Blesok no. 21, June-July, 2001

It Should Have Been Concluded
Translated by: Zoran Ančevski

Maja Apostoloska

A Few Words about…

… whether mediocre poetry should be written

       It is possible, and it always will be
       to create a new expression

          Quintus Horatius Flaccus

A dishonest case of disharmony
without an appropriate Witness.
Ecstasies of speech
in a tiny language oasis.
Waterless essence…
Or, in strict confidence,
silence is wisdom,
as my grandma would say.

The Witness was disheartened
there was no euphony and he
keenly ploughed
sentences in the desert…
Mediocre quality hurries
in the direction of vice.
So! Tar covering the new(s),
the neo(logisms).

And if anything else happened –
it happened.

It should have been concluded

That it is possible for a negation
to sprout on a street lamp – it is possible!

And (that) if the idea grabs you either
by the hand or by the nose – it is up to you

whether you kneel in the classes of Didactics
to beg for more old fashioned and formulated skills

or find yourself in a great opportunity
to chase gnostically, with a festering curse

your cortex, down the neck, the throat…
It is important to be bored and sad…

As for eloquence: you either have it or not.
It does not matter when it is boring and sad…

And that everything can be refuted
and not concluded but excluded – yes, it can!

(People, like it or not!)
As a conclusion you should have only locked the door.

Lapse of Communication

Once it happens,
it may have been good (before that)
to lick our wounds
with salty words

and do it openly,
without imprecisions, in profuse vocabulary
(can be done in sequels,
but in frozen metaphors).

I find appropriate
a formal denouement
confirmed second degree murder,
semantic infidelity,

and in the end, of course,
several insignificant verse crimes,
hardly legible.

Never again, Lenore!

The familiar room
awaits the host.
Dance, then, in pools of ink!
Then, the blue traces…

Are the tombs that smile
comfortable to their guests
so that the pecking
and all the waiting is equal
       to the birds’ croak?


December is in a pathetic fit
and deepens the making
             of verse
Melodrama for melomadmen!

Lenore, my dear,
are you leaving, figuratively?



(…) It came out that there was a crater
almost bottomless,
almost no way out,
almost always we feed it a morsel.

The expression weakens…
Our two-faced will
crumbles it in the mouth (literally).
Crags above the ravines of words.
Ashen butt-ends.
Self-ignited fear of consequences.
It is there.
It is here as heritage.
          It is everywhere.


Then it came out that
the engraved space is experienced ascetically,
the letters in-graved,
and not just that…

A Letter from Laodicea

       And unto the angel of the church
       of the Laodiceans write…

          Revelation (3:14)

Your sun is dying
in a cunning agnosticism.
    In the pure Logos,
    in all-lingual odes
squirm all –ists and –isms.

When a blind man leads another…

Eye diseases are not a seldom truth.
Reaching for the gold coin
    the half-naked lady
    falls into a trap,
then walks upon the icy floor…
Ah, Laodicea, Laodicea!

… they both fall into a hole.

It is shameful, o “pure” bride,
always to caress the same.
Its mouth will vomit over you.

(exhaustive interpretations)

The crystal bars are
    no more,
nor the drops of fire
    washed by the wind.
While the grass is growing
    I meagerly take
its fruit –
    grains of junk.

And so I still rummage through the rubble.


1. Paraphrase from Boalo’s “Poetics”

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