Instant
To my Dule
Together we grew up
I often dream of his loneliness
Sometimes I call him in my dreams
I write him letters
I wait for his answer
When I close my eyes his face is
Right under the eyelids
Whiter than white
Luller then the sound of a stray in
The time of growing up
When I was only seemingly small
In a large area
In front of the wall behind which he disappeared
He taught me how to watch
Everlasting movement of transience
Once we were together with it
Waited for dawn
The dawn breathed our memory
It’s smile ended in
The air
Among the trees of pruned pictures
Dreams do not testify on hold
To the rules of their lives
Oblivion masters
Maybe the secret is in the silence of poetry I
Have chosen for his eternal home
Writing Table
On the writing
Table
The board of the
Non-matter
Shelf without
books
The white photo of
The white
Wall
In the hands of
A writer
The writer’s hand
Without
Pencil
We should ask ourselves for the
Reason
Autumn
Wind hastily throws trash
Dead leaves turned into the mud
Blurred view slides down
Dilapidated facade
Cloudy vault encourages insomnia
In the picture reluctantly face of a poet
Above the postponed keyboard of
Computer
Cigarette smoke bends
Irregular circles
In the sky illegible handwriting of
Abandoned tracks from various
History doubts
A downcast breath
Dissatisfied with breathing rhythm
Seemingly in deep water
Autumn
Hides
Fugitive
He does not know where he is
Barking of the chain of persecutor
Humbly dirty hands into
Pirate’s soup
The invincible virus of greed
In front of the face of a concerned God
Breathes a small world
Chief accountants seek and
subtract all
From dawn to dusk for
The impossible track of
The Fugitive
With loud voices
They can not hear themselves among concealers and swines
Which always grunt
Miserably
Someone badly slandered man
Having dinner with the fugitive
To greedy pirates
God says concerned
Gumilyov
A terrible story is that
When they kill you
When self-hanged you kneel beside a
cesspits
In the dark side of town, in a dark suit
Even more terrifying is
When still an unborn central
committee
proclaims you innocent (alive)
when they translate, quote, advertise
sale you
The most frightening is shot in the back
and that in the back of the neck
so you can not see friend
a reader
great yesterday that today so little trials you and
shoots from behind
by poem title
A terrible story is that
Through space
when you are gone
When you can not finish the poem
(For this poem titled Gumilyov, that inspirational
associated with the tragic fate of the great Russian poet Nikolai Gumiljov,
Zoran M. Mandic in 1988 won Vukovi lastari, which he was formally awarded
in Trsic in the maintenance of Vuk's Assembly.)
Translated
by
Danielle Trajkovic
Zoran M. Mandic was born in 1950, in Vladicin Han,
Serbia. He is a poet, prose writer, essayist, literary and art critic, editor,
writer, journalist and lawyer. Untill now he has published about 25 books
and received fifteen major awards. He has been a jury member at twenty
literary prizes and his work have been translated into several languages.
Poetry, fiction, essays, literary and art criticism have so far been published
in over 60 newspapers and magazines in the country and abroad. As a journalist,
collaborates with numerous newspapers, as well as several radio and television
centers, and his many social activities were concentrated only to culture and
IT. Thus, eg. was a trustee of the Apatin in SCTM (Standing Conference of Towns
and Municipalities). Zoran M. Mandic is a member of AICIL in Paris (European
Association of Literary Critics), Serbian Writers Association, the Writers
Association of Vojvodina, Serbian Association of Journalists and the
International Organization of Journalists.
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