НОЌНОТО ЛИЦЕ НА СОНЦЕТО / NOČNI OBRAZ SONCA / POEMS
НОЌНОТО ЛИЦЕ НА СОНЦЕТО
Тогаш јаболката созреваа со
утринската светлина,
тогаш, кога и дланката
созреваше околу јаболкото,
тивко јаболката созреваа и со
полната месечина
што ни го покажуваше лицето на
сонцето во мракот
Тогаш, кога една молња како
усвитено јаболко
влезе во старата куќа, а дедо ги
отвори прозорците
за да не удри во ѕидовите од
собите скрбни и рече
дека ништо не треба една душа
слободна да ја сопре
Тогаш, кога шараните
отскокнуваа од водата мирна,
распрснувајќи ја месечината во
кругови од вокали,
тогаш, кога еден човек првично
на месечината стапна
и отскокна ослободен од тежата
и тежината на умот
Тогаш, кога занесено со мојот
детски другар Илија
легнати на грб, гласно мислевме
со ѕвездите јадри
и бескрајниот дијамант на
вселената го гледавме
избрусен во безброј агли што
светкаа со сето време
Тогаш, кога посакавме да го
зачуваме нашето време
во еден лет уште пред да ги
рашириме крилјата,
а не знаевме дека веќе сме си
закана на самите себеси
и животот и смртта не си
беа доволни еден на друг
Тогаш, кога дланките ни
созреaа околу јаболкото,
и тивко јаболката созреваа со
полната месечина,
мирно Боже Ти ни го покажа
ноќното лице на сонцето
ко плод што не се кине од
неизговорот на совршеното...
THE SILENT EMBRYO OF WORDS
Michelangelo painted the Almighty’s will
as a red robe in the shape of a denuded brain
touching Adam with the forefinger of immortality
to portray that all the knots in Heavens
are spliced in our skulls,
and that a knot can sometimes be freed,
and slide down
as an umbilical cord
to feed the silent embryo of words in us.
This was on my mind while my father was being pushed on a hospital cart,
and his weak heart was prompted by pacemaker impulses,
with electrodes charging the red muscle.
My mind, too, was on a harp travelling reposed like my father was
with its strings throbbing due to the rugged road.
I mused, holding his hand, feeling his pulse,
through which he was returning into our lives down the rugged road.
THE MASTER OF DANCE
1.
summer moonlight, dance with me
like a shadow with its cat
I have danced,
and my shadow has
with my invisible I,
yet it has not had a single sip
2.
dance with my body, my soul,
for a little while,
till my heart drinks us up
I have danced,
and drunk, but one should not drink alone
while dawn sleeps under the thin skin ofthe night
3.
with death as well
I have danced, same as I have with body’sjuices,
yet I have not had a single sip
I have danced, but not learnt to die,
and I had tried to teach myself
4.
I have danced,
and my shadow has
with my invisible I,
but my heart would not drink me up
THE DECEPTIVE GREATNESS
»Mind the manner you approach a horse.
To it you always appear twice the size you are.
Whisper tamely in its ear for it to take your size
like bridle in its mouth,« my grandfather used to tell me every time.
The time of wars came, tameness we knew not –
because of dread and cruelty, we forgot about the white horse.
Then one day, out of craze, it stomped a man to death.
All grown men gathered – subdued it with foam-soaked ropes.
The butcher checked his mallet, sharpened the axe and knives.
He was called to enforce the ruling.
My grandfather,
with skin sticking to his bones like he was to his own time of death,
would not watch but whispered in my ear
»We have grown, oh, too tall for our horse to know us.«
THE KEYS
I keep musing –
was it easier a youngster to be,
to embrace with both my hands
a nightingale
caught in a snare,
to be delighted by it,
and have my heart sing for joy,
to clasp its slender feet,
harder still,
watch it try,
with all its might,
to set itself free
pecking my fingers with its bill,
and in the end,
rip its own feet off,
and fly away up to the sky;
or to be
a middle aged man today
who keeps guard of two clawless keys
of the bird’s pair of feet,
with which I cannot release
neither the bird
from the cage of volatility
nor the white clouds
from one absence to another.
And yet –
how delightful it is to feel
a key unlock a key.
THE GENESIS OF DREAMS
A thin chink lies upon our lips
inside of which we are stirred by dreams.
It is here where a dream
is kept in a precognitive state,
and a venting dream is spoken out
to be dispersed accordingly.
A thin white line winds
between a rock and the dark sky
where heights weigh down
and we breathe them out the way a butterfly
scatters around the golden dust
of its winged dream.
From the cardiogram of the world
a spike plummets into our hearts
and the bounding pulse
awakens our consciousness.
A slithering line
secretly slides
into a white rock of the night
and ties itself into a noble knot
pumping blood through the veins of the cold stone.
But the path to truth is also the one
which leads under a dry riverbed
and does not end
even when the river gurgles again over its syllables,
while we await to be caressed by
the dream’s polyphony.
A line of words
entwines with whiteness
and loosens the marble’s edifice
ingrained with women and men
whose bodies’ white embrace
leads to both birth and death.
An invisible string leads
our form to its core
spinning us within
and vigilantly watches through the sun’s eyes.
Not to make us blind,
but to see we are here
to be born even upon death.
Тогаш јаболката созреваа со
утринската светлина,
тогаш, кога и дланката
созреваше околу јаболкото,
тивко јаболката созреваа и со
полната месечина
што ни го покажуваше лицето на
сонцето во мракот
Тогаш, кога една молња како
усвитено јаболко
влезе во старата куќа, а дедо ги
отвори прозорците
за да не удри во ѕидовите од
собите скрбни и рече
дека ништо не треба една душа
слободна да ја сопре
Тогаш, кога шараните
отскокнуваа од водата мирна,
распрснувајќи ја месечината во
кругови од вокали,
тогаш, кога еден човек првично
на месечината стапна
и отскокна ослободен од тежата
и тежината на умот
Тогаш, кога занесено со мојот
детски другар Илија
легнати на грб, гласно мислевме
со ѕвездите јадри
и бескрајниот дијамант на
вселената го гледавме
избрусен во безброј агли што
светкаа со сето време
Тогаш, кога посакавме да го
зачуваме нашето време
во еден лет уште пред да ги
рашириме крилјата,
а не знаевме дека веќе сме си
закана на самите себеси
и животот и смртта не си
беа доволни еден на друг
Тогаш, кога дланките ни
созреaа околу јаболкото,
и тивко јаболката созреваа со
полната месечина,
мирно Боже Ти ни го покажа
ноќното лице на сонцето
ко плод што не се кине од
неизговорот на совршеното...
THE SILENT EMBRYO OF WORDS
Michelangelo painted the Almighty’s will
as a red robe in the shape of a denuded brain
touching Adam with the forefinger of immortality
to portray that all the knots in Heavens
are spliced in our skulls,
and that a knot can sometimes be freed,
and slide down
as an umbilical cord
to feed the silent embryo of words in us.
This was on my mind while my father was being pushed on a hospital cart,
and his weak heart was prompted by pacemaker impulses,
with electrodes charging the red muscle.
My mind, too, was on a harp travelling reposed like my father was
with its strings throbbing due to the rugged road.
I mused, holding his hand, feeling his pulse,
through which he was returning into our lives down the rugged road.
THE MASTER OF DANCE
1.
summer moonlight, dance with me
like a shadow with its cat
I have danced,
and my shadow has
with my invisible I,
yet it has not had a single sip
2.
dance with my body, my soul,
for a little while,
till my heart drinks us up
I have danced,
and drunk, but one should not drink alone
while dawn sleeps under the thin skin ofthe night
3.
with death as well
I have danced, same as I have with body’sjuices,
yet I have not had a single sip
I have danced, but not learnt to die,
and I had tried to teach myself
4.
I have danced,
and my shadow has
with my invisible I,
but my heart would not drink me up
THE DECEPTIVE GREATNESS
»Mind the manner you approach a horse.
To it you always appear twice the size you are.
Whisper tamely in its ear for it to take your size
like bridle in its mouth,« my grandfather used to tell me every time.
The time of wars came, tameness we knew not –
because of dread and cruelty, we forgot about the white horse.
Then one day, out of craze, it stomped a man to death.
All grown men gathered – subdued it with foam-soaked ropes.
The butcher checked his mallet, sharpened the axe and knives.
He was called to enforce the ruling.
My grandfather,
with skin sticking to his bones like he was to his own time of death,
would not watch but whispered in my ear
»We have grown, oh, too tall for our horse to know us.«
THE KEYS
I keep musing –
was it easier a youngster to be,
to embrace with both my hands
a nightingale
caught in a snare,
to be delighted by it,
and have my heart sing for joy,
to clasp its slender feet,
harder still,
watch it try,
with all its might,
to set itself free
pecking my fingers with its bill,
and in the end,
rip its own feet off,
and fly away up to the sky;
or to be
a middle aged man today
who keeps guard of two clawless keys
of the bird’s pair of feet,
with which I cannot release
neither the bird
from the cage of volatility
nor the white clouds
from one absence to another.
And yet –
how delightful it is to feel
a key unlock a key.
THE GENESIS OF DREAMS
A thin chink lies upon our lips
inside of which we are stirred by dreams.
It is here where a dream
is kept in a precognitive state,
and a venting dream is spoken out
to be dispersed accordingly.
A thin white line winds
between a rock and the dark sky
where heights weigh down
and we breathe them out the way a butterfly
scatters around the golden dust
of its winged dream.
From the cardiogram of the world
a spike plummets into our hearts
and the bounding pulse
awakens our consciousness.
A slithering line
secretly slides
into a white rock of the night
and ties itself into a noble knot
pumping blood through the veins of the cold stone.
But the path to truth is also the one
which leads under a dry riverbed
and does not end
even when the river gurgles again over its syllables,
while we await to be caressed by
the dream’s polyphony.
A line of words
entwines with whiteness
and loosens the marble’s edifice
ingrained with women and men
whose bodies’ white embrace
leads to both birth and death.
An invisible string leads
our form to its core
spinning us within
and vigilantly watches through the sun’s eyes.
Not to make us blind,
but to see we are here
to be born even upon death.
