Blesok no. 71-73, March-August, 2010
Poetry


Reading of silence
From “Читање на тишината / Čitanje tišine / Reading of silence”, Blesok, 2010.
Translated from Montenegrin by A. N. Batrićević, edited by I. Isakovski

Pavle Goranović



Choirs of Ordinary Death


I was talking about the inevitable return.
They were protecting their morning masks.

The sky was unveiling the millions…
The streets were wet:
at this time of year the rain usually sets in.
The children were left void of
empty presentiments and fascinations.
The world keeps being pronounced in quotations
–  I don’t know if that could be different.
For many of its particularities
even now there are no corresponding words.
And besides, every occurrence is indicated,
even temporarily, even incorrectly.

I am caught unaware afore the traces of life.
They still think that the cursed poets exist.




The Cosmic Version


These cities will disappear,
and these lethargic hours, successes,
habits, brutalities…
And man’s powerful breath

that is inbred with immeasurable
dejection, will be a part of some
future desert. But, it is possible
here to summon up the words,

those shivers in front of the earthly
truth: the world is a unique
miracle of language! That explains the pain

of every cognition, however – every trace
will disappear, engraved in profound predictions,
in an almost accessed reflection.




Delusions in the Mediterranean


I

I buried every word of mine,
every reflection that refers to the
obverse of human fear. Today,
my world is a property of emptiness –

absent is the hope that belongs
to the morning delusion of the truth.
I think I have understood:
I glorified the banalities

– even if it be characteristic of
the melancholic moment that
overcomes me amid this confession of disorder.
From this side of the Adriatic daylight has almost appeared:

neither has the sky covered the fields behind the sea,
nor will I see the contours of previous summers.


II

I followed the roads,
left to the steps the silence
that is unbearable this time.
Broken from days that took flight

I almost heard the howls –
how the Mediterranean favourite of
the night became faithful to feelings.
Nothing could change

the arranged order among the expanses of land.
Suddenly, I remembered the time
in which indifference prevails over
the usual unease. Then,

while observing the distant shores,
I opened my cold thought.




Possible Arrangement of Verses


I can only imagine how a poem for you
would look. I still haven’t managed to
give meaning to its form; to its content – even less.
Once in a while I came upon the words of your poem

in other people’s verses, but never in the arrangement desired.
Not in a single story could I find convincing images
about your being; not in a single sentence – the complete reflection of your body.
(And I know that, more or less, all of it has already been expressed.)

Besides, it’s not so simple to place you into the inventory of language.
It would only be another dream, then, whose complete events
I wouldn’t be able to remember the moment I wake up. Hence, I am only able

to play with another invention, the reason why I accept
already published words. I tell you, I can only
imagine how a poem for you would look like.




Names of Longing, Female Name


Down an unknown path, the dust
swept away the human anxiety.
The spaces were slowly
merging with the darkness.
Coldness crept into the apartments.
Everything disappeared that, even
yesterday, brought fantasies about you.
Now the skies rule our silences,
and no other woman can have that look of yours.
There is no distance in which my soul
can find its place, obsessed with you.
There is nothing to announce your arrival!
Only silence – simple and inexplicable.
And the premature dusk
dashes my hopes.
You are far away:
your absence finally determines
the main characteristics of my writing.

I think about you.
But, I cannot determine
the distance
between our longings.




Experience of the Room


Old again, you retreat to the spaces
that you truly belong to.
Slow steps hide the satisfaction of surrender –
known only to such people.
Under the high walls of your empty room
the first thing to hear is your own sigh.
Equally it also indicates the expression of tiredness and escape.
Confronted with the burden of the silence,
then, you’ll gently cover your head –
to deceive yourself that you are outside
lost time. That is something you’ll do
quite consciously and not quite persistently.
Gaping into the whiteness, for some time you’ll think
about women that you didn’t want to have.
During the night your being will be imbued
with different sensations – indifference,
tendency to customary, inconsistent insolence.
All that will happen in a kind of a half dream.
In search for a desolate life.




Structuring of the Writing


As a child I didn’t like books:
my attitude to reality was
erratic. I was nineteen when
I read Borges’s Ficciones,
and, ever since, I have been writing. Sometimes,
feverishly enthralled, and with equal passion
I note the graffiti in town passages,
or the names of firms on neon sign boards.
I’ve come close to thinking lately
that the contents of existence should be arranged so that you don’t
feel any need for the sustenance of other people.
Nothing can provoke me, while I am perceiving
simple phenomena, and while from my room
I write essays about the present.
Sometimes it happens that the Mediterranean morning
impels me to think about the living conditions
on the planet. Even when I inhale the air,
some uncertainties are left about the space which I am in.
Consequently, dreams structure the space, and I endure only
to live through words that have already been written.




Simulation of the Accomplice


It goes like this: I can imagine the streets through which
you stumbled, practice the steps
and identify the smells of space, the clothes
and the home furnishings. I am already in the possession of insomnia,
through the labyrinths I ply.
With the help of imagination, I could reconstruct the events
from my childhood and youth. (The most difficult, surely,
would be the dark period.) Nevertheless, fictions are incomparably more
reliable than facts. I would learn the language,
practice the accent. I would find out many things about wars,
religion, particularly about books, and about love
and tigers – just something. Somehow I would cope
even with over-curious people, but I would always
choose only one man to talk to.
While reading me, people would become aware
that it is the story of their lives. Space and time,
the moods of mine – wouldn’t be of great importance.
I would, of course, also appropriate your verses;
others would say it is in the manner
of your games with the doubles. All in all,
I would honourably simulate the accomplice.




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