Sholeh Wolpe

Interview by Nadija Rebronja

You say you don’t belong anywhere and that you have an accent in every language you speak. What do you think about poets and the notion of belonging? Can poets belong to anything or they only belong to poetry?

I left my home in Tehran at age 13. After the Islamic revolution I realized going back was no longer an option. I felt stateless and “home” became an
important theme in my life. I’ve lived in many countries, towns and cities, and over the years I’ve acquired many identities—daughter, student, wife, mother, poet, friend, feminist, artist, victim, conqueror, teacher. But where was home? Was it the place of my physical birth? Was it where I hung my hat? Much of my work has been about or influenced by this search, or by
examining what exactly “exile” means. Where do I belong?
One day I was sitting in a garden watching turtles move from one side of a
pond to the other. I realized we were just like those beautiful creatures. We
have a place of birth or a habitat, but no matter where we go, “home” is what we carry inside of ourselves. I’m talking about syncing with an evolving self. We may be connected to a geographical place or a culture but we are capable of creating our own internal country—independent of the false boundaries haphazardly drawn by politicians, kings and conquerors.

Today, I stand under the banner of literature.
Today, I belong nowhere.
Today, I have an accent in every language I speak.

What is the language you dream in when it comes to poetry? What is the language you think in when it comes to poetry?

I can only write in the language I dream in. I stopped dreaming in Persian long ago. That is why I write in English. When I translate Persian literature, it’s my way of connecting with my mother tongue. When I read Persian poetry out loud, it vibrates in parts of my soul that are often hidden and untouched.

You translate works of Iranian, more precisely, Persian classics. Your translation of Attar’s work The Conference of the Birds to the English language attracted a great deal of attention. It presents a different vision of Iran to the West, it also presents Islam in a way we don’t often see today.

Although Conference of the Birds comes from Islamic tradition, it draws from Sufi mysticism. Its message is completely anti-dogma, anti-racism, antinationalism and anti-extremism. Attar tells us that the distinction we make between church, pagoda, temple and mosque are meaningless. We must walk the Path and travel towards our Creator. He says our destination is like a grand ocean. We all end up at its shores. Some take a long time to get there. Others arrive quickly. He says, try to arrive as a pure drop of water so you can join the ocean and become one with your Creator. If you arrive as a pebble wrapped in your ego and fantasies, the ocean will welcome you as well, but you would sink to the bottom only knowing yourself— never the ocean.

You have translated a famous Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad. How do you think a good translation of her work can elevate her to the stage of good “world” poetry such as that of Zymborska, Milosz, and Akhmatova?

Forugh Farrokhzad is one of the most significant Iranian poets of the twentieth century. Born in 1935, she was a poet of great audacity and extraordinary talent. Her poetry was the poetry of protest—protest through revelation of the innermost world of women. their intimate secrets and desires, their sorrows, longings, aspirations. Forugh lived the way most women secretly longed to live but lacked the daring or know-how. However, she did this at great cost to her family life. She lost the custody of her only biological son, had to spend some time in a sanitarium where she was subjected to electro-shock therapy, and endured great abuse by the media who refused her the seriousness and respect granted to her male contemporaries. She died in a car crash at the age of 32.
My translations of her poems, Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad
(University of Arkansas Press) is already in its second edition and fourth
printing. People love her. When I began translating her work, I knew it was
time for the world to become better acquainted with this remarkable poet
who won the heart of a nation through her poetic talent, her perseverance
and courage. She was years ahead of her time, both stylistically in her poetic language and in what she had to say. For the first time in the history of Iranian poetry, she dared to write from the perspective of a woman, socially, sexually, emotionally and politically. Forugh and several of her contemporaries revolutionized the poetic language of a culture steeped in formal poetic style, and difficult vocabulary. She employed language that was simple yet multilayered. With each reading of her poems you find yourself holding something new, and you feel compelled to go back to each poem not because you didn’t understand it the first time through, but because you know there is more — always more. And you are never disappointed.

You often stay in Europe, visiting poetry festivals and residences. It can be freely said that you are familiar with the contemporary European literature as much as with American. Do you see the differences between the tendencies in poetry in Europe and America?

Lajos Egri in The Art of Dramatic Writing writes, “The sun, along with its other activities, creates rain.” I think poetry is like that rain. It is created by the social and political activities that surround it; it is created by culture, music, history and art… everything the poet is surrounded with. So yes, I do see quite a bit of difference between what’s written in Europe and in the United States.
Politicians, corporations and the media have created an artificial world where it is always “us” against “them”. Many people passively accept this fabricated world without questioning the forces behind wars, religious bigotry, and political and financial gain. We get so caught up in this artificial game that we forget who we are, where we come from and what really matters. Poetry pulls us out of this passive acceptance. In that sense, until recently, European poetry has been more relevant and powerful in the lives of people. Until recently, majority of published poets in the United States have been white, and somewhat removed from the rest of the world. I clearly remember how after the 9/11 tragedy, poets began to write more political poems and people began to seek solace and guidance in poetry. Poets became more relevant. Today there are many African-American and immigrant poets whose voices are being heard. At least much more than before. And that’s a good thing.

When writing about your poetry, critics mostly use terms such as humanity, humaneness, culture, freedom. How much is it important for poetry at this moment to question humanity in the context of the contemporary world?

It is said that poets are the truth-tellers of their time, like mirrors held up to the society in which they live. They also say that poets bear witness.
Personally, I do not write to have an impact on the world, although I hope they reach out and touch the reader in a way that impacts their perspective. But I’m not a preacher, nor a teacher of any kind. The only time poems have any impact on any society is when people stop, listen, and pay attention to what the poets are saying. The impact is not because the poet intended an impact, but because people paused and made time to truly listen. What I write is from an urgency I feel within myself. I have written a great deal about human rights violations against women and about myself, and course I have and will always write as a woman and from a perspective of a woman, because obviously I am a woman; but I’m also a human being, a poet, a lover, a mother, a friend.
A people is not always its government and conversely, a government does not always represent its people. However, what can represent a people are their literature and the arts. That is why I also dedicate a great deal of time to translating Iranian literature to English. I want people to look at Iran through the lens of literature and see them as a people, a culture, and not a dark stain on the map, or as “terrorists.” That’s the beautiful thing about literature. It brings us together as human beings—directly and not through the distorted lens of religion or politics.

In one poem, you write a letter to America that came to your room in Tehran when you were eleven. Is America today, in your poetry and in your dreams, azure and orange, like the sky and poppies?

We are solitary creatures. We view the world from inside of ourselves. And when we are in a meditative state, the juxtaposition of what is out there and that moment’s internal experience can have a profound effect on our psyche and on how we see the world. What does blue mean unless it is thrown against yellow? If you put grey in the middle of olive green, it will look like a different color than if you put it against lavender. Try it. Each time your eyes will see the grey as a different color. The question is: what is “reality”? Context and background alter how we see things. Whatever we hold inside of ourselves comes from what we gather and process from our immediate surroundings—the kind of books we read, to the movies we see, the human interactions we have, etc. What does any of it mean when thrown against what exits outside of us, unprocessed by our inner psyche? That’s what this poem explores.

I’m interested in how you write about matrimony in your latest book, Keeping Time with Blue Hyacinths. There’s such despair in many of the poems, as you describe the physical and psychological dismantling of women trapped in the strictures of marriage and motherhood or wrenched through divorce. And yet there’s tenderness, too, that arises in surprising and unexpected ways. What inspired these themes?

I married for love. I was very young and he was older. There is danger in unions like that. However, what I write about in Keeping Time With Blue Hyacinths is not so much about the strictures of marriage and motherhood as it is of the uncertainties they create in a relationship where beauty is darkened by misunderstandings, where moral judgments sully trust, and careless unkind words or actions corrupt the air inside the home. I know there are many women out there who see themselves in these poems. My voice is theirs too. But moving forward and upward is paramount. Without tenderness and a sense of humor life gathers weight.

As a literary translator, can you explain why it’s important to translate literature to another language?

I am a poet and writer who translates. Not the other way around. I translate because I believe literature has the power to bring people of different cultures and languages together. These are dark times and as always, the light of literature and the arts is necessary to brighten our lives and bring us closer to one another. As a bilingual, bicultural poet, I feel it is my duty to do what I can, as effectively as I am able— to re-create our beloved poetry of Iran into English, as poetry. Persian and English are as different as sky and sea. The best I can do as a poet-translator is to create a reflection of one in the other. My translation becomes a re-creation that reflects the original. The sea can reflect the sky with its moving stars, shifting clouds, gestations of the moon and migrating birds—but ultimately the sea is not the sky. By nature, it is liquid. It ripples. There are waves. If you are a fish living in the sea, you can only understand the sky if its reflection becomes part of the water. That reflection is translation.

We live in a world torn apart by various ideologies. Every day, we hear about how different we are. For me, the only thing that really draws people together is the arts. And I want to be a part of that process. Because on one hand, you can despair and say, as a writer I can just write my poems or write my plays. But because I am bicultural, and bilingual, and because I am a poet and a writer, if I do not translate, it’s a sin. Through translation and re-creation, I can bring different cultures together.

You are also a playwright. Tell us about your most recent play.

Yes, my new play is an adaptation of Attar’s The Conference of the Birds. When Ubuntu Theater’s managing director Michael Moran approached me with the idea of adapting it for the stage, I was already thinking about doing it but had not yet started. It seemed we had found each other at the right time. He commissioned me to write it and after a full year of writing and workshopping, it premiered at the Ubuntu Theater in Oakland on November 30. I was directed by Italian director, Giulio Cesare Perrone. While writing this play I maintained the basic overarching structure of Attar’s story while exercising creative freedom as the playwright. I added comedy, magnified the existing humor in the stories, and did not shy away from making references to our modern political and social issues. I blurred gender roles and demanded a multi-racial cast. It is a play that is entertaining and funny while faithful to Attar’s profound and timeless spiritual message.

Tell us a little bit about the story of The Conference of the Birds.

In The Conference of the Birds, the birds of the world gather and acknowledge the Great Simorgh as their Sovereign. Simorgh is a mysterious bird who dwells in Mount Qaf, a mythical mountain that wraps around the world. The Hoopoe is elected to lead them through the perilous journey. They cross seven valleys and of the thousands of birds only thirty reach the abode of the Great Simorgh. But that is not the end of the story. Something unexpected happens. You will have to see the play or read the book to find out.

Out of the languages close to our region, you have been translated to Macedonian so far. How familiar are Americans with the Balkan authors?

Yes, Nikola Madzirov translated my poems into Macedonian. He is a great poet whose work I love. Translation of literature is like building a bridge of light between people and cultures. It connects us and is impervious to bombs and grenades. We owe a big debt of gratitude to poets who translate poetry from around the world, including from Balkan languages. People such as Sean Cotter and Mihaela Moscaliuc who translate Romanian poets such as Nichita Stanescu and Liliana Ursu; Charles Simic who has translated many Serbian poets; Igor Isakovski who edited anthology of Macedonian poets by bringing together many fine translators; and Miroslav Nikolov who has translated Bulgarian poets such as Lyubomir Nikolov. These are collections I know about. I am sure there are others I have not read because they are not translated into English.

Prethodni tekstovi: Naslikano sunce, Sposobni smo da stvorimo svoju vlastitu zemlju, 1. dio, 2. dio


Asmir Kujović


Sablažnjen od zavodništava i od smutnji
Ponovo se učim unutarnjoj šutnji.
Gonetam granate zablude dijaka
Ko silne zvjezdane lance zodijaka.
I snijeg na ekranu televizora
Što fotonski je odjek Velikog praska
Neka me podsjeti, poput revizora,
Na ljudske razmjere kosmičkog fijaska.

Otkad kušao sam s nebeskih sinija
Ne kuša me vino sa zemaljskih grana,
Vuče me oblak što Sinaj obavija
S tisuć podobija poput uragana.
Ti, kojim sve i svja omeđih u svijet
Još kad sam iz čto početak očitao,
U svačijem vijeku si ponovo raspet
I u svakome si po drugi put došao!

Kućni oltari s figurama idola
Bližnjih i ljubljenih, preteča, predaka
Usadiše u pomisli larve đavola
Posve neprimjetno, između redaka.
Al’ moj ravi, objavom pustinje zaklet,
S hićajama zakučastim poput fjordova
U moždanom parlamentu sad je Paraklet
Sa počasnim mjestom u Domu lordova.

Poučile su me mudrine Lukmana
Kako se straži srca zapovijeda:
I smola smirne od sjekire je rana
Ko u Samsonovu lavu – med od jeda;
Plavi se jezero u grotlu vulkana –
U providnome se providnost ogleda.
Grijesi moji, što ima vas bulumenta
Evo vam dovodim novog dirigenta!

I dok prebirem tespih sa bismiletom
Obasjavam sobu svojim ahiretom;
Dok bazam ulicom međ Božjim miletom
Zarim na aleje Jahjinim magfiretom.
Svaki zalogaj je euharistija,
Gusul u kadi – blagoslov na Jordanu;
I sred gužve saobraćajne Hrist i ja
Pribrani smo ko vitezi na megdanu.

Onim nestvorenim gledam Nestvorenog
Jer zjene sozercaju samo sjene Jednog
Koji vječi vječnost i koji je vječnost,
Koji sije svjetlost i koji je svjetlost.
Da razdijelim, uzdam se, da još mogu
Mir Božji u meni i moj mir u Bogu.
I duša zadobija drugo djevičanstvo,
U krušnoj skrušenosti višnje visočanstvo

I dok se uspinje kroz garež dimnjaka,
Potom survava s Jakubovih ljestava,
Dok prti kroz magle od tamjanskih oblaka
Sad zna kako Nebo na Zemlji nastava;
I bitke bije ispod lažnih zastava
Meštra obmane bez mane, višnjeg Hakka.
Džibril je miluje daškom povjetarca,
Palme šume psalme drevnog zvjezdoznalca.

Ni Božija sloboda nije bez oboda –
Imenom je sebi propisao granice,
Otpalo moguće iz Postanja je Voda
S nutrinom od tmine i bezdane Danice.
Pa nek sam bar prozirno sočivo od Vode
Što zbira i razbira svevišnje zrake,
Munjom iskonske anode i katode
Ogledalo progledalo kroz primrake.

Udišem Višnjeg: svaki mi dah šapće „Allah”,
U Božijem ropstvu – oslobođen ropstva;
I sunce u prozoru i ružin prah
Kliču u obredu tog novog četvorstva.
Da se uzdignem do Jahjinog neznanja
Kruh naš sutrašnji daj nam danas;
Da čitam srca iz tajnih zavještanja
Pripravi preči „veliki reset” za nas!

Razbij jezgre atoma asmirijuma
Za one razapete pod anestezijom,
Da zikrom nazrem čestice džibrilijuma –
Glasom ko šišmišjom sinestezijom.
Za sve one što ih sjena smrti sroza,
Za one koje mrtvi predak tlači
Dok mrmljaju posljednje riječi Broza
Pred komu: “Šta ovo sve treba da znači?”

Ti što nadzireš i Šredingerove mačke
I mećeš nam u ruke volane-igračke,
Praštaj za riječ što prethodi aleluji:
Parabrod sam što ispušta tamne oblačke
Koji me prate i satiru u oluji.
(Jer takav je napon u moždanoj struji:
Tek kada se pogase svjetla u štali
Luster se u carskoj odaji upali.)

Da si bitak bića svjedoči val fotona
Nalik znaku jednakosti u jednačini,
Ti, od prije objave Tetragramatona
Kad Logos očita put svakoj opačini.
Taj svijet što je utjelovljeni rječnik
Razgranao iz sjemena Slova prvog
Pokazuje prstom gdje stanuje Vječnik:
Žilice na listu oslikaše Drvo.

I oblak na Sinaju – oblik svih oblika,
Skriveni sadržitelj svih sadržina:
Sjena mu bezdana i odsjaj i slika
Sred koje sam tek osoba bez osobina.
Svjetlosti, prisutna i po svom odsustvu,
Jer svaka stvar blista bojom koju nema –
Budi mi advokat u nebeskom sudstvu
Tintom Tmine dozvana s četiri grafema.

Dok presnimavaš na magnetofonskoj traci
Preko starih napjeva nove melodije
Još su čujni starih bubnjeva udarci,
Trube i fanfare Hidrove rapsodije.
Ne postoji stvor po sebi i za sebe,
Svi smo mi po Tebi i samo za Tebe!
Srca os-nova od snova meleku je
Nalik cvijetu što sam sebe oprašuje.

Još učim da vladam ilovačom puti
Rastočen u flegmi svekolikog Sodoma,
Prerušen u civila na atletskoj ruti
Gdje sva svjetla gore a nikog nema doma.
Otkad poče ašikovat sa Zul-Dželalom
Duša moja, opora ko oskoruša,
Po vazdan se dotjeruje pred ogledalom
I ne srami se što je vjerna sponzoruša.

Sahranih sve prijatelje i učitelje
Da Tebi u srcu načinim atelje;
Iz mladih ljeta moji zombiji-dvojnici
Sad su ponovo Davudovi vojnici.
Poznade kad krenula je put dženeta
Rahela iz svoje pustinjske postaje
Da to što ljubila je od ovog svijeta
Bijaše tek ono što mu nedostaje.

Prethodni tekstovi autora: Adamov pupak, Viđenja u noći


Mihaela Šumić


19. 4. 1965.

Svijet izumire u jednom dahu tuđine.
Velike ribe uvijek umiru nasukane na obali. Koraljni
greben se prelijeva u ustima mora.
Zaustavljaš pjesmu gluhih tenora svojim mučnim
čežnjama. One vežu drvorede anisa u savršena nebeska
Čovjek gradi hramove od krvi. Čovjek gradi hramove
od izgubljenih mesnatih žica sa kojih visi ovdašnja tajna.

Sestra je kartama isjekla ruke. Smrt. U njoj je nešto
nedovoljno živo uspjelo izvući posljednju nit iz kobaltnih
– Oko umornog tijela savijena je jedna osušena
stabljika. U njoj je nešto nedovoljno živo. Nešto je
uvijek nedovoljno živo. –
Grizeš prijetvornost ljudskih uspona u podzemnoj
grobnici istine. Perajom režeš ubrzanost mladih valova.
Čovjek gradi hramove od tvoje kose. Čovjek gradi
hramove od izgubljenih mesnatih žica sa kojih visi
ovdašnja tajna.

Iskopine na koži izbacuju vrelu razuzdanost oružja.
Na njemu žigovi iz prošlih ratova sumorno svjedoče
o razornoj pobjedi prirode.
Mjesto između kamenja i vode. Drhti. Svijet izumire
u tvojoj desnoj ruci i njenoj nezgrapnoj želji da dobro
bude jače od zla.
Tvoj odraz tiho i namršteno pada u hladnu bujicu.
Stežeš svoju nadu pod prstima, rušiš granice vlastitih
zabluda. Pobjeđuješ dobro u sebi.
Čovjek gradi hramove od tuđih razočarenja. Čovjek
gradi hramove od izgubljenih mesnatih žica sa kojih
visi ovdašnja tajna.

Sestra je za večeru pojela i boga i zmiju. Oštar je okus
smrti u hrapavom ždrijelu. Smrt.
U njoj je nešto nedovoljno živo uspjelo prirodu tvoje
naivnosti naučiti prvoj životnoj nepravdi.
– Oko tvog umornog tijela savijena je jedna osušena
stabljika. U njoj je nešto nedovoljno živo. Ti si nedovoljno
živa dok se ne sudariš s vlastitim rogovima. –
Čovjek gradi hramove od tvojih otkrivenja. Čovjek
gradi hramove od izgubljenih mesnatih žica sa kojih
visi ovdašnja tajna.


28. 5. 1968.

Poglavica je posadio perje u tvoju čeljust. Mudrost se
zalijeva tragedijom.
U ponoć si ukrala glas s jezika besmrtne sove. Riječi se
poigravaju sudbinama.
Nijemi prosjaci te kriomice stavljaju u džepove.
Utrkuješ se s njima na svih sedam brežuljaka.
Sadašnjost ne poznaje stoljetne ratove za pravo na
riječ. Oštrinu mačeva koji su zasijecali slogove na
zvučnim valovima grlene utrobe.

Na trgu čovjek zapinje za tvoj glas. Svijet. Svijet je
čovjek koji ucviljeno leži u kolijevci tvojih rečenica.
Štakori glođu kosti usklađenih metafora na kamenu.
Svi smo nekad željeli biti klin kojim udaraš po čvrstim
Vukovi razdiru placentu bajki. Oni uvijek neslavno
skončaju na kraju priče.
Opustošene su šume gradova u kojima se skrivamo
od zvijeri koje kandžama ljušte misli.

Moje riječi su staklo koje se lomi pod glasnim hukom
na mjesečini.
Na stubama pronalazim perje. Između sedam
brežuljaka, čovjek je sahranio san.
Svijet. Svijet je čovjek koji pod zemljom krije život
čekajući da ga crvi pretvore u zaborav.
Perjem iskopavaš leševe misli i od njih praviš savršen

Slušam perje koje u valovima dolazi k meni. Odjekuje
kroz uske hodnike. Čekam slijetanje u rukav sudbine.
Stoljetni ratovi još uvijek traju u nekom drugom
svemiru, u kom zvijezde gladno otvaraju kljunove i
traže milost poglavice.
Poglavica je posadio perje u tvoje grlo. U ponoć si
ukrala glas s jezika besmrtne sove.
Klinom rezbariš proročanstva na stijenama vječne
tišine. Njihova riječ nastaje u tebi.

Mihaela Šumić je rođena 1998. godine u Banjaluci. Završila je Opću gimnaziju Katoličkog školskog centra „Blaženi Ivan Merz”. Tokom 2012. godine pisala je poeziju i kolumne za meksički LUF magazin. Svoju poeziju, kao i prevode na engleskom, španskom, portugalskom i hrvatskom, do sada je objavljivala na nekoliko portala. Čitaocima se predstavila na festivalima književnosti „Imperativ” u Banjaluci i „Rukopisi” u Pančevu. Do sada je objavila zbirku pjesama „Nekoliko sitnih uboda”, za koju je dobila nagradu „Čučkova knjiga”, za najbolju prvu knjigu objavljenu u 2020. godini,  te zbirku priča „Herbarij svete smrti”, za koju je nagrađena regionalnom književnom nagradom „Štefica Cvek”. Zbirka poezije „Imenik Laure Carvalhoˮ njena je treća knjiga.


Amina Bulić, Podrhtavanja, Planjax, 2021.

Podrhtavanja Amine Bulić nesvakidašnje su zreo i ujednačen rukopis za prvu knjigu mladog autora. Knjiga je organizovana u osam simboličkih ciklusa: Jalovanja, Zviždanje, Stid, Pad u svijet, Neporaznost, Samice, Hram, Oslobođenje. U ovoj knjizi poezije sreću se široko poznavanje svjetske književnosti, historija, mit, poslijeratno iskustvo i tegoba savremenog svijeta. Ono što dominira ovom poezijom moglo bi se nazvati strahom od historije, suočavanje sa njenim najmračnijim prolazima i zastrašujuća, ledeno tamna mogućnost da se u njih ponovo može zaći.

Iako je motiv barbarstva mnogo puta pomenut u literaturi, ova poezija se usuđuje da sagleda ono postbarbarsko u savremenom svijetu, otvarajući stvarnost savremenog čovjeka kao onoga ko živi u razrušenom svijetu i ko je iznutra i sam razrušen od strane Barbara:

“U ruinama viševjekovnog grada

urušenog u sebe sama

lebde čestice prašine i baruta

i prebivaju slomljeni

duhovi onih koji su

vajali lik

tog zapretanog života.” (Odlazak Barbara)

Ono što čovjeka iznutra urušava moglo bi biti barbarsko u njemu samom. Poezijom iz knjige Podrhtavanje preovladava apokaliptična atmosfera, ali tako da se apokaliptično gradi kao konstanta. Ova poezija je zatočena između predapokaliptičnog i postapokaliptičnog, između dva simbolička rata, u stalnosti stradanja, mučnine i izvjesnosti strahote i tegobe u ljudskom i historijskom. Progovaranje istine propituje se kao nepostojeće:

“Proročišta su zamrla

Tiresijina usta

mauzolej su okopnjelih istina.” (Rađanje smrti)

Poezijom Amine Bulić preispituje se jalovost savremenog svijeta, stvarnost je jalovanje a svijet presahla zemlja. Jedan aspekt knjige predočava žensko iskustvo, što je vidljivo u ciklusu Samice ili pjesmi Jalovanja. Poezija koja bira ovakav poetski postupak, još od generacije južnoslovenskih autora okupljene oko Vaska Pope, na balkanskom prostoru rijetko se piše te najviše nalikuje nekim neosimbolističkim tendencijama i donekle poetici Hamze Hume. Kao takva, potpuno je nesvakidašnja za trenutne tendencije u bošnjačkoj i bosanskohercegovačkoj poeziji te su sve prilike da će ova knjiga krčiti neki novi, zaseban put.

Prethodni tekstovi autorice: Bijela dirka


Aleksandra Milisavljević


Čak i prilikom najbezazlenije svađe
govorio je samo da ona ne čuje.

Svaki put
čak i tokom najglasnijeg vrištanja u sebi
trudila se samo da oni ne primate.

Majke uvek u obzir uzimaju svu decu
Očevi su skloni favoritima.

Ili ipak ne? –
Oni od ćerki prave kraljice
kraljice od sinova grade kraljeve.

Iz hodnika naših oronulih dvorova
prinčevi i princeze čuju sve

i čude se

kako to pred njihovim očima

Aleksandra Milisavljević, rođena 1986. u Aleksandrovcu. Profesor i koordinator nastave za srpski jezik u Institutu za strane jezike u Beogradu, gde organizuje predavanja i radionice na razne lingvističke teme.


Amela Mustafić


Nikneš iz svoga ništa
u bašti svega nečijeg.

Ukrotiš vode
do putova natopljenih grla,
a ne znaš,
pluća su šira
što su usta manja.

Suh je zalogaj
kratkih ruku
i dugih koraka.

tuđi med je gorak
onoliko koliko je u tvojim ustima sladak.

Očisti brazde
da iz svega svoga
stvoriš ništa
i pustiš sjeme.


Ulica Ferhadija
prema kraju zapada
i početku istoka.

Zrak hladnoće
stvara puteve do mjesta
na kojem je Ciceron govorio.

Vijekovima poslije
u u’orano zemljište
usijana je sjemenka
iz kojeg će izrasti biljka.

Priroda se obnavlja.
Prodavači soka od nara
na dublje čitanje
ruku sa kojih curi krvno crvenilo
rađajući djecu.

Sebe spoznaš
kad sve što jesi
u gutljaju jednom popiješ.

Savršeni krug.


Izbaci te daljine
iz sebe
od sebe.

Razastri nebu krovove
ispuši težinu,
pusti dušu da se
od kože.

Pojedi mrak kad ti guta

Ne traži izvan sebe
sebi mostove,


sebe u sebi
sa sobom u masi.
Jednom se zatvaraju oči.

Rođena je u Srebrenici 1994. godine. Diplomirala i magistrirala na Filozofskom fakultetu u Sarajevu, Odsjek za književnosti naroda Bosne i Hercegovine i bosanski, hrvatski i srpski jezik. Objavila je knjige poezije “Umiranje djetinjstva” i “Umiranje imena”.
Poezija joj je prevođena na engleski, italijanski, makedonski i romski jezik, a stihovi su joj prisutni u dokumentarnom filmu „Oživjeli“, te u Pravopisu bosanskoga jezika. Zastupljena je u književnim časopisima, zbornicima i antologijama.


Ernad Dedović


Žena za voljenje
nosi ceger
u cegeru rasuti snovi
dugi prsti u džepovima
sviraju Handela dok
vrhovi noktiju grebu
po mislima
U očima dišu ruže,
kad joj se ćefne
čita Garciu i pleše.
Staložena, ukotvljena u zenu,
ne lupeta gluposti,
i duboko posađena u svoja


Živimo u strahovima zbog onih koji će doći,
znamo da su to oni
koji se vraćaju
po svoje.


Sve se više vezujem za sebe
I čekam savršen trenutak
da se napustim.


sjene su slijepe
pa nas prate
držeći se za našu dušu

a izgube se kao dijete
kada pogled načas
sa njih skloniš

Ernad Dedović rođen je 1996. godine u Bietigheim-Bissingenu u Njemačkoj. Živi u Brčkom. Autor je knjiga poezije “Savršenstvo tame”, “Beskonačna misao” i “Kult ljubavi”.


Haris Zekić


U crnim hronikama hronično oboljela slova
i kaputi drumskih razbojnika kašlju
na potrošena rebra

I ti me pitaš zašto sam mrzovoljan
i zašto mi smetaju šećerasti oblaci
u grudima kurvi koje bih najradije zagrlio
kako to da ljudske oči vide sve
osim očiglednog

Na ulici razulareni kišobrani pod njima fašisti
Opelo moralu i mrlja na licu Božijem
Ubjeđuju svjetinu u tog istog Boga
Zvona zvone
nož silazi niz grkljan
kao rudar u zamagljeno okno

I ti me pitaš zašto bezbožno psujem
i uši ti punim odjecima guščijeg kričanja
Pitaš me zašto raspamećeno preturam
po svojoj utrobi i pitam se kako sam sve to svario
umrijeću od ovako lagodnog života

Zemlja se razboljela od grobova
Povraća iznova
Brda i planine pjevaju pjesme o dolinama
sisate djevice sjedaju vrhovnom svješteniku
U krilo
A ti me pitaš zašto volim rakiju
Zašto punim revolver
Zašto mi se vratne žile napinju
Kao prepuno kravlje vime

Gradovi hladni kao januar
Bezdušno logoruju u mom dušniku
Ne prepoznajem lice moje prelijepe domovine
Prijatelje vidim tek probuđene u mom snu
Koji se zapetljava kao sunce u vinovu lozu

Kuda sam nestao
Znaće daktilografi i hroničari
i rubrika kao portret
kao san
kao mir


Nemoj da me crniš
u bijelo platno Hristovo tijelo
odmotava moj moral i svijetli ko zvijezda
Ako mniješ ostat živ
nemoj o običnim ljudima i fudbalu
ko s kijem liježe i ko iz groba ustaje
da dovrši flašu pelinkovca

Nemoj da moram slušat o običnim stvarima
formalucijama koje postaju formule
povraća mi se od stvari koje ljudi gutaju.

Ako misliš da si pametan
zato što ponešto znaš o Velikom prasku
reci mi je li skuplja kanta baruta ili litar tišine
univerzalne mjere su Jeste i Nije.

Ako misliš ostat živ
ne zbori o zborovima i saborima
mudrost je dijete samoće i loš prijatelj ljudi
i ne mogu da ocijenim od kojeg mi je više muka
Zapali cigaru i izuj cipele
čovjeku lakne kad se izuje
umorni su puti i neputi
a koračat se mora sve dok se ne legne.

Jesi li ikad zamislio svijet o kojem je govorio Lajbnic
Najbolji od svih mogućih svjetova?
Uzmeš li doslovno najebo si
a i u suprotnom bi se napatio
ali bi bilo lijepo da ga ima i da to ovaj svijet jeste
Ako nisi voljeo izbjegavaj da pričaš o ljubavi
računam da je tako logično
Ako misliš ostat živ
misli da bi ostao živ.


Sve je manje vremena
Za ideje i ostvarenja
Puteve i mostove
Drvorede i klupe
U vazduhu
Postalo je iscrpljujuće
Čekati na pravu stvar
Planeta rotira
A vrijeme je vezano
Za propadljivu materiju
Sve je manje vremena
Za pokajanje
Prave Drine su besmislene
Sve je manje vremena
Za čekanje sa lijepim ishodom
Što više ideš naprijed
Više se okrećeš ka unazad
Sve je manje vremena
Za oreol Spasitelja
Kad spas dođe neće imati ko
Da ga dočeka
Sve je manje vremena da shvatimo
Da je sve manje vremena

Haris Zekić rođen je 1990 u Rožajama, u Crnoj Gori. Autor je nekoliko zbirki pjesama i romana Mrtvi čvorovi. Završio je Filozofski fakultet u Tuzli. Objavljuje poeziju u časopisima u Crnoj Gori i inostranstvu; zastupljen je u antologijama.


Gorica Radmilović

Jutarnje naravoučenije

Razmisli šta to znači da si
uz dobru nameru ustala iz kreveta
rutinski uradila naravoučenije
išla sa jutrom obešenim o kuk
kao malo dete koje traži, i traži,
ne nađe, ali dobije.

Malo si sela na ivicu sunca
topla tečnost ti klizi preko uboda.

Novo postavljanje stola.
Ništa na svom mestu
pa opet posluži
polako se navikavaš na još jedan isti ručak
morske igle ti se zabadaju
i poput visokih potpetica nose te dalje, lepše.

More je negde, ali ne daleko i
misliš kako je njemu teže kako je drugom lakše.

Tamo, stari prozori gledaju u biljke koje
se osećaju samo usred leta,
a ti si tada odavno na drugom mestu –
u kosi pronalaziš
značenje jutra.

Početak rođenog dana

Danas je bio dan za zapaliti sveće
odgristi fitilj,
oguliti kamen (umesto kolena)
popiti more – ovako ili onako.
Ali danas se seli
u stare konobe ili
na more gde svetle ribe.

Danas je duša ostavljena u temelju
između drugog i trećeg sprata gde


Sutra se mreža drži oko vrata
a ne oko nogu.
Pliva se između rebara, ključno, prsno.
Sutra se krvna slika razlaže na talase
u mračnim komorama.

Danas je dan za posaditi cveće i sveće
da se prime u kamenu
i plamen, i koren i

Na jednoj maloj čudnoj uvali mora

ono što smo bili,
dok drugi gledaju
ono što jesmo.
I jedno i drugo pere more.

A ima i jedna mala čudna ravnica
gde se dolazi bez pitanja
gde raste korov kojim se hrane
i neko čudno bilje koje
miriše na leto i
male bele ptice.
I jedno i drugo pere znoj.

Ima jedna mala čudna neravnina
odakle potičemo.
Tu voda kruni kamen
pa se on oblikuje kako vodi prija.
To je ta različitost u moći:
neko udara, neko (se) oblikuje.

Ima jedna mala čudna uvala
gde se sastaju more i (ne)ravnice
gde mladost glođe svoju kosu
i ispljune potomke.
Na kamenu raste cvet preko kojeg
neko pređe
i okonča.

RADMILOVIĆ, Gorica (1992). Diplomirala i masterilala na Filozofskom fakultetu u Novom Sadu, na Odseku za srpsku književnost i jezik. Zaposlena kao stručni saradnik na projektu Leksikon pisaca srpske književnosti u Matici srpskoj. Piše poeziju, prozu, pozorišnu kritiku i naučne radove. Objavila knjigu poezije pod naslovom Striži masku, konak nemaš (2017). Priredila: Pavle Solarić, Ulog uma čelovečeskoga (1808) (sa Milenom Zorić), Novi Sad 2019; Jovan Ljuštanović, Pozorište kroz zečje uši, Novi Sad 2021.


Julia Wong Kcomt


For Wata, in memoriam

Peru dies.
Like garlic bulbs
this whim of blouses
cut so masterfully.
The iron windows.
The paint staining my ovaries.

Sushi is now the language
of the people
and my mighty noodles
wait in a forgotten pot.

Papá told me to detest the Japanese
like everyone says to hate Chileans.
But with so much love,
I find no difference
between the cherry tree, the sakura, the lotus flower, and the olive bush:
In the Atacama, Christ sifts
through red grape seeds.

Peru dies, Wata,
and all I remember is what you said about my aunt:
“She was hot, your aunt Carmen,
she didn’t look Chinese.”
I smiled unoffended, because in Peru nobody
looks like anything.

There was a chifa restaurant.

You ate wonton soup
with your Chinese friends,
and as we searched for an emblem
to overcome the centimeter and a half of
difference in our eyelids,
a red rooster
loosed a sound louder than nothingness.

Our Peru is dying.
The rooster will sing again when the stone flies.


I was waiting for our strange love, for you to tuck scales in your pockets,
and slit my indigos with scalpels.
A surgeon of doubt is a good man, I’ve lied:
I never wanted a family, or a house.
I longed, a little, for a dialogue with the unknown,
I would like for you to perform amputations
on the corner of desperation,
for you to slay the faun spying on us, here
between rooted moons and salads of hypnotized
The bottle of Cusqueña is unchilled and will not inebriate.
Fear in every step draws me toward your voice.
your voice exists, here,
in the damp garden of wireless valleys.
I bump into clouds, couches, the Chinese chest that survived shipwreck
and the invasion of Nanjing.
No embroidered skirts, or limes that bleed.
Argentine masks hide their devotion to the black spirits of the sea.
00000The moth-eaten blouse of a father opening and closing his mouth like a frog,
old now, blind now, and thus loving…
His finger pointing.
An ear of corn brought from Cajamarca, desiccated.
What neverending vice makes you master of our fear?
Turn the lever and descend till you take pity on my fright.
Do not attempt to shuck the absurd flower of my doubts about the Fatherland.
We’ll celebrate over the graves, you’ll see,
that death brings sadness is another lie.
It’s just a matter of adjusting.
Spectating, a task that goes hand in hand with your eloquence
The rectangular voice of a TV reporter bakes petals and sprigs into stone,
to seduce children with no serpents or bumper cars.
You are a gilded man full of fear.
We crank the gramophone and pay to watch you cry.


“And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire.
The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon”

(Laertes to Ophelia)


There, dead, lie I beneath the wheels/ no one could clench a doubt against you.
Me, poor, brown, coal for your skin/ You, the kingdom’s raptor.
Me daughter of the commoners’ ossuary, on Calle Guadalupe,
River of Emotion I have been/ You, mighty Eagle, king of North America.
You cry for me, you say?
Who’s to believe your bald calumny?
You love all the precious false doves that plunge down at your feet.
Me: black lily of the desert.
We had a daughter.

You knew, when you reached the throne
you’d need to invent ghosts.
Circus of and for jackal gods.
Suicide, madness,
a shove brittling in appearance…
I’ve come undone and why matters to no one.
The king seeks his crown on the asphalt. Me,
I ought to go down to the bottom of the sun.
Without my shadow/ you, denuded of me,
decorated in shields and poisoned swords.
Red wine with notes of expiration.
You, my immortal victim, my bona fide galaxy, kingly tear.
Me, beneath the wheels.

Translated by Jennifer Shyue

Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro

JULIA WONG KCOMT was born into a tusán (Chinese Peruvian) family in Chepén, Peru, in 1965. She traveled from an early age, and her perceptions of country borders, different cultures, and diversity in ethnicity and religion became a strong motivation to write. She is the author of 16 volumes of poetry, including Un salmón ciego (Borrador Editores) and 18 poemas de fake love para Keanu Reeves (Cascada de Palabras); five books of fiction; and two collections of hybrid prose. She currently lives between Lima and Lisbon.