Blesok no. 23, October-November, 2001
Poetry


The Dead Poet and the Young Lady
Translated by: Zoran Ančevski

Jordan Danilovski



Midnight


Midnight
That which is not mine calls for me
And I belong to it with every call
A hesitant woman along the street
Breaks the darkness into waves
I scream behind the windows
Of my room built upon my screams
In this City permeated with silence
Where mute faces and rambling smiles
Cast spells over the walls
I hesitate along the street
Far away is my room
I flap with white pages in the darkness
And every crumb of darkness sticks upon me.




Narcissus


Everything is the same in this mirror
Which forces me to obedience
And to repeated prefigured movements
The faces are empty drifts of the night
Through which what I once was now returns as fear
As a lost child who receives death
Always heading toward the dust
Across the words I reach the sods
Without sensing what is woven
Under my hand in that overflowing darkness
Which secretly steals my face
In that mirror of obedience
There follows a night of retreats and flights
Needful steps for the pure movement
Puzzled looks
Merciless ticking of the clocks
And still, neither flock, nor bird, nor beast
And now I am the voice which repeats me
Above the water that quenched my thirst




The Room


Alone
I checked the walls
They will last
This room is tough
Though shaking at moments
I pronounce unclear words
I touch someone's whispers
As if in the midst of a field
There rose midnight weeds
I appease the shouts
To keep the night pure
Free from passionate serenades
And abandoned faces
That shiver behind the walls

Some essence in the movements
Is the same with mine
For which
I must burn




Dear Friend


You are stirred by the sound
Of sudden flutes
By an underground element
A voice that engulfs you
And wails in you
The desperate silence

What beats on the Shore
What defends itself from it
Does that It have a form
Which feeds on the Shore
Till exhaustion

Where should the child go
In what darkness should the man dive
Or the old man, who waits for you to arrive
With all the unknown world

Where the Excitement
The untamable contents of the white
Where

Above emptiness you came
Above all which is equal




The Dead Poet and the Young Lady


Only lines
Thrive in me
Once like flowers
Then like grass
Swayed by the wind
Then like a wind
Swaying the grass
Like a scythe
Memories or faces
Closed in some third time
Where the steps ripen
And the foot rises
Deprived of the need
For change
And the change
Has already occurred
You read
These lines
And don't know
Whether you're drunk
In some forsaken
Corner of your mind
Once you're a flower
Then grass
Swayed by the wind
And a wind
That sways the grass
Drifting
You enter laughter
It's me in you
I thrive
And ripen




Faithlessly Alone


Those dark noises
Darkness
Spread on the stone
Endless corridors
Always the same…
As if a dark child
Sleeping
And
Dreaming of the world

The faithless
Those
Who are the most in him
Don't know the tapestry of words
Will not recognize him
Who
Avowed for them
Breathes for them

The witches work their witchcraft
Everything weaves in a pattern
Burrows
And is it mine
This room floating
Along the great water
And to whom do I belong
The one I follow
Or the one
Who howls behind me
And who is the child
That puts my dreams in order
From where does that black water spill

Something wrestles me down
And a herd of apparitions surges
As if someone breathing
Burrowing into my head
And whispering to someone else

”multiply
unify
in your greed
let the night grow
from your
dark hearts
let everything pass
in reverse order”

And what is it
That grows in me
And trembles with passion
Buds upon the thorns
Tries to rise
To tunnel a chasm
And hide the burden

What is it
That lies with me in the room
Once it's a dark noise
And then an echo through the corridors

I know
I was many others
And I received death in the same way
As I do now
Summoned by cries
And faithlessly alone
In a tapestry of words
Shattered
I hesitate

     St. John of Bigor, 31.07.1995, 4 a.m.




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