Translated by Petar Penda
Mirage
If I ever see you again –
let it be a precedent
worthy of the main scene of a historic
block-buster
or a western
set at the end of a sandy town
any situational context
here and now
a silent parade a civil protest
just let it not be a crystalline tarn
and that doom which seriously puzzled me
taken aback naïve
like a character from a Pushkin’s poem
the eyes wider than the Baltic blue
If ever it rises again – this sunken fleet
A holed flag the colour white
be it in an open sea
at full sail!
let it be knightly face-to-face and free
let’s play a fair-play
and not that damned display
and the glass which breaks irises
(and then all reach a parting of the ways – after-party)
Let not our effort to build a castle in the sky be wasted
disgust for all who are not worth your little finger
and who don’t devour me with their eyes
as if I sink into the earth free
of guilty conscience-
for a hundred days of griefs
a celebrated fire flower and then charge to the stormy weather –
why should I worry about time and trivial themes
let others trouble their heads about it!
There where sounds, all the same and terrible
where symphony orchestras end up in streets
and screeching strings make halls full –
where little is big fake is real
There where I made my life’s masterpiece of you
what a power lust! jerk blast!
Splendor and terror!
And the show of your carvings scuffs and blows in my head
I wish to meet you, take your clothes off to see under your skin once again
they can burn me then
make the bonfire
and set me on fire
impale me on a thorn –
others are not worth a damn!
just to see you intact once more
then on my heel to spin
and behind you to spit –
fling me in the air again, you dog
but with the wind at my back now
August in a Tulle Nightgown
These late warm August afternoons
and the wet sheets on which the sun’s angled rays fall
through semi-downed blinds
making ribbons of a golden zebra –
They remind of the lazy roadside resorts
the taverns that offered lodging upstairs without check-in or taxes
On the water bottles on the balcony lined up by the flowerpots –
They remind of the student rooms, pages of pocket novels
filled with Nanas, Koletas and Monas
and their lovers who first shave to dull da razor and then pass it to them
in a scented foam bath
on smooth legs, satin slippers, tulle cloths and nightgowns
on light walls and heavy iron beds
behind which every noise and flush of water was heard –
They remind of our Mediterranean conversations
with cold white wine
soft cheese and grapes we’ve lazily grabbed from the vines above our heads
and ate it fresh, unwashed
debating, with full mouth, the impact of Simone on French structuralists
she undeniably must have left
at least to the extent Sartre had on the philosophy of existentialism
– as if it was the most important issue in the world
If we leave out death to intellect
the smell of puddles and the croaking of frogs
We are essentially back at the beginning
About the Author
Katarina Sarić (b.1976) lives and shuttles between her native Budva and Belgrade.
At FF Nikšić she graduated with a degree in philosophy and did a further degree on South Slavic language and literature. Currently, at FPN Podgorica she is completing her postgraduate studies in social policy and social work.
She writes socially-engaged poetry, prose and essays. She is a performance artist.
