This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Saša Milivojev
A MESSAGE AFTER DEATH
And I have died,
in antiquity,
and noone ached for me.
Some rejoiced,
young as I was, as I bled on the cross,
drenched in blood, in agony.
Not a single tear rolled down for me,
when they nailed my bones to yew,
the dzelats were singing sneeringly.
and I was smiling, forgivingly.
In that life so brief,
in that cauldron of hell
in the tarnished jaws
I begged for love with poetry,
fruitlessly.
And as I have perished
to all I have forgiven,
soaring to Third Heaven.
Into the mountains of crimson jade,
Barefoot with the angels I stroll,
It is raining milk and honey
on the squares of the city of gold,
just as it did before.
Here, there is no pain and misery,
resentment and poverty, fear and sin,
by the beautiful streams,
sweet fruits are blossoming,
here, love is always waiting for you
when you come to stay from far, far away.
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
This one’s a castle, that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Lizst, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
and then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
a Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates from long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
that goes nowhere, has never carried traffic,
bears one boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreud or Schloss:
self-portrait, this. What features might we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Well, hardly. An endearing, awful suit,
and – most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Well, bless your cotton-picking heart,
she said in that sweet southern way
they have of nicely saying dumb fart.
Sorry i didn't know your precious art
was not Picasso, but paint by numbers
Well, "bless your cotton-picking heart"
Well didn't know it was a pushcart
When the nag, I tried to saddle
as they were nicely saying dumb fart,
So when music they fiddled "Mozart,"
Sneeringly flipped "Oh Mozart is it?"
And they smirking said Bless your heart,
Knew had surely their ignorance I did outsmart,
When to fisticuffs challenged, knocked out,
Knew I was that mythical dumb fart
Therefore, knew had to face this challenging fact,
That the South never, never rises unattacked,
Unless you mess with bless your heart,
Which they use to call you so sweetly a "dumb fart."
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