Blesok no. 22, August-September, 2001
Poetry


My Blue Bird
Translated by: Zoran Ančevski

Ante Popovski



My Blue Bird


You will easily know my blue bird:

it does not peck at bark or the fruits of trees,
nor perch on rocks, nor lurk by carrion and bones -
my bird never descends from heaven.

My bird christens celestial barbarians,
turns light into writing by which
uncertainty, bone-white, dagger-cold

rampages through us…

Only a word could have climbed
so high, to the very stars,
my blue bird,

its beak – sounds, its wings – verbs.




The Unread Script


Upon each rock, upon each stone – a sign.
Someone etched signs through the darkness of time
with a stone upon a stone and now the whole homeland
has become an unreadable sign.
Tattooed on the rocks, the signs
that have dissolved in time,
that have pressed into the memory of the people -
now are holy signs in which streams
the blood and the secret of the Macedonian words:
words that were burned, ominous,
bloody slashes of knife,
shadowed by the cry of large disasters…

The whole homeland – a holy and unread script.




Words from Blue Silence


I created words from blue silence
and created You from words
led You through youth, through all our life
to gather the crumbs, one by one,
into which we disintegrated.
Now lying in the roots
of the new age
you gaze at me
and put out, one by one,
the stars in my eyes.
Thus, starless, I enter a place
of holy sleeplessness,
a place of ghastly cold.

O, poetry, a girl tasting of eternity.




A Stalk, a Saucer, a Bird


A stalk of greenery appeared this morning
in the crack of the rock.
He came and straightened the stalk,
plucked it with a glance
and planted it among words.
He thought: the flower will throw
some kind of shade.
Then he placed a saucer
of water in the shade and finally
housed a bird in his poem.
He thought: July is an inferno in Macedonia
but the birds must not die:
they are her handwriting…




Simple Afternoon


What holier can a Macedonian poet use
to close the circle of his age
but his palms in which he brings
water to the wounded bird in the yard
and his song which he grows his grandsons
with and their smile in which
he sees the roots of the new age
and the density of our fatherland?

I put traces of three stars into one
then press it in my dreams
and leave. The skies
tremble from the tramping
of my bridled horse
in gallop.




Letters of Blood


Even if we went back to begin everything anew,
outran knowledge and ignorance,
history and anti-history,
went back to where
nothing existed:
not stars, nor form, nor voice, nor God

once more it would all be in vain:
the sword again would be forged first:

the memories of our descendants
would again be written
in its letters of blood!




The Bird… The Bird…


     For Saint-John Perse

This morning the bird sings on the boughs
of our cherry-tree
leaps, dances… It knows
that my grandchildren will come to see me.
I know: in the voice of every bird
is written the name of the place it chose
to live
and of the soul of the one who listens to it.
That is why this bird walks through my dreams
hiding in them something from the song of creation.




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