Stillness of an early autumn evening is predatory,
Disguised inside small pockets of dozy, warm air,
For the first frost at dawn,
As fine as the fresh gauze over a new wound.
Before the rains expose the earth anew.
And there were some rains this year already.
Opening river banks and washing small settlements away.
Peoples and dogs swimming for each other.
And before that there was a summer without warmth.
It never arrived.
When my daughter returned from her travels abroad.
Where ‘abroad’ names any place outside our floating islands.
Otherwise you could say that she went to visit home country outside of which lays ‘abroad’.
It all depends on the name you give to horizon you see while standing with both feet planted in the soil.
We can only ever see one.
Unless you are a character in Murakami’s novels. Two moons might be handy.
It would certainly explain a lot.
Anyway, it was a slow summer and I was teaching myself to write poetry.
What a mess!
Silences stretched across summer nights like the elaborate tablecloths my dead grandmother made from the thin white cotton she called ‘konac’. They were heavy.
She would lay them across our wooden table to fully show their opulence.
While all I learned is that poetry is like a fickle lover; it tempts, it seduces, it intoxicates,
Only to turn away without a warning,
Or a word of comfort,
Or a word of hope.
And still one waits.
In our times, they are serious people (and seriously trained for number of years) whose job is to name such state of affairs. They come up with names like ‘psychosis’ or ‘disorder’. It helps rest of the population cope.
But I did learn other things too.
For instance – a man to whom I wrote a poem some four or so years ago invited me out.
He still remembers it.
I do too.
The trouble with people in poems is they take it for real.
Poetry is not real! No more than our souls and our hearts!
Otherwise what would be the point – you can hug your knees – they are real enough!
Still, I listen while my daughter talks.
She carefully pronounces names of streets in Zagreb she visited, people she spoke with, dishes she tasted.
She watches me carefully waiting for recognition.
I have none to offer.
The trouble with exiles is that everyone wants them romantic.
They are not.
Your memory makes a fool of you.
Nobody remembers the square you swear on your father’s grave (missed the funeral) was just on the left from the war museum, complete with cheerful flower sellers and an old man playing accordion in all weather.
Your words mock you.
You say not what you want but what you can.
No language would have you.
And that surely is a death of any poet;
True or Imposter alike.