Iva Damjanovski
A POEM I STILL WON’T WRITE
My coordinates are xx,
so it’s hard for you to find me
and I have one unknown less.
I close my eyes
and then dismantle them
to their constituent parts:
the pupil in one hand,
the white ball in the other,
one cornea,
one iris.
Loneliness is when there isn’t any familiar smell
in the cold
and I can’t see my electromagnetic breath,
my binary spirit.
The pupil in the hand widens
like a lump of malignant cells or like a universe,
thirsting for light.
This planet is brave
and isn’t afraif of strangers,
isn’t afraid even of me,
it lets you find it
and it hugs its memories,
but I’m a creature
flying on its lung-wings that break
when I’m heavy with remorse.
I love this world
in a way that every poison has its cure
and every cure has its poison,
in a way that every sea has its island,
and every fracture has its swelling,
like a rare reality
wriggling through my fingers
and dripping in things,
like time that glides clumsily
along your plastic skin,
and I can
and I must not stop
or disappear,
I must be day,
I must be flame,
I must be an omen,
I must be a child:
“We wish you all the best from our planet.”
I walk carefully along the streets of my city
as if a polar bear that hopes to lose weight.
The cracks on the asphalt are lines I write verses on
and hope that I still haven’t written my last love poem.
EEN GEDICHT DAT IK NOG STEEDS NIET ZAL SCHRIJVEN
Mijn coördinaten zijn xx,
daarom kun je mij moeilijk vinden
en ik heb een onbekende minder.
Ik sluit mijn ogen
om ze daarna te ontleden
in hun samenstellende delen:
de pupil in de ene hand
het witte bolletje in de andere,
een hoornvlies,
een iris.
Eenzaamheid is wanneer er geen bekende geur is
wanneer het erg koud is
en ik mijn elektromagnetische adem kan zien,
en mijn binaire geest.
De pupil in mijn ene hand verwijdt zich, groeit
als een groepje maligne cellen of een uitdijend universum,
en hij snakt naar licht.
Deze planeet is dapper
is niet bang voor onbekende factoren,
en is zelfs niet bang voor mij,
ze staat toe dat je haar vindt
en omarmt haar eigen geheimen,
maar ik ben een wezen
dat vliegt op de vleugels van zijn longen –
vleugels die breken als ik diep berouw heb.
Ik houd van deze wereld
zoals elk gif een medicijn bevat,
zoals elk medicijn een gif bevat,
zoals er om elk eiland een zee ligt,
en een zwelling om elke breuk,
als een zeldzame werkelijkheid
die tussen mijn vingers door slipt
en op de dingen druppelt,
als tijd die onhandig
in uw plastic huid glijdt,
ik kan
en mag niet ophouden
of verdwijnen,
wat ik moet zijn, is een dag,
dat is een vlam,
dat is een vlag,
dat is een kind:
‘Wij wensen u het allerbeste van onze planeet.’
Ik loop voorzichtig door de straten van mijn stad
alsof ik een ijsbeer ben die hoopt dat hij heel licht kan zijn.
De barsten in het asfalt zijn lijntjes waarop ik gedichten schrijf
en ik hoop dat ik niet mijn laatste liefdesgedicht geschreven heb.
ПЕСНА ШТО СЕ УШТЕ НЕМА ДА ЈА НАПИШАМ
Моите координати се хх,
затоа е тешко да ме пронајдеш
и имам една непозната помалку.
Ги склопувам моите очи
и потоа ги расклопувам
на составните делови:
зеницата во едната рака,
белото топче во другата,
една рожница,
еден ирис.
Осаменост е кога нема ниту еден познат мирис
кога е многу ладно
и можам да го видам мојот електромагнетен здив,
мојот бинарен дух.
Зеницата во едната рака се шири
како грутка малигни клетки или универзум,
жедна за светлина.
Оваа планета е храбра
и не се плаши од непознати,
не се плаши дури ни од мене,
дозволува да ја најдеш
и ги прегрнува своите спомени,
а, јас сум суштество
и летам со белодробни крилја
кои се кршат кога се каам.
Го сакам овој свет
онака како што во секој отров има лек,
онака како што во секој лек има отров,
како што има море околу секој остров,
и оток околу секоја скршеница,
како ретката стварност
која се провлекува меѓу моите прсти
и капе во нештата,
како време кое смотано се лизга
по вашата пластична кожа,
јас можам
и не смеам да запрам
или да исчезнам,
морам да бидам ден,
морам да бидам пламен,
морам да бидам знамен,
морам да бидам дете:
„Желимо вам све најлепше са наше планете.“
Чекорам внимателно по улиците на мојот град
како да сум поларна мечка која се надева дека може да биде лесна.
Пукнатините на асфалтот се линии на кои пишувам стихови
и се надевам дека ја немам напишано мојата последна љубовна песна.
From: Triage (Тријажа)
Publisher: Templum Publishing, Macedonia
A POEM I STILL WON’T WRITE
My coordinates are xx,
so it’s hard for you to find me
and I have one unknown less.
I close my eyes
and then dismantle them
to their constituent parts:
the pupil in one hand,
the white ball in the other,
one cornea,
one iris.
Loneliness is when there isn’t any familiar smell
in the cold
and I can’t see my electromagnetic breath,
my binary spirit.
The pupil in the hand widens
like a lump of malignant cells or like a universe,
thirsting for light.
This planet is brave
and isn’t afraif of strangers,
isn’t afraid even of me,
it lets you find it
and it hugs its memories,
but I’m a creature
flying on its lung-wings that break
when I’m heavy with remorse.
I love this world
in a way that every poison has its cure
and every cure has its poison,
in a way that every sea has its island,
and every fracture has its swelling,
like a rare reality
wriggling through my fingers
and dripping in things,
like time that glides clumsily
along your plastic skin,
and I can
and I must not stop
or disappear,
I must be day,
I must be flame,
I must be an omen,
I must be a child:
“We wish you all the best from our planet.”
I walk carefully along the streets of my city
as if a polar bear that hopes to lose weight.
The cracks on the asphalt are lines I write verses on
and hope that I still haven’t written my last love poem.
From: Triage (Тријажа)
A POEM I STILL WON’T WRITE
My coordinates are xx,
so it’s hard for you to find me
and I have one unknown less.
I close my eyes
and then dismantle them
to their constituent parts:
the pupil in one hand,
the white ball in the other,
one cornea,
one iris.
Loneliness is when there isn’t any familiar smell
in the cold
and I can’t see my electromagnetic breath,
my binary spirit.
The pupil in the hand widens
like a lump of malignant cells or like a universe,
thirsting for light.
This planet is brave
and isn’t afraif of strangers,
isn’t afraid even of me,
it lets you find it
and it hugs its memories,
but I’m a creature
flying on its lung-wings that break
when I’m heavy with remorse.
I love this world
in a way that every poison has its cure
and every cure has its poison,
in a way that every sea has its island,
and every fracture has its swelling,
like a rare reality
wriggling through my fingers
and dripping in things,
like time that glides clumsily
along your plastic skin,
and I can
and I must not stop
or disappear,
I must be day,
I must be flame,
I must be an omen,
I must be a child:
“We wish you all the best from our planet.”
I walk carefully along the streets of my city
as if a polar bear that hopes to lose weight.
The cracks on the asphalt are lines I write verses on
and hope that I still haven’t written my last love poem.
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