GORAN DJORDJEVIC
TARGETS ON THE CHESTS
Translated by Lazar Macura
THE BEGINNING OF THE WEEK
I feel worst on Monday mornings
when I wake up from the woods
from the swift childhood brooks
a salt-cellar, a piece of bread, a glass of wine
All sufferings were gone
a smile on each face, handshaking of archers
The traces of evil in fog
forests gentle for breathing
altogether attractive
Father seated at the table
noting down five-fingered letters
commenting on Zodiac signs
I feel worst on Monday mornings
On an autumn Monday
Father migrated from the World into poetry
Oh, it is so cold, oh, it is painstaking, oh, it is miserable
on Monday mornings
I put on my formal suit
I expect evil news
A PHARMACY
(DEATH OF A POET)
Horror in a queue, Death
beside the stiff Aesculapius
A surgeon's fingers pass over the back of your head
Spring plants descend in their colourful clothes
to the end of the blind alley with black gates
A horned viper frozen in flight
wave screams, fish scales
buffalo's eyes bordered with flames
A hidden brain sign developed with conception
A fountain of screams. Overlapped points of the compass
Destroyed crystals, confused circles, road signs turned upside down
The disrupted harmony of boxes and bottles
smelling salts and bitter herbs
Forgiveness departing and sinking
Horror in a queue beside the stiff Aesculapius
the poem's blood stream kills a poet.
ABOVE OUR HEADS
You hang above our heads
You may be watching the sea
we cannot see
In your hands, equally arranged
are the weights of life and death
Your feet are above the hills
your head among smoky clouds
You are braver than us and than your father
you were born on the day before these days
You were born in a night darker
than the one setting in
You were born in a time
we do not remember
You are above our heads
above our senses
You do not make noise
you do not wear yourself out groundlessly
Reach the invisible
do not turn around
they will never outrun you.
THE DARK ROAD
Birth senses you somewhere
and swift and cold waters run
where vineyards ripen, swallows rise in the air
where your mother's words are spun
under the forehead, and behold, a horn
blows and wakes up the cliffs
from the big table made of gold
the light lights up your face with happiness
Your steps are followed
by roes. Life like a mark
in your heart and on the path
You walk along and go alone far away
The clock of the dark
road echoes in your ears in a soft way.
A TOMB ABOVE THE SEA
1 How to call you back
How to call you back from there
while you face Liberty Square
in which the stake is burning out
The soul of the moon smells sweet
Under the stone wall the ones died of the cutting edge
Near the square fallen asleep the headsman's house sleeps
On the blue night's flag a wheel dance of stars
Oh, you tiny revolution
scared by the crown-prince's head
raised to God!
We hug each other, my lover with butterfly-like wings
while you are late for the morning guillotine
repeating that happiness never has a happy ending
the being of happiness desires to enter the being of the word
the being of the word desires to enter the being of the living
and the being of the dead,
words which were heard from
the rolling golden lips
*
Who is your winged sister
and your mud-sputtered daughter
and your weeping mother
and your unburied sons
Pay attention to the voices
of the summoned
To loaves of bread which will not fill them up
The insatiable keep simpering
through the open window, through the closed shutters
While I watch you young still
In death which has not
gone too far away
It has stayed here
waiting for the outcome.
2 The Morning Fancy Rolls
Then, the desperately worried custodians
pulled out flags from a heap of ashes
the faded attire of the defeated
Thin happiness of those arriving in columns of the evening
filled up with the scent of lime-tree alleys in memory
triumphal arches, charred remnants
The clammy wind from mountain pastures
browses through Alexandrian libraries
which are sparkingly burning out.
All in them were we
Unconvinced in the onceness
(of something that could be life)
*
They are gathering in Labourer Square
the morning fancy rolls smell sweet
Legs exposed to the gentle sunshine
Blond heroes
Advance through ant-hills
The wind from mountain pastures
reads high-circulation magazines
with strings of glittering teeth
and with shining eyes
All this were we
ignorant of transience
(of something that could be calm)
In the lower part of the hill cut in two,
after years-long measurings, people say, there was
a Fireplace
(traces of fire, broken pottery,
bones of birds and of small mammals)
Undeniable proofs
that we did exist once
in the living constellation of waves
beneath the stony theatre.
We used to enter in secret when the lights were off
and when everything was quiet and the moon could be heard
so that all numberless queues
and watchful stars
could see and hear
that I loved you more
(than any history
can stand)
3 The Defected Sea
At this address no longer does the sea live
it has sailed away in search of a job
Only a small room is left
where every evening in the month of Resurrection
we listen to its confused messages
comparably agitated
we try to solve that death rattle
sprinkled with finely chopped stones
and with glittering sand in the eyes
At this address no longer do seagulls live
they have flown away following ships
they have left their warm nests without offspring
At this address no longer do fish live
or little worms, or awfully boring sharks,
or silted-up paths leading to the unburied ships
full of ghosts, gold, antiquity wine, silk
each with a captain stomping over our heads with a stilt
On this address no longer do the postmen call
with a back pension cheque
or a bill for an unpaid credit installment
with the new world bank
Here, in fact, everything is new
and a games of chance neon sign
glares and charmingly
sings in the night.
4 Inhabitants of Old Cities
I do not want History!
It is a nerve-racking fate of inhabitants
of old cities
Beneath each eyelid stalks
a battle, a rebellion, an upheaval,
a parade, a revolution, a coronation.
Sleep tight amongst the accumulated centuries.
Under the arms in young forests
the noisy Huns furtively advance.
Each of them carries a golden calf under himself.
Do not make noise, oh History!
Your pen, books, painstakingly packed
letters
a red dress
lie tired in the most luxurious
corner of the leaking hut
around which buzz the eyes of the CNN, BBC, RAI,
AL JAZEERA.
The news has flown around the delighted planet
like a spring bee
By means of the most recent DNA hocus-pocus
it was confirmed: despite your periodical
excavations and burials
with the most favourable hawk, horse and dog,
with a pen, a book, an icon,
it is really you, only you
who on many occasions was desecrated, hanged,
guillotined, executed
and asphyxiated in gas chambers
poured over with the whitest quick lime
Now, after so many shared things,
they feel a bit uncomfortable
because they have found
that you are still alive.
Yet, they will keep trying with chosen,
round words,
for the shared destiny is waiting for all.
There glide along ships darker than the inkpot
They bring me to you, oh you lulled asleep.
Smederevo, Belgrade, Herceg Novi
THE MERCIFUL ANGEL
BEFORE THE DECISIVE BATTLE
To my children's generation
How to tell
that pain all around us
falling onto the bitter
field of origin
out of which all blood
of our blood
pours
How to restrain before you
the weak words
about centuries with the ancestral
face
How to restrain the fear
before the decisive battle
against the evil Agarians
and against the crows
which discharge the breath of death
of two-thousand-headed dragons
led by she-devils
on gilded leashes
of cataclysm
Let the chained childhood years
the spasm between the evil pieces of news
and a spark of love
be your shield and sword
Oh generation,
between the first kisses
and new grave-mounds
finish dreaming the interrupted
dreams of your age-mates
left on the ashes of homes
Sing for the sake of smothered hopes and trepidations
from the heart span,
for the unembraced peers
for the sake of their tangs
of the light and dark
made even for ever
Do not allow them to choke your tongue
to cut off your spring
to build up towers of quick decay
with your name
the towers of pestilential cities
with a false hope
You have remained here
to give birth to hope
to build a sanctuary
with feats
and defeats
with bells and prayers
To believe and not to believe
that God-fearing
and brave
Patriarch Arsenius Charnoevic
fights in the visible constellation
with packs of beasts
Crucified in front of divine
gates
oh, infants of love
cradle and oath
Your clear light of the hearth
cutting through the dark
and calling the Sun
into our words, songs, prayers
brightly illuminate life
At Smederevo hospital, in the spring of 1999, on the eve of the NATO aggression
A BELATED ACCOUNT
Somewhere in the North of Italy
near the town of Milan
we understood, as always,
the Latin character.
With restrained smiles
as if nothing
had happened
in the spring of 1999,
we talked about exhibitions,
singers, books.
Among old buildings,
in squares filled with
whispers of ancient lovers
and the hum of Japanese cameras
I discern in agreements
of frequent beggars
and rare vendors
of games of chance
the Serbian language in many
variations.
I feel anguish and humiliation
By mistake am I here
where the coincidence of true friendship is also
bereft.
Oh, damn you Avviano
although you are not mentioned
by anyone as something important
for this meeting.
ALEKSINAC 1)
When we were located by the evil-doers
in our basements
we did not even know
that we were more dangerous
than the Sixth Fleet.
We did our best to calm
our children
and to calm children in ourselves
and we were anxious
how to supply them
with milk breakfast
In the spring of 1999
1) Aleksinac, a town in south-eastern Serbia without any army facilities, which did not prevent the NATO air forces from destroying the town centre and from killing a large number of civilians in the spring of 1999. This same town was also destroyed by the English and American bombers in 1943 and 1944.
THE TRAIN AT GRDELICA GORGE 1)
We were going back to our homeland
to reassure our dear ones
to make our wives happy
with our meagre wages
In the junction of the river, railway and bridge
we were hit by a monster
to taint our Morava River
with our ashes.
We will not finish
building our houses
The sky is watching us
through the unfinished roofs.
In the spring of 1999
1) On a bridge near Grdelica, a small town in south-eastern Serbia, a NATO plane hit an international train while it was crossing the bridge. More than 50 civilians were killed. Among them there were many construction workers who lived in the villages of south-eastern Serbia. At the NATO headquarters the train was sarcastically termed a legitimate target.
TARGETS ON THE CHESTS 1)
Old men and women
with paper targets
on their chests
dance and sing
on a road and on a bridge
without growing weary
What's the point they are asked
by foreign TV reporters
in amazement.
We defend our children
against these invisible lunatics
to prevent our children
from growing mad of fear.
In the spring of 1999
1) During the NATO aggression on Serbia, thousands of people used to gather in squares, on bridges and roads in protest rallies. They were joined by poets, actors, musicians, illusionists who performed their programs. Friends from all parts of our planet also took part in these protest rallies. All participants had paper targets on their chests, giving rise to a special “target” culture.
NOVO BRDO 1)
After we had plated Europe
with gold and silver
we were easily surrendered
to barbarians
They came back armoured
with evil designs
to crush once more
the Golden Babylon
of Serbian kings and despots
Into the golden veins of hills
the world's trash is piled
by the new barbarians.
1) Novo Brdo was one of the most important industrial centres of Serbia in the XIV century. The gold and silver mine was surrounded with foundries, goldsmiths' shops and with a mint. The town had 40 thousand inhabitants and was one of the most densely populated in Europe. The Venerable Throne, weighing 1320 pounds, donated to St Nicholas' Basilica in Bari, Italy, was made of silver from Novo Brdo.
ORTHODOX TOMBS
For nights and days
The “Merciful Angel”
Kept crushing the Orthodox
Cemetery in Pristina
In the chasms of earth,
Concrete, brick, iron
Of parts of crosses and bones
There rose part of a broken
Monument or
A tombstone
With the inscription
. . . HERE RESTS
GOD . . .
In the spring of 1999
A SIDEWISE LIGHT
In a room with a small sidewise light
and with windows criss-crossed
with adhesive tapes
(to prevent the glass from falling down)
every night I watch TV broadcasts
with the message at the screen corner:
AIR ALARM
Listening attentively to the flight of phantoms
I estimate the moment
at which to interrupt the sleep of my household members
In order to cower by the door-posts
and listen to destroying of our ancient town
By our former allies
and foes united.
Smederevo, in the spring of 1999
THE FIRST LETTERS
I dream of that sound and hear it growing
fatally all around.
It devours towns, rivers, and young forests
the scream of the wounded water of birth and baptism
sprinkles the cold people, pulled out from the abyss.
The sound with myriads of dark spiral
gloves. Brave young men
go into them, they move in pain and weeping.
Is a fighter plane closing in on an unknown
victim
Or it is its own prey and scream?
There burn a grave, home and temple
there burn the mind, seed, and child, while
there howls an infernal flame
and all is devoured by soot and slime.
The evening prayers from St Archangels1)
are overcome by the bark
of Agarians with tails grown at night
Potkaljaja2) on fire. The world melts
in the Bistrica River3) like the snow of Shara Mountain4)
through the broken frontal bone
In hazes I hear
the growing laughter of the tailed one and the burning
of Christ's cross.
I dream the death rattle of toddlers
below the Skull Tower5) and Pantelej6)
The screams of mothers over
tiny new grave-mounds
The sobbing of fathers.
Charon, rather confused,
rows up the Danube, Morava,
Drina, Timok, Tisa, Sava7)
not able to distinguish
the direction, purpose, point.
I hear the petrified whisper
in the last greetings
of soldiers and inconsolable sweethearts
I hear the song which would like to sing
love without death
The rose that would crawl up
to the young bride's coronet.
I listen to that sound in the crumpled
dream and I see
angels conferring
at sunset.
It is not me, the merciful angel rustles,
it is the State witch
with glued wings from a Broadway theater,
nothing can be done,
they buzzed
he has departed somewhere
or has fallen fast asleep.
I keep dreaming of that sound
of howling, crushing, destroying,
of the call of the abyss.
At the bottom of the dream, in the throat of the sound
I see St George
killing the Dragon
and the hallucinative scream
flying around the blue planet
and hacking the hands of the famous city
raised high, the Apple Poison
and I see the Ocean rolling the head of the statue,
which used to welcome
friends,
towards a far-away coast
where naked children write down their first letters.
(Read on the first anniversary of the NATO aggression – in Smederevo on March 24, 2000)
1) Serbian Orthodox monastery in Kosovo and Metohia near the town of Prizren, residence of the Serbian Tsar Dusan the Mighty. The monastery was burnt down to the ground by the Albanians on March 17, 2004, before the eyes of NATO troops.
2) Potkaljaja, a quarter of Prizren where the Serbs lived, which dates back to the ancient times, burnt down after the arrival of NATO forces in 1999.
3) The Bistrica River – river flowing through Prizren.
4) Shara Mountain – a mountain range between Serbia and Macedonia.
5) The Skull Tower – a tower in the vicinity of Niš, into which were built skulls of the Serbs killed by the Turks during the First Serbian Uprising in 1809.
6) Pantelej – a quarter of the town of Niš (Roman Naissus) in south-eastern Serbia, the birthplace of the Roman Emperor Constantine the Great. During the 1999 NATO aggression the town was bombed for days on end with cluster bombs, which destroyed many facilities and killed many civilians (otherwise, the use of cluster bombs is forbidden by international conventions).
7) The Danube, Morava, Drina, Timok, Tisa, and Sava – rivers in Serbia.
PICTURES
THE PICTURE OF FRIENDSHIP
In the picture nowhere mislaid, fresh
at the Les Deux Magots café
a lady and a gentleman, only one century young
are sipping double espresso in the night of acquaintance
in July of 1999 in Paris which misplaced
its game, love and mind.
The day feels ashamed to dawn. Satan
tramps the victory lap
along boulevards, in undergrounds, churches,
museums, powdering schools and homes,
yellowed rows of the innocent, fear and hope.
Serbia is on fire. The carbonized scream of the Maid
of Kosovo is not heard by the bells of the Notre Dame.
Ashes over Paris. Isolated war veterans' graves
creak for the salvation of the age
sunk in the steam of brotherly blood. Paris, a fussy
guignol of its unchanged executioners,
sinks into dazingly running mud, singing.
One soft heart in Paris feels
that the picture of friendship
from the magic Les Deux Magots café lives on.
A lady and a gentleman, only one century young,
in the July night of acquaintance in 1998, can see,
while the eternal bliss is prepared for Serbia,
in the shallow unemptied sip of coffee
like in the dried-up Seine River, the wriggling
panting little fishes of equality, brotherhood, and freedom.
EMPEROR OF EMPERORS
Things cannot be changed,
you say,
here has his seat Emperor of Emperors
from our tribe who eats one hundred girls
and one hundred boys a day.
He has no daughters or sons
people say he ate them up
before they were even born
due to the lack of greenstuff.
We who are forgotten
in craggy grounds and ravines
are informed very rarely
between the rains.
In caves do we hide our brood
of the Emperor's dust.
Forgotten in wilderness
we hunt boars and jays
expecting the One to bring fire
inextinguishable by dust.
The white powder
is of some value to the Emperor himself
he builds up dangerous towers
turns the courses of rivers under his feet
catching stars in them
and gathering them in swarms
in his flag.
You say it is the best
that could befall us.
With other tribes
tribute is much heavier,
yet again, they happily
welcome each new day.
They rejoice in squares
where flags wave.
The knight should turn up from somewhere,
but he is delayed,
he renders accounts to customs officers.
Without the black seal
he cannot come back
to his home
for all houses belong to the Emperor
as well as all estates and hopes.
He allots them according to merits.
AN EPISTLE TO A HUNTER
You are on the trail of a big beast
do not allow the perfumes of spring
to delude you
Fingers beneath the grass make traps
and snakes suck out eyes
Do not allow to get confused
by the promises of clear water
For streets change at sunset
and you will not recognize your home
Oh, hunter, your dog has been bribed
with apples, dream under the elder-tree.
PRIZREN
(Archeology)
These are parts of the cross
from the Church of Ljeviška Virgin in flames
which was pulled out by an Albanian
accompanied by shouts of the mob
and the gazes of the newly arrived Germans
(at a freeze-frame that made the tour
of the world in the spring of 2004)
Here was the room with a view
of the milky green valley.
Here was the room of little sisters
(small ear-rings, a ring, hairpins
of extraordinary beauty, of filigree
work, melted in fire)
Here was the room of parents
(over charred walls raw insomnias
walk to and fro. Live coals
of chests huskily growl, they watch over
trousseaus and clothes in case of death)
Handle carefully spatulas and
whisks
under the book there is a hand.
(The skin is preserved, the paper
burnt out almost completely, carbonized)
Above the stone door-step
there was a door once
the nest of the
house-guarding snake
empty
The fallen chimney descended
into the cellar
slurps red wine
for the soul's rest.
This is St Nicholas (The intact image
on the burnt icon)
blessing guests
on the patron-saint's day.
CROSSWAYS
ULYSSES
You have left the shores
on which at good times
you built up
a home, a grave
a temple and a theatre
The depth you are falling into
you will not touch with a scream
gushing out
from your jaws
lined with instilled words
which do not come out
from the heart,
but come into being
unreliable
between the brain and the hand
like smoke
leaving the many-headed
indifferent
WHO WILL YOU FIND IN THE MARSHES
1
Who will you find in the marshes
beavers or birds?
Or your parents' nest
warm and open?
Who will you find on your way
among hemlock and bitter grass?
Good luck or a word that abandoned you
or your love or you just
keep going to the unknown to the timeless
alone carrying your head on your shoulder
2
Everything makes you bitter and solitary
In lace and silk clothes
Everything makes you remote and alien
in the houses where you have lodged for the night
What morning will wake you up
what sunbathed bed
Everything catches you up on your way
the curse and the knife of enemy tribesmen
3
With what deadly water will you wash
your face
What eyes will mourn you
bristled in the brushwood
CROSSWAYS
From nightmares and loves
young men come back
with unknown melodies
on their chapped lips
with flags of sticky touches
in a day which refuses
to dawn.
Crucified before the divine doorframe
of the last kisses
and the first daffodils
Oh, you earth between maidens'
beds and fresh grave-mounds
Appease your hunger with the fruits
of our words, poem, prayer
Oh, you sinking river in the voices
of morning roosters
in the foundations of homes
Allow us to grow old
at the crossways.
THE SURVIVOR
How to dig in the paper
a hole deep enough
to receive all
happy and unhappy,
real or imaginary
pictures, words, prayers?
I see a tree growing out of water
with different branches
with different birds
fireworks of colours
and voices.
I sail between
rare islands, over
sunken chasms.
Council voices
call from the deep.
Will the survivor
preserve these melodies
abstracts from temples
cradles of volcanoes
provide with arms the voyager
going back to himself
without looking around.
A birth from the river
or just a return
or our awakened recollection
of long-past red-hot dusk in greenery.
DESERTED HORSE-STABLES
Deserted horse-stables
full of ghost-like shadows
and of brave lovers
Crushed grain on the floor
and homes. The bay horse
with the forehead blown to bits
A rider frozen
on a sabre. Rye
cropped up from feed-bags
A snake fallen asleep
in loaves of bread
Whinnying from sleep
and a celestial trot
at dusk.
THE INVISIBLE ONES
You are here invisible ones
quite close
In parched sods
of July
You present your hands
both to water and fire
You settle your feet
onto muddy paths
onto rutted roads
You fly around our heads
around monastery bell-towers
in the mirrors of the Sitnica
and Lab
out of which all rivers
spring
and into which all tears
flow
LEAVING FOR METOHIJA 1)
You reach the very boundary,
you make a stride
not waiting to grow old
You are a pigeon, a tall poplar-tree
a boar at a waterhole
a breeze, a hurricane, a storm
Where, for God's sake, have you been so far
ask grasses, wheats
orchards, sweet smelling bunches of grapes
Those who have suddenly dropped in
await your arrival
in secrecy and fear.
You come like a shot
into every water and mount
into every chimney and foundation
into brushwoods and forests
into the streets of childhood
into dawns and dusks.
You build up fence and gable
you take the lead of the sleepy tribe
You feed the house-guarding snake,
and the mocking bird
You water cattle on the brook
You make a shepherd's flute and play
you lead the heavy dance
You dig out the bell, you make a bell-tower
and put an icon on the young oak-tree
you cross yourself three times
You bring forth children, you graft an apple-tree,
you dry plums and drain off wine.
Then you kiss with your brothers just born
And upright you welcome the Sun.
1) Metohija, the most beautiful part of Kosovo and Metohija, out of which the Serbs were expelled by the NATO forces in the summer of 1999. The name itself derives from the word 'metoh' denoting a monastery estate.
Goran Djordjevic
Translated by Lazar Macura
- ABRAMOWITZ, HAROLD
- ADELL JOAN-ELIES
- ALMEIDA, ALEXIS
- ANGELAKIS, ANDREAS
- ANGELOU MAYA
- ANGHELAKI-ROOKE, KATERINA
- ANTIOHOU, GIANNIS
- APPS, STAN
- ARKADI, STELLA
- ARRIEU-KING, CYNTHIA
- ARSENIOU, ELISAVET
- ASHBERY, JOHN
- BAEV, ANTON
- BEKOU, ATHINA
- BLAINE, JULIEN
- BOUHLAL, SIHAM
- CELAL,
- CELAL, METİN
- CHOULIARAS, YIORGOS
- DALAKOURA, VERONIKI
- DEL REY, LANA
- DICKISON, STEVE
- DIMOS, HELEN
- DJORDJEVIC, GORAN
- DOOLITTLE, HILDA "H.D."
- DOUCEY, BRUNO
- ECK, MATTHEW
- ECONOMOU, GEORGE
- EMINESCU, MIHAI
- EPISKOPOU, MARIA
- FRIES, KENNY
- GARCIA, ANGELA INES
- GERTRUDE STEIN
- GEVIRTZ, SUSAN
- GONZÁLEZ SPAIN, PILAR
- GOVRIN MICHAL
- GRECEANU, ADELA
- GRIMA, ADRIAN
- HADJIDAKI, NATASHA
- HALL, GORDON
- HAQ, KAISER
- HIGGINS, KEVIN
- HRISTOV, IVAN
- img src=anthologio.gif border=0>LODEVE
- INGUANEZ, SIMONE
- ISTVAN, LASZLO
- JONES, LAURYN
- KARRA, AMARYLLIS ELENI
- KATTAN, ROLANDO
- KHAN, MONEEBA
- ...Δείτε περισσότερα