Dušan Gojkov- Serbia

Dušan Gojkov, Beograd, 1965.
Pesnik, prozaista, romanopisac, esejista, radiofonski reditelj, novinar. Objavio četrnaest knjiga, zastupljen u mnogim domaćim i stranim antologijama savremene literature. Dobitnik nekoliko značajnih književnih nagrada.
Za radio režirao više od dve stotine radiofonskih drama i eseja, kao i dvadesetak dokumentarnih filmova za televiziju.
Kao novinar za južnoslovensku štampu izveštavao iz trideset sedam zemalja.
Predsednik Balkanskog književnog društva.
Osnivač i glavni i odgovorni urednik magazina za književnost i umetnost – Balkanski književni glasnik.

Dušan Gojkov, Beograd, 1965.
A poet, short story writer, novelist, essayist, radio drama director, journalist. Published fourteen books, and some prose in dozen Yugoslav or Former Yugoslav and foreign anthologies. Winner of some domestic and foreign literary awards.
Directed more than two hundred radio dramas and around twenty documentary films for television.
President of Balkan Literary Society.
Editor-In-Chief of Balkanski knjizevni glasnik magazine – Balkan Literary Herald.

Bibliografija – Bibliography:

Grand Hotel, short stories, seventeen editions 1993 – 2013;
Slepi putnik, novel, 1994;
Evropa plese, radiophonic essays, 1995, 1996;
Fotografije glasova and Utuljena bastina, documentary-dramatic radiophonic essays, 1997;
Une nuit (un jour) d’une vie, collected essays, 1997;
Passager clandestine, novel, 1998;
Opsta mesta – jedan paraliterarni herbarijum, novel, 1998;
Album fotografija 1991 – 1993, novel, 2003;
Laka, crna zemlja, duodrama, 2005;
Pisanje po vodi, novel, 2006;
Other People’s Memories, poem, 2012;
Dying Words, poem, 2012;
Potištenost, novel, 2012;

Tužne šansone, collected poems, 2013, 2015.

№ 1

ona
tužno pakuje zimske stvari u ormar
pokušava da se seti
gde je izgubila prošlu godinu
prošlu godinu
koja je prva i poslednja za mnogo toga
on
nalakćen na krevetu
piše beznačajne patetične stihove koji se čak ni ne rimuju
a ustvari pokušava da se seti
kako i gde je dođavola izgubio prošlu godinu
prilazi prozoru proleće je
ulica je mračna i više nema one svetlosti zlatne i zrnaste s drvene bandere
one svetlosti što miriše na svež vruć hleb
i na zimu
sećaš se da smo pre nekog vremena planirali da otputujemo u pariz
a još uvek nismo otputovali
zajedno
kažeš kafa ti se hladi
dobro je pisati poeziju
uvek pri ruci imaš papirić na koji možeš da spustiš koštice iz knedli sa šljivama

№ 1

she
sadly packing winter clothes in the closet
trying to remember
where has she lost the past year
which was the first and last for many things
he
leaning against the bed
writes meaningless pathetic verses which do not even rhyme
but actually trying to remember
how and where the heck did he lose the past year
he comes closer to the window it’s spring time
the street is dark and there is no more light, golden and grainy, from the wooden pole
that light that smells of fresh warm bread
and of winter
do you remember that some time ago we planned to travel to paris
and we still haven’t gone
together
you say your tea is getting cold
it’s good to write poetry
you always have at hand a little piece of paper on which you can put the seeds from the cherry dumplings

***

№ 28

znam
da je jablan
pod tvojim prozorom
već propupio
pustio mlade listiće
da su magnolije i lale
prekoputa
procvetale
ipak
u širokom luku
obilazim tvoju ulicu
i ne znam zašto
setim se onog divnog zaveta
izrečenog nekad davno, davno
„moje će telo čekati na tvoje ispod nekog kamena“ –

gde
kroz koje su to bušne džepove
nepovratno poispadala
ona jutra
i tmurna
i topla
svakakva
naše večeri
uz čašu vina
tihu muziku
i međusobne poglede
s malo sunca u očima
one noći
kad sam potpuno smiren
staložen
ležao šćućuren uz tebe

s druge strane
istina je
još uvek mi uspeva
da vratim osmeh na lice
pokojoj ženi
da povremeno neka od njih
čak dođe
sve do mog predgrađa
samo da bi mi dala čokoladu
donela kolač od voća
bocu vina
ili neku novu knjigu
popila šolju čaja
ili kakvog drugog pića

„život ide dalje“
kažu pametni ljudi
ali
bojim se
ove slike
što se vrte po čitavu noć
čitav dan
ovu rupu u mojoj utrobi
ovu prazninu
neće izlečiti ni vreme
ni savremena medicina

znam ja
mnogo toga smo i propustili
namerno ili nehotice
da učinimo
jedno za drugo
znam to, znam…

rominja neka sitna
prolećna
kližem se niz lorkinu ulicu
(trebalo je davno da kupim nove cipele, očigledno)
dolazim doma
hranim kornjaču
sedam u fotelju
strogo vodeći računa
da ne posmatram onaj ugao sobe
u kojem je stajao tvoj pribor za slikanje
štafelaj
platna
boje
kistovi
i slično

na stočiću pokraj mene
boca
čaša
jutrošnja nepopijena kafa
i vaza sa onim čudnim žutim cvećem
kojem nikako da zapamtim ime
i koje sam sinoć
(evo, stidim se)
ukrao za sebe
u parkiću
prekoputa

pušim cigaretu
gledajući u neodređenom smeru

№ 28

I know that the poplar beneath your window
is shooting
young leaves
and that the magnolias and tulips
across the road
are in blossom
yet I give your street
a wide berth
as, gods knows why,
I remember the beautiful vow
we made long ago:
“my body will wait for yours
under a rock somewhere”—

by what accident
through which torn pockets
did we ever lose
those mornings
the grey ones
the warm ones
mornings of every kind
those evenings
spent to a glass of wine
quiet music
and glances exchanged
through sunlit eyes
those nights
in which I was
calm, quiet,
curled up next to you

on the other hand
the rumors are true
I still manage
to bring a smile to a woman’s face
every now and then
and some of them even venture
to my distant suburb
for no other reason
but to bring me chocolate
fruit cake
a bottle of wine
a new book
to have a cup of tea
or a different drink

”life goes on”
say the wise
but I suspect that
those pictures
which spin around me all night
and all day
that hole in my guts
that void in my heart
will not be mended by time
or modern medicine

I know
we have wasted much
deliberately or accidentally
much that we could have done
for each other instead
I know, I know

under a
vernal
drizzle
I slide down Lorca street
(it is quite clear that new shoes are
long overdue)
I arrive home
feed the turtle
sit in the armchair
taking strict care not to
look at the corner of the room
where your painting gear used to stand
your easel
canvasses
paints
brushes
and things

on the table next to me are
a bottle
a glass
coffee untouched since this morning
and a vase
with those weird little yellow flowers
I can never remember the name of
which (OK, I’m ashamed)
I stole for myself last night
from the little park
across the road

I light my cigarette
gaze at nothing in particular
and let the yellow petals
quietly shed on my shoulder

***

№ 16

sećam se
portobello road
gde sam te prvi put dotakao
da ti skrenem pažnju
na jednu lepu fasadu
prolaznici
beže od kiše
a prodavci voća
zatvaraju tezge
sećam se
crkvene porte
gde smo slušali
najtopliju tišinu
sećam se
gledam te dok spavaš
usana nekako napućenih
dišeš duboko
osluškujem
čaršav
preko tvojih bokova
nežno
ocrtava
interesantno
ne mogu da se setim
kakve su ti bile
obrve
sećam se
drvoreda
što seče vinograd
vetar duva uporno
polako hodamo
držiš ruku
u džepu mog kaputa
razmišljam
dok te još nisam upoznao
zvuči glupo
ali
stvarno mi je nešto nedostajalo
sećam se
tvojih pisama
blaßblauefrauenschrift
koja si ostavljala svakog jutra na jastuku
dok još spavam
sećam se
kako strpljivo čekaš
dok ja stojim
ispred tri moneove slike
potom
gledam te kako plešeš
uz muziku
sama
naše duge šetnje
po ulicama oko covent gardena
sećam se
u vozu
spavamo isprepleteni
putujemo
naša mala soba
za bogate turiste
iznad café de la paix
preskupo ali ti si tako želela
trg
puno ljudi
sećam se
jedne ploče
što svira iznova
i iznova
(tom waits, closing time, mislim)
sećam se
držim te za ruku
jer si uplašena
onda
restorančić kojem sam zaboravio ime
ali bih ga i danas
zatvorenih očiju
pronašao
ćutimo
satima
uz bocu vina
dođavola takvo ćutanje je ružno
a ovu knjigu
sam kupio one subote
čekajući da završiš kod frizera
ulice su bile vlažne
od noćne kiše
ili su to bili perači ulica
rano jutro
još uvek malo prohladno
posle smo zajedno
otišli na kafu
pa je nismo popili
jer smo malo vikali
jedno na drugo
pa nam je nakon toga
bilo neprijatno
sećam se
zalivaš cveće
pevušiš
da bi bolje raslo
crvenih obraza
posle posla
ispijaš konjak „na eks“
bunim se
hej
imaj poštovanja
to je dobro piće
sećam se
proleća u grčkoj
kad si me treznila
sirćetom i maslinovim uljem
odvratno
tako su te posavetovale
susetke
tako one muče
svoje muževe
a onda leto
izgoreli od sunca
dahćemo u sobi
s velikim vlažnim peškirom
preko nas
šapatom: slušaj
prosto zuji koliko je vruće
uveče
sedimo na terasi
uz hladni chenin blanc
tad smo ga otkrili
posmatram tvoj profil
skidaš cipelu
da istreseš pesak s plaže
a tvoja noga
mala
bože kakvo je to stopalo
sećam se
svađaš se sa konobarom
jer mi je doneo pogrešno piće
ne ono koje sam naručio
vodimo ljubav
uz uključen televizor
ljubavni film
učim te svoj jezik
govoreći poeziju naglas
vidim
sediš na ivici kade
dok se brijem
utrljavaš neku kremu
na lice
podloga za šminku
tako nešto
skupljaš opalo lišće po dvorištu
samo lepe primerke
još uvek se desi da poneki list
ispadne iz knjige koju nisam davno
uzimao u ruke
sećam se
izlaziš u drugu sobu
da telefoniraš
a ja se pravim da čitam novine
berzanske izveštaje
bože mi oprosti, kako sam bio…
sećam se
našeg psa
skoro štene
kojeg smo svakog jutra pronalazili na krevetu
između nas
sećam se
kad si prvi put otišla
gledao sam kroz prozor
na praznu ulicu
noć
i plakat za kaubojski film
prekoputa
radijatori u sobi hladni
bojler u kupatilu
šišti
i tvoje oči
koje sam video čim zatvorim svoje
sećam se
mirisa tvoje odeće
koju si zaboravila u ormaru
jedne velike kartonske kutije
pune fotografija
bože šta li sam uradio s njom
u kojoj su li se selidbi
izgubile
sećam se
i mirnih večeri
ti slikaš
ja pišem
ili čitam
sedeći u beržeri
sećam se
cveća koje je stizalo
svakog jutra
kasnije otužno mirisalo
po čitavom stanu
možda je trebalo da pitam
ko ga šalje
možda
noćni zvukovi
tvoje disanje
a ispod prozora
pijanci pevaju
prigušeno
sećam se
odlaziš
„negde“
a ja te požurujem
da ne zakasniš
pravim se da ne znam
onda
iz bolnice se vraćaš sama
sa plavim
tamnoplavim
kolutovima ispod očiju
trebalo je nešto reći
znam
dok me nema
spakuješ svoje kofere
torbe
nesesere
ponešto je moralo da se stavi
čak i u pletenu korpu za pijacu
sećam se
ćutiš dok te pitam
sećam se
ćutim
nakon tvog ćutanja
gledam kroz prozor
čujem kako ostavljaš svoj ključ na kuhinjskom stolu
otvaraš vrata stana
sećam se
kako te udaram u lice
ta ruka će celog života praviti isti pokret
a ti plačeš
unapred

№ 16

I remember
portobello road
where I first touched you
to draw your attention
to a beautiful façade
the passers-by
were running from the rain
the fruit-sellers
closing their stalls
I remember
the church portal
where we listened to
the warmth of silence
I remember
watching you sleep
with your lips puckered
and listening
to your deep breathing
I remember the sheet
over your hips
in a tender
outline
interesting
I can’t remember
what your eyebrows were like
I remember
the row of trees
which cut through the vineyard
the persistent wind
and the way we walked slowly
with your hand
in the pocket of my coat
Listen
this may sound corny
but before I met you
there was really something missing
I remember
your letters
blaβblaufrauenschrift
which you left on the pillow every morning
while I was still asleep
I remember
how you waited patiently
for me to finish
looking at three paintings by monet
and remember
watching you dance
to music
all alone
and our long walks
in the streets around the covent garden
I remember us
in a train
tangled together, sleeping
as we travelled
or our little room
for rich tourists
above the café de la paix
too expensive but that’s what you wanted
the square
was teeming with people
I remember
the record that played
on and on
over and over again
(tom waits, closing time, I think)
I remember
holding your hand
when you were afraid
I remember
the restaurant with the name I’ve forgotten
but which I could
still find
with my eyes closed
and our silence
stretching for hours
to a bottle of wine
hell, that was an ugly silence
and this is the book
I bought that Saturday
when I waited for you to finish at the hairdresser’s
the streets were moist
with last night’s rain
or the street washers’ efforts
it was early morning
still a bit nippy
and we went
to have coffee together
but we didn’t have coffee
because we had to shout at each other a little first
so things felt awkward afterwards
I remember you
watering the flowers
singing to them quietly
so they would grow better
and how, cheeks flushed, after work,
you downed a tumbler of cognac
to which I objected
hey
have some respect
that’s good stuff
I remember
the spring in Greece
when you sobered me up
with olive oil and vinegar
disgusting
you followed the advice
of the women in our neighbourhood
that’s how they tortured
their husbands
then came the summer
and the two of us, sunburnt,
lay prostrate in our room
with a big wet towel
across our backs
and we whispered: listen
the heat is so strong that it buzzes
at night
we sat on the terrace
nuzzling the cold chenin blanc
that’s when we discovered it
I look at your profile
as you take your shoe off
to shake out the beach sand
and at your foot
tiny
my God, what a foot that was
I remember
how you fought with the waiter
when he brought me the wrong drink
not the one I’d ordered
how we made love
with the TV on
a romantic movie blaring
I teach you my tongue
by rolling poetry off it
I see you
sitting on the edge of the bath
while I am shaving
you are massaging in face cream
the hydrating make-up base
whatever
I see you collecting dry leaves around the garden
only the beautiful ones;
they still fall out
from books long left unopened
I remember
when you went to another room
to make secret phone calls
I pretended to read the paper
the financial reports
God forgive me, I was so…
I remember
your dog
our puppy, rather
who came up to the bed every morning
and burrowed between us
I remember
The first time you left
I looked out of the window
into an empty street
into the night
there was a poster for a cowboy movie
across the road
the radiators were cold
the boiler in the bathroom
hissed
and
your eyes
were there as soon as I closed mine
I remember
the smell of your clothes
forgotten in the cupboard
a large cardboard box
full of photos
God, what did I do with them?
Which one of my house moves
was the end of them?
I remember
quiet evenings
you painting
and me writing
or reading in the armchair
I remember
The flowers which kept arriving
each morning
suffusing the apartment
with their oppressive smell
perhaps I should have asked
who was sending them
perhaps
I remember the night sounds
your breathing
and the muffled song of the drunks
coming from below
I remember how,
when you were to go “somewhere”,
I hurried you along
so you wouldn’t be late
pretending to have no clue
and how you came back
from hospital alone
with blue
black
rings around your eyes
something needed saying
I know
As soon as I was away
you packed your suitcases
bags
toiletry bags
some of the things even spilled over
into the woven basket for the market
I remember
your silence in answer to my question
I remember
my silence in answer to your silence
I remember gazing through the window
and the sound of your key on the kitchen table
and the sound of the apartment door, opening
I remember
hitting you on the face
(All my life, my hand will follow
That trajectory)
and I remember you crying
well before impact

***

№ 33

laku noć, moje dame, laku noć
bliži se kraj ove operete

laku noć, moje dame, laku noć
odlazim da spavam
čist
bez slojeva šminke
godinama nanošenih

laku noć, moje dame, laku noć
da mi je svaka od vas podarila samo
po kamenčić tuge
sad bih morao da unajmim nosače
srećom
bilo je tu i radosti

nadam se da i vi pokatkad tako mislite

laku noć moje dame, laku noć
nije prošao ni jedan dan mog života
a da se ne setim
ponaosob
svake od vas

vaših mirisa
očiju
osmeha
grudi
bokova

vaših glasova

godine su ih pretvorile u hor
anđela
a uz takvu muziku
divno je tonuti
u san

laku noć, moje dame, laku noć

№ 33

good night, my ladies, good night
we’re getting close to the end
of this operetta

good night, my ladies, good night
I’m going to bed
clean-faced
I’ve removed the layers of makeup
applied for years

good night, my ladies, good night
if each one of you had given me
but a pebble of sadness
I would have had to hire porters by now
luckily
there’s been some joy
along the way

i hope you think so too
at least sometimes

good night, my ladies, good night
not a day has gone by
that I haven’t thought of
each one of you
personally

each of your fragrances
eyes
smiles
breasts
hips

your voices

the passing years have turned them
into a choir of angels

what heavenly harmony
to sing me to sleep

good night, my ladies, good night

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