Lena Ruth Stefanovic

Lena Ruth Stefanovic


Lena Ruth Stefanovic is an author and literary translator from Podgorica.

She holds MA in Russian Literature from Kliment Ohridski University, Sofia, Bulgaria  and PhD in Linguistics from Pushkin State Institute, Moscow, Russia.

She’s employed by University of  Montenegro, Faculty of Philology as Lecturer in Russian Syntax.

Published writings include two collections of short stories, several novelettes, two collections of poetry, and a novel -“The Daughter Of The Childless One”. She’s included in numerous poetry and prose anthologies, among them:Anthology of Contemporary Montenegrin literature in English language [Katedrala, 2010] ; First Anthology of Montenegrin poetry written by women: Koret on the Asphalt [Zagreb, 2013]; Best European Fiction 2014 [ Dalkey Archive Press, USA]; Poetesses of Montenegro 1970-2015 [Rat­ko­vi­će­ve ve­če­ri po­e­zi­je,  Bi­je­log Po­lje].




(Chaos magick)


I don’t  exist

I am not a mother, wife, and not even somebody’s son

I am no one’s groomsman, brother, or brother in law

I am not bridesman

Not an old city dweller

Not a “ma’am”

Neither a number

Nor a circle

Even less so a vicious one

I am not a catch

And even less so 22nd

(whatever that is )

Or vortex

I am neither ashes

Nor a star in the sky

I am not a triangle

Either love one

Or the Bermuda

I am not a toy of gods, stars and serendipities

I am not your electoral statistic

Not a consumer’s basket

I survived the fall



And that of the fake idols




And the worst of it all-


I survived systems, ideologies and faiths

And all their false prophets

I think and feel

And I know that you do too

And I cover my eyes

Like a child

The reality ceases existing

That reality they tailored for us

It isn’t there anymore

They can’t climb on the top of us

And sit on our heads

I remove mine

(head )

With both hands

And I fasten it to my waist

In its’ place

I put bleeding heart

Torn out from my chest

They can’t sit on ot

It’s too slippery




Via Bijelo Polje


I dream of death again

In fact


i only dream that i am living

in some non-existence, non-being

out of space

without tags and geo-locations

no facebook, internet,

no netflix

i part from a building at Aleksandar Zhendov str. 1

city of Sofia, Republic of Bulgaria

my parents are seeing me off

we say goodbuys

i travel by the refugee bus

via Bijelo Polje (?)

i am as surprised as you are

hope i don’t get trafficked to the other side

what status would i be given

over there

a posthumous  illigal allien

or post mortem escapee

at some asylum center between the worlds

for those who during their lives

philosophized too much

about the religion…








To some it

Stands still

Like a marble statue

In the midst of Hellenic temple


To others it flows

Shoots ahead

Day in day out

And only sometimes

Longer than a century

Lasts a single day

My time flies

Although I suspect


That all this


Does not exist

Out of time

In no-time

During which nothing changes at all

How is it measured?



And found

If it isn’t ?

When the time will be over

When its’ end will come

If all of that

At the end of things

And before the beginining of time

Is merely a social construct?

If it isn’t there,

The time,

If it stands frozen

With its’ hand tied hronologically

If it doesn’t flow, being wasted

If it doesn’t fly, being lost

Whose are these wrinkles on your face,

Whose are those kids who grew up?





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