Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Milorad Stojević

To Die in Šotovento

(Sottovento, on the zig-zag route: Glavotok-Milohnići-Linardići-Žgaljić-
Bajačić-St. Chrysogonus’- the cyclamen field and prosciutto at Klisko’s)



Bitching at my tools I made good
Ones nonetheless. Walking shoes. With solid heels.
Scented like glue and women’s brushes.
Leather for shoe-tip made in one piece.
The heart unfeeling returns it as an image
In the second part of the pair, too.

I passed through deaths in them –
Exchanging them for slippers
Of fake felt, damp, from the cold karst.
(Like darling copperplates by M. C. Crnčić
Of those telling moments we imagine –
The one, maybe, when Vladimir Lunaček put
Left hand to forehead for him. In his accustomed, writerly way).

In engravings we are of dust. Sometimes
They are ours after break-ins to
Abandoned out-of-town apartments.

From the next-door poems footsteps clatter
Around the memories and short-cuts more
Deceptive and deceiving than
Our soles. Which we displayed like gifts
Willed to us in an early Romanesque church
Sheep have moved into. Grazing day-long
On cyclamens around the humble groves with the scent
Of parting ways. I said already, long before,
In unfinished market squares, it is hard
To die in Šotovento. Even in the jeep
Inflaming our flanks.

That’s so. They’re echoing.

Umrijeti u Šotoventu

Umrijeti u Šotoventu

(Sottovento na cik-cak relaciji: Glavotok-Milohnići-Linardići-
-Žgaljić-Bajačić-Sv. Krševan-polje ciklama i pršut kod Kliska)



Lajući na alat izradih ipak dobre.
Cipele za šetnju. I pete su čvrste.
Mirišu po ženskim kičicama i ljepilu.
Koža za kapicu iz jednoga komada.
Okrutno ga srce ponavlja kao sliku
I na drugom dijelu para.

Prolazio sam u njima kroz smrti –
Zamjenjujući ih papučama od lažnog,
I mokrog, filca iz hladna krasa.
(Tako su slatki bakrorezi M-a Cl-a Crnčića
O tim snažnim situacijama našega uma –
Kao ona kada mu Vladimir Lunaček stavi lijevu
Ruku na čelo. Kako je i manirski uobičajeno.)

U bakropisima smo iz praha. Koji nam
Gdjekad pripadaju poslije provala
U napuštene provincijske stanove.

Iz susjednih pjesama koraci klepeću
Po sjećanju i prečicama što nas varaju
Na način perfidniji od naših tabana. Koje
Izložismo kao zavjetne darove u
Ranoromaničkoj crkvi u koju smjestiše
Ovce. Cjelodnevno hranjene ciklamama
Okolo niskih gajeva s mirisom
Razlučenih smjerova. Teško je, kako već
Davno rekoh, na nedovršenim trgovima,
Umrijeti u Šotoventu. Čak i u jeepu
Koji nam pali slabine.

Jest. One ječe.
Close

To Die in Šotovento

(Sottovento, on the zig-zag route: Glavotok-Milohnići-Linardići-Žgaljić-
Bajačić-St. Chrysogonus’- the cyclamen field and prosciutto at Klisko’s)



Bitching at my tools I made good
Ones nonetheless. Walking shoes. With solid heels.
Scented like glue and women’s brushes.
Leather for shoe-tip made in one piece.
The heart unfeeling returns it as an image
In the second part of the pair, too.

I passed through deaths in them –
Exchanging them for slippers
Of fake felt, damp, from the cold karst.
(Like darling copperplates by M. C. Crnčić
Of those telling moments we imagine –
The one, maybe, when Vladimir Lunaček put
Left hand to forehead for him. In his accustomed, writerly way).

In engravings we are of dust. Sometimes
They are ours after break-ins to
Abandoned out-of-town apartments.

From the next-door poems footsteps clatter
Around the memories and short-cuts more
Deceptive and deceiving than
Our soles. Which we displayed like gifts
Willed to us in an early Romanesque church
Sheep have moved into. Grazing day-long
On cyclamens around the humble groves with the scent
Of parting ways. I said already, long before,
In unfinished market squares, it is hard
To die in Šotovento. Even in the jeep
Inflaming our flanks.

That’s so. They’re echoing.

To Die in Šotovento

(Sottovento, on the zig-zag route: Glavotok-Milohnići-Linardići-Žgaljić-
Bajačić-St. Chrysogonus’- the cyclamen field and prosciutto at Klisko’s)



Bitching at my tools I made good
Ones nonetheless. Walking shoes. With solid heels.
Scented like glue and women’s brushes.
Leather for shoe-tip made in one piece.
The heart unfeeling returns it as an image
In the second part of the pair, too.

I passed through deaths in them –
Exchanging them for slippers
Of fake felt, damp, from the cold karst.
(Like darling copperplates by M. C. Crnčić
Of those telling moments we imagine –
The one, maybe, when Vladimir Lunaček put
Left hand to forehead for him. In his accustomed, writerly way).

In engravings we are of dust. Sometimes
They are ours after break-ins to
Abandoned out-of-town apartments.

From the next-door poems footsteps clatter
Around the memories and short-cuts more
Deceptive and deceiving than
Our soles. Which we displayed like gifts
Willed to us in an early Romanesque church
Sheep have moved into. Grazing day-long
On cyclamens around the humble groves with the scent
Of parting ways. I said already, long before,
In unfinished market squares, it is hard
To die in Šotovento. Even in the jeep
Inflaming our flanks.

That’s so. They’re echoing.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère