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Idealna Zena

Sahranicu te na Pere Lachaise
pored Preverta, zeno
trebalo je da budes lijepa
kao njegove pjesme o tebi

Sahranicu te na Pere Lachaise
pored Sopena, zeno
trebalo je da budes lijepa
kao njegova muzika o tebi

Sahranicu te na Pere Lachaise
pored heroja, zeno
trebalo je da budes hrabra
i umres kao heroj, zeno

Sahranicu te na Pere Lachaise
pored...
uostalom svejedno mi je
gdje cu te sahraniti
moja lijepa IDEALNA ZENO.

poem by Jankovic Zoran
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The night of mine (Nafaka)

like a pale cracking shadow of the Moon, my night
like a thought of an infinity below a starlit arch, my night
like a murmur of distant lonely silences, my night
like a breathing dying out under the pillow of pain, my night
like an evening star trown into a well, my night
like an abyss of heigths being silenced by the bottom, my night
like shivering of hours at the edge of the knife, my night
like windy wings in unspreadness, my night
like a whisper cut off from the quivering lips, my night
like fingers weaving the webs of the reveiled, my night
like a dawn of darkness, my night

kao blijedilo iskricave sjenke Mjeseca
noc moja
kao misao beskraja pod zvjezdanim svodom
noc moja
kao vreva dalekih usamljenih tisina
noc moja
ko minulo disanje pod jastukom od bola
noc moja
kao vecernja zvijezda spustena u bunare
noc moja
kao sunovrat u visine sto ih cuti dno
noc moja
kao treperenje sati na ostrici noza
noc moja
kao klepet leprsavih krila u nesklopljenosti
noc moja
kao sapat otkinut sa uzdrhtalih usana
noc moja
kao prsti koji pletu mreze razotkrivenosti
noc moja
kao svitanje tmine
noc moja

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Pjesma o izgubljenim pjesmama

zelim veceras napisati
pjesmu o izgubljenim pjesmama

napisao sam o prirodi
mnogo pjesama
priroda je tu
vidim je
a pjesme su izgubljene

napisao sam o zivotu
mnogo pjesama
zivot je tu pred nama
zivimo ga
a pjesme su izgubljene

napisao sam o ljubavi
mnogo pjesama
ljubav osjecam
dogadja mi se
a pjesme su izgubljene

napisao sam o zenama
mnogo pjesama
ko zna gdje su one danas
i pjesme i zene

hvala ti Tanja zato sto je
zena ponovo usla
u moju pjesmu

poem by Jankovic Zoran
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O tebi

O tebi ne govorim ljudima jer shvatili ne bi
O tebi govorim
Tek listu kad lomno padne na tlo
Sumraku kad te razlije u boje
I rubu ponornog sjećanja mog
Tek tmini kada progovori glasno
Suzu prolomljenu u dnu crnog oka
Što kanuti neće nikad
Tek vratima odškrinutim i odjeku koraka
Zalutalim pragovima što kuće svoje traže
Otkucaju srca i posljednjom mrežom
Zahvaćenu vodu što kroz konope
Nazad u izvor lije

O tebi ljepoto moja
Ne govorim ni tebi
Jer čak ni ti shvatio ne bi
Da s površine riječi ništa se ne kreće
I ništa u dubine vratiti se neće

©Miroslava Odalović

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Le Mendiant

C'était quand le printemps a reverdi les prés.
La fille de Lycus, vierge aux cheveux dorés,
Sous les monts Achéens, non loin de Cérynée,

Errait à l'ombre, aux bords du faible et pur Crathis,
Car les eaux du Crathis, sous des berceaux de frêne,
Entouraient de Lycus le fertile domaine.
Soudain, à l'autre bord,
Du fond d'un bois épais, un noir fantôme sort,
Tout pâle, demi-nu, la barbe hérissée:
Il remuait à peine une lèvre glacée,
Des hommes et des dieux implorait le secours,
Et dans la forêt sombre errait depuis deux jours;
Il se traîne, il n'attend qu'une mort douloureuse;
Il succombe. L'enfant, interdite et peureuse,
A ce hideux aspect sorti du fond des bois,
Veut fuir; mais elle entend sa lamentable voix.
Il tend les bras, il tombe à genoux; il lui crie
Qu'au nom de tous les dieux il la conjure, il prie,
Et qu'il n'est point à craindre, et qu'une ardente faim
L'aiguillonne et le tue, et qu'il expire enfin.

'Si, comme je le crois, belle dès ton enfance,
C'est le dieu de ces eaux qui t'a donné naissance,
Nymphe, souvent les voeux des malheureux humains
Ouvrent des immortels les bienfaisantes mains,
Ou si c'est quelque front porteur d'une couronne
Qui te nomme sa fille et te destine au trône,
Souviens-toi, jeune enfant, que le ciel quelquefois
Venge les opprimés sur la tête des rois.
Belle vierge, sans doute enfant d'une déesse,
Crains de laisser périr l'étranger en détresse:
L'étranger qui supplie est envoyé des dieux.'

Elle reste. A le voir, elle enhardit ses yeux,
. . . . . . . . et d'une voix encore
Tremblante: 'Ami, le ciel écoute qui l'implore.
Mais ce soir, quand la nuit descend sur l'horizon,
Passe le pont mobile, entre dans la maison;
J'aurai soin qu'on te laisse entrer sans méfiance.
Pour la douzième fois célébrant ma naissance,
Mon père doit donner une fête aujourd'hui.
Il m'aime, il n'a que moi: viens t'adresser à lui,
C'est le riche Lycus. Viens ce soir; il est tendre,
Il est humain: il pleure aux pleurs qu'il voit répandre.'
Elle achève ces mots, et, le coeur palpitant,
S'enfuit; car l'étranger sur elle, en l'écoutant,
Fixait de ses yeux creux l'attention avide.
Elle rentre, cherchant dans le palais splendide
L'esclave près de qui toujours ses jeunes ans

[...] Read more

poem by Andre Marie de Chenier
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How to interpret the distance between two smiles/Kako protumaciti razmak izmedju dva osmjeha

It should be interpreted as an attempt to reconcile a plus and a minus, black and white, the poor and the rich. Like tranquility between two joys in which the first one calls the second one using the bridge of the unsaid. Some people go so far as to interpret the distance between two smiles through tears, blood or simply an inexpressible sorrow. Some interpret it as a way to preserve both smiles. The length of a smile is of no importance. It does not make any difference whether a smile is 2mm or 2 light years long, there's always a space which can contain the possibility of coming closer or distancing. Smileness in each case is a precondition for any kind of approaching.
Or it may end up in a Pavlov's reflex that does not reflect anything. And what is a smile at all? There are different ways to determine this and each one of them slips any kind of definition.
Chronologically speaking a smile is a living time it takes to put the corners of our lips upwards to get in the first touch with the other being. According to its purpose it carries the burdens of goals just like bags full of hours spent in waiting for a smile from the other side of a bridge. A smile can be a means to an end, an instrument of compulsion that we sometimes use for practice in the morning after we've washed our face and brushed our teeth for it's time to get out, leave ourselves and devote time to the others that standing in front of their mirrors disinfect their own smileness.
It's something like a business smile which if we practice it to the point of perfection can make us rich.
A smile can carry anything from a living quiver of love to a complete frozenness. There are many things that can get frozen on our lips. The problem arises when it is us who gets frozen on them.

Treba tumaciti kao pokusaj izmirivanja plusa i minusa, crnog i bijelog, siromasnog i bogatog. Kao smiraj izmedju dvije radosti u kojoj prva doziva drugu mostom precutanog. Neki odlaze toliko daleko da razmak izmedju dva osmjeha tumace suzama, krvlju ili prosto neiskazljivom tugom. Neki kao pokusaj ocuvanja oba osmjeha.
Duzina razmaka pri tom ne igra nikakvu ulogu, svejedno dali su u pitanju dva milimetra ili dvije svetlosne godine razmaknutost ostaje prostor u koji staje mogucnost priblizavanja i udaljavanja. Osmjehnutost u svakom slucaju predstavlja uslov za bilo kakvo primicanje.
Ili se zavrsava kobnim Pavlovljevim refleksom koji ne reflektuje ama bas nista. I sta je uopste osmjeh. Postoje razliciti kriterijumi po kome moze da se odredi i svaki od njih sasvim sigurno izmice bilo kakvoj odredljivosti.

Po hronoloskom kriterijumu osmjeh predstavlja zivo vrijeme u kome se odvija laganim izvijanjem usana na gore prvi dodir sa drugim. U odnosu na svrhu on nosi terete cilja kao vrece pune sati u kojima zeljno iscekujemo osmjeh sa druge strane mosta. Osmjeh je sredstvao, instrument prinude koji ponekad poslovno uvjezbavamo izjutra ispred ogledala nakon umivanja i pranja zuba jer je kada izadjemo vrijeme da napustimo sebe i posvetimo se drugom koji takodje tu ispred ogledala dezinfikuje sopstvenu osmjehnutost.
To je nesto kao business smile koji ako se dotjera do savrsenstva moze donijeti veliko bogatstvo. Jedan osmjeh moze da nosi sve, ama bas sve od zivog treptaja ljubavi do potpune ukocenosti. Postoji veliki broj stvari koji moze da se zaledi na nasim usnama. Problem nastaje kada se na sopstvenim usnama jednom ukocimo mi sami.

A Little School of Interpretation, …in x lessons,2007.
©Miroslava Odalovic

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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That's not it-To nije to

Excuse me sir
You look like someone I've met before
And I am sure it is like that
I'm sure everyone has met everyone before
In what's called preceding lives
Do you believe in that sir
I mean those karmas
Moving along cyclic zodiacs
Made of illiterate stars
Sounds quite familiar to me
A life through trials and errors
I think sir
When I outstretch the palm of my hand
(Do not worry you don't have to give me any
Of your monthly revenue
I am not that kind of a beggar)
When I outstretch the palm of my hand
And look at those divinely entangled lines
So cryptic
That are supposed to determine my fate
I think there's got to be some mistake there
That they are not there to determine me
But to tell me that this palm belongs to me only
That I am just like you sir
A creature born once a creature divine
Unrepeatable and free
For most when I outstretch the palm of my hand
To see my own geometry of the universe
Or to turn it into a fist
To strike the face of Fortune
Then I think sir
For sure we've all met before
In the faces of Adam and Eve
Hitting their foreheads against the ground
Once they vaguely hinted the Heaven is perhaps
Nothing but a wholeness of a soul in unity with its Creator
And Hell the lack of the same thing
Yes I am sure we've met before
In the face of Christ crucified on the cross
That redeemed us through his blood
For a dream in which an Idiot
Will not have to find a compartment
In which he would, with a roomful of thoughts
In his head just like me right now,
He would not have to repeat
That's not it that's not it until he cannot
Thinking perhaps about those marbles of lifeful life
Whose glimmer fades away once they break out on the surface
To dry in the fire of their own eyes
Thinking that's not it that's not it

[...] Read more

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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La Chronique Ascendante des Ducs de Normandie

Mil chent et soisante anz out de temps et d'espace
puiz que Dex en la Virge descendi par sa grace,
quant un clerc de Caen, qui out non Mestre Vace,
s'entremist de l'estoire de Rou et de s'estrasce,
qui conquist Normendie, qui qu'en poist ne qui place,
contre l'orgueil de France, qui encor les menasce,
que nostre roi Henri la congnoissë et sace.
Qui gaires n'a de rentes ne gaires n'en porcache ;
mez avarice a frait a largesce sa grace,
ne peut lez mainz ouvrir, plus sont gelez que glace, .
ne sai ou est reposte, ne truiz train ne trace;
qui ne soit losengier ne encort liu ne place,
a plusors i fait on la cue lovinace.
Ce ne fu mie el temps Virgile ne Orace
ne el temps Alixandre ne Cesar ne Estace,
lores avoit largesce vertu et efficace.
Du roi Henri voil faire ceste premiere page,
qui prist Alianor, dame de haut parage,
Dex doinst a ambedeuls de bien faire courage!
Ne me font mie rendre a la court le musage,
de dons et de pramesses chascun d' euls m' asouage ;
mez besoing vient souvent qui tost sigle et tost nage,
et souvent me fait meitre le denier et le gage.
France est Alienor et debonnaire et sage ;
roÿne fu de France en son premier aage,
Looÿs l' espousa qui out grant mariage;
en Jerusalem furent en lonc pelerinage,
assez y traist chescun travail et ahanage,
Quant reparriez s' en furent, par conseil du barnage
s' em parti la roÿne o riche parentage;
de cele departie n'out elle nul damage ;
a Poitiers s'en ala, son naturel manage,
n'i out plus prochain heir qu'el fu de son lignage.
Li roiz Henri la prist o riche mariage,
cil qui tint Engleterre et la terre marage
entre Espaingne et Escosce, de rivage en rivage ;
grant parole est de lui et de son vasselage,
des felons qu'il destraint comme oysel clos en cage ;
n' a baron en sa terre o si grant herbergage
qui ost le pais enfraindre em plein ne en boscage,
se il peut estre ataint, n'et des membres hontage,
ou qu'il n'i lest le cors ou l' ame en ostage.

La geste voil de Rou et dez Normanz conter,
lors faiz et lor proësce doi je bien recorder.
Les boisdies de France ne font mie a celer,
tout tens voudrent Franchoiz Normanz desheriter
et tout tens se penerent d' euls vaincre et d'els grever,
et quant Franceiz nes porent par force sormonter
par plusors tricheries lez soulent agraver ;

[...] Read more

poem by Wace
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Come in and meet my friend-Udi i upoznaj mog prijatelja

come in and meet my friend

he's got eyes of different colours
one eye is blue the other is like honey

he's got a scar somewhere beneath his heart
and the wound under the heart a bitter snake of a dream

he's got a coat and a hat on his head
the coat with two facets and the hat full of thoughts

come in and meet my friend

he knows the names of the rivers and the limits of the globe
and the salt stolen from the bottom of the sea

he knows the ribs of rocks and the whisper from the cliff
and the words hiding under the whisper

he knows all the streets all the houses at twilight
their numbers and addresses through the mother's bloodline

come in and meet my friend

he rides his thoughts like bicycles
up the hills down the slopes by the rivers and lakes

he drives his thoughts like many coloured trains
their vibrant call is layered on the rails

he leads his thoughts like caravans
so that the hot deserts don't die without water

come in and meet my friend

he loves the tramps the clowns and acrobats
the circles of fire and the walk on the wire

he loves the travellers and their suitcases
filled with memories of a step to the goal

he loves the drunkards the beggars the lost and the forgotten
who give their handful of love to the mute world

come in and meet my friend

he thinks your thoughts when you're alone
so that everyone can be there within your solitude

he thinks the thoughts of the sky when all the suns fade out

[...] Read more

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Graveyard By The Sea

This quiet roof, where dove-sails saunter by,
Between the pines, the tombs, throbs visibly.
Impartial noon patterns the sea in flame --
That sea forever starting and re-starting.
When thought has had its hour, oh how rewarding
Are the long vistas of celestial calm!
What grace of light, what pure toil goes to form
The manifold diamond of the elusive foam!
What peace I feel begotten at that source!
When sunlight rests upon a profound sea,
Time's air is sparkling, dream is certainty --
Pure artifice both of an eternal Cause.

Sure treasure, simple shrine to intelligence,
Palpable calm, visible reticence,
Proud-lidded water, Eye wherein there wells
Under a film of fire such depth of sleep --
O silence! . . . Mansion in my soul, you slope
Of gold, roof of a myriad golden tiles.

Temple of time, within a brief sigh bounded,
To this rare height inured I climb, surrounded
By the horizons of a sea-girt eye.
And, like my supreme offering to the gods,
That peaceful coruscation only breeds
A loftier indifference on the sky.

Even as a fruit's absorbed in the enjoying,
Even as within the mouth its body dying
Changes into delight through dissolution,
So to my melted soul the heavens declare
All bounds transfigured into a boundless air,
And I breathe now my future's emanation.

Beautiful heaven, true heaven, look how I change!
After such arrogance, after so much strange
Idleness -- strange, yet full of potency --
I am all open to these shining spaces;
Over the homes of the dead my shadow passes,
Ghosting along -- a ghost subduing me.
My soul laid bare to your midsummer fire,
O just, impartial light whom I admire,

Whose arms are merciless, you have I stayed
And give back, pure, to your original place.
Look at yourself . . . But to give light implies
No less a somber moiety of shade.

Oh, for myself alone, mine, deep within
At the heart's quick, the poem's fount, between

[...] Read more

poem by Paul Valery
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Klub Ljudi Z Resnimi Tezavami

C'e ti zjutraj ko je kriza avto ne vz'ge in ti med dopustom vedno ribica
umre
stalno z'ivis' v krizi identitete ne znas' raztrgat perforirane serviete
c'e ti obup redno skac'e pred oc'i smrt te voha in po s'unki ji dis'is'
v boljs'o prihodnost ceste ni nobene rad bi bil zver a si le malo
s'c'ene
Pridi pogledat v nas' novi klub sami tez'ki pacijenti vrz'eni na kup
vsakega muc'i vsaj ena tez'ava vsak bo prisegu da njegova je prava
mali karlo je z'e kot otrok skuz'u kaj je to kvalitativni preskok
samo iz mase ljudi z velikimi problemi lahko pridejo ven tako dobri
refreni
Problemi so problemi bojo in kurc jih gleda
problemi so problemi bojo in klinc jih gleda seveda
problemi so problemi bojo in klinc jih gleda
problemi so problemi bojo al pa ne
vsako tolko tudi kaks'en od njih umre vsako tolko
C'e se ti dojenc'ki smejejo v obraz ko se smejis' ti vedno s'kripa glas
ostanes' trezen s'e po dvajseti pivi gledas' v kamne in mislis' da so
z'ivi
ob dobri priliki hitro zamiz'is' ko je s'la mimo gres' za njo in jo
lovis'
c'im mine panika postane dolgoc'asno kar imajo drugi je zmeraj najbolj
krasno
Pridi pogledat v nas' novi klub sami tez'ki pacijenti vrz'eni na kup
vsakega muc'i vsaj ena tez'ava vsak bo prisegu da njegova je prava
mali karlo je z'e kot otrok skuz'u kaj je to kvalitativni preskok
samo iz mase ljudi z velikimi problemi lahko pridejo ven tako dobri
refreni
Problemi so problemi bojo in kurc jih gleda
problemi so problemi bojo in klinc jih gleda aneda
problemi so problemi bojo in klinc jih gleda seveda
problemi so problemi bojo al pa ne
vsako tolko tudi kaks'nega z'aba poz're vsako tolko

song performed by Zmelkoow
Added by Lucian Velea
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I met people who did not know

How to pick up a lily
And that its skin breaks under the steel
Of a too long gaze from the mountain top
And that its petal knows nothing of its root
And that the night falls only when it lowers the buds
Thirsty of the sun and the sun's only the wolf's one
Howling at the wounds of a torn out flower

Srela sam ljude koji nisu znali
Kako se bere ljiljan
I da njegova koža puca pod celikom
Suviše dugog pogleda sa vrha planina
I da njegova peteljka ne zna njegov korijen
I da kad spusti latice tek onda padne noc
Žedna sunca a ono samo vucje
Zavija na rane pokidanog cvijeta

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Advice (‘’Radu’’- in Czech language)

'Sell me this day
Thy birthright.'
(Genesis 25: 31)
'And thou shalt take
Two onyx stones
And grave on them
The names
Of the children of Israel.'
(Exodus 28: 10)
Because
'A good name is better
Than precious ointment'
(Ecclesiastes 7: 1)
And the ' glory
Shall fly away like a bird'
(Hosea 9: 11)
''Then shalt thou
Understand righteousness,
And judgment, and equity;
Yea, every good path
When wisdom entereth
Into thine heart,
And knowledge
Is pleasant unto thy soul; ''
(Proverbs 2: 9,10)
'Therefore thou shalt love
The LORD thy God,
And keep his charge,
And his statutes,
And his judgments,
And his commandments, alway.'
(Deuteronomy 11: 1)
''Let integrity and uprightness preserve me;
For I wait on thee.'
(Psalm 25: 21)

In Czech language:

‚‘‘Prodej mi dnes
Své prvorozenství‘‘
(Genesis 25: 31)
“Vezmeš dva kameny karneoly
A vyryješ do nich jména
Synů Izraele”
(Exodus 28: 10)
Dobré jméno je nad výborný olej ”
(Kazatel 7: 1)
„Sláva odlétne jako ptáč e.”
(Ozeáš 9: 11)
Tehdy porozumíš spravedlnosti,

[...] Read more

poem by Marieta Maglas
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Athelston

Lord that is off myghtys most,
Fadyr and Sone and Holy Gost,
Bryng us out of synne
And lene us grace so for to wyrke
To love bothe God and Holy Kyrke
That we may hevene wynne.
Lystnes, lordyngys, that ben hende,
Of falsnesse, hou it wil ende
A man that ledes hym therin.
Of foure weddyd bretheryn I wole yow tell
That wolden yn Yngelond go dwel,
That sybbe were nought of kyn.

And all foure messangeres they were,
That wolden yn Yngelond lettrys bere,
As it wes here kynde.
By a forest gan they mete
With a cros, stood in a strete
Be leff undyr a lynde,
And, as the story telles me,
Ylke man was of dyvers cuntrie
In book iwreten we fynde —
For love of here metyng thare,
They swoor hem weddyd bretheryn for evermare,
In trewthe trewely dede hem bynde.

The eldeste of hem ylkon,
He was hyght Athelston,
The kyngys cosyn dere;
He was of the kyngys blood,
Hys eemes sone, I undyrstood;
Therefore he neyghyd hym nere.
And at the laste, weel and fayr,
The kyng him dyyd withouten ayr.
Thenne was ther non hys pere
But Athelston, hys eemes sone;
To make hym kyng wolde they nought schone,
To corowne hym with gold so clere.

Now was he kyng semely to se:
He sendes afftyr his bretheryn thre
And gaff hem here warysoun.
The eldest brothir he made Eerl of Dovere —
And thus the pore man gan covere —
Lord of tour and toun.
That other brother he made Eerl of Stane —
Egelond was hys name,
A man of gret renoun —
And gaff him tyl hys weddyd wyff
Hys owne sustyr, Dame Edyff,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Après la bataille

Mon père, ce héros au sourire si doux,
Suivi d'un seul housard qu'il aimait entre tous
Pour sa grande bravoure et pour sa haute taille,
Parcourait à cheval, le soir d'une bataille,
Le champ couvert de morts sur qui tombait la nuit.
Il lui sembla dans l'ombre entendre un faible bruit.
C'était un Espagnol de l'armée en déroute
Qui se traînait sanglant sur le bord de la route,
Râlant, brisé, livide, et mort plus qu'à moitié.
Et qui disait: ' A boire! à boire par pitié ! '
Mon père, ému, tendit à son housard fidèle
Une gourde de rhum qui pendait à sa selle,
Et dit: 'Tiens, donne à boire à ce pauvre blessé. '
Tout à coup, au moment où le housard baissé
Se penchait vers lui, l'homme, une espèce de maure,
Saisit un pistolet qu'il étreignait encore,
Et vise au front mon père en criant: 'Caramba! '
Le coup passa si près que le chapeau tomba
Et que le cheval fit un écart en arrière.
' Donne-lui tout de même à boire ', dit mon père.

poem by Victor Hugo
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A wish

I wish I could die like a plant
To silently fade out and never let my voice
I wish I could live like a plant
To close my buds facing the knowledge of pain

I wish I could walk the earth unheard
To sneak among the trees and spikes

I wish I could be silent
Like a plant

Želja

Voljela bih da umrem kao biljke
Da se tiho gasim i glasa od sebe da ne dam
Voljela bih da živim kao biljke
Da sklopim latice pred spoznajom boli

Voljela bih da necujno hodam zemljom
Da se šunjam kroz drvece i klasja

Voljela bih da mogu da cutim
Kao biljke

1991.
©Miroslava Odalovic

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Picaro turns her face towards the sun

…chameleon like chiseled in a rock rock chained pours the rainbow colours the silent sky reflections where to think is if I was a tree I would turn my leaves to you so that you can mirror yourself in the streams of written currents if I were a butterfly I would turn my wings to you so that you can wing yourself in warmth from the hands an embrace to you if I had hands I would repeat the digging up of the wells which your light has not as yet reached if I was the light I would be faster than a thought if I had a thought from you I would make it a gift to the face cut in years towards death if I had a face I would not be a picaro of self an unoverstepped hurdle at the threshold of an entrance…I’ve got nothing.

Pikaro okreć e lice ka suncu
...kameleonski uzidan u stijenu stijenom rpikovan preliva dugine boje tihe odraze neba gdje misliti je da sam drvo okrenula bih lice ka tebi da se ogledaš u potocima ispisanog toka da sam leptir okrenula bih krila ka tebi da se raskriliš toplinom od ruku zagrljaj da imam ruke ponovila bih kopanja bunara gdje svjetlost tvoja stigla nije da sam svjetlost bila bih brža od misli da imam misao od tebe poklonila bih je licu što mu godine urezuju smrt da imam lice ne bih bila pikaro sopstva nepreskoč ena prepreka na pragu ulaska...Nemam ništa.

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Quite Subsidiary / Sasvim Pritocno

diary pages i never wrote
due to some unknown individual intuition
a friend once explained to me
which i never really understood
they keep oozing in front of my eyes
a trailer from a movie long forgot
a midsummer's heat
pronounced at the tip of my tongue
that does not remember the language
but is ready to outriver the numbers
sliding down the covers
there's a painting perhaps
that i've never been up to
and i will never paint
a draft made of eyes and ears void
staring right at me from the broken sky
that knows each piece of its shatteredness
foretold by the mirror
i normally use to put lipstick only
or merely draft my eyes so as not to forget them
by the end of the day
and each time my fingers prolong into keyboards
there's a music played unheard humming oou of debris
the world would say it's time for itself to die
in the meaning of each word that's uttered about it
stubbornly defending its unutteredness
that always shakes me into an earthquake speech
and just like an earthquake i cannot stand still
there are too many cracks i made and need to fill

sascim pritocno
stranice dnevnika koje nikad nisam ispisala
zahvaljujuci jednoj individualnoj intuiciji
koju mi je prijatelj jednom objasnio
a nikad je nisam razumjela
cure mi pred ocima
trejler iz filma davno zaboravljenog
Jovanjdanja vrelina
izgovorena na vrhu jezika
koja je zaboravila jezik
ali je spremna da nadrijeci brojeve
što klize niz korice
postoji moždajedna slika
kojoj nikad nisam bila dorasla
koju nikad necu naslikati
slika napravljena od ociju i ušiju jaza
koja me posmatra pravo iz slomljenog neba
koje poznaje svaki komadic svoje polomljenosti
obrecene ogledalom

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Anonymous despair/Anonimni ocaj

'why are you looking for a charisma within yourself, stuffed bird
the possiblity of enlightment divides you endlessly
from craving a mission
the smell of earth concentrated circles of stupidity and ignorance
like rings
the further I don not understand
it looks to me like a dead sentinel' (Johny Shtulich)

bare in each star
that sharpens the knives of fear down the silver
to pour down into emptiness the keys without an opening
always somehow into wrong keyholes

an anonymous despair staggers behind the fragrance of deer
freedom is a horrible thing when you've got nowhere to go with it- isn't it

you'd rather exchange it for a cigarette smoke
bitter rakia from the spring of each drink
or her hands that now embrace the air

now what- when there's no charisma that could feed you
when all the idols burned lie in the ashes of lies
when you know that the birds stuffed with the news of the end of the winter
cannot fly because of the eye frozen at the bottom of a trophy

now where -as you elbow your way and push through the sentences of a story
in which you did not want to be a narrator anyways
not even a side character-through the word needle ears
searching for a new hero that will not be yourself

'zašto tražiš harizmu u sebi punjena ptico
mogucnost prosvjecenosti razdvaja te do u beskraj
od žudnje za misijom
miris zemlje koncentricni krugovi gluposti i neznanja
kao prtenje
ono dalje ne razumijem
cini mi se da je mrtva straža' (Džoni Štulic)

ogoljen u svakom zvijezdi
što oštri noževe straha niz srebro
da sipa u prazno kljuceve bez otvaranja
uvijek nekako u pogrešne brave

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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This is my silence with the taste of ‘never’

A single plunge from the tip of the tongue
Into the clouds anxiety sponges
Burdened with water and wells too mute
Of elements void of translation

A single flame from the tip of the fingers
That once touched the hard locked heart
Within the heights all skies to burn
In elements void of translation

A single stone cast into a cradle
Rocks an embryo crying for a womb
Like a childless lap still eager to fly
In elements void of translation

A single breath signed by an ocean wind
That namelessly carves the gates of open cages
Wrestling with the forbidden language
In elements void of translation

This is my silence with the taste of ‘never’
I give it solely unto you

Ovo je moja tišina sa ukusom 'nikad'

Jedno poniranje sa vrha jezika
U oblake sundere tjeskobe
Pod teretom vode i bunara suviše nijemih
Pod elementima lišenim prevoda

Jedan plamen sa vrhova prstiju
Što jednom je dotakao teško zakljucano srce
U visini da spali sva neba
U elementima lišenim prevoda

Jedan kamen bacen u kolijevku
Ljulja embrion što place za utrobom
Kao krilo bez djeteta što ipak žudi za letom
U elemntima lišenim prevoda

Jedan dah potpisanim okeanskim vjetrom
Što bezimeno urezuje kapije otvorenih kaveza
Rvajuci se sa zabranjenim jezikom
U elemntima lišenim prevoda

Ovo je moja tišina sa ukusom 'nikad'

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Mon Papa, Mon Meilleur Ami

(Dédié à Tous Les Papas, Birago I.Diop et à Gustave)

Mon papa était plus qu'un père,
Il était plus qu'un bon ami, plus qu'un frère.
Pour ne pas minorer les douleurs des mères
Qui nous ont portés pour plus de neuf mois,
Ses sacrifices pouvaient rivaliser les poids
Et les lourds fardeaux mémorables de l'émoi.

Mon père n'est plus, depuis plus d'une décennie;
Jusqu'à présent, je ne veux pas le mettre au passé simple de la vie.
Son sang coule dans mes veines le jour et la nuit,
Quand je rie, il rie aussi.
Quand je pleure, il me réconforte,
Il m'encourage, il m'emporte
Chaque jour vers un destin où les portes
Ne sont jamais fermées; ses dévotions ne sont pas mortes.

J'ai bien expliqué, mon papa n'est pas mort,
Son esprit est dans l'air, parmi les vivants et les morts.
Mon papa est retourné à la chaumière,
Au fonds de la poussière, dans la terre,
Parmi les graviers sablonneux de l'océan
Et dans le lent courant du vent.

Mon papa était pour moi plus qu'un père,
Il était mon meilleur ami et le meilleur de mes frères.

poem by Hebert Logerie
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