Blesok no. 103-104, December, 2015
Poetry


Poetry
Translated by: Elizabeta Bakovska

Tihomir Jančovski



Winter Morning


   White smoke comes
    from the chimney of a house
    high buildings around
    the hill is covered with fog
    and the fog shimmers
  
    Everything seems frozen
    only the smoke is alive
    Why do so many people
    die in January?




I Don’t Feel Like Talking


    My words have left me like animals
    running away from a forest fire
    or convicts who have suddenly
    been pardoned.
    That is how they flew away.
  
    Now, my headache and I
    are the only ones at home
    and we do some cleaning.
  
    The good thing about this is
    that my head is empty
    and I have no thoughts,
    heavy ones or others.
    It is the only heavy thing.
  
    I don’t feel like talking,
    I feel like being silent.




What Can We Do?


    The bigger the animal
    the bigger its heart:
    the elephants are monogamous, the whales too.
    The big animals are capable
    of bigger love,
    some birds too.
    I wish we were a he-whale and a she-whale
    swimming by each other’s side
    in the depths,
    sleeping in a big underwater cave
    and there would be no need to cover up,
    and our loins would not get cold
    (who has ever seen a whale with loins).
    What can we do?
    It’s raining outside, young is the night,
    bundled up in blankets
    longing for a meaning
    we do not renounce
    we have to think of something
    before we fall asleep.
    For those who wake up,
    tomorrow is a new day.
    A hardworking, big new day.




Letter


    In these times of e-mails
    I’ve written you a letter. I found it
    couple of days ago. I’d written it
    and I forgot about it. The letter was
    never sent, and yet I expected
    an answer. In these times when
    just like everybody,
    I only check my e-mails,
    some time ago, I wrote a letter.
    It’s not a suicide note,
    nor a diary confession, it’s not a love letter.
    It’s a conversation with my destiny, with myself,
    a message to contemplation, to the future,
    it’s unclear, overloaded and unreadable
    to anybody else. I can’t write well
    about important things.
    I’ve already forgotten what I wrote in it.
    I’d crumbled it, but I didn’t throw it away, I
    straightened it again and put it somewhere, so
    it surprises me again on some future day, when
    I rumble around my drawers and shelves.
    Maybe then I will find out that my wishes
    for peace, joy and meaning expressed there
    have already come true, or that in time
    they’ve become meaningless. I remember
    my handwriting, but not the words. The letters
    are readable and elongated. There are moods
    when one throws out old things, and the opposite
    when I’m sorry to throw them. They pile up
    in the cellars, attics and in my subconsciousness.
    There the past is being reexamined.




It’s Not Up to Me


    Sometimes I have a feeling in my chest
    as if somebody has squeezed my heart
    and keeps it like that. I don’t know, if he
    will ever have the mercy to let it go. It’s not up to me.
    I’ve held a bird in my hand and this feels the same.
  
    Freedom is not the absence of obstacles
    to get the things that we want
    but a feeling of lightness and spaciousness
    inside oneself. Some people call it happiness.
  
    Our heart is healthy only when we don’t feel it.
    Our body is healthy only when we don’t feel it:
    the arms, the legs, the head, the body.
    The pain is the awareness about our corporal existence.
  
    There are days when one lives
    and days when what’s been lived is being told.




Beauty Will Save the World


   The day was nothing special, a usual rainy day
    I didn’t know I would be scared to fall asleep that evening
    because sometimes I die in my dreams
    I’ve died in my own dreams and in the dreams of the others
    and it wouldn’t have been the first time.
  
    Does every man have a death of his own, the one and only,
    as every man has a life of his own?
    Or is death only one and the same for every man,
    and it takes us one after another, when our turn comes?
  
    I don’t know, but one thing is certain,
    when I find out, it will be too late
    and I won’t be able to tell anybody.
    None of the living.
  
    I want it to take me by the hand and cross me over
    painlessly and softly, so it happens just like that…
    that I’m gone from this world, from these lies, from this noise
    that I find harder and harder to sustain. I am a weak man,
    a nobody. But I won’t succumb. As long as my heart beats
    I will keep on pushing. A stone, or something, I’ll push it.
    I have to reach some place.
    I, as everybody else.




Geometry


    For the last 20 years I’ve been living
    like a loose bolt.
    It might not be like that, but
    that’s how I see things today.
    I need somebody to cut me
    so I move forward.
    I can help somebody else,
    but I can’t help myself. Just as I
    can’t see myself, except
    in the mirror or on a photo.
    Or in the eyes of somebody else.
  
    The space, partially explored,
    has remained still a great secret. The universe too,
    and the composition of the atom. There are
    so many things that I will never
    explore, not that they are unimportant,
    I simply have no interest in them. And no need.
    This undoubtedly means that I’ve grown old.
  
    Cutting new ridges in the bolt
    is so much like longing for rejuvenation,
    to be a kid again and have every moment unique.
    The life. The circle of life.
  
    Free speech is such a fabrication,
    in a world with so many limitations. A triangle
    written in the circle. An existence,
    a unique beginning of the endlessness…
    Time is a bigger fabrication
    than free choice.
    A circle written in the triangle.




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