Blesok no. 100, September, 2015

Podgorica, prologue

Branko Čegec

there is no life outside poetry!

    a scream in the depth of the night,
    in the semi-darkness of the lobby.
    then a million new words
    as if everything starts from the beginning,
    and he
    has just

speech is the last power

it was louder than the clammor
    of the neigbouring tables.
    the words broke the silence,
    the silence of the window glass,
    deserted bottles
    under our feet.
    his voice developped into a tonality,
    the tones shaped the voice.
    the silence shapred the stories
    that were yet to be translated
    in all languages of the world.
    silence and smoke: scenography
    of long, sleepless nights
    the scourge of text
    sprouting from them,
    vardar between your fingers,
    and big cross on the hill.

to igor isakovski

the plane landed
    after six attempts.
    the storm was waning,
    the strong wind blew the leaves
    and stuck them against the windows
    of the airport building.
    he stood outside, in the wind,
    next to the man with the piece of paper
    and my name
    in cyrillic.
    fireworks of hair,
    brutal look
    and melancholy.
    primozh was also there,
    pale after four
    unsuccessful landings.
    then crna gora hotel,
    his piercing laughter
    cut into the blood stream,
    the concrete,
    the silence of socialist construction.
    without other participants
    as a prologue of nights of long dialogues,
    the glue of the eyes,
    epic pathetics.
    a bottle of Jameson under the table,
    a masqued bottle up on it,
    next to the window with heavy
    brocade curtains.
    he landed yesterday,
    before the rain on the horizon,
    the shalow horizon
    at the foot of the plateau.
    deep in his doping
    we were the postament and threshold.

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