Translated by Zoran Ancevski.
Why didn’t they let me change the room
and make me feel better,
now that even the critics are allowed to change their views
and earn more space in the magazines?
They all went for large and bright rooms
with evidently functional furniture,
and I didn’t even complain about the only one new, but hard armchair,
no trace of the second one, though there should’ve been a pair,
just like literature is inseparable from the science about it.
Why was I not standard guest when choosing the bed,
and was so resolute in my desire to experiment?
Literature needs fresh love masks for modeling:
a water-bed, an exotic partner with different skin color, faith,
an unexpected adventure…
But not much depended on, I thought, what view the window had,
everything depended on where and who she’d look at
and who she’d recognize.
“Each room has a mirror”, so I hope mine would have one too,
for it shouldn’t, by any means, be an exception to the rule.
Why does my head look like a syntagmatic axis
though it is laid softly on the pillow,
and becomes a hypertext when it sinks in deep sleep?
Shouldn’t they have let me change my room?
I Wanted To Write
Translated by Jovana Stojkovska
I wanted to write you a poem –
to strip you of all the metaphors, metonyms and epithets,
so that you be the naked truth,
official and recognized by the authorities
as a conclusive proof in self-defence
I wanted to write you a message
to describe you descending towards me
with a collected look,
without looking round
in case you’re being followed by anyone
untamable or indecent
I wanted to write you an e-mail,
to arise in your virtual tenderness,
and spend the ’ntire night lonesome in front of a running monitor –
so that my eyes don’t burn out in the dark –
before they get to see you in person
after a longer while
I wanted to write you a letter,
to reward you with mercy
so that you have it in reserve or in surplus
whenever you forget to smile
I wanted to write but I’ve changed the plan.
So I further continue to want.
Making love after drunken night
Translated by Ana Lazarova Nikovska
We’ll be washing our teeth early on
And we’ll be standing long before the mirror with foam in our mouth
We’ll taste our own embarrassment
You will merely ask me early on where you have put your watch
And I'll ask you
To turn on the radio, speaker of the morning news
That will inform us about the thousands of students
That had left home for the holiday
And she’ll tactically say nothing about our last night in the modern boarding school
Early on we’ll feel
Very abandoned and we’ll come outside
At the noisy streets
Searching through our pockets
While we seek out the lost time
And the valid passenger ticket
The wind will blow empty – handed
As unemployed postman
And joyfully will blow away
Crinkled card with hastily written unnecessary address
And so it will be so uncomfortable
To split apart with you
And to rely on
The cold window
In the bus
And to keep silent
Nonetheless we talk a lot now
All sorts of confessions are passing through our throat
Just as easy as drinking cups,
So that our words can be perfectly
And we’ll fly somewhere up
With no sense that
Hence we’re creating the new man
Tendernesses WITHOUT WARRANTY SHEET
Translated by Ana Lazarova Nikovska
To those that for the people
People usually behave badly.
Each and every revolution eats its children, but firstly
It will well – feed them.
At the same time as the automobile, the marriage corrodes as well.
Whoever has luck at cards,
Will lose nothing
Well at least while divorcing.
With the spread of feminism
Even the muses incline more to the authoress than
To the authors.
Very often we agree
About what will be tomorrow,
And then we disagree
About what it was yesterday.
In moments of weakness
"I'll eat you out of love" –
And we immediately lay a criminal act at our door.
The gap is growing.
Tendernesses are being sold
Without any warranty sheet.
END OF THE SECRET
I am Macedonian folklore lover
Over there one awaits – even to the grave.
I will wait for you 100 years
And each day shall be June
And you shall watch out
The others to fall asleep
Ahead of us
So that you can tell me
About your own sons, and me to you about my daughters
And about the two Persian cats with big furry tails
I will wait for you 100 years,
But not any longer than that.
Entirely wet on the mattress
Lies the dreamed woman
By the alarm clock
I throw away your
Already really last
Once I were sitting on the same table with a true surrealist
He were telling me
About the voice of the blood
About the reflections of the wind
About the agitated muses
About the stones that burn
At the same time his eyes were closed
And breathed rapidly
I listened to him carefully
Without blinking my eyes
And in spite of the fact that
He made my flesh crawled
The first academic class
You have to start all over again,
From the beginning:
To overvalue the book of knowledge
And to acknowledge:
Hard work is the price
We must pay for success.
NO MORE CENSORSHIP
No, my love,
I will not put on a condom.
Night, telephone exchange, the moon is fading away.
Are sleeping on their toes in the ambulance.
Before I read the poem at the festival they warned me that
Here one can become a star. In no doubt, post festum.
Several performances, I thought, so that one can create even a sky,
Adorned with stars. Constellation that shimmers.
That’s right: applause from the audience will carry you away,
It will inspire you (expression of time, right?!)
It will raise you up to the pedestal. Then you’ll charge tickets with consumption
(Or wine tasting) in your sky.
It wouldn’t be just whichever event for the others,
You’ll become a privileged individual with mystic character.
Suspicious one for the higher authorities, one of the chosen few.
Because even the sky (honestly) is a mystery,
Unprecedented miracle. Quick escape, filled with risks.
Returning to the stage of our acne.
Before leaving the sky you’ll return the ticket to the smile.
Revenge lies at the bottom of the wine glass – tit for tat.