ANTICIPATION (Desanka Maksimovic)

  

           
                                        No, don't come close. Allow me from afar
                                        to love, adore and worship your two eyes.
                                        For joy is finest in anticipation
                                        rather than in achievement of her prize.

                                        No, come no closer. Anxiety is sweeter
                                        when it combines expectancy and fear.
                                        Pleasure is best when journeying towards it
                                        and happiness is promise and foreboding.

                                        No, don't come closer. Shall I tell you why? 
                                        All things maintain their quality and shine 
                                        like stars, when they keep distant. Do not dream
                                        of letting those two eyes of yours touch mine.  

Poem About A Flower (Branko Miljkovic)

A little flower
had just opened his lid,
but he already knew the Sun's secrets
and what the Earth hid.

A little flower
didn't know how to walk in line,
but he knew how to feed himself
with water, air and sunshine.

A little flower
doesn't know to read or count dice,
but he knows what life means
and smells so nice, so nice.

Through The Midnight Air (Djura Jaksic)

Through the midnight air and densly woven trees
The stars are seen to to sparkle and to gleam,
Hearts' pounding interrups the gentle breeze -
Oh, take it easy through those dense trees!

Nearby a stream meanders ahead,
There where flowers rest in flower beds,
That's where courtship awaits and no one sees -
Oh, take it easy through those dense trees!

I'll fall, I'll die, my soul's aflame,
It will melt me by the break of day,
Like a flake of snow at fifty degrees -
Oh, take it easy through those dense trees!

(1861)

Warning (Desanka Maksimovic)

Listen, I'll tell you my secret:
Never leave me alone
when music plays.
It could seem to me
that some eyes gray
are so deep and soft,
the eyes that are actually plain.
It could seem to me
that I dive into the sound
and I could give my hands
to anyone around.
It could seem to me
so easy, so gay
to love someone
for only one day.
Or, I could tell someone
my dearest,
magically growing secret
how much I love you.
Oh, never leave me alone
when music plays.
It could seem to me that again,
somewhere in a forest,
my tears flow through a new well.
It could seem to me that a black butterfly
makes patterns on heavy water--
those that no one feels free to tell.
It could seem to me that somewhere in the dark zone
someone sings and with a bitter flower
touches my heart where the incurable wound stays.
Oh, never leave me alone,
never alone,
when music plays.

Spring Poem (Desanka Maksimovic)

While watching all these early buds and swallows,
I can feel tonight
that my heart’s slowly growing over sorrows
as someone’s horizon on smiley days might;
That it’s getting bigger like all plants around
and as light as feather,
and that all happiness that’s above the ground
and a Hell of pain wouldn’t really matter:

It’s longing for all things that a life as such
could give nice to thy,
and completely nothing wouldn’t be too much--
it’s eager desire and hopes are so high.
Everything that’s happened has been just a play
of my heart on fire;
my true love has never been given away
as much as I could and as I desire;

There are, in my deeps, gentle tides of words
never let outside;
I could give my heart to everyone on worlds,
yet, it would remain a lot of it inside.

Prkosna pesma (Dobrica Erić)

I
divine daughter
Serbia
hereby freely state
with shackles and through the wire
before my witnesses
Force, Suffering and Injustice
that I am guilty and that I confess!

I am guilty of being someone
instead of no one or niemand
I am guilty of going
to the Orthodox church
in times of general Serb-hunt
and guilty of crossing myself
not too often though
thus, with three fingers!

I am guilty of existing
instead of being unreal.
I have a long standing guilt
of standing upright
and looking up to the sky
instead of down at the grass
I am guilty of daring
and challenging injustice
I am guilty of celebrating again
my family patron saint!

I am to blame for reading and writing
in Cyrillic

I am guilty of singing,
laughing and cursing
(and sometimes barking)

I am guilty, and I confess
that I do not know why I do,
and that I know why I don`t know

I am guilty and to name
my greatest guilt
(before I die laughing)
I`m guilty – pig-headed as I am
of being Orthodox
devoted to St. Sava
and of not believing in
the Holy crime and the absolution!

My sin and my guilt is that I exist
and with all that I stand spitefully
refusing to confess I am not real!

Should I confess
to save my life
I will loose the sacred cross
and the patron saint.
Should I refuse
dire future awaits
the entire world will raid my land
Swarms of former men
Thieves and paupers
Packs of robots and other monsters yet
will pounce on my orchards and fields
and my little white houses along the roads
adorned by green goddesses
cherry, apple and plum trees

My ugly image
With monstrous features
That you multiply morning and evening
it`s the image
of your conscience and subconscience
That`s not me on the outside
That`s you – on the inside!
We are very important,
I and my sisters
Truth and Justice
for such mighty forces have rallied against us
and Wrong and Injustice are sneering at us.

Why are Jihad warriors
Crusaders or
Yanks
to quarter my sons and daughters
I suppose that foreign hordes have heard
that we have hearts of gold
and they are ripping them out
to replace their own
hoping to become human.

I fear not death – the black conclusion
but slavery and endless sickness
Death is a common thing among us Serbs
Just like Spring
Summer
Fall
Winter
and it is not so fearsome
especially in daylight
no more than the drought
earthquake
frost
if one meets with it on his farm
his soul cleansed with incense
his honor untarnished.

Fiends
well-fed and deranged,
you`ve banned all in my own home,
but no one can stop me
from singing and laughing as I am dying!
For you no longer laugh or sing
neither on weddings
nor when a child is born!

Spare me the rope and the spear
and crucify me on a mountain top
as your forefathers did my forefather
Jesus Christ of Nazareth.

I will look on
and you close your eyes
for they might shatter
in the brightness of my face
hurry now,
crucify me this day
and I shall be resurreccted sooner!

The Beautiful Priest's Daughter (Djordje Balasevic)

I was still very young
hunted some bog birds at the time,
when she came to bathe
the beautiful priest's daughter

She didn't know where I was
that I watched her stealthily through reed and sedge
Night fell over the river
like a cloak

And the moon watches over willow field
swarm of stars silvers in the sky
and water droplets like pearls
that shine all over her

Oh crazy heart, crazy dreams,
all my friends had already had girlfriends
but I wanted only one
the beautiful priest's daughter

Odd song rings on the road
that winter, wedding crowd came for her
from far away, some people
strange to me

And I just walked down the street,
the first snow was falling
And still sometimes bells jingle
that take me who knows where

To get married I have time
So I stayed bachelor till now
and I never saw again
the beautiful priest's daughter

One life peaceful, quiet
I sometimes throw cards or write a verse
life goes on
I stay out of it

And I kiss good ones, easy ones,
some right ones, some not
and they are all fairies, well they are all queens
and they are all irrelevant compared to her

D minor (Djordje Balasevic)

You wander away sometimes and I dream alone
I admit, it’s not working, but I’m trying
and he always comes, D minor

Comes like a thief down the strings,
fills my hands with your thingies
and all of that is hard to go through.

A D minor gets to me,
as soon as you leave – he’s in the room
stupid D minor, always finds out when that is

He grabs me firmly and doesn’t let go
he is crazy about silence, never misses it
Takes me to his blueish home.

A D minor, wrecks me
some would simply call that – sorrow
That’s not it. What is sorrow for a D minor?

Sometimes you’re not around and, all alone,
I’m searching for a way to trick the day a bit
but the D minor is cunning

He lets all lights go dim
waits for the last twinkling stars
pulls my sleeve – Lets go!

He scares me; where are you?
a thousand things might have happened
stupid D minor, who is he mourning for all night

He takes me into his dark carriage
the sky turns into color of your eyes
I know the road, it’s a shortcut to pain

A D minor, wrecks me
some would simply call that – sorrow
That’s not it. What is sorrow for a D minor?

There remained a book with a couple of unread pages
and some small things made of Herendi porcelain
and a pullover that you’ve worn…

There remained a record – The Best of Ry Cooder;
and a classy little powder box
and I remained yearning for you, for as long as I live,
my dear…

Migrants (Desanka Maksimovic)

Through the damp night
wild geese migrate to the south
honking and screeching.

I feel the desire for some murky
tale to write:
how they carried off
on those white wings of theirs
something from my soul,
but I don't know what,
and I don't know where.

Joy (Desanka Maksimovic)

I no longer watch the hands turn,
nor track the sun’s hot path;
day is here when his eyes return,
and night again when they depart.

Joy does not mean laughter, and
his yearning outweighing mine;
joy to me is when we’re silent,
and our hearts in tandem chime.

I do not rue that life’s rivers
will carry off my own life’s drop;
now blast youth and all to smither’s;
full of awe beside me he stopped.

Little Roses LXI (Jovan Jovanovic Zmaj)

You fell asleep. But I’m awake
Lost in thought somehow.
I think it would a pity be
For me to kiss you now.

I clearly see your dreams,
Heavenly, wrapped in bliss,
That should not be spoiled
With an earthly kiss.

II (Milena Pavlović-Barili‎)

I would to love you
More than I’m able
Turned away from the world –
with no time, no space –
to be carved in your reflection.
In an anxiety of existence,
I would,
to immerse my consciousness
into your serenity
setting every tear free
which I must still cry
at the terrible margin
of an imaginary relation.

Caution (Miroslav Antic)

Perhaps it is worth our repeating:
That desire is born out of desire.

And we can only really be complete
once we give ourselves entire.

We will learn only from speaking
sincere words that bind us.

And only once we start seeking
Will anyone be able to find us.

Quiffs of the Hair (Miroslav Antic)

Quiffs of the hair are usually found
Down to the nose
Or over the brow,
But there’s one blond quiff, golden like bread,
Guess where it lies?
Inside my head!

How can hair be inside the head?

Just like that -
Inside my head.
But it’s not my blond quiff, it ought to be said
But that of the prettiest girl from the Class ‘6.a’.

“So what?” you ask.

You’ll see what, one day
When the lock of another’s hair
Into your head does stray.
And you become wise,
and you flush,
and little by little… you blush.
And you bite your nails
And hide your look
And you write secret notes in the margin of your book.
And you sulk
And you’re a bit of a mess
And you try to study – what nonsense!

You confuse hens with goats,
pyramids and notes.
You confuse works of art with salads,
butterflies and ballads.
You confuse crocodiles and barn owls.
And tropical plants. And a king’s wealth
‘till you just don’t know what to do with yourself.

Now you see what a blond quiff means
When inside your head it intervenes.
And from a boy – a hero in his own right,
It creates a clumsy creature – a pitiful sight.

A Bloody Fairy-tale (Desanka Maksimovic)

It came to pass in a land of peasants
in the hills of the Balkans
a martyr’s death was suffered by
a troop of pupils
in just twenty four hours.

They were all born
in the same year
their timetables were the same shape and size
they were all taken
to the same ceremonies
‘gainst the same maladies immunized
and all died on the same day.

It came to pass in a land of peasants
in the hills of the Balkans
a martyr’s death was suffered by
a troop of pupils
in just twenty four hours.

And just fifty five minutes
before the deathly toll
the tiny troop was sitting
in their benches in their rows
wrestling with the brain
exercises: from two stations
leave two trains...
and so it goes.
Their thoughts were full of
the same mysteries
and senselessly scattered
around the benches
were A’s and D’s.

Handfulls of shared dreams
and shared secrets
patriotic and romantic
were clenched tightly in their fists.
And each imagined
that for a long time,
for a really long time
they would run ‘neath the canopy blue
‘til all the exercises in the world
were through.

It came to pass in a land of peasants
in the hills of the Balkans
a martyr’s death was suffered by
a troop of pupils
in just twenty four hours.

Entire rows of boys
took each other by the hand
and from the last school lesson
to their executions went
as if death was nothing.
Entire rows of friends
in the same instant rose
to an eternal dwelling.