"serbian" poems
Remember, The Olympics
Not for Politics, but sport
Leaders of so many countries
Choose to use this to distort
The reason all are gathered
To present their efforts best
Not just for Queen or Country
But to continue with their quest
To achieve a brand new standard
A true Olympian at heart
It's time for the worlds people
To come together, do their part
We all cheer for our countries
But we should put them on the shelves
For the next two weeks in London
Cheer on the athletes, themselves
Today I am Canadian
Tomorrow maybe, Dutch
American and English
And French...well not so much
Albanian, Croatian
Serbian as well
I will cheer all the worlds athletes
And I will be the first one who will yell
When a record does get broken
Or a personal best is set
If a time gets smashed in swimming
Or a ball goes in the net
My country is my favourite
But, whichever flag's unfurled
For the next two weeks in London
I am a citizen of the world
I will sit here on my sofa
Acting like I'm on the bench
and I'll cheer on all the athletes
But...I won't cheer for the French!!
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 8:04 AM UTC
The man to my right was more than eight feet away. I was going to have to move closer to him to catch my limit of four trout. I halved the distance between the two of us and noted the sideways glance he shot me. I apologized immediately and asked if I was crowding him.
“No, you fine,” he replied within a thick Serbian accent.
“You’re with them?” I asked, pointing to the crowd of people on the bridge some 30 feet upstream from us. I had heard the crowd of eastern Europeans talking earlier, and their accents were unmistakable to me. He nodded and we continued fishing.
With my new angle I was better able to pick my fish in the water, so that’s what I did. I spied one and tossed my jig toward him. It took five casts but eventually, he took the bait. As I netted it in the swift, ice-cold spring water the man beside me congratulated me on the catch. I thanked him and added it to my stringer. This made three, and I only needed one more.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Ivan”.
“Have you been in the states long?” I asked, after the pause following his short reply seemed to invite more questions.
“Since ‘96, my family live here. It is good.”
“You like living here?” I wondered aloud.
“Yes, the fishing is good. It is like back home in Serbia, or in Germany. We have this fishing there.”
“You mean trout?”
“Yes, trout...and some other fish like these, in water like this, but I can’t go home now.” He looked away momentarily. His lips pursed, and his brow furrowed. I pulled my line in, wanting to ask him more and not wanting to be distracted.
“Were you in the war?”
“Yes, I was in the Serbian police force.” My heart pounded. “When I was in the Serbian police force, we did what you see on the news. We went into villages and we killed them. We killed them all.”
I cast my line back into the water, spying another trout. Ivan shrugged and cast his own line. I couldn’t tell what he was using but it looked like cheese of some kind. “I was drafted in Serb police when I was 15. I had no choice. If I refuse, they **** me. I did what I had to do.” I nodded, and ****** my line, missing a fish. “Before the war, I fished. After the war, there were not so many people, so fishing was very good.”
The air around me was alive. The trees were greener, the water was colder and clearer, the sun was brighter, and the sky was bluer.
“I’ve been fishing for a long time as well,” I responded. My father used to bring me here as a child. He nodded and continued.
“After the war, all the fish come back, no one fished during the war, so there were many of them. You just had to be careful of the mines.” He grunted and gazed skyward.
“The mines?”
“Yes, during the war they mined the water.”
I watched trout number four take my jig and I carefully reeled him in. Ivan congratulated me a second time, and I thanked him in return.
“You’re a good fisherman,” he said turning back to his own pursuit of the four-trout limit, as I left the water to clean my catch.
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
I am ashamed that I am Spanish because of Franco
I am ashamed that I am French because of Algeria
I am ashamed that I am Algerian because of France
I am ashamed that I am American because of Bush, Iraq
and the bloodshed once among brothers
I am ashamed that I am Russian because of Stalin, Gulag
and recently of this and that
I am ashamed that I am German because of ****** clearly
(Pol *** appears more and more seldom in the lists, but one is horrified, humanly ashamed, remembering)
I am ashamed that I am English because of football etc
I am ashamed that I am Polish — only when I am not proud
I am ashamed that I am Turkish, but then there are Kurds...
I am ashamed that I am Czech and allowed myself to be stifled
(I am just as ashamed myself — some say, who feel
shame in its extremity and hide weapons in pantries, waiting for that moment
in which they wash away their shame with the blood of traditional enemies)
I am ashamed that I am Orthodox or Catholic and I wedge and split
the mountain on which Jesus bled — before others made even smaller
pieces out of his Golgotha below
I am ashamed that I am Indian because... well, it’s no matter
I am ashamed that being Macedonian I let the Greeks be even more
I am ashamed that I am Korean and one of Kim Ir Sen’s
I am ashamed that I am Korean no matter where, as long as
Kim Ir Sen’s Koreans remain
I am ashamed that I am Serbian, but... let me think
I am ashamed that I am Chinese because: ‘You’re Chinese?’
I am ashamed that I am Romanian because of Ceausescu, Dracula of course
and now, God, all these Romanians all over the world...
I am ashamed of my nation even when I am not ashamed
— but each of us seeks to forget something
I am ashamed because .......... [Everyone: fill in the blanks, write yours here!]
but you, but you — you, only you
you, whose nation filled the desolate earth with life and kindness
you are the man who begins the new day
today
with your first step
Ioana Ieronim
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
“Jurt,” she
curtly spurts out
and stops
not knowing if
she’s going to
continue to
speak unknown tongues
or if
this emanation, this
interjection,
spoken on strange
impulse,
is Icelandic
or Bosnian
or Serbian,
and if
the middle one
how not the last,
when they both mean
the same thing, yurt.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 7:43 AM UTC
leather of codes
child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets
echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed
there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice
but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been
his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen
my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair
his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer
he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music
he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more
this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken ******* may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments
I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want
his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father
that I might be coddled beyond redemption my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense
I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take
he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been
he wears a leather of codes I can never remember
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
I wake her for the Sun that explains itself though plants
For the sky stretched between fingers
I wake her for words which burn the throat
I love her with my ears
One should go to the ends of Earth and find the dew on the grass
I wake her for some distant things
That look alike the ones
Here
For the people with no face nor name passing down the street
For the anonymous words of squares I wake her for the
Manufactured landscapes of public parks
I wake her for this planet of ours that might become a mine in the bleeding sky
I wake her for the smiles in the stone of comarades that fell asleep
Between two battles
When sky was no longer a big birdcage but
An airport
My love full of others is a part of dawn
I wake her for the dawn, for love, for myself, for others,
I wake her, even if it is more in vain than to call a bird
That landed forever
She must have said: let him look for me and see that I am gone
That woman with the hands of child that I love
That child fallen asleep with tears still not wiped, which I wake
In vain, in vain, in vain
In vain I wake her
For she will wake up different and new
In vain I wake her
For her mouth will not be able to tell
In vain I wake her
You know the water runs through but says nothing
In vain I wake her
A lost name should be promised to someone's face in sand
If it's not so cut off my arms and turn me into a stone.
Written by Branko Miljkovic
Iconic Serbian poet, one of the leaders of Neo Symbolist movement
This translation was provided by A. Milanovic
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 5:14 PM UTC
Oh, brave new world,
What the **** is this
Phenomenal metamorphosis?
I was cocooned by Kafka in Prague
Drank too much absinthe
Shocked by Tesla in Budapest
Shot by Serbian snipers in the rabbit hole
Saved by Jesus in Rome
Had a hell of a time with heathens on a party bus
Walked the rim of Vesuvius
Met a gypsy princess
Came home to mama's basement
Finished reading The Names by Don Delillo
Went back down to Florida
Where I lived with grandma in Spring Hill
Fell deep for a siren
An angel who saved my life
Had a nasty fever dream
Hell broke loose and I wrecked my car
Flew back to Los Angeles
Went to church and prayed
Stayed and worked for the family business
Explored Hubbard's cult, smoked *** and played
Too many sins to mention
I must confess the motherlode
No human here is much like God
How sad it is to know I'm in control
A butterfly pinned down in hell
You can reflect your face or soul
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
i.
Into twlight, Shadow's of monster's, men's piercing sight's
As they stareth at mine queen, dog's, hopeful dreamer's, dream's;
Tis, cometh to find out these verily aren't men, they were aloviti being's, their breath was poisonous as an asp, teeth as glass.
ii.
Tis these brute's couldst not be killed by arrow, nor gun's, unless silver and gold were used; They brought a thunderstorm and hail over me and mine beloved's head, they clinched their lip's, their nail's ripped through the roaring of the darkness around instead.
iii.
Mine Earl Jane Nagley held me closely, as tis these barbarian's were untamed and ghostly; I pulled out mine secret hidden choice, An Aesculapian snake to giveth a bang taste to these to these unholy ale's, I used that silver and gold to cut off their tail's.
iv.
Whilst the thunderstorm's and hail dissolved into thin air
Mine reyna and queen hugged me and screamed, cheerfully;
She saidst to me she loved me, tis now she was free, from pain and from anguish, I saved her again from the devil's advantage.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
in a Serbian hospital ward
the dingy overheads blink in and out of existence
i wished i were dead
bedside, my mother weeps
saddened by what remains of her boy
what doctors had been able to save
my eyes weigh heavy
the morphine they have me on is strong
stronger still is the pain
radiating, like heat off the hearth
and the woe from my brothers
interred in the earth
you can live
to still die
you can live, dead
but no horrors can you see greater
than the ones in men's heads
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 2:16 AM UTC
Half way up the hills
and eclectic group gather
at a narrow bar.
Leather jackets
occupy seats
by the door.
We sit
for a cigarette length of time
(cigarette length of time =
1 x 10 minutes
+ ≥ 10 minutes before
and/or after cigarette)
and walk
the dimly lit corridor
to the bar.
We sit
at a table for two
against a wall.
The band plays fiercely.
I've seen them before.
Their moxie
always brings
a rowdy crowd.
Behind them
apple crates
cling to the wall,
housing quirky decor.
Books, globes and vintage cameras.
A projector casts
lollipop swirls
and a singing silhouette.
Drink specials:
tequila mockingbird
I spoke to a Serbian girl I know.
She always wears glitter
and hazy eyes.
The more questions
I ask her
the longer I can listen
to her accent.
We spoke about the age old
nature vs nurture enigma,
and the life long impact
of a child's first six years.
She asked me
about my art.
It seems
that's all anyone
knows me for.
Outside, again, we sit.
For 5 x cigarette length of time.
Around me
people talk...
and talk.....
talk....
ta...
l...
k.
I'm sober.
Too **** sober.
My daydreams are broken
by a man.
He's bubbly and smiles a lot.
I like bubbly, smiley strangers.
We exchange stories
of our current lives.
He's a graphic designer,
and tells me
I should merge my art
and writing
into film,
and gifts me a flashlight.
I like quirky, bubbly, smiley strangers.
I'm left to retreat
back into my own thoughts.
It's less lonely in there.
I sort through memories,
recite lyrics,
observe the people around me
and watch them closely.
Their body language,
the way they bring
their glass to their mouth
and blow their smoke.
People interest me most
doing nothing in particular.
But I miss something,
and I can't quite pinpoint what.
I'm sober.
Too.
****
Sober.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
Nem élhetek, se nem pusztulnak tovább
(I CANNOT LIVE NOR DIE ANY LONGER)
For Miklós Radnóti
I build this
bridge of words
so that I can
walk back over time
and take
your hand
you to me
this man
made only of words
talking out of a book
and I only able
to touch you
with these
used words
of mine
I clasp your hand
in mine
call you friend
***
Miklós Radnóti, the Hungarian poet, was shot by guards after a forced march from a Serbian labour camp in 1944 and thrown into a mass grave. When his body was later exhumed, a notebook of poems was found sewn into his clothing so even from beyond this lonely grave his words insisted on living.
"Don't walk past me, friend. Yell, and I'll stand up again!"
I reach out my hand made of words and touch your words that still make you a man.
May 9, 2023
May 9, 2023 at 6:29 AM UTC
This
Is
Ragnarok
The violent end of worlds you’re pagan ancestors feared
Watch as the strikes from Thor steal your comrades from you
No Valkyries to guide you
No Valhalla to welcome you
Ankle deep in mud and rats and **** you load your rifle begging the God you believe in that you won’t have to **** another man
How did you find yourself here?
An Englishman fighting Germans in France
Because a Serbian killed an Austrian in Bosnia
Or an Italian, 43 years after your country was unified
Or a Serbian, longing to free your countrymen from Austro-Hungarian oppression
Or maybe your a Russian, a Frenchman, a Turk
Hear the whistle blow
Now is your time to storm from the trenches into razor wire and the the hail of bullets
You will likely be slaughtered
Like the 40,000 French soldier during one week of the war
This is a tragedy
But this is also a holy experience
Like for T E Lawrence
Fighting for a cause he never thought he would believe in
Or Ernst Jünger
Surviving bullet after bullet
Endless bombardments
This is the heroes journey
Do not let your children’s children take away from your sacrifice
When they say you died for nothing
You believed in your nation and you believed in yourself
Do not let them take that away from you
You who returned home and were ignored if not simply forgotten
Who returned home missing limbs, missing homes, missing loved ones
You who were traumatized shell shocked
Who could not return home
Who returned to what was supposed to be home
But life went on without you
So you found those who fought with you
From your bonds you formed brotherhoods
Formed paramilitaries
But that all comes later
Right now you look death in the eyes and can’t help but laugh
Laugh to keep yourself from crying
Laugh because you have never felt more alive than in this moment and never will again
And in this moment you can’t help but cry out
AVANTI
ARDITI
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 10:14 PM UTC
and indeed sometimes, from the heights
of frenzy i descend into a sober shortening -
i want, no, beyond wanting - i write poetry
with such quantum arithmetic so haphazardly
arranged... you’d think world war I
was about to begin...
the whirlpool with the serbian assassin,
the poker & blackjack of exchanging allegiances,
the sudden outburst of tanks on a conveyor belt,
the quickened rearing of horses,
extracting iron from soap and chocolate even,
collecting all the rats of london as carriers of
greater misdeeds than even the bubonic plague (t/n/t
strapped on their backs)...
the memory of the scent of a chemistry lab
with rock sulphur as if reminiscent of the vapour mustard
where the hydrogen attaching itself to oxygen
unbound the poisons of sulphur & chlorine;
but as they say... there's a method to this madness.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
Of Anchor babes he cries foul
but it seems an empty howl.
Just look at HIS life
A Serbian “Anchor” wife!
Plus a Russian first spouse
what a hypocritical louse.
And He reveres Vladimir
why, He holds him so dear.
His claims of innocence belie
perhaps HE’S the Russian spy.
Give Donny the code?
not well does that bode -
He’ll repopulate the earth
using his daughter with mirth!
Heaven forbid we elect this toad
for our fair States it’s the wrong road.
He’ll be busy building a wall
while the crazed shooter's at the mall.
With this whacko in charge
and his cabinet at large
All we’ve worked for is gone
while the lemmings follow the “Don”
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
life is but a cruel game
where we live each moment
always missing someone
I talked to a Serbian man
at the bus stop going home
told him my mom died
on the solstice this year
the longest night that never
would become day for her
he said his died when he was 50
that he wept like a child then
tears formed in his pale eyes
though this game seems unfair
that no one close to us remains
we only borrow one another
life is not a game played for keeps
we exchange time for experience
and life itself for memories
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
I drank too much wine
the evening before
trying to chat up
one of the Serbian
waitresses
in the restaurant
at the hotel.
The morning came
and I was out of salts.
Serves you right
Abela said
chatting up that girl
she only understands
enough English
to get the orders
and say thank you
and such.
Not so loud
I said
my head is fragile.
Abela was unsmiling
I'd slept on the sofa
while she slept
in the big bed.
I just couldn't face
being in bed with her
feeling as I did.
You missed
great ***
last night
she said
I could have made it
a twosome.
Sorry about that
I mumbled.
I'm going
on the tour
you can stay here
she said moodily.
Sure enjoy
I said.
Someone
was drumming
inside my head.
She looked at me
then came and kissed
my forehead.
Hope you feel better
when I am back
she said
and looking at herself
in the dressing table mirror
went out the door
and closed it
with a click.
I lay there
on the sofa
feeling a big yuk
and sick.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
you dressed me all in
white which is nice because never
before did i have a
color.
it was a crash, a caught-you, your
serbian moon settled over
me like a cloak like
dust like space-time
fabric and your
foam bubbled to my
skin in the adriatic
sea. i am a mosaic
of shattered coffee cup china and
white lines painted on a tennis
court in vermont and the snow
that buried me when you drove
away the last
time
i come to you in
white i am sent away in
white
like your moon that settles on my
shoulders like the fog the
smoke you cannot see that
rests on the lake in the early
morning like the flecks of
paint that flutter onto my
desk when i thumbtack a new
photo into the wall
do you know what it’s
like to be sent away in
white
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 3:33 AM UTC
What was it?
Meteor falling?
Visit of aliens, an encounter?
Defense Ministry briefing?
Micro-apocalypse?
Semantic or phonetic ellipsis?
Or unfiltered beer?
Or was she Serbian?
Such a fake name...
In a french tunic or a jacket?
what century of antiquity? 19th 18th?
Storojeviih do you understand me?
You won't find such a datum in cyberspace!
You left early,
The spectrum is still on.
This is often the case with people,
Abnormal states
Or let's put it this way:
Alien abduction.
In Orginal:
Watchmen in an unknown wardrobe item
Что это было?
Падение метеорита?
Посещение инопланетян?
Брифинг Минобороны?
Микроапокалипсис?
Семантический или фонетический эллипсис?
Или нефилтрованное пиво?
Или сербка она была?
Такая фалшивая фамилия...
В тунике или в пиджаке?
какого то века антика? 19ого 18ого?
Сторожевых Вы меня поняли?
В киберпространстве такого датума
Не найдёшь!
Вы рано ушли.
Спектр еще горит.
Это часто бывает с людьми,
Аномальные состояния
Или так скажим:
-Похищение пришельцами.
May 8, 2022
May 8, 2022 at 4:29 AM UTC