ja Sam Tek Danas Ovo Otvorila
, taman mi je pasalo vidjet ovu ljepotu i sklad nakon sivila kojim me ispunil kineski film kojeg sam gledala ovaj vikend 'Zvijezda koja nedostaje '...putovanje kroz unutrašnjost Kine koje mi je totalno ubilo volju da idem to ikad vidjeti...prašina, prljavština, bijeda....jedina živa boja u cijelom filmu su crveni šljemovi radnika u č elić ani: D...no, ono po ć emu ga želim pamtiti je..... 'Kinezi te prvo sruše a onda ti pomognu da ustaneš'
Kinezi jesu gadni, jako su krvoloč ni i život ne znač i puno. al imaju jaku reakciju na to, Lao-Tsea, slič no kak i Japanci imaju Zen kak reakciju na njihov gadni život. Japanci su kak Niemci, sam kaj su Niemci ostali bez te reakcije ljudskosti, bez profinjesti Zena.
Isto tak se i Kinezi gadno trude prevladati vse te pese koje tisuč lječ ima kolju i jedu, kroz sakralizaciju svieta oko sebe na vse te vsoje razne nač ine, i ta sakralizacija je jako jaka.
Mene v zadnjej vrieme drži Nick Drake, imam ta 4 cdeja od njega,3 albuma i 1 demoi i neizdano, i od gda sem nabavil ove kable sam gitara i glas, i malo gudala v pozadini...nevjerojatna svežina neposrednosti.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Zdravo, Moje Ime Je Sara
Moje ime je Sara.
Ja sam ona koja nisam,
koja nikada nisam.
Ovo su ruke za moje zagrljaje.
Osakacene prazninom.
Okrunjene u prstenju koje sumrakom skidam
i u tmine bacam.
One pisu istoriju plasticne igracke
sahranjene u grobovima djetinjstva
koje nije doraslo do kolijevke.
Zovem se Sara.
Ja sam ona koja pokusava da bude.
Ovo su stopala za moje korake.
Ukocene putevima.
Vezana zveketavim nakitom
koji sumrakom skidam i u tmine bacam.
Ona hodaju nepostojecim ulicama
kojima gaze jos samo prividi staza.
Silaze u bunare
da u njima udave
proplivalu nadu za kraj.
Moje ime je Sara.
Ja sam ona koja bi htjela.
Ovo je vrat za vase ruke.
Dotaknite lagano.
Vezan je hiljadama lancica
koje sumrakom skidam
i u tmine bacam.
Ona jedu halapljivo,
krugove u koje sazimam snove
dozvoljavam da dira.
Neka je.
Zovem se Sara.
Ja sam ona koja ne pristaje.
Ovo je kosa za moje pletenice.
U njima trake od srebra
i bisere sjajne sumrakom skidam
i u tmine bacam. Neka ih.
Prekrsila sam sva pravila.
Razbila klise,
zacarane krugove,
pocijepala stranice
na kojima mi ispisuju sudbinu.
Ja sam Sara.
Ja sam ona koja nisam.
Ja sam ona koja uvijek
samo pokusavam da budem.
Ja sam ona koja hoce.
Ja sam ona koja ne pristaje.
Ja sam uvijek,
vjecnoscu stegnuta
u sipljive trenutke. Ja sam nada
umrla za kraj.
Ja sam ona koja hoce da razumije.
Ja sam ona koja ne razumije uvijek.
Ali JESAM.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Beat Of Sorrow That Thinks Of Beauty/Otkucaj Tuge Sto Ljepotu Mni
it takes a memory that runs over itself
to get to learn and endless southern rhythm
it takes a fire that burns itself down
to get to know an ocean wave
it takes tender enough strong enough fingers
to summerize anything into a touch
so that the heard amidst the things could recognise
a beat of sorrow that thinks of beauty
it takes much more and reaches much stronger
to ask for more to search and look
so as to eventually know
the one in the seed of wake planted
the being cut off from itself
into the cliffs of the world pushed forever
it takes a huge knowledge an endless one
of this world's drama
for just one beat of sorrow that thinks of beauty
otkucaj tuge što ljepotu mni
potrebno je sjećanje koje samo sebe gazi
da bi se spoznao beskrajni ritam juga
potrebna je vatra koja samu sebe spaljuje
da bi se spoznao okeanov talas
potrebni su dovoljno nježni i snažni prsti
da bi se išta saželo u dodir
da bi srce u srži svega moglo da prepozna
otkucaj tuge što ljepotu mni
potrebno je mnogo više mnogo snažnije
da se ište dalje da se traži
da bi se najzad saznalo
ono u sjemenu buđenja začeto
od sebe samog otkinuto biće
u urvine svijeta zauvijek bačeno
potrebno je jedno veliko beskrajno veliko
poznavanje drame ovog svijeta
za samo jedan otkucaj tuge što ljepotu mni
1990.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hello, my name is Sarah
My name is Sarah
I am the one who is not
Who never is
These are the hands for my embraces
Mutilated in emptiness
Husked in the rings at twilight I take off
And throw into the dark.
They are writing a history of a plastic toy
Buried in the tombs of childhood
That never grew towards a cradle.
My name is Sarah
I am the one who is trying to be
These are the feet for my steps.
Frozen in the paths
Tied by tinkling jewelerry
At twilight I take off
And throw into the dark.
They walk the streets that there are no more
The streets trodden by mere silhouettes of paths
They go down the wells
To strangle in them
A swimming hope for the end.
My name is Sarah.
I am the one who wants.
This is the neck for your hands.
Slightly touch.
It's tied in thousands of necklaces
At twilight I take off
And throw into the dark.
The darkness greedily eats
The circles I push the dreams into
I let it touch.
It's all right.
My name is Sarah.
I am the one who does not consent.
This is the hair for my plaits.
The silver ribbons
And shiny pearls at twilight I take off
And throw it into the dark.
It's all right.
I have broken all the rules
I have broken cliches
Magic circles
I tore the pages
On which
They try to write my fate.
I am Sarah
I am the one who is not
I am the one who is always
Only trying to be
I am the one who wants
I am the one who does not consent
I am always eternity tied
In pouring moments
I am the hope died for the end
I am the one who wants to understand
I am the one who does not always understand
But I AM.
Moje ime je Sara.
Ja sam ona koja nisam,
koja nikada nisam.
Ovo su ruke za moje zagrljaje.
Osakacene prazninom.
Okrunjene u prstenju koje sumrakom skidam
i u tmine bacam.
One pisu istoriju plasticne igracke
sahranjene u grobovima djetinjstva
koje nije doraslo do kolijevke.
Zovem se Sara.
Ja sam ona koja pokusava da bude.
Ovo su stopala za moje korake.
Ukocene putevima.
Vezana zveketavim nakitom
koji sumrakom skidam i u tmine bacam.
Ona hodaju nepostojecim ulicama
kojima gaze jos samo prividi staza.
Silaze u bunare
da u njima udave
proplivalu nadu za kraj.
Moje ime je Sara.
Ja sam ona koja bi htjela.
Ovo je vrat za vase ruke.
Dotaknite lagano.
Vezan je hiljadama lancica
koje sumrakom skidam
i u tmine bacam.
Ona jedu halapljivo,
krugove u koje sazimam snove
dozvoljavam da dira.
Neka je.
Zovem se Sara.
Ja sam ona koja ne pristaje.
Ovo je kosa za moje pletenice.
U njima trake od srebra
i bisere sjajne sumrakom skidam
i u tmine bacam. Neka ih.
Prekrsila sam sva pravila.
Razbila klise,
zacarane krugove,
pocijepala stranice
na kojima mi ispisuju sudbinu.
Ja sam Sara.
Ja sam ona koja nisam.
Ja sam ona koja uvijek
samo pokusavam da budem.
Ja sam ona koja hoce.
Ja sam ona koja ne pristaje.
Ja sam uvijek,
vjecnoscu stegnuta
u sipljive trenutke. Ja sam nada
umrla za kraj.
Ja sam ona koja hoce da razumije.
Ja sam ona koja ne razumije uvijek.
Ali JESAM.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This World Is Not Conclusion, By Emily Dickinson
This world is not a matter
A dead transition from an earth into a breath
From a breath into an earth
This world unmeasured by an eye
Is neither a view through a magnifying glass
Nor winking at sense
This world is not a game
Of a small and big intelligence
This world a strange link
Despite the chains
Won't go into a circle
Ovaj svijet nije tvar
Mrtvi prelazak iz zemlje u dah
Iz daha u zenlju
Ovaj svijet okom nesagledan
Nije pogled kroz uvecano staklo
Ni namigivanje smislu
Ovaj svijet nije igra
Male i velike pameti
Ovaj svijet karika cudna
Lancima u inat
Nece u krug
1996.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Imati Ili Biti?
odlič ni video. kaj velite dal vam je dobra ova kineska sakralna arhitektura? i ovi ninje koji se bore iznutra?
Jeste li gledali ovaj film? : cerek: Prekrasan je, ako niste, obavezno pogledajte. Ja sam ga dvaput gledala.
Što se tič e ploč a i ja volim č uti pucketanje, ali u ovom vremenu trke i frke jedva imam vremena i za kompjutersko slušanje muzike. Ne mogu da nađ em iglu za moj gramofon.: tuzni:
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pjesma o izgubljenim pjesmama
zelim veceras napisati
pjesmu o izgubljenim pjesmama
napisao sam o prirodi
mnogo pjesama
priroda je tu
vidim je
a pjesme su izgubljene
napisao sam o zivotu
mnogo pjesama
zivot je tu pred nama
zivimo ga
a pjesme su izgubljene
napisao sam o ljubavi
mnogo pjesama
ljubav osjecam
dogadja mi se
a pjesme su izgubljene
napisao sam o zenama
mnogo pjesama
ko zna gdje su one danas
i pjesme i zene
hvala ti Tanja zato sto je
zena ponovo usla
u moju pjesmu
poem by Jankovic Zoran
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That's not it-To nije to
Excuse me sir
You look like someone I've met before
And I am sure it is like that
I'm sure everyone has met everyone before
In what's called preceding lives
Do you believe in that sir
I mean those karmas
Moving along cyclic zodiacs
Made of illiterate stars
Sounds quite familiar to me
A life through trials and errors
I think sir
When I outstretch the palm of my hand
(Do not worry you don't have to give me any
Of your monthly revenue
I am not that kind of a beggar)
When I outstretch the palm of my hand
And look at those divinely entangled lines
So cryptic
That are supposed to determine my fate
I think there's got to be some mistake there
That they are not there to determine me
But to tell me that this palm belongs to me only
That I am just like you sir
A creature born once a creature divine
Unrepeatable and free
For most when I outstretch the palm of my hand
To see my own geometry of the universe
Or to turn it into a fist
To strike the face of Fortune
Then I think sir
For sure we've all met before
In the faces of Adam and Eve
Hitting their foreheads against the ground
Once they vaguely hinted the Heaven is perhaps
Nothing but a wholeness of a soul in unity with its Creator
And Hell the lack of the same thing
Yes I am sure we've met before
In the face of Christ crucified on the cross
That redeemed us through his blood
For a dream in which an Idiot
Will not have to find a compartment
In which he would, with a roomful of thoughts
In his head just like me right now,
He would not have to repeat
That's not it that's not it until he cannot
Thinking perhaps about those marbles of lifeful life
Whose glimmer fades away once they break out on the surface
To dry in the fire of their own eyes
Thinking that's not it that's not it
Meaning perhaps those insipid theories
Endlessly talked about in a leisure
Of some nice first class trains
Journey through Switzerland
Theories endlessly repeated at some nice
Comfortable places just on a pass by through life
In a conversation with an art dealer
Theories made official through some nicely polished clear expression
So clear that one could die of clarity
And nothing would be said about an idiot
Sir we look so far away
So far away from Adam that's been met before lying in our bones
The way the trains suicidely lie on the rails of expulsion
So far away from Eve and her snake
Winding like a steam of a train
Of a great invention that has perhaps only been brained out
So that an Idiot in a first class train
Travelling through Switzerland
Could keep repeating that's not it that's not it
We look so far away from them
And still keep hitting our foreheads against the ground
That's not it that's not it sir
Sorry for stopping you
What I actually wanted to ask you is
Which street we're in
And if you know what my name is
And if it's ever too late to know ourselves
(Note: Idiot, a novel by Fjodor Michailowitsch Dostojewski)
To nije to
Izvinite gospodine
Izgledate kao neko koga sam vec srela
I sigurno je tako
Sigurno smo sreli
U onome što zovu prethodnim životima
Vjerujete li vi u to
Mislim u te karme
Što se krecu po ciklicnim zodijacima
Nastalih od nepismenih zvijezda
Jedan zivot putem pokušaja i pogrešaka
Zvuci mi sasvim poznato
Mislim gospodine
To znate kada ispružim dlan
(ne brinite nista ne morate da mi date
Od svog mjesecnog prihoda
Ja nisam takva prosjakinja
Kada ispružim dlan
I pogledam sve te linije
Božanstveno isprepletene i kripticne
Koje treba da mi odrede sudbinu
Mislim da tu postoji neka greška
Da one nisu tu da me odrede
Vec da mi kažu da ovaj dlan
Pripada samo meni
Da sam kao i vi gospodine
Jednom rodena božanska
Neponovljiva i slobodna licnost
I to najviše onda kada ispružim dlan
Da vidim sopstvenu geometriju svemira
Ili kada ga stisnem u pesnicu
Ne bih li zadala udarac Fortuni
Ja mislim gospodine
Da sasvim sigurno svi smo se vec negdje sreli
U licu Adama i Eve što lupaju celom u zemlju
Kad naslutili su da raj možda nije ništa drugo
Do cjelovitost duše sa njenim Tvorcem
A pakao nedostatak iste
Da sasvim sigurno
Svi smo se vec jednom sreli
U licu Hrista raspetog na krstu
Što krvlju nas svojom uvijek iznova iskupljuje
Za san u kome jedan Idiot
Nece morati da pronadje kupe
U kom bi sa punom sobom misli
Baš kao ja sad do iznemoglosti ponavljao
To nije to to nije to
Misleci možda na rijeci klikere živog života
Što gube sjaj kada isplivaju na površinu
Da se suše u vatri sopstvenih ociju
Misleci na to nije to to nije to
Misleci možda na ucmale teorije života
Što se ispredaju dokono u finim vozovima
Prve klase u prolazu kroz Švajcarsku
I ponavljaju sve po nekim finim udobnim mjestima
U prolazu kroz život
U razgovoru sa trgovcem umjetnickih djela
Ozvanicene putem nekog finog ispoliranog jasnog izraza
Toliko jasnog da ce da se umre od razgovjetnosti
A ništa o Idiotu nece reci
Kako smo daleko gospodine
Kako smo daleko od tog Adama
Što sretosmo ga ranije u kosti nam ulego
Onako kao vozovi samoubilacki leže
Na šinama izgnanosti
Daleko od te Eve i njene zmije
Što se izvija kao para voza
Velikog izuma
Koji je možda izmozgan samo da jedan Idiot
U finom vozu prve klase na putovanju kroz Švajcarsku
Tiho ponavljao to nije to to nije to
Kako samo izgledamo daleko od njih
A i dalje lupamo celom o zemlju
To nije to to nije to gospodine
Izvinite što sam vas zaustavila
U stvari sam samo htjela da vas pitam
U kojoj sam sada ulici
Dali možda znate kako se zovem
I dali je ikada kasno da spoznamo sebe
Napomena: Idiot, roman Fjodora Mihailovica Dostojevskog
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A descendant of fire
what became first - fire or ash
'you'll melt like a candle in a little pool of wax
a face sealed by the spirit of wax
you'll burn like thoughts on a bonfire of words
for you are the fire that burns itself'
an arsonist said with wax in his eyes
'in a homeless whisper you're a broken flamelet
in the time of fire that swallows itself'
but a particle of ash is a fire descendant
and to burn is its wisdom
šta je prvo nastalo - vatra ili pepeo
'istopiceš se ko svijeca u barici voska
duhom voska zapecacen lik
goreceš ko misli na lomaci rijeci
jer ti si vatra koja samu sebe prži
rece mi palikuca sa voskom u ocima
'u bezdomnom šapatu spaljeni žižak
u vremenu vatre koja samu sebe guta'
ali cestica pepela potomak je vatre
i da gori njena je mudrost
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Nothing (Nafaka)
In which the fullness of being stands
I settle illusions withing
For the sake of evil omens
Not to bloom in spring
Nothing in which I push the questions
In which I settle the answers
For the sake of sense
Not to die out by autumn
Nothing
In which I pour the whiteness
In which I settle the freezing
For the waiting not to melt down at winter
Nothing
In which the sunshine bathes
In which I settle the light
Not to burn myself in summer heat
NISTA u koje staje punoca bica
u njoj nastanjujem privid
uroka radi da se ne prozli
proljecem
nista u koje sazimam pitanja
u njima nastanjujem odgovor
smisla radi da s jeseni
ne uvene
nista u koje sipam bjelinu
u njoj nastanjujem promrzlost
u zimama cekanja da se ne istopi
pahulja
nista u kojem se preliva sunce
u njemu nastanjujem svjetlost
vrelinom ljeta da se ne sprzim
JA
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How to interpret games/Kako protumaciti igre
For the beginning it would be helpful to remember your childhood. The game is one of the hardest concepts and it requires the classification through the use of a chronological criterion. The games of childhood are a path towards theorizing the world. They sometimes imitate life without an authentic understanding of it, even without the need or wish to understand.
Playing tag for instance is a way to reach the other person using the advantages of the touch therapy.
Ring a ring a roses belongs to the same category except for the fact that this is the game in which you need to turn around a lot. Some people turn so a lot that they get into a trance which only the hide and seek can wafe them from. Speaking of hide and seek you can play it only if you have no problem with your eyesight and if you know how to count at least to…ten. You also need an elementary knowledge of your environment so that the others don't have to look for you in various corners where you can be detained with or without kneeling on corn. (Kneeling on corn is the game of the transition period)
The game of growing up is red gloves. Sometimes the gloves are so red that you may end up being blood transfused. The most interesting thing is that even if you know who hit you the pain does not decrease. Time, the most important factor in the development of games, can be helpful in increasing the pain tolerance degree. A comforting fact is that the only constant thing in the whole game is the colour of the gloves.
The game of the mature period is mother and father. Genetics plays the crucial role here. A continual jigsaw between dna and rna counting of chromosomes like marbles will distract your attention from the essence of this game.
The game of getting old is silent swinging alongside brain cells dying out. In this period you have already managed to cope with all the aforementioned games and now you can finally take your time.
The game of dying is a fairy tale being red before a good night's sleep and a dream in which you're swayed by someone's warm and calm voice. For in the end all you are craving is silence.
Za pocetak bi bilo dobro da se sjetite djetinjstva. To uvijek pomaze. Ovo je inace jedan od najtezih pojmova i zahtjeva klasifikovanje istog koristeci hronoloski kriterijum. Igre djetinjstva put su ka sagledavanju svijeta. One imitiraju zivot bez istinskog razumijevanja istog, a i bez potrebe i zelje za razumijevanjem. Suga je nacin da stignete do drugog koristeci prednosti touch terapije.
U istu kategoriju spada i ringe ringe raja s tim sto vam odzvoni jos prije nego sto ostarite jer je to igra u kojoj puno morate da se vrtite. Neki od nje prosto padaju u trans iz koga ih moze probuditi samo igra zmurke. Zmurke mozete da se igrate samo ukoliko nemate poteskoca sa vidom i ukoliko znate da brojite... makar do deset. Potrebno je i elementarno poznavanje okoline da ne bi na kraju morali i vas da traze po raznim coskovima u koje vas za kaznu stavljaju sa ili bez klecanja na kukuruzu.
(Klecanje na kukuruzu je igra prelaznog perioda) Potrebno je takodje da se unaprijed pomirite sa cinjenicom da nemate pojma koga u stvari trazite. Nije vazno. Cilj uvijek mozete da izmislite. Jer uvijek ce do kraja ostati nerazjasnjeno da li je krajnja svrha igranja postizanje uspjeha ili je igra samoj sebi cilj.
Igra odrastanja je igra crvenih rukavica. Nekad toliko crvenih da zavrsite na transfuziji krvi. Najzanimljivije je to sto i ako pogodite ko vas je zviznuo to ne umanjuje bol. Vrijeme koje je najvazniji faktor u razvoju igara moze vam biti od pomoci da povisite stepen tolerancije na bol. Utjesno je sto u svakom trenutku znate kada i gdje su vas udarili kao i to da je jedina postojana stvar u cijeloj igri boja rukavica.
Igra zrelog doba je igra mame i tate. Genetika je ovdje od presudnog znacaja. Kontinuirano klackanje izmedju RNK i DNK, prebrojavanje hromozoma kao klikera odvratice vam paznju sa sustine igre.
Igra starenja je tiho ljuljanje od kojeg odumiru mozdane vijuge. U ovom periodu vec ste savladili sve prethodno navedene igre i sada mozete da se mirno prepustite uzivanju.
Igra umiranja je citanje bajke pred spavanje i san u koji vas uljuljkuje neciji topao i smiren glas. Jer na kraju svega vapite samo za tisinom.
A Little School of Interpretation, …in x lessons,2007.
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Quite Subsidiary / Sasvim Pritocno
diary pages i never wrote
due to some unknown individual intuition
a friend once explained to me
which i never really understood
they keep oozing in front of my eyes
a trailer from a movie long forgot
a midsummer's heat
pronounced at the tip of my tongue
that does not remember the language
but is ready to outriver the numbers
sliding down the covers
there's a painting perhaps
that i've never been up to
and i will never paint
a draft made of eyes and ears void
staring right at me from the broken sky
that knows each piece of its shatteredness
foretold by the mirror
i normally use to put lipstick only
or merely draft my eyes so as not to forget them
by the end of the day
and each time my fingers prolong into keyboards
there's a music played unheard humming oou of debris
the world would say it's time for itself to die
in the meaning of each word that's uttered about it
stubbornly defending its unutteredness
that always shakes me into an earthquake speech
and just like an earthquake i cannot stand still
there are too many cracks i made and need to fill
sascim pritocno
stranice dnevnika koje nikad nisam ispisala
zahvaljujuci jednoj individualnoj intuiciji
koju mi je prijatelj jednom objasnio
a nikad je nisam razumjela
cure mi pred ocima
trejler iz filma davno zaboravljenog
Jovanjdanja vrelina
izgovorena na vrhu jezika
koja je zaboravila jezik
ali je spremna da nadrijeci brojeve
što klize niz korice
postoji moždajedna slika
kojoj nikad nisam bila dorasla
koju nikad necu naslikati
slika napravljena od ociju i ušiju jaza
koja me posmatra pravo iz slomljenog neba
koje poznaje svaki komadic svoje polomljenosti
obrecene ogledalom
što ga obicno koristim samo da bih stavila ruž
ili skicirala svoje oci
da ih ne zaboravim do kraja dana
i svaki put kad mi se prsti izduže u klavijature
stvara se necujna muzika što pjevuši iz srce
svijet bi rekao da mu je vrijeme da umre
u znacenju svake rijeci koja je o njemu izrecena
uporno braneci svoju neizrecivost
koja me uvijek protrese u govor zemljotresa
i baš kao zemljotres ne mogu da stojim mirno
ima previše pukotina koje sam stvorila
a moram da ih popunim
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A bit of being cut off from a memory/Moj
Echoes closely down the hall like nothing
Thoughts ajar in a big silence
Like a door I must not go through
Unfulfilled thoughts
Left to beat in somebody else’s wells
The moments dragged into nowhere
Through a glass pane pacified in memory
A shivering hope will unveil the veil
Open the eyes
My shadow across the sky
Who knows how many times
Will beg for everything
That doesn’t want to give in
Like a wave drowned in the sea of waiting
Tearful song it will cry
In the foam out of the foam
My newly born dawn
Moj
Od sjeć anja otkinut trač ak trajanja
Što hodnicima blizu odzvanja ko ništa
U velikom ć utanju misli otškrinute
Ko vrata kroz koja ne smijem da prođ em
Ostać e nedomišljene da nekom drugom
Bunarima kucaju
Trenuci odvuč eni u nepovrat
Kroz okna od stakla umirena sjeć anjem
Nada što se batrga
Skinuć e velove otvoriti oč i
Moja sjena preko neba
Po ko zna koji put
Iskać e što se neć e dati
Morem išč ekivanja udavljeni talas
Proplakać e pjesmu
U pjeni iz pjene rođ ena
Moja nova zora
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My/Moj
A bit of being cut off from a memory
Echoes closely down the hall like nothing
Thoughts ajar in a big silence
Like a door I must not go through
Unfulfilled thoughts
Left to beat in somebody else’s wells
The moments dragged into nowhere
Through a glass pane pacified in memory
A shivering hope will unveil the veil
Open the eyes
My shadow across the sky
Who knows how many times
Will beg for everything
That doesn’t want to give in
Like a wave drowned in the sea of waiting
Tearful song it will cry
In the foam out of the foam
My newly born dawn
Moj
Od sjeć anja otkinut trač ak trajanja
Što hodnicima blizu odzvanja ko ništa
U velikom ć utanju misli otškrinute
Ko vrata kroz koja ne smijem da prođ em
Ostać e nedomišljene da nekom drugom
Bunarima kucaju
Trenuci odvuč eni u nepovrat
Kroz okna od stakla umirena sjeć anjem
Nada što se batrga
Skinuć e velove otvoriti oč i
Moja sjena preko neba
Po ko zna koji put
Iskać e što se neć e dati
Morem išč ekivanja udavljeni talas
Proplakać e pjesmu
U pjeni iz pjene rođ ena
Moja nova zora
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I build within the houses I will never live in (Nafaka)
the beds I sleep in I have never made
rains I drink I will never fall with
and the rains I fall in I never drank
the wind I breathe embracing the sides of the worls
what I want I can say no more
open for everything
for happiness and sorrow
good and evil
a cloud and a sun
even though
what I say can embrace me no more
u kucama gradim koje stanovala nisam
u krevetu spavam koji pospremila nisam
kise pijem s kojima pasti nikad necu
s kisama padam koje nikad popila nisam
s vjetrom disem koji strane svijeta grli
sve sto hocu vise ne mogu da kazem
otvorena za sve
za srecu i patnje
za dobro i zlo
oblake i sunca
iako
sve sto hocu vise ne moze da me zagrli
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A wish
I wish I could die like a plant
To silently fade out and never let my voice
I wish I could live like a plant
To close my buds facing the knowledge of pain
I wish I could walk the earth unheard
To sneak among the trees and spikes
I wish I could be silent
Like a plant
Želja
Voljela bih da umrem kao biljke
Da se tiho gasim i glasa od sebe da ne dam
Voljela bih da živim kao biljke
Da sklopim latice pred spoznajom boli
Voljela bih da necujno hodam zemljom
Da se šunjam kroz drvece i klasja
Voljela bih da mogu da cutim
Kao biljke
1991.
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A promise
Love's a promise few can fulfill
ljubav je obecanje koje mali broj moze ispuniti
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's all right/U redu je
Empty glass sandy girl
5 milligrams of brain on the rims
Drunk up to the last of the drops
Vacuum cleaned tubed
You played poet corner freaks
And the paling Moon perceived
Living ground fair fair
Fairground ride a ride
To hurt is not to feel
All by yourself
It's all right
The man behind the back
Is the memory of an in front
He taps your shoulder
He touches you closely
Too closely to run run run
With no bones to chew
Through the rains
The dogs are barking the title
Of this civil morality play
En garde
Touchee untouched
Get it out of your mind
Get rid of the songs
Get rid of the beat
The distuned abused muzak
In the heart of a shopping mall
Pervasively sick humming along
It's all right
The tradename behind your back
Is just a memory of an in front
And in particular whoever ever
Knew what's before the eyes
Paid ears to frantic calls
In no place to crawl like a human baby
Tasting the dust floor with a tiny finger
Dipped into an unknown full of wonder and trust
Lost when old grown
To the knowledge of good and evil
Through thick and thin
Goodness and sin
It's all right-move on
Just don't think and drive
Might be killed by too many traffic lights
Predominantly rainbow stuck
So just stick to the road
I'll touch you I'll teach you
The meaning of the winds
The message of this urban rite
Look at no burns no bars
Focus on white line and stops featuring in
Wildstream streets waterfalls of buildings
This is no levitation time
In no natural no factural environment friendly
Where you won't be urged to give your thoughts
Thoughthold tips to caring waiters
Fines to bad taxi drivers
And fees for memberships lost
It's all right
They won't notice there's too much of a word inside
To say anything
Prazna čaša pješčana djevojko
5 miligrama mozga na ivicama
Ispijena do posljednje kapi
Usisana tubirana
Igrala si frikove sa pjesničkih uglova
A mjesec sve blijeđi primjetio je
Živo tlo i vašar vašar
Vožnju na vašarskom polju
Povrijediti znači ne osjećati
Sasvim sama
U redu je
Čovjek iza tvojih leđa
Samo je sjećanje na ono ispred
On te dira po ramenu
On te dira suviše blizu
Suviše blizu za bijeg bijeg bijeg
Bez kostiju za oglod
Kroz kiše
Psi laju naslov
Ovog građanskog mirakula
En garde
Touchee nedotaknuta
Izbaci iz glave
Oslobodi se pjesama
Oslobodi se ritma
Nemelodičnog zloupotrebnog muzaka
U srcu tržnog centra
Sto preovlađujuće bolestan melodiju mumla
U redu je
Trejdmark iza tvojih leđa
Samo je sjećanje na ono ispred
A posebno ako je iko ikad
Znao ono pred očima
Spustio je uho divljem zovu
Bez mjesta da puziš kao ljudsko mladunče
Što isprobava prašnjavi pod majušnim prstom
Umočenim u nepoznato sa puno čuđenja i povjerenja
Izgubljenog kad odraste
Do poznanja dobra i zla
Kroz dobro i zlo
Dobrotu i grijeh
U redu je idi dalje
Tek ne misli dok voziš
Možeš poginuti od suviše semafora
Preovlađujuće dugom zaglavljenih
Tako drži se puta
Dotaknuću te poučiću te
Značenju krivina
I smislu ovog urbanog ritual
Ne gledaj opekotine pregrade
Usresredi se na bijelu liniju i stanice što glume
U divljem potoku ulica i vodopadima zgrada
Ovo nije vrijeme za levitaciju
U nenaturalnon nefacturalnom okruženju frendli
Gdje nećeš imati potrebu da dijeliš svoje misli
Misli uporišta napojnice brižnim konobarima
Kazne lošim taksistima
I nadoknadu za izgubljena članstva
U redu je
Neće primjetiti da unutra ima puno od riječi
Da bi išta rekli
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kraj Istera poj
U plavoj kući vrtova kobi
Pčela je pronašla cvijet
Da tiho zgasne u zloj dobi
Kad žaokom probode svijet
U bijeloj kući vrtova smrti
Ptica je pronašla let
Da žilom krvi život zavrti
Krilima dotakne svijet
U zelenoj kući proljeća znak
Obujmi ulujni oblak tmast
Morana pruži svoj grozni krak
I zgasnu stari zapis hrast
Trinaest tmina kraj njega prođe
Šapatom sedmim uginu let
I treće jutro medonosno dodje
Da žaokom probode svijet
I ono nad Isterom nebo plavo živo
Gdje takoh se skuta njegovoga
Gdje plakah hristočežnjivo
Toplo je toplo u naručju Boga
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I've got/Ja imam
I've got time my friend
when everybody else thinks
I've got hours
think I've got minutes
think I've got seconds
think I've got clocks
think I've got watches
all I've got are
changes
I ja imam vrijeme prijatelju
kad svak drugi misli
da imam sate
imam minute
imam sekunde
satove zidne
satove zglobne
sve sto imam
su promjene
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cyclic dance of the entrance (Nafaka)
a silk made fabric beyond the arch
like a scarf made of stars
the smell of the snow through October and the wind
the street I live in smells of bad perfume
the house I live carries a damp smell
the treetops my birds live in
shoke all of their nests
will there remain any trace
the graves will sing the way the cradles can?
a silk made fabric beyond the arch
like a scarf made of stars
will be torn by night?
the moon will start dancing beyond the arch
the dance of love and hate
pain and bliss
cyclic dance of the entrance
nad svodom tkanina svilena
ko marama satkana od zvijezda
brise pred sobom
miris snijega kroz oktobar i vjetar
brise pred sobom
ulicu u kojoj zivim mirise na lose parfeme
brise pred sobom
kucu u kojoj stanujem mirise na memle
krosnje u kojima stanuju moje ptice
stresle su sva gnijezda
dali ce ostati tragovi
dali ce propjevati grobovi
kao sto placu kolijevke
nad svodom tkanina svilena
ko marama satkana od zvijezda
pocijepace je noc
nad svodom vec zaigra Mjesec
vjecnu igru ljubavi i mrznje
radosti i bola
ciklicni ples ulaska
vjecnu dramu ulaska
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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