then burnt them,
just to warm up my feet next to the fireplace.
It was pleasure pretend not to hear the request of the fictional characters
who begged me to give them a little bit more time,
so that they could get used to ash.
Their love proverbs Vocabularies ,
that we used to use for school teaching our square head pupils not to trust,
their round head friend bastards across the bank ,
Screamed in the fire.
But I would turn up the radio,
where you could listen to the our wordless hymns,
Ashamed of their songs that sounded like ours.
After I threw out the all CDs with enemy music,
into muddy river that separated us,
I heard mute fish singing.
I watched all their movies,
Searching for the hidden messages about difference between us and them.
Cheep propaganda talked through the fake tears of their mothers visiting mass graves .
They must have a huge budget for make up.
I was thinking and laughing watching for hundred time they colorless flags
Rain bleached them away.
But I couldn’t deny the repulsive beauty of their side of the riverbank.
Where the future terrorist lovers were kissing under the blue sky.
But they stare at the stars
on our side of the river.
Occupied by my secret mission,
I went to the daycare to pick up my children that I don’t have.
Come to pick them up after the Statutory day, I was told.
I sent flowers to the address of my darling that I don’t have.
Come to pick up dry flowers next week ,I was told.
Than I find myself cry ,watching me in the uniform
In front of the mirror
wondering why my enemy smile strangely at me,
in the reflection.
2.
For Kahlid Ali Mustafa and Yitzhak Laor
We are riding the same bicycle the way that nobody knows
who is in control of the wheel, who is taking care of the pedals.
Our burning heads dive into the dawn while our fragile spines pretend
to be strong whenever our flat tires drive over the hungry soil
that chewed on so many generations of students who believed that
dust decides the difference between different colors on the flags.
If I ask my mother to wash my dark clothes in the sea water
for as long as the pain in my stomach has lasted,
if you ask your mother to wash your black clothes
as much as the length of your suspicion has lasted
both of us would wear just pure white clothes.
Just stupid fabric ready to embrace in the same way
a new born baby and a man ready to die.
We are riding on the same bicycle toward the sunrise
and pretend not to see pupils going to the school
with their backpacks that smell of fuel instead of fairy-tale books.
They wave to us with handkerchiefs soaked in fear
upon seeing one body with four hands and four legs
driving toward the place that used to be the homeland of a lullaby.
We wave back with our helmets too small to carry our heads.
We are riding on the same bicycle
through the devastated villages, houses built by the bricks
that some invisible hand replaced from the torn down Berlin wall.
A man waives to us with a death certificate, a woman waves to us
with baby diapers so transparent that we can read the expiry date
on the faces of future mothers.
The baby bed and the death bed seem the same
when the desert wind starts blowing in our face the sand
with no homeland and with no knowledge of the people
who ride the bicycle.
This is not the end of the ride we used to ride every day, I tell you,
wiping out the cement-heavy sand from your shoes.
This is just the beginning of the day, you tell me,
wiping out the dark clouds from my face.
And we get out from the flat tire bike to go in different directions
wondering on our way to our devastated homes:
Did we ride together some stationary bicycle in some foreign country?
Or the bicycle was real. As we are.
3.
There are ferocious winds that we give women’s names
So that we can fear them
But there are also nameless winds.
There is a wind, which bows to the government by waving its flag
on the flagpole in front of the Parliament building,
There is a wind, which enters through the stomach of the Steel Plant
gnawing at the hungry workers
Then exits through the chimney like a black angel made of smoke,
There is a wind, which appears in front of the pauper’s house
Where a mother hangs newly washed children’s clothing on a clothes line
Before the smoke from the factory chimney falls on the children’s white undershirts,
There is a wind, which likes to tear the umbrella from the hand of a retired factory bookkeeper
And drop it in front of the door of a woman waiting for her husband’s return from the Steel Plant,
There is a wind that enters through the pub’s door, and quiver the blouses of girls
who found themselves at the bar on the workers’ payday,
There is a wind that shamelessly lifts the skirt of a Steel Plant supervisor’s wife
Who holds her husband’s hand while he informs the workers about the plant’s closing.
There is a wind that smothers the sound of children weeping in the neighbour’s apartment
While they pack their toys in moving boxes that will never be the same
And then abandon the apartment.
But there is also a wind that spoke in your voice
When you dragged me from the pub and brought me home,
And then washed the heavy Steel Plant metallic smell from my body.
That wind told me that you love me.
And this is the only wind I would like to name.
4.
You bought me shoelaces at the flea market,
The day when matches became more expensive than dynamite.
They were too long, so I shortened them and from the remnants I made a ring.
The first one for our engagement.The second one for our wedding.
If I knew that my murderer would tie my hands with the same short shoelaces
I would have forged the ring from the golden crown on my tooth.
Then maybe my murderer with his finger on the trigger
While looking at my golden tooth, would not remember
That his wife’s engagement ring was made of shoelaces
from his military boots.
The day I married you I dreamt that Angels smelled of the lilac tree.
The morning that they took me I dreamt that the same Angels,
have the form of spiders and that they live
in the wall calendar where they eat months and years for breakfast.
Who would have known that they would go to lunch through that dngy entrance,
Over there where long ago lied my golden tooth.
And that they would come back from the same darkness,
Quietly,
Like when they cross the black line between Thursday and Friday on the calendar.
So they could lie down on the net made of shoelaces,
And an relaxed watch another sunset.
Shoelace’s shadows,
Become shorter and shorter from one year to another,
and shinier,
than the wedding band, I noticed, with the pain.
5.
If we stay in bed today and don’t go to the morning mass in the church
What will think the exuberant Sunday morning, watching us through the mute windows
How shamelessly we breathe into each other’s faces.
What will say the alarm clock when I push it fall from the night stand
Before the trace of the night on my eyelids remains on my lips,
What will the suicidal roses say when you don’t appear with your shears in the garden
While I leave the impression of my palm lines on your breasts,
What will say the stupid street that already forgot your husband’s name, you in tears,
and the Plate number of the hearse that has been rotting in the car cemetery for a long time.
If my embrace looks to you like a nest,
What will say the confused church entrance door, which you only once crossed in your wedding dress
And so many times dressed in black
If our bellies get glued by sweat and reject to separate
What will the priest say when he doesn’t see you on the widows’ bench
And find somebody else is already sitting there
They will forget us as soon as new gossip became old
And some new woman in black sleep over morning Mass
Wrapped in lovers skin like an baby
Who doesn’t know difference between diaper
And flag.
6.
Muddy shoes tied with two different laces,
Pair of dirty socks with Mickey Mouse picture,
Brown trousers with dry grass glued to them,
Belt,
Shirt soaked in blood and endless bullets holes
Loose tie with the image of a mosque at the bottom,
Pair of broken glasses without the lenses.
That’s it .
Where is the man, I screamed
Where is the man, I shouted at The Official
Busy trying to put together pieces of the nameless skeleton
As if I am trying to solve the puzzle.
“You are not allowed to scream inside the Forensic Centre”,
I was warned by The Official ‘s shadow.
It was my longest walk from Death to the Exit door.
Outside,
Summer in the shape of golden ring smiling at me,
As if to an accomplice
As if nothing has happened
Leaving me with my darkness
To find out the answer to the bitter question .
7.
My beloved wife, where are you going so early in the morning
With a rose in one hand and a shovel in another.
My darling, I am going to bury you in our garden,
So I wouldn’t have to look for you in other people’s gardens,
Before you got devoured and chewed up by the bowels of military trucks,
These are the same boys who, until yesterday, had tattoos of their friends’ names on their shoulders
And now they are tattooing military ranks.
My beloved, do not leave your house. The house is a dear grave.
Between the four walls unfinished coffee is still smelling,
A cigarette smoke is kissing the window from inside.
There is nothing outside.
I only ask you to stop those workers’ boots that keep on marching
From the bedroom to the children’s room, and back,
So that the children wouldn’t wake up too early and go to school
And meet in the classroom their crucified teacher.
Now I have to go, I need to bury you before the smell of gasoline gets stronger then
The smell of roses. Before I start seeing you as the shiny bones on the shovel In somebody else garden
8.
I collect November dry leaves to extract perfume in April
for you
Who sits at the corner of our bed to look outside through the window
Into the gray stomach of the sky that eats sparrows
to give birth to the owls.
But you don’t see me anymore.
You don’t hear the moles chewing the silence in the pillow
As I write messages over my skin
Using my own blood as neon ink.
The words of joy that I recite to your
Bounce back to my mouth in the shape of rotten flower roots
That I planted in your ears
Waiting for Spring to come.
Like an abandoned tin drum in the orchestra of violins,
Like a horse rider in the camel race
I waive to you with a black scarf from the starting point
Hoping it would turn to white
Sometimes before the finish line
Before I became ill
Waiting for November
To start smelling like April.
9.
So many times I moved from place to place,
That I don’t even remember my first address.
I remember the cities because of the train tickets
And continents because of the stamps in my passport.
I don’t even carry anything else in my suitcases
but city and road maps.
I don’t even get surprised anymore when the suitcase bites me
when I try to close it.
I live in flight attendants’ plastic smile when watching suspiciously
plastic rose in my hand.
I drink the train conductors’ politeness
when asking me for the origin of my face scars.
From the plastic plate I eat somebody else bitter bread
with country of origin written on the bottom of each slice
that will eat me before I reach my stop.
My camera resists to catch up the sunny landscapes,
my pen is dead to describe
nameless stops and faceless people.
Pocket flash light is my guide
when thinking of my true love who agree to live in my imagination.
Behind me, blue snow falls from the sky,
on the streets that I have just passed.
In front of me Hotel rooms still chow the bones of the lovers
that walked away with new dreams.
Strangers pronounce the name of the country they come from
like they are pronouncing
the name of a terminal illness,
that one die from only in front of the turned off TV screen.
Strangers’ voices sounds like telephones that don’t ring in the hotel rooms,
like Email messages that appear on the computer screen as swallows
on the roof of the old family house.
Afterwards the same swallows turn into storks
after patiently waiting on the frozen chimney
and then leave
for some other roof.
Every strangers dive into the dreams with the old country anthem
on its lips
and wake up in a cold silence after pillow start smelling
on the flag bleached by the rain and wind.
I am also one of those in search of home
in search of the warmth in my mother’s womb.
My first address.
10.
The war is over. I guess.
At least that’s what the morning paper says.
On the front page there is a picture of the factory
that until yesterday produced only flags.
It is starting to make pajamas today.
On the next page there is a report on the posthumous
awarding of medals and then there are crossword puzzles
and national lottery results
in which they regret to inform that this month
again nobody won the grand prize.
Pharmacies work all night again,
radio plays the good old hits
and it seems as if there never was a war.
I enter an old clothing shop
and on the hangers I recognize my neighbours:
There,
Ivan’s coat. We used the lining for bandages.
Look,
Hasan’s shoes. Shoelaces are missing.
And Jovan’s pants. The belt is gone.
But where are the people?
I run along the main street
to look at myself in the shop windows
but the shop windows are smashed
and there are only naked mannequins
that will wear new pyjamas tomorrow
according to the morning paper.
Then I run into our apartment
and look at myself in the glass
on your picture on the wall
and I don’t care if I am not the same anymore,
the one who cried when they were taking you away.
You told me you would come back
my love
when the war is finally over.
The war is over.
At least according
to the morning paper.
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Giorgio Bolla from Italy - on the left) and Editor in chief of DIOGEN pro culture magazine, Sabahudin Hadzialic at Svrzo house (Museum Sarajevo) during 3. Poetry marathon on 21.3.2013.
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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
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
