Blesok no. 76, January-February, 2011

Erased Spaces
Translated by Bela Gligorova
From "Erased Spaces", Blesok, 2011.

Katica Kulavkova


Another (one) will write your autobiography.
Someone who will pretend being you.
He will enter your consciousness
He will crawl under your skin
He will permeate the world of your intimacy
So that, one day, he will succeed in
Putting together that which you had put asunder
Rewrite that which you erased
Dig up that which you buried
Deep within, like a mad avalanche
Revealing that which you banned
From public use;

He’ll untangle and then again
Entangle the cord-signs
Of your personal and of
The Macedonian syndrome
He’ll fool around with the transformations
From antiquity to futurity
From the personal to the collective
He’ll transform the sophisticated expressions
And poetic evocations
Into existential imagery
To deliver, fully, the richness
Of your iconic nightmares
Of your childhood fantasies
Of your providential failures;

Perhaps he’ll surpass you
Aided by the innate gift of playing
The part of the other
Of losing his own self in the other
As if consumed by the nothingness.
The border between that and your world is fading away.
The charm of the invisible will prevail
And here he would be most like you;

He’ll rummage the letters, poems, interviews
He’ll interview your contemporaries, those who have survived
He’ll reread their memoirs and journals
He’ll thread the edges
He’ll look, first to the left, then to the right
Maintaining balance
So as to reach the end

With a continuous flow so as not to fall back
Somewhere halfway, just as you had done.

Each Morning

The day and the night
When crossing over, half-asleep
Return each other’s bodies:

Proof is the sperm flying
In the half-sky, half-earth
(Wake up, become excited
Tomorrow around 4 am
Step outside in the open
And have a look!)

The day awakens on his own
As any experienced lover
Like nothing has happened
At the same time
In solitude, resounding in full the steamy speech
Of his, and of her hostess’s

The mountains in the morning should be licked
Piecemeal by piecemeal, from within
Alongside the crests, slopes, faces.

God has provided languages
For the heavens and the earth
Under, over, in front of, after
We must inhale fully, in advance
So as to soften the coming of the daily silence
Until our next meeting with the nightly grammar.

The day and the night carry out these chores
According to the 24 hour clock, as commanded
By – Time.

Forest Strawberries

Moving towards the summit
You and the silence
Of the forest.

Suddenly, an impossible sight
A meadow bursting with forest strawberries
Permeates the perspective, invading the sound barrier…

The world turns topsy-turvy.
The threshold of revelation has been deceived.
Impossible noise.

Immediately, you realize
Powerlessness cannot withstand beauty.
Immediately, there appears
A mind-blowing erection
Of all five, six, seven holy senses.

You cringe, as if taking in
The hastily administered injection shot.
Therapy with shock treatments.
Life with an endlessly postponed orgasm
Life full of love
Which only the other one enjoys.
Do you still believe that
The future will be better?

Eyes clear from gazing at beauty.
You wish to partake without stopping
The beautiful and only the beautiful

Just thinking about ugliness brings you
And her back into despair.
The view is clear. Myopathy has lessened.

Perversely enflamed teats gathered in one spot
An exciting combination of red and green
In various kinds of shades which
Have no names, but exist
And reflections of the sun
An enflamed ray
And the instinctual fear
From the excess
Good God.

Loss of Freedom

Pity that scholastics!
Repetitions, parallelisms,
There is no humanity without drama
Word against word
Possession matched with possession
Deeds, good against the bad.

Who do you face
Each day:
Historical dignitaries
Or invented

Oddly enough, but
It is not a question of art
Rather one of conscience
The prospect of belonging

So as to feel free
Without having to wonder –
Liberty – was that just a word?

In Need of a Home

Roam the house
Language has turned into rattles
Gushes, babbles, sobs
What lacks is a vision, a revelation, a creation
Life is the agony of the unadorned, but

Even the bottomless pit bears a shape
Even the chaos has one

Your Home doesn’t
Since Here –
To not have
Means to lose
What we once had
Once you did have one
Now it is the time to dream
To dream with the power of magic
And not just look into
Ordinary hope.

Let me be frank:

We cannot make it on hope
It is too mellow and rather slow-paced
We are in need of a strong dosage
We need an overdose, to reach
The very end
So that then we may
Albeit in panic and with therapy
Return to life

Between Two Evils

What if life has been handed to you
So that you get to choose between two evils
And you always choose
The worse of the two?

What if the alchemy proves successful
In making
Something out of Nothing
Branding being incorporated?

We can see clearly how One
Is split in half, an odd pairing thus created
And the half stands far removed from his midst
Then come the taboos
The secret yearnings
The mania
The new reason to relocate
Empty wants, utopia of dreams
Melting away in the consciousness
As lumps of sherbet
What a sweet death!

For a bit of morphine
While they cut open
Your home-land
In the flesh
Who knows how many times before
This time, at home
The violent mind holds the scalpel
Blinded by the blistering
By himself, dear God
Vanity is a trap
Overcome it
Leave before the final act
Of the Macedonian
Change the genre
Do something!

A whole belongs to the past
The part is invisible to the naked eye
You can see only on the inside, an unusual
Transition from the once into the now
The future is getting smaller by the minute
And, it’s gone.
Away, let it be gone!

Forgotten: The Poetics of Remembrance

Bygones resemble fish oil
Stains which cannot be cleaned
Imprinted on the webs of memory
Underneath which the acne of trauma
Are revealed
Forlorn senses
To have dreams
To nurse hope.

Without remembrance there is no dis-cover-y.
You remember the unordinary things
Your personal mnemo-poetics is a question of training
Everyday rehearsals
Of “I am” and “I am not”.

The past is a chain made of rusty rings
Heart-wrenching life-narratives
Unique in dimension, even in proportion
As for instance –
The massive blindings
Orgies as signs of revenge
Pogroms, fires, annihilations
Christianization, Islamization
Hellenization (…)
The kingdom of conversions
Of legalized unlawfulness
Incest, infanticide
Conspiracies and tragicomic

All in all,
History is

The past is a story we remember
The story which has marked us.

History speaks the language
Of challenges –
All that which has circumscribed
The fate
Of the banal.
Wishing to return
To the righteous path
To be in line

You who have not lost yourself in the masses
Of the impersonal
You, for whom
History is the quest for
The personal
Tell me what you wished to have
From memory
What you hid
So that it may never be revealed
Tell me what you wished to have

Then I’ll tell you what it was like, your

Oblivion remembers
In its own way
Or at least
It cannot
Be said of it
It has no

Understanding and Faith

It seems to you as if you understand
History’s blind spots
The dark periods which suffer
From a lack of material
And testimony.

As if you can feel
The coming of the warm breeze
From behind the border
Regions of the reasonable
Where judgment flows into

You leave.
Before light appears
You can feel it
And sense
A kind of irresistible
Un-humanlike warmth
Moving into the world
Which you still
Call your

Afterwards the light itself
Opens your

You have this premonition:
The world can change
In just a few

Close your eyes.

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