| ...more than just words! |
| BLACK ANGEL by Ante Popovski This summer in Ohrid's Saint Sophia a young black woman stepped into the church. The girl at first stood in the centre, than leaned against the wall, looked up above her, and moved no more: the ground imperceptibly raised her up and amidst that immaculate sanctity and peace she raised her head above the saint on the wall, folded her hands in prayer and smiled. A black angel hidden between the lines of the Song of Songs, and not descended yet. |
| PASTEL by Slavko Janevski There the hungry wolf with his teeth has ripped out the hot entrails. There the fugitive convict stone by stone has dug his grave. There the naked dead on a table of their bones have chopped up the moon. There the rutting stags, their antlers entangled, have turned into skeletons. There on hard arid ground sorcerers have woven a wedding feast banner from their veins. The groom is that wind, the bride is the mist. Amazingly in their cradle (a handful of earth and hope) a nameless flower opens. Let's go and name it: let it be called Dream. |
| THE LAKE by Mateja Matevski After many a year and many a dream I again returned to the lake with the sweet waters hidden in the hill's loins The sun's diamond's still cutting it Not a stone in its depths nor grass to obscure its throat under the waves nor the bird with its prey I'm only an eye the eye of the sun that ruffles its ancient waters Oh leave me by this lake leave me there by the bitter lake dead |
| STAR TRAIL by Jovan Strezoski In the multitude of stars flashes a shooting star blossoming like a rare bloom and dying Was it impatient did it grow in foul weather or was it in a hurry to use its turn for death All eternity gathered it up for a short trail |
| ROUND SHAPES by Petre M. Andreevski (In praise of woman) Round are your eyes and the places from which you regard me, directing my movements. Round is your mouth which taxes your words and glorifies your smile. Round are your shoulders and round is your neck, the only scaffolding from which my whole native land is visible. Round are your breasts, those mobile bell-ringers and guns raised in ambush. Round are your nipples and the honeycomb on them and the milk mine, first breeding ground, first encounter with nourishment. Round are your groins, roundly they spread, evenly they return. Round is your waist and the wind spinning round it like a wheel on its axle, like yarn on a spindle. Round is your navel, that scar of birth, reminder of the spot where life began. Round are your hips where light is rejected, only entrances into darkness and night. Round are your knees which I expect to speak to me and round are your heels which separate you from the ground. Round is your embrace when you kiss me, when I kiss you, and round is your tear when you part from me. Round is the table where you eat your meals, and the bread and the plates are as round as the table. Round is the apple your offer your guests and round is the rainbow in the water melon you cut open. Round is the water which you cup in your hands and the water which parts for you to let you bathe. Round is the seed which you sow in the field and round is the downward path by which its root descends. Round is the sun and the sun flower which rises for your sake, for the sake of your roundness without it, I wouldn't know where to look. |
| GYPSIES by Radovan Pavlovski Dispersed like dark drops of rain in that heat, they have neither church nor prayer, nor realm to wage war. For others they forged a sword, for themselves they sang a lonely song And him who sang most beautifully among them they chose for their ruler. |
| I WAS RETURNING HOME by Mihail Renjov I was returning home by a road of excavations and gravel piles And returning with me were my Little Things: the pebble with which someone hit me long ago the drop of blood from my nose the fruit I stole at night the forest where a bird hid from me (after some forgotten poem) the sins I committed defending myself the angel I forgot while quarreling with friends the life I let slip by staring at god knows what and god knows where. One night all my Little Things were at home only I was not there I am lost, they say, staring at god knows what and god knows where. |
| The Words are taken from CONTEMPORARY MACEDONIAN POETRY - Selected and Translated by Ewald Osers for KULTURA Skopje / FOREST BOOKS London & Boston Copyright: The Authors |