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].
Ka’atas
(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
Mine
Yours
And that of the fake idols
Prejudices
Patronizing
Aggrandizing
And the worst of it all-
Flattery
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
maybe
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…
χρόνος
damaged
bounded
saddled
Time
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
Occasionally
That all this
Meanwhile
Does not exist
Out of time
In no-time
During which nothing changes at all
How is it measured?
Wasted
Lost
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?
