Blesok no. 22, August-September, 2001
Poetry


Heavenly River
Translated by: Zoran Ančevski

Blaže Koneski



Night


This night is ominous.
This is a night of tragic messages.
It started in the unusual deep silence
of the two cypress trees
in the darkened yard.
It went on with sleeplessness
in which a man reveals everything
to himself
to curse himself
till dawn.
It will end in terror.




Heavenly River


A trickle from the heavenly river
flows also through my soul,
I still feel its freshness,
but hear less its sound.
At times it even seems
that it fell silent
and that the sparse water dried out.
Then, before the end,
before the dire drought and desolation
Terror shocks me.




Meal


This glass of home-made brandy
which holds a chain of beads on its brim
clear and sparkling,
making you shudder at the first swallow;
this pepper,
just a little red at its tip,
crunchy under the teeth;
this red, juicy
and still firm tomato,
and finally, this white cheese,
so tasty to chew
with a crust of bread,
giving some salt to the mouth and soul –
have them all like gifts from heaven
for the present day,
and say your thanks in a silent thought.

Perhaps the same will wait for you tomorrow.
And why not?
You can never know.




Renewal


Open the windows.
Open the doors.
To let the fresh air in.
Bring a young mother.
Bring a male child.
Let her take it in her hands.
And cradle it from one room to another
throughout this house.
To let life in,
like fresh air,
in every listless corner.




A Poem for the Black Brother


Sick, sick is the Black Brother,
and like a child fallen in mud,
he is alone where he dwells,
and who for him is sad?

He looks at me with his eyes,
but there's an ocean between's
sick, sick is my black brother,
terrified and closed in himself.

O who's there to cry out!
I have no breath at all –
nor a word of consolation,
nor a name to blame for the fall.
He perishes on the horizon
like the last of sunrays at dusk.
And all I know is that now upon's
falls a thicker and heavier dark.




Interior Dialogue


You want to persuade me
that I am worn out and miserable
that nothing in my life
bears the mark of greatness.
But I am the one whose voice is heard,
everything depends on me!
You want to humiliate me
to tell me clearly
that I deceive myself
that every success I've had
has been unreal
Remember – you say –
how a worm wriggles in the mud.
And yet, everything depends on me!
Look, I am the guardian of my pride,
and don't expect me to be reconciled
to the preposterous nothingness.




Midnight Thought


O midnight thought,
thought of defeat!
Quick
like lightning
and sharp like a naked knife
gleaming before the stab.
I clench it in my palm,
swing with it
at myself,
right into my heart.




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