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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 100 | volume  | September, 2015



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 100September, 2015

El amor en los tiempos del cólera

p. 1
Elizabeta Bakovska


El amor en los tiempos del cólera

In December 2014, my peer, colleague and friend, the poet Igor Isakovski suddenly died.     Half a year later, I read and re-read his poetry book, So Yes, the last one written and edited by his hand. In this reading, I was not surprised by the fact that I had found but a single typing mistake (because Igor was a meticulous writer and an even more meticulous reader both of his writing and the writings of others), nor by the fact that he had filled in some hundred pages with his verses (because poetry drips from some people and it poured out of him). I was surprised by the fact that here, where I had expected to find nauseous premonitions and hints of his departure (as the ones that I used to find in his previous collections, such as Death Has Seaweed Hair), I came across joy and lot of love. Fuck it, as he would say, we all constantly face our deconstructed prejudices.
    So Yes
is the eleventh poetry collection and the seventeenth book published by the author whom I believe to be not only the leader of my generation of Macedonian authors, but also its metaphor. His work, his views, his way of living and working and his personality as a whole carry within all the pain and paradoxes of the endless Macedonian transition. Igor is in every way a symbol of the roar of the cargo train which constantly rushes, loaded and yet thirsty of the speed that would release him, forcefully, angrily and fiercely dragging the load of the past to an indefinite future. “I hurry as a natural / disaster, I whip like the mad wind / which seeks your lips. and opens them,” says this poet of movement, action, idea that has to be translated into action. Peace and coming to peace with things were never close to his heart, and accepting or keeping quiet about the things that he disagreed with were even more alien to him. That is how he lived, that is how he wrote, without sparing himself and without stopping to look behind him.
    In all ten collections preceding this one, Igor wrote abundantly and exposed, with a deep conviction that the start of self-censorship marks the end of art. His poetic exhibitionism does not step back before topics (his father’s alcoholism and death,

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