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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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Salv Sammut, Lija, Malta
Salv Sammut was born in the village of Lija on the 4th of March 1947. He took primary, secondary and tertiary education and has a diploma in Industrial Relations and Social Studies. He is married and father of three children and grandfather of two.
Salv Sammut started to write poetry and then simultaneously prose and minor plays. He had his works pubished in local newspapers and broadcasted on local radio stations. He enrolled in the Maltese Literary Society and was among the first members of the Committee of the Movement for the Promotion of Literature. In recent years, he enrolled in the Maltese Academy, the Association of Maltese Language (University), the Maltese Poets Association of which he is the present general secretary. He is also a member of the Academy of American Poets.
Salv Sammut wrote more than 400 poems, 40 short stories published in newspapers and magazines and aired on radios, numerous political articles in one of the local newspaper, 8 short plays of which one was broadcasted on the state radio and another one as an assignment in the University Diploma course for social studies and another social play for one major Trade Union. Also he wrote 5 long novels of which three have been published and two publications of poetry. All his writings are a reflection of social life both in his country and in other foreign countries.
Due to his involvement in tradeunionism, Salv Sammut travelled extensively in all European major cities and has been to China and the USA. These travellings had an impactment on him when he came face to face with the diversity of social life and saw the injustice in sidestreets of beggars sleeping in rags and in entrances of multinationals department stores.
At present, Salv Sammut is retired and dedicate himself to literature and philantropic endeavours in his residing village.
Salv Sammut started to write poetry and then simultaneously prose and minor plays. He had his works pubished in local newspapers and broadcasted on local radio stations. He enrolled in the Maltese Literary Society and was among the first members of the Committee of the Movement for the Promotion of Literature. In recent years, he enrolled in the Maltese Academy, the Association of Maltese Language (University), the Maltese Poets Association of which he is the present general secretary. He is also a member of the Academy of American Poets.
Salv Sammut wrote more than 400 poems, 40 short stories published in newspapers and magazines and aired on radios, numerous political articles in one of the local newspaper, 8 short plays of which one was broadcasted on the state radio and another one as an assignment in the University Diploma course for social studies and another social play for one major Trade Union. Also he wrote 5 long novels of which three have been published and two publications of poetry. All his writings are a reflection of social life both in his country and in other foreign countries.
Due to his involvement in tradeunionism, Salv Sammut travelled extensively in all European major cities and has been to China and the USA. These travellings had an impactment on him when he came face to face with the diversity of social life and saw the injustice in sidestreets of beggars sleeping in rags and in entrances of multinationals department stores.
At present, Salv Sammut is retired and dedicate himself to literature and philantropic endeavours in his residing village.
VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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Tribunal vrana
Iščekujući konačnu demistifikaciju ljudskog pretjerivanja unutar pridavanja bespotrebnog prenaglašenog značaja vlastitoj vrsti, Salv Sammut je usmjerivač želja, ali i nada. Pred nama je mogućnost spoznaje da smo bili, jesmo, i biti ćemo, samo odsjaj varljive nade nekoga, ili nečega mimo nas. Poezija je traženja odgovora koji želimo pronaći. Ona nikada nije odgovor sami. U traganju je odgovor. U pronalasku nije. Dok sjedimo na optuženičkoj klupi Tribunala vrana. Dok oblijeću oko nas, malenih ispod zvijezda. Riječ urednika Sabahudin Hadžialić 30.11.2012. |
Tribunal of the crows
Awaiting for final demystification of human overdoing within attributing of unnecessary significance to the own species Salv Sammut is a the router of the wishes, but also of the hopes. In front of us is the possibility of the realization that we were, are, and will be, just a reflection of the deceptive hope of the someone or something besides of us. Poetry is a search for the answers that we would like to find. It is never the answer itself. Within the search is the answer. The finding is not. While sitting in the dock at the Tribunal of the crows. While hovering around us, the little ones under the stars. Editor's word Sabahudin Hadžialić 30.11.2012. |
AN ILLUSION
I drove down Mtarfa road
To take the lane on my right
And turned to Ta’ Qali whereabouts
Coming to Tal-Mirakli wayside chapel.
I saw new buildings on both sides,
Large villas with terraces and long drive-ins,
Front gardens with well-groomed dogs as sentries,
pent-houses and garages for modern cars.
The road was smooth for it had been covered
With a layer of tarmac and sleeping police-men
For drivers to speed with caution.
The sun blinded my vision and my mind
started to play illusionary tricks on me.
I saw a child chattering in a merry mood
Running earnestly or just jumping to and fro
As he left the narrow streets of his Lija village.
There were children under mothers’ watchful eye.
He strolled into the narrow dusty lanes,
Plucking the English weed to taste its sourness
And chasing in vain colorful butterflies.
I saw him looking beyond the rubble walls
At cows mooing as they were milked in their sheds,
And listening to the cackling of the hens
In a nearby farm-house while a stray dog
Lifted one paw and pissed at his feet and walked away.
He had to step aside, pressing his back to the rugged wall
To let a horse-drawn cart pass by as the peasant
slowly tipped his beritta in a friendly mood.
The child played happily behind the chapel
With chipped pots and pans and built stoves of stones
Until it was time to eat bread with olive oil and tomatoes
And drink fresh water from jars of clay
While birds chirped somewhere in carob trees
And snails left their trails on stones and grass
Before they were picked and dropped into rusty tins.
A blast of a horn brought me back to my world
As an expensive car stood in front of my van.
I could not say that the driver was friendly
And his middle finger was not as complementary
As that of the peasant who wore his beritta on the side
While pricking the weary mule down the winding dusty lane.
I switched my gear and drove slowly away
From the world I knew of yesterday
to the one I know of today.
AS THE CROWS FLY
As the crows fly
They look down
At the buzzling human race,
So restless, so agitated.
People coming, people going;
Some entering and some getting out
From the railway station.
Few bump into each other
And many wait patiently
At the edge of the bus station queue.
And as the crows fly
They try to comprehend
The futility of mankind
In its eagerness to be moving,
Always on the go,
So concerned of how to live,
How to make life-ends meet;
Never free like them
To fly and glide among the clouds
Thoughtless of tomorrow,
Masters of the skies;
Always looking up at the infinity
Of the universal sky,
Never desiring to be part
of the complexity of MAN!
At the Theatre
The curtains are drawn
and the performer stepped out on the stage.
A hush is stirred
and from the dim light of the auditorium
the audience clapped
and shouted the approval of the act ...
But he remained silent!
And a tear shone on his cheeks!
He knew!
He knew that far away from recitals,
clappings of hands and applauses
at the theatre,
there was HE alone
with the threatening of the winds,
groaning restlessly on a distant shore
of his existence.
And he wept in the reality of
how he was alone in the world he's living
and the double act he had to play ...
Now the curtains are drawn back,
the applause fades away,
and the lights ... are out ...
Do I have?
On the prelude of maturity
I stand with my hands outstretched
In the dark of a deep unknown.
My eyes are focused on something
That is not to my vision.
Then a quiver starts at my finger-tips
As a hand is gently laid on mine;
And to look is to find you.
Do I have to look up at the sky
To search for a lovely sun,
When it is enough to see it on your face?
Do I have to look up to the moon
When I could see it glistening in your eyes
As the clock of night chimes the hour
To end emotional moments?
Sweet love can tell of no secrets!
INDECISION
Shall I walk or shall I run or shall I stop?
Is it so difficult to decide
The decision I should take?
On which side of the road should I walk,
To the right?
To the left?
Upwards?
Downwards?
To stay in the middle,
An innocent by-stander,
Never deciding,
Never taking sides
Could be very convenient
In many circumstances.
But sometimes, also very easy
To be overrun from all directions –
By Events!
MYSTERY UNDERSTOOD
Running
After the emptiness of yesterday
To catch the echoes of tomorrow
In a race of no beginning-
No end.
Probing for the distant mystery
Trying to understand what
Is already understandable.
Feeling
The hand loosening its grip
From a body with a will
To go on living.
The desire to remove the nearby-distance
Between Light and Darkness,
Between the beginning and the end.
THE FLOWER THAT GREW
In the midst of a bush
I saw the shoot of a flower
Among thorns and thistles.
I watered it and saw it grow and bloom
Into a flower of enchanting scent
In the bush covered
With thorns and thistles.
THE TRAVELER
In the land of never lasting dreams
Where realism and surrealism
Often intersect
In a state of indecision –
Stands the traveler.
He has traveled quite a lot
From one state of mind
To another ... sometimes forlorn,
Oblivious of the obvious
Till one clear vision emerges
That clearly leads the path –
THE …
(Tribute to old Age)
The vision’s almost blurred,
diagnosed by trachoma.
The ear not always tuned,
in most cases, out of convenience sake.
The lean and shaking hands,
not anymore of a strong grip.
The feet so heavy and faltering,
they have walked many paths before.
The heart that beats faster,
not with passion or enthusiasm.
The chair he sits upon in solitude,
lost in a labyrinth of reminiscences.
The dreams of past summer days,
and long nights full of stars.
The Sports he liked to play,
and the activities he enjoyed most.
The day his heart leapt
for the love of his life.
The ups and downs of family strives,
as children grew and left home.
The experience of failure and success,
along those long and winding roads.
The day his eyes will forever close,
as things presumed have all been done.
The chapters from his book of life will end,
and then, finally, he can rest in eternal peace.
THE LAST FLIGHT
This would be my last flight to Luxembourg;
No more waiting at the departure lounge.
I do not need to press my ears tight
Due to pressure altitude
On descending route.
Avenue de la Liberté will not see me
Strolling again on its pavement
Or crossing Pont Adolphe as I look down
At the trees in the Petrusse valley.
No sweet voices chanting from somewhere
In the Notre-Dame, to mellow the stress,
of a long exhaustive day.
I will not eat pizza once more at the Pizza-Hut
As I watch the crowd, like a busy bee,
passing by in the Place de l’Armes
While listening to the brass bands playing
In the middle of the square,
Giving concerts on cool summer evenings.
No more early breakfast besides the window
At the Empire, facing the railway station,
Scrutinizing the people hurrying to and fro.
For this solitary traveller, decided to stop,
Needed to consider that everything is done,
As he slowly, calls it, a day!
TIME
We chase Time to be on time
but Time always travels ahead of us;
so fast, so elusive to be clocked down.
Our life is conditioned by Time
and Time has absolute control
over our decisions, our actions,
our hows, our whens.
From birth Time starts the race
and ends only at death.
Time has no hesitation,
no patience to wait,
always moving very quickly
determined to keep the time.
Time changes,
not only the hours of the day,
the morning into night,
the dark into light,
the behaviour of climate change,
but also the moods of Man
and his environment,
until the Apocalypse comes
and Time stops abruptly
and all ... all shall meet our timely end.
titbits from an echo
Sleep gently sweet love.
The falling dew will fall
And glisten on the dry ground …
Sleep on through the night,
Sail on in dreams that slowly fade,
Dance to my memory and sing
The tunes of passion and yearning …
To dream is to live,
And to live is to survive …
Let me haunt your days and nights,
Let me roam in your eternal youth,
Let me nourish the thought
That I will always wake up
Every morning and see you.
I feel the lips that open on mine …
The eyes softly melting in an ocean of stillness …
I love you till my mouth
Symbolise a desert of dryness
And to whisper is to feel the pain
Of whispering
I love you.
TRIBUNAL
When my legs falter in front of you
And from the darkness I see your silhouettes;
When from the cold tribunal table
Of infallibility I begin reciting my deeds
And a blank expression lingers on your faces;
When trembling I end my recital
And from the corner I see your lips moving -
Do not applaud me due to a code of ethics
For I will shame you with double hypocrisy!
But keep on silent,
Staring blankly at me, because from your silence
The true reality of my identity comes forth.
Thus, I can tell where I really stand
And whether tomorrow gives me another opportunity
Of once again falters in the second tribunal!
WOULD I BE?
Would I be what I am
if I had not been
a solitary pilgrim
in a life pilgrimage
of various diversities
of thoughts
of feelings
of trust
of doubts
of hope
of love
in a world of constant drifters ...
always pensive
always searching
for the mystified unknown.
WRITING A POEM ON A BUS
The mug of lager beer
Is empty and bare
In Eddie’s Lounge ...
Maybe this evening
It will rest on a young girl’s lips,
With her lover.
She might be dreaming
Of sharing
Their lives together;
With children
To call their own.
Maybe ...
Who knows ...
Still
It may be kissed
By the lips of a yearning prostitute,
Despised by the mod
She won’t let seduce her
Due lack of enough money!
Maybe
It will also linger
Between my lips against this evening
As my trembling hand
Grasp it
In a sheer satisfaction
Of a moment!
And the juke-box
Play on the record
Of each artificial
Individuality.
I drove down Mtarfa road
To take the lane on my right
And turned to Ta’ Qali whereabouts
Coming to Tal-Mirakli wayside chapel.
I saw new buildings on both sides,
Large villas with terraces and long drive-ins,
Front gardens with well-groomed dogs as sentries,
pent-houses and garages for modern cars.
The road was smooth for it had been covered
With a layer of tarmac and sleeping police-men
For drivers to speed with caution.
The sun blinded my vision and my mind
started to play illusionary tricks on me.
I saw a child chattering in a merry mood
Running earnestly or just jumping to and fro
As he left the narrow streets of his Lija village.
There were children under mothers’ watchful eye.
He strolled into the narrow dusty lanes,
Plucking the English weed to taste its sourness
And chasing in vain colorful butterflies.
I saw him looking beyond the rubble walls
At cows mooing as they were milked in their sheds,
And listening to the cackling of the hens
In a nearby farm-house while a stray dog
Lifted one paw and pissed at his feet and walked away.
He had to step aside, pressing his back to the rugged wall
To let a horse-drawn cart pass by as the peasant
slowly tipped his beritta in a friendly mood.
The child played happily behind the chapel
With chipped pots and pans and built stoves of stones
Until it was time to eat bread with olive oil and tomatoes
And drink fresh water from jars of clay
While birds chirped somewhere in carob trees
And snails left their trails on stones and grass
Before they were picked and dropped into rusty tins.
A blast of a horn brought me back to my world
As an expensive car stood in front of my van.
I could not say that the driver was friendly
And his middle finger was not as complementary
As that of the peasant who wore his beritta on the side
While pricking the weary mule down the winding dusty lane.
I switched my gear and drove slowly away
From the world I knew of yesterday
to the one I know of today.
AS THE CROWS FLY
As the crows fly
They look down
At the buzzling human race,
So restless, so agitated.
People coming, people going;
Some entering and some getting out
From the railway station.
Few bump into each other
And many wait patiently
At the edge of the bus station queue.
And as the crows fly
They try to comprehend
The futility of mankind
In its eagerness to be moving,
Always on the go,
So concerned of how to live,
How to make life-ends meet;
Never free like them
To fly and glide among the clouds
Thoughtless of tomorrow,
Masters of the skies;
Always looking up at the infinity
Of the universal sky,
Never desiring to be part
of the complexity of MAN!
At the Theatre
The curtains are drawn
and the performer stepped out on the stage.
A hush is stirred
and from the dim light of the auditorium
the audience clapped
and shouted the approval of the act ...
But he remained silent!
And a tear shone on his cheeks!
He knew!
He knew that far away from recitals,
clappings of hands and applauses
at the theatre,
there was HE alone
with the threatening of the winds,
groaning restlessly on a distant shore
of his existence.
And he wept in the reality of
how he was alone in the world he's living
and the double act he had to play ...
Now the curtains are drawn back,
the applause fades away,
and the lights ... are out ...
Do I have?
On the prelude of maturity
I stand with my hands outstretched
In the dark of a deep unknown.
My eyes are focused on something
That is not to my vision.
Then a quiver starts at my finger-tips
As a hand is gently laid on mine;
And to look is to find you.
Do I have to look up at the sky
To search for a lovely sun,
When it is enough to see it on your face?
Do I have to look up to the moon
When I could see it glistening in your eyes
As the clock of night chimes the hour
To end emotional moments?
Sweet love can tell of no secrets!
INDECISION
Shall I walk or shall I run or shall I stop?
Is it so difficult to decide
The decision I should take?
On which side of the road should I walk,
To the right?
To the left?
Upwards?
Downwards?
To stay in the middle,
An innocent by-stander,
Never deciding,
Never taking sides
Could be very convenient
In many circumstances.
But sometimes, also very easy
To be overrun from all directions –
By Events!
MYSTERY UNDERSTOOD
Running
After the emptiness of yesterday
To catch the echoes of tomorrow
In a race of no beginning-
No end.
Probing for the distant mystery
Trying to understand what
Is already understandable.
Feeling
The hand loosening its grip
From a body with a will
To go on living.
The desire to remove the nearby-distance
Between Light and Darkness,
Between the beginning and the end.
THE FLOWER THAT GREW
In the midst of a bush
I saw the shoot of a flower
Among thorns and thistles.
I watered it and saw it grow and bloom
Into a flower of enchanting scent
In the bush covered
With thorns and thistles.
THE TRAVELER
In the land of never lasting dreams
Where realism and surrealism
Often intersect
In a state of indecision –
Stands the traveler.
He has traveled quite a lot
From one state of mind
To another ... sometimes forlorn,
Oblivious of the obvious
Till one clear vision emerges
That clearly leads the path –
THE …
(Tribute to old Age)
The vision’s almost blurred,
diagnosed by trachoma.
The ear not always tuned,
in most cases, out of convenience sake.
The lean and shaking hands,
not anymore of a strong grip.
The feet so heavy and faltering,
they have walked many paths before.
The heart that beats faster,
not with passion or enthusiasm.
The chair he sits upon in solitude,
lost in a labyrinth of reminiscences.
The dreams of past summer days,
and long nights full of stars.
The Sports he liked to play,
and the activities he enjoyed most.
The day his heart leapt
for the love of his life.
The ups and downs of family strives,
as children grew and left home.
The experience of failure and success,
along those long and winding roads.
The day his eyes will forever close,
as things presumed have all been done.
The chapters from his book of life will end,
and then, finally, he can rest in eternal peace.
THE LAST FLIGHT
This would be my last flight to Luxembourg;
No more waiting at the departure lounge.
I do not need to press my ears tight
Due to pressure altitude
On descending route.
Avenue de la Liberté will not see me
Strolling again on its pavement
Or crossing Pont Adolphe as I look down
At the trees in the Petrusse valley.
No sweet voices chanting from somewhere
In the Notre-Dame, to mellow the stress,
of a long exhaustive day.
I will not eat pizza once more at the Pizza-Hut
As I watch the crowd, like a busy bee,
passing by in the Place de l’Armes
While listening to the brass bands playing
In the middle of the square,
Giving concerts on cool summer evenings.
No more early breakfast besides the window
At the Empire, facing the railway station,
Scrutinizing the people hurrying to and fro.
For this solitary traveller, decided to stop,
Needed to consider that everything is done,
As he slowly, calls it, a day!
TIME
We chase Time to be on time
but Time always travels ahead of us;
so fast, so elusive to be clocked down.
Our life is conditioned by Time
and Time has absolute control
over our decisions, our actions,
our hows, our whens.
From birth Time starts the race
and ends only at death.
Time has no hesitation,
no patience to wait,
always moving very quickly
determined to keep the time.
Time changes,
not only the hours of the day,
the morning into night,
the dark into light,
the behaviour of climate change,
but also the moods of Man
and his environment,
until the Apocalypse comes
and Time stops abruptly
and all ... all shall meet our timely end.
titbits from an echo
Sleep gently sweet love.
The falling dew will fall
And glisten on the dry ground …
Sleep on through the night,
Sail on in dreams that slowly fade,
Dance to my memory and sing
The tunes of passion and yearning …
To dream is to live,
And to live is to survive …
Let me haunt your days and nights,
Let me roam in your eternal youth,
Let me nourish the thought
That I will always wake up
Every morning and see you.
I feel the lips that open on mine …
The eyes softly melting in an ocean of stillness …
I love you till my mouth
Symbolise a desert of dryness
And to whisper is to feel the pain
Of whispering
I love you.
TRIBUNAL
When my legs falter in front of you
And from the darkness I see your silhouettes;
When from the cold tribunal table
Of infallibility I begin reciting my deeds
And a blank expression lingers on your faces;
When trembling I end my recital
And from the corner I see your lips moving -
Do not applaud me due to a code of ethics
For I will shame you with double hypocrisy!
But keep on silent,
Staring blankly at me, because from your silence
The true reality of my identity comes forth.
Thus, I can tell where I really stand
And whether tomorrow gives me another opportunity
Of once again falters in the second tribunal!
WOULD I BE?
Would I be what I am
if I had not been
a solitary pilgrim
in a life pilgrimage
of various diversities
of thoughts
of feelings
of trust
of doubts
of hope
of love
in a world of constant drifters ...
always pensive
always searching
for the mystified unknown.
WRITING A POEM ON A BUS
The mug of lager beer
Is empty and bare
In Eddie’s Lounge ...
Maybe this evening
It will rest on a young girl’s lips,
With her lover.
She might be dreaming
Of sharing
Their lives together;
With children
To call their own.
Maybe ...
Who knows ...
Still
It may be kissed
By the lips of a yearning prostitute,
Despised by the mod
She won’t let seduce her
Due lack of enough money!
Maybe
It will also linger
Between my lips against this evening
As my trembling hand
Grasp it
In a sheer satisfaction
Of a moment!
And the juke-box
Play on the record
Of each artificial
Individuality.
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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
