Blesok no. 107, May 2016


Goran Colakhodzić


    I have an unsolved issue with the city,
    that is, I think that during the day we’re unable
    to tell each other everything. I make up for it, willy
    or nilly, at night, when the hedges draw closer
    and the hills start rolling beneath my feet.
    There’s usually a lot of drives streets vaults arcades
    also a lot of bronze, made green by the wet darkness
    in the seldom mown parks.
    It keeps sending me on errands from façade to façade
    by inconveniently connected tram routes
    and often it spells out the names of buildings and squares
    in completely arcane languages.
    It rolls me down sidewalks, chucks me over to entrances,
    hiding, nonetheless, its inner courtyards –
    the proof that it can dream lucidly, while I
    clamber where I have to through passages and underpasses.
    And then in the morning it makes me laugh
    and deride it, because I know that it multiplies braggingly
    in me all night long, pulling wool over my eyes, blaring propaganda,
    trying to appear larger blacker deeper
    to build infinitely, illusively in vain.


    The last mowing another quiet ritual.
    It is not obligatory, but it is good,
    and pleasant too, because it re-enacts August,
    the time when mowing is as contagious as yawning,
    when you start the engine and begin,
    and when you stop for the first time
    you hear the entire motor choir from the near
    distance, from all the four corners of the world.
    All of us conquering grass, playing cows,
    playing neighbours in the suburbs of Chicago.
    But the last mowing is beautiful and manly:
    you are alone in it, it’s often dusk and there’s fog.
    You do something unpleasant and painful to the grass
    for its own good, like a doctor or a father.
    You take care of the machine, you clean it before it sleeps,
    you pour out the petrol, dealing with – as you never do,
    since you are a philologist, a scribe and gay – oil and steel. In the end
    you lock the door, breathing out an “everything’s ready” –
    now winter may come, now the long nights without growth
    spent far away from the earth,
    that’s why you sigh.


    tonight after years and years I
    was taken once more to look for the desert and
    I didn’t find it again the forest
    took over again
    it seduced tied up
    darkened the paths and
    buzzed in the night
    the smell of finding
    possible mushrooms and
    an empty pheasantry of silence all
    dragged me by the hand to where
    shadows spread and the forest
    breathily entered my spine
    hiding with branches awareness with murmurs
    soughing sands


    Pots, earthen, cracked,
    reusable nonetheless, lying long
    in the rain and open air, flake
    beautifully, just like skin. They function
    as parts of a natural
    echoing machine, reflecting responses
    with their bottoms. Their use
    is for water to pass through them
    and to linger inside, and for demonstrating
    clearly the roles of earth,
    since they were made of it, lifting up
    rot, germination, specimens of plants.
    In a corner of the garden, under the hedge,
    lie empty pots (here
    is their room), waiting for spring
    to be housed anew, until then
    calling softly for moss,
    something more permanent.


    I hunted hares
    abundantly and inaudibly:
    the crosshair killed, there were no shots,
    furry bags fell promptly down
    on the parched grass in the dusk. They remained
    stiff, eyes open, with not a drop of blood
    on their clenched wounds: in fact ridiculous,
    innocuous in their death which had not
    taken over life, and so was see-through.
    I did not run out of bullets,
    and neither did they of death: they produced it constantly
    in ditches and on mounds.
    Autumn is falling, it’ll be that.

created by