Blesok no. 67-68, July-October, 2009
Poetry


One of These Days If Not Tomorrow
Translated by: Elizabeta Bakovska

Jovica Ivanovski



Toilet


Let my departing be
    without approving.
In summer, on a sunny day, at noon,
with a pleasant breeze from the east.
From my bed directly to the other bed.
Before the autopsy deforms
    my body prematurely.
Let the voice of the priest be heard from
          another grave,
let the mourning go to
   the fellow dead who deserved them.
I'd even avoid the chapel – the
ritual circling around the bed,
setting flowers like a spring terrace,
condolences – teary or dry;
half-acquaintances, hugs, black robes… Noooo!
I want a happy funeral, a hippy good-bye.    
Let somebody sing A whiter shade of pale,
a twenty-year old with an electric guitar,
          of course.
A decent, sorted (not necessarily marble)
bar right from the hole – but only after
        the shovel men gallop away.
No copied praises and a moron's speech to
    a microphone – with a broken speaker and squeaking.
And my old friends leaning on their elbows,
    should get smashed and forget where they are;
so the farewell turns into a party, all the way till the end.
And those whose bladders have too much
could relieve themselves – here,
in the new unfinished toilet,
right next to the bar.

             20.04.2009




Autumn in Skopje


Skater kids fall,
tiles from autumn houses fall,
saliva falls. White chewing gums
best turn black on the pavement tiles.
Morning dew falls, and so does sunlight and fog.
Feathers of the birds that do not migrate fall,
fathers and grandfathers on rollers as well,
rude pedestrians fall on crossings,
high heels fall on their knees.
Leaves fall on women
under the trees on top of beds.
Everything falls: the birch and the stock exchange
the harvest and trust, and confidence as well.
Soon the first snow will fall
    couple of months later the last one will also fall.
Then for a while nothing will fall.
And everything goes like this, in circles, same and boring –
all over again, yet another time, from empty into hollow…
Until the first handfuls of dirt start to fall
    on your coffin under the ground,
in a late, sunny autumn in Skopje,
not much different than this.




Wind and Fog


I can't see the cross
'cause it's covered in thick fog,
and 'cause I'm too far away.




From Now, until Forever
(to S.N.I.)


Move me,
break my hip,
I want the house to rock,
the mortar fall from our moaning.

The Vardar spreads like fog,
while the evenings graze in the park,
the benches offer their asses,
and the runners support walls with their hands.

I really need you to be mine again,
time unscrews bridges and joints,
a tin orchestra parades in our room,
confetti and cones and orgasms in bunches.

The law of gravity – it's but a joke.
Flying is possible and falling is in my hands.
And our bed? It’s the Universe. It shakes
when our crutches give birth to constellations.

Everything is said, written, drawn, recorded…
Even 180 years are not enough for the two of us.
I want this to last, I want a hard on at 80.
I want us to be buried together in one bed,

I will be inside you – you'll be the hole, I'll be the coffin.


                13.02.2009




I Do Not Paint, I Make Love to the Canvas


The beret and the overalls are artistic
uniforms of other times.
    I paint naked, butt naked.
I'm covered with paint stains.

Multicolored, many colored, like the peacock
    that boasts on the canvas.
A drop fell on my dick
    I have a hard on 'cause
       I get it when I paint.

The trout and the bottle of red wine
will not end as a still life –
I'll drink the wine and I'll let the fish
swim at the bottom of the painting,

Immediately under my loved one's fish
    she poses even when she's not here.
I see her put on her make-up in the taxi
when she opens the door,

She enters the paining like
entering a tub of hot fragrant water,
she waits for me to rub her back
    with my painting brush.




Stations In Between


Through the suburbs
built from poverty
with facades of bare bricks.

Those who came from Comingland,
came here to escape
the thing that you can't escape.

Depression in the walk,
from being jobless to the street,
     from care to no way out.

(Calendars in the kitchen,
naked women or icons –
they cross and pray
    in front of them both.)

Illegal houses for tamed men,
the father of the municipality
will tame them before elections.

The suburbs are just
stations in between – from the inner state
to the centre of town.

But as the suburb dwellers
    push to the centre
the citizens run from it.

To the new, elite suburbs,
that are only stations in between
on their way to their native place.




I Decided – Definitely


I don't give a damn about anybody.
I'll switch off my lighthouse
and I'll throw my anchor in my
    family port.

Most of the quasi friends –
double faced, closed, hidden,
    let them become friends,

who'll grow more and more afar,
in the end they'll be barely visible –
somewhere in the middle of the sea.

When I see their hands in the air
I won't know if they're waving
or simply drowning.




You Can See His Misery


The color of his skin like a chameleon
adjusts to the environment
that will soon surround him –
    Why not, the loam
has an aristocratic complexion.

His ears, thinned and sagging
(as if chained in lead earrings
    for years)
support the “you don't have to be
a doctor” – quick diagnosis
of a passer-by.

Skinny and small – as if
the whole contents that moves
around the bones in but a bone –
as if it rushes to be (not skin
    and bones but) only bones.

The hair (which hair) rooted out and
    grounded – from his army cap,
genes, smog, bad diet,
daily shampooing and plucking.

The hairs on his body waxed
being rubbed by sponges, shirts,
jeans, beds, cars, streets
and parks, winds, sand and sea.

The wrinkles on his face like drawings in the sand,
deep and hanging like imprinted
    on a leather imitation, on leatherette,
that smells bad and has dandruff
in dust, sand, soil.

Many organs, a head with eyes,
a heart slower but no smaller,
liver and kidneys, lips…
And a penis which (luckily or not)
doesn't have to be hard
to fertilize the ground.


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Some People


Some people are sarcastic
to cover up their goodness
that hasn't been in for a long time.

Some people fake that they are nice
but you can't hide the rotting
it will eventually pop up.

Some people boost like scarecrows
but they are afraid of their own shadows –
let them take their bed sheets for cover.

Some people win by making noise, but
those who keep quit are dangerous
they can even kill.




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