Friday, February 1, 2019




One morning, all around me
there blazed with light countless
eyes and tracts in which
for a moment I saw all my unfinished
dreams. . . And I saw you, my Love,
approaching the dazing garden
and showing the key made of light
in your hand extended toward the door
of the room in which there irresistibly grew
the emptiness over my mouth, in vain
ready to celebrate in song
the world for a long time saturated
with illusory beauty.
One morning, my eyes
inside the all-seeing eyes, gained power
to perceive their inexpressible
property. . . And they expected
the grateful turning in the lock
of the key kept in the throat of a love
song, before it was broad daylight
and before the sight was filled up
with the new rays
in front of the other-worldly


A red-hot bird irresistibly
flies over the black horizon
reminding a wordless beholder
thet its primordial birthplace
is on the tongue in love with words
magnetized from within
by a drowsy breath. . . The over flight
would have more sense
if it did not carry under its wings
everything we used to long for
in vain, never daring to tell each other
in a loud voice. . . The red-hot bird,
the only true remainder of my
youth, scattered in questions
with no complete answer,
flies by turns high and low,
and with its phantasmagoric shadow
gradually screens tracts,
never entirely visible, outside
of the eyes always open
in the springs of drowsiness. . . For sure,
it will not and cannot stop
where our daylight is fed
on the known shine. . .


A multitude of options, but who knows
why a self-begetting wind
says confidingly to the grass, that
there is nothing more grateful
in the meadow, simply
not agreeing to reveal
different existence
in the first Spring poem.

The wind on the track of new poetics,
celebrates everything hopeful of survival,
in spite of disastrous meanings and of merciless
ripening. . . A multitude of options,
it says in the evening, and explains in the morning
to fluttering blades, though it seems
that at the end of the hot Summer
only one of them has undeniably
conceived under its novitial tongue
its own true seductiveness
in gloomy nouns, and something more
hardly translatable to lyric
swaths. . . The wind keeps
expounding the One who is
above all, expecting
some repose
promised before
the implacable mowing.


LJUBINKO JELIĆ was born in 1932 in the village of Šarani, close to Gornji Milanovac. He graduated from the Faculty of Economy in Belgrade. For some time he lived in Munich. He works in construction and design, and ocasionally publishing. So far he published: Letters to my love, Below the burning hammers, Wastefield, Sower’s gentleness, the Shine of the miraculous, Ravager before the door, The Magic ring, Above-Below, Closer to the glacier, Architect’s phonebook, Bitter seed, On the edge of the ash field, Building in, Tea for the neighbor, Around the dreamy nest, On another heaven, Angel in a greenhouse, Architect’s diary, Building and illusions, Graceful monophony, Collected poems in four books, Epistles of love. His works have been translated into German, Romanian, Italian, English, Macedonian, Russian and Check and can be found in several anthologies of Serbian poetry. He has been awarded and is a member of Serbian Literary Society and European Academy for Culture and Art. The awards he received include: Award of Serbian Literary Society for life’s work; “Ivo Andric” Academy’s International award for life’s work; Recognition of Cultural-educational community of Belgrade for exceptional contribution to the city of Belgrade; “Recognition of Morava” for total contribution to creativity in poetry and award of the Society of Playwrights for total contribution to the culture of Serbia, award in Aprilia (Italy) 2017. He lives and works in Belgrade.

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