Lelek To Me Forvever / Lelek Meni Zauvijek
Who took away from me, my son
To mourn above your grave, my son
To go below with you, my son
To reach the sky with a tear, my son
To spill a cloud from my breasts, my son
To open the heaven's door with a cry, my son
For you a heaven to enter, my son
To curse with a curse
To burn with a thunder, my son
I swear with a thunder in the wing of rain, my son
Made of my milk from my breasts, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever
Cut from breasts with empty hands I stand, my son
In drops I pour in clouds I'm hidden, my son
With bread in my mouth a bitter piece, my son
A cradle rocking in a grave, my son
Feed the earth with earth a grian of my pain, my son
Armfuls of sobs on fire to burn, my son
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The age of innocence
Re-collect
Re-ligio
A high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence
Le fin de toutes les ciecles
Weltschmertz too shallow for those
Who went abysses too high
Who went insanity too nigh
Go up
Super-modern stuck in
Heideggerian states of minds
Without even knowing that
New health be named after you
Carry the name the peace of glory
You sub-modern undercurrent
Talking to its future
Gather together
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Morana -the death godess/Morana boginja smrti
To whom I gave lead to kneel down in their heart
On whom I cast the spells took eyes out of their sockets
Whom I breast fed on sorrow I have killed their child
Whose black name was screamed by the black of the night
Whose peace I shattered whose feast I spiced
Whose shoe I cut through whose bowl I dropped
Whose gown I tore whose roads I entangled
Whose horses I tamed to find me on the path
Years and days to whom I destroyed in a sec
Whose saber I took out and broke its hilt
To whom the war I foretold the war I foretold
To whom I burnt the fields to whom I cut the forests
Who cannot cry I tempted out their tears
Who undid their hair in honour of my hands
To whom I twilit the twilight to whom the dawn I broke
Whose castles I plundered the treasures of the world
Whose bud I cut in everything that blooms….
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Lament
We like death
It’s a God given gift
Bestowed upon us
God given Mercy
We die like butterflies
Burn them easily on a fire in a sec
We die silently like plants
We die loudly
Like waterfall blood
We die in the rocks
Sagacity is one our side
For we know
That it’s just in a second
Playing the role of sense
On Earth everything can be shattered
And that we didn’t choose
That God takes ones in his arms
And lets the others testify
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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There standing
By the window that never rhymed with the door
Poet healers perfectly know the diagnoses
And the names of diseases
With a monthly subscription to lunacy
They feed the lottery ticket containing an impossible combination
In which harmony merciful opens the possibility
Of there standing before a renewed plunge
Into a chaos of self standing
And suicidal beauty against the curse of staying alive
There standing out of the opposition reach
At the edge of the knife flash
By which a pair of apparently harmless hands
Peel the rind of a poisoned fruit
They never killed anyone except with a morsel
Cut instantly from the depots of organic trash
Which – ironically- counts as a natural death
Their fingers play Harlequine thumblet dance
On the borders of the wristwatch
A kazachok among the knives of clock hands
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Why
loading re-usable pain into the begs
of empty markets and under the eaves
bargaining some light with the passengers
I don't have the trader's eyes
and sometimes the left hand doesn't know
what the right one is doing
I am not pretending this day
has the streets for you to come
and ask me over and over again
about the price of my eyes
why
don't you take your diary page
to the first Harlequinne clown
who likes to eat newspapers
and drink milk bottled in
in the factory of lies
breastfed on the broken alphabet
I am not the person who can tell you outcomes
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A thought from the threshold of pain
Making way through the fire alarms
With a broken rear mirror in hand
The debris of fingers moved over
Heart shattered pictures of an escape
Through the solitary halls of blind light
There circled a thought from the threshold of pain
Whispered through the homeless birds’ cages
At the bottom of the staircase with a mad vision
On her palm Pythia the Stunt stood
Reading her own shadow off
Like a badly picked up trailer of a movie
That never saw its cinema projection
As the screens had been greedily swallowed
Like a fee cast to a poor director
Through the tyranny of madness fed on bravery charisma
There circled a thought from the threshold of pain
Like the last hero throwing away
The dice pictured in all Picaro faces
Straight into the arms of the hungry world
Craving a golden mean
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Calendar Day 23/Kalendar dan 23.
…that is the way a rainy day opens.
Like a dropp of rain at the edge of a split atom anticipating the parameter of light-that is the way a rainy day opens. The light on the wind, the step on the water, a water desert dropp and a voice at the bottom of the drizzle, the silence of the boughs rising into the sky to be a cloudy treetop. An axiom of the word within a dropp unuttered by words strengthened for creation. Stripped free from everything, liberated from the word itself and its understanding, the muteness of a dry soul burying the axes of war under an oak tree. To think the water desert into a vacant space.
Календар Дан 23.
...тако се отвара кишни дан.
Као када кишна кап на ивици атома ишчекује параметар свјетла-тако се отвара кишни дан. Свјетло на вјетру, корак на води, водене пустиње кап и глас у дну ромињања, ћутање грања што у небо израста да крошња од облака буде. Аксиом ријечи у капи неизговорене ријечју оснажене на стварање. Слободно од свега и од ријечи саме поимања њеног, нијемост суве душе што сјекире ратне под храстом покопала је. Да у празан простор водену пустињу мни.
©Мирослава Одаловић
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Turned
Turned into small bowls with fullness opening
Wing spread openness the thought ajar
It beats in the birds runs in waterfalls
The home of crossroads in its heart
It beats life silently deems death
It flickers in the fires of old tribes
They carry the rivers in their arms
For our being between mud and a cloud
The unbuilt built in everything
The unuttered pronounced in everything
Never enough life in anything lived
Turned into small bowls with fullness opening
U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjam punoce
Raskriljena otvorenost odskrinuta misao
Kuca u pticama vodopadom tece
Kuca zivot tihuje smrt
Pucketa u vatrama starih plemena
Sto u rukama rijeke nose
Za nasa bivanja
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Matrix/Matrica
I have a knowledge of order that will not deny me
In the shaking fences of Maria denials
Conceived in rebellion ending in mercy
Because nothing has stood on the night assembly line
To be merely a morning awakening and a step halted
In time accounts self subtracted
Hours dripping self added
In the moment endlessly divided
And the moment endlessly multiplied
I'm removing the layers - Zenon-like, unmovable ones
A frozenness forever thrown into the ashes
Is looking for its countenance in vain
Because I know time is just a mask of a woman
With the face of the ploughed fields
And a pendulum X- ray discovered
Of her head grown within numbers
Because nothing can stand on a matrix
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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