Blesok no. 60, May-June, 2008
Poetry


Leaning on its shadow
Translated by: Elizabeta Bakovska

Ante Popovski



Oh, Cavafy


       to Mateja Matevski

From this night onwards the day shall grow,
then the spring shall prepare the grass,
thick and green, for someone.
And a white horse shall gallop towards the sunset
waiting for someone
to travel, without return,
to the end of all meanings
and deceits of the holy duty
towards the fatherland and other countless banalities…

Oh, Cavafy,
from this day onwards the day shall grow,
then the spring shall prepare the grass,
thick and green, for someone. Over there,
we shall go to bed alone,
for we only gave the life
something of our own,
while we gave death everything…




Tohu va bohu 2


Unread books
unfinished dreams –
was that life?

Everybody with his bundle of time
up and down, here and there,
until we recreated ourselves
in a sarcophagus of words,
in a white silence…

Unread books
unfinished dreams –
was that life?




* * * (There it is below, between two coasts)


There it is below, between two coasts,
in the silence between two words,
the warm seed of its own language,
leaning on its shadow it waits for nothing and – nobody.




The Preacher


       to d-r Gjorgji Zafirovski

Never and nowhere He mentioned the thing
that we the living comprehend as time,
and here, we basically
differ from the Preacher
we never wanted we never could
understand that it was not the time
but life itself
that passed for us.




Two Silences


       to Olivera Kjorveziroska

Finally, you kissed me
and just like these rains and thunders,
just like these winds,
you chained me to yourself,
and even the Lord himself
can not prevent now
what already happened between us.

But, where are you?

Without knowing,
you settled two silences
around me: a smaller one,
where I dream of you,
where I wait for you,
and a bigger one
where I disappear.
And even the Lord himself
can not prevent now
your forgetfulness and my departure.




* * * (Just a while longer and I shall return home)


Just a while longer and I shall return home.
The one who dies on the bed
in which he was born
shall be as if he never died.

Just a while longer and I shall return home…




Nothing and Nobody


Nothing and nobody to the dream
and somewhere before dawn only
my mother's voice instructing me again –
it will heart, it will heart a lot,
but you just listen to mummy:
it always hurts when the dead comes to life
your mother knows the best.

Nothing more and nobody else through the dream…




Everybody Is Alone


There is a poem that nobody has heard yet,
there is a poem that nobody has known yet,
silent, black, eerie…

There is a poem that nobody has written yet
but once we shall all write it alone
we shall all sing it alone…

There is a poem that nobody has heard yet
for it is yours and yours only.




When You Are Far


When you are far, there are
winds in the spring mornings,
they can read your fortune
they will touch you, caress you,
they will take my hand
and they will tell us: here, now
your mother will call you.
She knows that her love for you
makes you invincible.

All the skies are small
for the Great Departure…




* * * (In the space between two words)


In the space between two words,
in he transition from one to the another
there is the end. The silence comes first
and then, together with my mother tongue
ingrown like my twin
we will remember this light together –
our birth place.




He Went to Bed with the Word


       to my son Aleksandar and my daughter-in-law Mirjana

He is not here,
he left.

A reflection of Phrygian vowels
on his linen shirt.
Day and night, the villagers
still collect
the remnants of his words.

He yearned that his dreams
are cleansed by a devastating fire,
he was allowed everything,
but he never allowed
anything to conquer him.
He chose a poignant chamber
and he went to bed with his word
now nobody knows
if he is silent or dreaming.

He is not here,
he left.




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