Blesok no. 103-104, December, 2015
Poetry


Poetry
Translated by: Emilija Kovilovska

Slavcho Koviloski



DÉJÀ VU


Just like a déjà-vu once more:
You lie to me again,
and I believe you again.




MY LIFE


    Mine – yours, communism to the fullest, capitalism that sucks,
    transition without end, privatization without capital,
    Marx without Engels, bureaucrats and oligarchs all around,
    a heat stroke and polar winter, an ozone hole and the Antarctic without ice,
    a flood of the Vardar and Pelagonia sunheat,
    double-decker buses reeking of onion and sweat.
  
    And:
    a faculty on credit, Ph.D. studies on credit,
    a car on credit, an apartment on credit,
    a boiler on credit, a TV set on credit.
  
    Or:
    bread with credit card, a gum with credit card,
    beer with credit card, juice with credit card,
    gasoline and oil with credit card,
    bills with credit card.
  
    And yet:
    a bus ticket in cash
    shoes cleaning in cash
    pumpkin and sunflower seeds in cash
    a bouquet of flowers in cash
    a tip in cash
    a whore in cash.
  
    But:
    breathing air for free,
    drinking water from a public fountain for free,
    a public toilet for free,
    walking along the river quay for free,
    ill-treatment from the teller for free,
    closing the eyes for free.
  
    Well, that’s my life.




YOUR GRANDMA'S JAM


I’m suffocating in the silence of this night;
You’re suffocating me with your silence.
The only thing I see is the raspberry jam
frothing,
mouldy,
and I don’t think to throw it away.

You said: This is my grandma’s jam,
and I said: Yes, indeed;
I don’t admit
I don’t give a damn for your grandma,
but imagining that tasty thing
I see you:
sweet,
tasty,
finger-licking.




TEN LIVES


… And once again,
I feel as if I lived ten lives
as if I swam ten seas
as if I climbed ten mountains
and I feel ten knives
stabbing me in my chest.

Oh, anxiety within my soul
drags me down the streets and haunts me in my dreams,
so I want to bury those ten lives somewhere
so they won’t hurt,
so they won’t tear my flesh apart
and won’t recall tens of centuries
    I’ve lived in one breath.

I feel as if I lived ten lives
and I feel them hurting severely,
so I wish they would stop striking me on my head,
taking my breath away.
But, some poet put it well:
if it doesn’t hurt, you’re not alive.

  
October 13, 2010,
Skopje




WHEN THE BIRDS WERE SINGING, AND THERE WAS NO ONE TO HEAR THEM


The weather was nice at that time, sunny.
    The orchard had been overgrown with herbs,
    chamomile, wild hyacinth, sorrel,
    and with that bilberry.
    Over there somewhere, at the edge
    a few poppy stalks had sprouted out
  
    I was alone that afternoon, I walked alone
    Over there, far off in the mountains
    a few cloudlets could be spotted,
    but I wasn’t afraid of them
    well, this sun no one can push out of the sky!
  
    The emptiness of the day I was feeling on my back,
    the emptiness in the eyes was evoking memories in me,
    of various kind,
    of grandpa and grandma, of the smell of the pie,
    of the stone houses and adobe.
  
    The weather was nice at that time,
    the sun had risen high, high.
    I was listening to the birds singing,
    but there was no one else to hear them.




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