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Sisyphus, you Serb!

aphorism by Ninus Nestorovic, translated by Dijana Zdravkovic
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Balkan Nightmares

The ghosts of history haunt the Balkans.
Ancient passions, unbending hatreds
turmoil the region.
Painful tragedies of the past
are recycled by memories.
Permanent hostage of bound
and determined remembrance,
Race, religion and poverty clash
in violent convulsions.

Ethnic warfare and ruthless fright
sweep across nations,
fuelled by explosions of grief, revenge
and fear.
They are immersed in horror,
terror, chaos and bloodshed,
the sufferings of children,
the sorrows of fathers,
and the agonies of widows.

In 1453 the Turks led by Mehmet II
captured Constantinople
and the Eastern Roman Empire
ceased to exist.
The Ottomans became the new masters
of the Balkan provinces,
ushering in long centuries
of rugged struggles for freedom
and independence.

In 1697 Prince Eugene of Savoy
conquered Sarajevo,
A historic city that he left burned down
and plague-infected. Although by 1717
the prince liberated Belgrade
and the Danube region from Ottoman rule,
he failed to retake the Bosnian capital.

In the 19th century Austria-Hungary
annexed Bosnia, but together with Albania,
it remains a Muslim stronghold
in the heart of Europe.

In one summer day in 1914
the driver of Archduke Franz Ferdinand
took a wrong turn to Franz Josef Street,
at the edge of the Latin Bridge in Sarajevo.
On an official visit, the heir presumptive
to the Austro-Hungarian throne was riding

[...] Read more

poem by Paul Hartal
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The Stone Of Sisyphus

Tomorrow is teasing me.
Time seems to run away from the future.
But this could be that lucky day.
A dream is make believe until
Blood, sweat, and tears turn pain to will.
Its gonna take some doing for me
To show them the way.
Im gonna take the stone of sisyphus
Im gonna roll it back to you.
Building a wall of stone.
Sometimes you know whats right
Sometimes wrong is better than nothing.
They cast a stone so heavy to turn.
I believe in a love so true.
I believe you get whats coming to you.
We get so tired of living a dream
For some other day.
Im gonna take the stone of sisyphus
Im gonna roll it back to you.
Wall of stone around the two of us.
That only angels can break through.
Looks like its another of those long nights.
Will we always be alone?
Lets not stop before its done.
Im gonna take the stone of sisyphus
Im gonna roll it back to you.
Ill take the stone of sisyphus.
Wall of stone round the two of us.
Im gonna roll it back to you.

song performed by Chicago
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stone Of Sisyphus *

Tomorrow is teasing me.
Time seems to run away from the future.
But this could be that lucky day.
A dream is make believe until
Blood, sweat, and tears turn pain to will.
It's gonna take some doing for me
To show them the way.
I'm gonna take the stone of sisyphus
I'm gonna roll it back to you.
Building a wall of stone.
Sometimes you know what's right
Sometimes wrong is better than nothing.
They cast a stone so heavy to turn.
I believe in a love so true.
I believe you get what's coming to you.
We get so tired of living a dream
For some other day.
I'm gonna take the stone of sisyphus
I'm gonna roll it back to you.
Wall of stone around the two of us.
That only angels can break through.
Looks like it's another of those long nights.
Will we always be alone?
Let's not stop before it's done.
I'm gonna take the stone of sisyphus
I'm gonna roll it back to you.
I'll take the stone of sisyphus.
Wall of stone round the two of us.
I'm gonna roll it back to you.

song performed by Chicago
Added by Lucian Velea
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Le Guignon (Ill-Starred)

Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu'on ait du coeur à l'ouvrage,
L'Art est long et le Temps est court.

Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,
Mon coeur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.

— Maint joyau dort enseveli
Dans les ténèbres et l'oubli,
Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;

Mainte fleur épanche à regret
Son parfum doux comme un secret
Dans les solitudes profondes.

Evil Fate

To lift a weight so heavy,
Would take your courage, Sisyphus!
Although one's heart is in the work,
Art is long and Time is short.

Far from famous sepulchers
Toward a lonely cemetery
My heart, like muffled drums,
Goes beating funeral marches.

Many a jewel lies buried
In darkness and oblivion,
Far, far away from picks and drills;

Many a flower regretfully
Exhales perfume soft as secrets
In a profound solitude.

— Translated by William Aggeler

Ill Luck

So huge a burden to support
Your courage, Sisyphus, would ask;
Well though my heart attacks its task,
Yet Art is long and Time is short.

Far from the famed memorial arch

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Merope

FAR in the ways of the hyaline wastes—in the face of the splendid
Six of the sisters—the star-dowered sisters ineffably bright,
Merope sitteth, the shadow-like wife of a monarch unfriended
Of Ades—of Orcus, the fierce, the implacable god of the night.
Merope—fugitive Merope! lost to thyself and thy lover,
Cast, like a dream, out of thought, with the moons which have passed into sleep,
What shall avail thee? Alcyone’s tears, or the sight to discover
Of Sisyphus pallid for thee by the blue, bitter lights of the deep—
Pallid, but patient for sorrow? Oh, thou of the fire and the water,
Half with the flame of the sunset, and kin to the streams of the sea,
Hast thou the songs of old times for desire of thy dark-featured daughter,
Sweet with the lips of thy yearning, O Aethra! with tokens of thee—
Songs that would lull her, like kisses forgotten of silence where speech was
Less than the silence that bound it as passion is bound by a ban;
Seeing we know of thee, Mother, we turning and hearing how each was
Wrapt in the other ere Merope faltered and fell for a man?
Mortal she clave to, forgetting her birthright, forgetting the lordlike
Sons of the many-winged Father, and chiefs of the plume and the star,
Therefore, because that her sin was the grief of the grand and the godlike,
Sitteth thy child than a morning-moon bleaker, the faded, and far.
Ringed with the flower-like Six of the Seven, arrayed and anointed
Ever with beautiful pity, she watches, she weeps, and she wanes,
Blind as a flame on the hills of the Winter in hours appointed
For the life of the foam and the thunder—the strength of the imminent rains.
Who hath a portion, Alcyone, like her? Asterope, fairer
Than sunset on snow, and beloved of all brightness, say what is there left
Sadder and paler than Pleione’s daughter, disconsolate bearer
Of trouble that smites like a sword of the gods to the break of the heft?
Demeter, and Dryope, known to the forests, the falls, and the fountains,
Yearly, because of their walking and wailing and wringing of hands,
Are they as one with this woman?—of Hyrie, wild in the mountains,
Breaking her heart in the frosts and the fires of the uttermost lands?
These have their bitterness. This, for Persephone, that for Oechalian
Homes, and the lights of a kindness blown out with the stress of her shame:
One for her child, and one for her sin; but thou above all art an alien,
Girt with the halos that vex thee, and wrapt in a grief beyond name.
Yet sayeth Sisyphus—Sisyphus, stricken and chained of the minioned
Kings of great darkness, and trodden in dust by the feet of the Fates—
“Sweet are the ways of thy watching, and pallid and perished and pinioned,
Moon amongst maidens, I leap for thy love like a god at the gates—
Leap for the dreams of a rose of the heavens, and beat at the portals
Paved with the pain of unsatisfied pleadings for thee and for thine!
But Zeus is immutable Master, and these are the walls the immortals
Build for our sighing, and who may set lips at the lords and repine?
Therefore,” he saith, “I am sick for thee, Merope, faint for the tender
Touch of thy mouth, and the eyes like the lights of an altar to me;
But, lo, thou art far; and thy face is a still and a sorrowful splendour!
And the storm is abroad with the rain on the perilous straits of the sea.”

poem by Henry Kendall
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Sisyphus

Caissons, the endless march
Wheels of Sisyphus
The ancient serpent writhes
Eminence illusion of anthropology
No movements seem to last
No God on our side
No sectarian temple

We are pulled inward
We await the seventh day

Today the boughs stretch like kings
Bliss transcends all politics
Serene wings of balance
Let them roll their rocks up hills
Glorious blue thrives
Edifice of stars
Hope
Sisyphus is the world

poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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After The Day's Work Is Done

tired and disappointed
another day's work is unfinished

i look up the sky
seeing dark clouds

i look towards the sea
fading
the sun a glowing disc
falling into the dark line
of the horizon

unfinished business again,
ah, i still have enough reason to live
for another day

sisyphus! sisyphus!
how true can you be
in me...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sisyphus My Friend

sisyphus my friend
what rock shall we roll
tonight
on this hilltop?

tell me, what size of rock
fits my size today,
i am big and my shoulders are broad
i have a happy disposition
i am used to all these
burdens and they all seem the same to me
i get used to rolling rocks
and i like them all
they all feel the same to me
you see, my friend,

nothing is heavy now
nothing hurts
nothing is worth thinking
nothing is worth complaining

i like everything
i like all these burdens

everything is a play now
a game
a gimmickry, a role playing, a sham,

and i am so shocked
why they write about us

why they think
we are stupid, dumb, and so unjust

come my friend
let us be as absurd as ever

come my friend
let us be great
let us carve our names in stone

twin sisyphus, the confused,
yet, still so strong...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sisyphus

Midway his upward unavailing course
Sate Sisyphus, his back against his load,
Halting a moment from that task of doom.
Adown his swollen cheeks ran streams of sweat
Dripping from thick-drenched locks; and watery beads
Gathered and stood on his stupendous limbs.
The sinews of his arm, like gnarled knots
On hollow bark of legendary oak,
Credentials of incalculable years,
Bulged up, and in his horny hands outspread
Upon his wrinkled knees, the arching veins
Glittered like tempered steel. His stertorous breath
Moaned like to bellows in cyclopean forge,
Wherewith in smithy subterranean
Against the Gods rebellious demigods
Fashion their molten ineffectual bolts.

But when, asudden, swift on angry flash,
Rumbled imperious thunder overhead,
At the commanding mandate, Sisyphus,
Bulkily rising, straightened limbs relaxed,
And turned him yet again unto his task,
Mumbling the while habitual lament.

``Why was I chosen for this hateful task,
Fantastically futile, which the Gods
Lay on their victim, for their own disport?
Rather a thousand times upon the wheel
Would I, Ixion-like, be racked, or lift
The tantalising gourd-cup to my lips.
I was no wickeder than they, and I
Founded Ephyra in a stony land,
Raised monolithic temples to the Gods,
And made the name of Corinth glorious from
Peloponnesus unto Attica.
Was it a crime to be Ulysses' sire
By sportive Anticlea ere she wed
Laertes, bringing him a Royal heir?
Yearning for whom, when Circe and her lures
From Ithaca withheld his bark, she died.
If such to me imputed be a crime,
Then all the Gods are bestial criminals,
Lustful, adulterous, meretricious Gods.
What more was my offence? Was it because
I from the clustered sister-Pleiades
Lured Merope to earth to share my love,
Not an ephemeral, but strong-nuptialled love?
Whereat the Gods, envying a mortal's joy,
Darkened her light in Heaven, and vengefully
In me infused her immortality,

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Austin
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The Law Classes

when the semester opens
i usually create a bing bang to those who come
wanting to be lawyers, telling them that the
study of law is not that easy, in fact,
an eternal damnation,
for laws are made by man and man
changes laws everytime he wants to sneeze.

and they think i am bluffing testing their capacity
for endurance, like Louise, i tell them the story
of sisyphus,
how he pushes the stone
meaninglessly
on top of the mountain, and repeats the acts
with diligent efforts,
though there seems to be
no reward at the end,

but how can they ever believe me
when lawyers at every bend
ride in flashy cars and
live in luxury
smoke the best cigars
and take most of the money

well respected in the highest
echelons of political society,

and i tell then again
to do their best, whatever that be,

when the class is dismissed,
they all laugh & tell themselves
what is there in law
that should consume them,
when laws are not really well studied or applied and
only ten percent
shall be faithfully used
or followed at the end,

to succeed,
they say,
law is set aside,
what challenges them more
perhaps
is the subtle art of lying,
without blinking an eye
for truth, a kind of
projection,
image packaging,

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There's probably one more story about Bosnia that I'd like to do, because I spent a fair amount of time on the Serb side of the lines, which isn't apparent in the other books.

quote by Joe Sacco
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Thank god my wife is neither a Serb nor a Jew.

quote by Franjo Tudjman
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A Crazy Chick

Me a koka loca
Awe open boca
Open wide
Barbara bright
Eyes glowing
Loca locked
In marks
Question
Exclamation
Period
And three dots
Icons emo stuck
: (, :) , : o.: ,)
Love struck
Loca locked
In your heart
Tip toeing
Eye glowing
Lip slowing
Creeping
Sneaking
Sighing
Koka loca
A Wanna be bounty

Less familiar words:
koka (Serb.) chick, plus loca (Span) crazy equals Eng. A crazy chick :)
boca (It.) mouth

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Pa pa discourse

And now I bet
my stat be swept
by a bitman's cat
lol lol lol lol lol

this institution is
under the protection
of Dr House
direct

my stat on his doormat
dormant sleeping

good I ain't no statis
good they got no situation of
pa pa pa ranoia

'no more no more no more no more'

Note:
Pa pa-Serb. Bye bye

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Taknuto maknuto?

One cannot take the words back
especially if you experience
punishment by silence

Taknuto maknuto?

Note: Taknuto maknuto (Serb) can't take it back

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Unser Gott

They held a great prayer-service in Berlin,
And augured German triumph from some words
Said to be spoken by the Jewish God
To Gideon, which signified that He
Was staunchly partial to the Israelites.
The aisles were thronged; and in the royal box
(I had it from a tourist who was there,
Clutching her passport, anxious, like the rest),
There sat the Kaiser, looking 'very sad.'
And then they sang; she said it shook the heart.
The women sobbed; tears salted bearded lips
Unheeded; and my friend looked back and saw
A young girl crumple in her mother's arms.
They carried out a score of them, she said,
While German hearts, through bursting German throats
Poured out, Ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott!

(Yea, 'Unser Gott! Our strength is Unser Gott!
Not that light-minded Bon Dieu of France!')

I think we all have made our God too small.
There was a young man, a good while ago,
Who taught that doctrine... but they murdered him
Because he wished to share the Jewish God
With other folk.
They are long-lived, these fierce
Old hating Gods of nations; but at last
There surely will be spilled enough of blood
To drown them all! The deeps of sea and air,
Of old the seat of gods, no more are safe,
For mines and monoplanes. The Germans, now,
Can surely find and rout the God of France
With Zeppelins, or some slim mother's son
Of Paris, or of Tours, or Brittany,
Can drop a bomb into the Feste Burg,
And, having crushed the source of German strength,
Die happy in his blazing monoplane.

Sad jesting! If there be no God at all,
Save in the heart of man, why, even so --
Yea, all the more, -- since we must make our God,
Oh, let us make Him large enough for all,
Or cease to prate of Him! If kings must fight,
Let them fight for their glory, openly,
And plain men for their lands and for their homes,
And heady youths, who go to see the fun,
Blaspheme not God. True, maybe we might leave

[...] Read more

poem by Karle Wilson Baker
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Sein uber Zeit

Rule the rulers flat lines of the brow
Hyper geometry in numero stones
Washed away numbers within a scarecrow
Compasses throne in spine and bones

Rule rage rule fear rule yes but not me
Rule global lobo rule multi hobo
Sein aber Zeit Sein uber Zeit
Sein uber Zeit I see

I ain’t no subject
I ain’t no object
I’m jellyfish free
No –ject at all
You cannot place
I’m neither big nor small

Rule sages rule over stages
Rule yes but morn is young
The sins of yin in burnts of yang
Happy sun sings in lights unsung

Prophets for profit rule crystal ball
Rulers overruled by their rage and fear
I’m Thou in clear no –ject at all
Sein aber Zeit, Sein uber Zeit
Sein uber Zeit I see

Dare to share mother of courage
Dare to share both shipwreck and salvage!

Written in 2010.

Hypertext:
Sein uber Zeit – being beyond time, Sein aber Zeit (being but time) both expressions based on Sein und Zeit by M. Heidegger
-ject der, from L. –jecum – placed
Mother of Courage – B.Brech’s text, syn. to ‘war’
Hobo- clipping of Serb ‘hobotnica’ octopus
Lobo – clipping ‘lobotomy’

©Miroslava Odalovic

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The European Bin Laden!

After sixteen years Bosnian Serb General Ratco Mladic was hauled into Courtroom to face charges of ordering torture, rape and the slaughter of 8,000 Muslim Men & Boys in the Bosnian town of Srebernica in 1995.
-News-
O 2011! The year is not good for killers, dictators, liars & etc.,
Luckily he's caught alive to see the Hague
Otherwise he could have gone to a sea bed?

*Buddha said; 'There's no place to hide in the Sky, Earth, Sea or elsewhere for his Karma that chase behind him.'

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Merry Christmas From Around The World

Afrikaans: Gesëende Kersfees

Afrikander: Een Plesierige Kerfees

African/ Eritrean/ Tigrinja: Rehus-Beal-Ledeats

Albanian: Gezur Krislinjden

Arabic: Idah Saidan Wa Sanah Jadidah

Argentine: Feliz Navidad

Armenian: Shenoraavor Nor Dari yev Pari Gaghand

Azeri: Tezze Iliniz Yahsi Olsun

Bahasa Malaysia: Selamat Hari Natal

Basque: Zorionak eta Urte Berri On!

Bengali: Shuvo Naba Barsha

Bohemian: Vesele Vanoce

Brazilian: Boas Festas e Feliz Ano Novo

Breton: Nedeleg laouen na bloavezh mat

Bulgarian: Tchestita Koleda; Tchestito Rojdestvo Hristovo

Catalan: Bon Nadal i un Bon Any Nou!

Chile: Feliz Navidad

Chinese: (Cantonese) Gun Tso Sun Tan’Gung Haw Sun

Chinese: (Mandarin) Kung His Hsin Nien bing Chu Shen Tan

Choctaw: Yukpa, Nitak Hollo Chito

Columbia: Feliz Navidad y Próspero Año Nuevo

Cornish: Nadelik looan na looan blethen noweth

Corsian: Pace e salute

Crazanian: Rot Yikji Dol La Roo

Cree: Mitho Makosi Kesikansi

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Quatrains Of Life

What has my youth been that I love it thus,
Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,
Stale as the news which last week wearied us,
Or a tired actor's tale told to an empty house?

What did it bring me that I loved it, even
With joy before it and that dream of Heaven,
Boyhood's first rapture of requited bliss,
What did it give? What ever has it given?

'Let me recount the value of my days,
Call up each witness, mete out blame and praise,
Set life itself before me as it was,
And--for I love it--list to what it says.

Oh, I will judge it fairly. Each old pleasure
Shared with dead lips shall stand a separate treasure.
Each untold grief, which now seems lesser pain,
Shall here be weighed and argued of at leisure.

I will not mark mere follies. These would make
The count too large and in the telling take
More tears than I can spare from seemlier themes
To cure its laughter when my heart should ache.

Only the griefs which are essential things,
The bitter fruit which all experience brings;
Nor only of crossed pleasures, but the creed
Men learn who deal with nations and with kings.

All shall be counted fairly, griefs and joys,
Solely distinguishing 'twixt mirth and noise,
The thing which was and that which falsely seemed,
Pleasure and vanity, man's bliss and boy's.

So I shall learn the reason of my trust
In this poor life, these particles of dust
Made sentient for a little while with tears,
Till the great ``may--be'' ends for me in ``must.''

My childhood? Ah, my childhood! What of it
Stripped of all fancy, bare of all conceit?
Where is the infancy the poets sang?
Which was the true and which the counterfeit?

I see it now, alas, with eyes unsealed,
That age of innocence too well revealed.
The flowers I gathered--for I gathered flowers--
Were not more vain than I in that far field.

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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