Thursday, September 1, 2022



The First Dream

               (to the poet I.)


You move your body

like the Alexandrian galley

calmly, in his dignity

of an ancient dream catcher.

You are the voice of all lost sailors,

the yearning of the water nymphs

for another touch of the stars.

You whisper to the waves

in nights without light

you whisper to them in a confident voice:

Another war!

Just one more war!

Before the second flood

to wash the flesh of the Earth.

You expect it with

passion on a moon tide

the clear sky and the fall of the gods.

Your body on an Alexandrian galley

cuts through all land debris

on which I lie sprawled,

like the last grain of dust from Cassiopeia.




When it rains, always, out of habit

you open your face in a smile,

you offer your body to petty pleasures,

you make a move with the paintbrush

from wrists to shoulders,

on the canvas that stands before you

like one's back

always new, in smell and in thrill.


When it rains... always...

I put a drop on your forehead,

two each in the palms, on the back and in the armpits.

In the air

I drew you sad, watery flowers

which you never loved.


You make a move with the paintbrush

from the forehead to the groin,

from lids to nostrils,

before your canvas, the smooth face

which sleepily waits and is not mine.

You are not an artist, more a master,

in love with the colors of your thought.

More touches, more silence.


We made love... always...

between one drop on the foreheads,

open windows and two mirrors.


You make a move with the paintbrush...

Through the distance I recognize you

you fall under the sheet tired of dreams.

You are a specter- I say to myself

and I'm trying to delete it

the face that watching you from the window.


Letter 1


How will I forgive you,

when I don't have you

when you don't have me

when in my breast it rises

full-blooded hunger for an Andalusian wind,

with the knock and by tact

of a thirsty dancer

to chase you

to dance on

every piece of earth in you,

to dig up my every step

a little hole in the stars,

to dance with you

like life with the breath, until the end.

How will I forgive you

when I forget you

when you forget me

while it flares up through the fingers

the eastern sun trapped in the corner,

from the desired point most north of the eye,

to be constantly thirsty,

to lust that it can't see me

to look for me

like ashes seeking dust,

like life seeking breath, to the last.

How will I forgive you,

when I don't have you

when you don't have me

when we are gone

of any star chart

from this piece of sky.


She loves to see the sea, bent like a sky blue snake,

in the morning, with the first sighs of the birds, when the dawn bleeds,

upright, like a scepter of truth before the infinity of space,

she does not belong to me!

Her look and breasts are not touched by the wind for me!

With fire in her eyes she goes back to bed and kisses my fingers,

but that's only because the day is unbridled in the mountains.

She rides through the day like a rare bird on the cloud, and I ride with her.

In the evening she returns to the eye of the sea,

she wraps clouds in her hair and hands them to him,

she arranges the stars with her hands, so that the night is as beautiful as yesterday.

With fire in her chest she goes back to bed and kisses my lips,

but that's just because I count them in her name

circles of the sun around the house.

She lies beside me like a water flower wrapped around the leg

of the sailor.

„At the dead end of the heart

you can see the angels touching their fingers “(verses from Luigi Manci)

she says. 

I'm silent, because she is my sixth Vestal,

hidden in the blood.

I'm silent.

Only in that moment, she still belongs to me,

her tired smile and the quiet trembling of her skin.

That's a pretty good and totally happy ending.



Little Song


Silence always follows

after making love,

as the rain follows the thunderstorms

to wash away water marks

which midnight created as keys

with which he unlocks and locks specters and shadows.

Silence is then a blessing

for our and too simple need

not to kill things ... by naming them.




SILVANA DIMITRIEVSKA graduated from the Department of General and Comparative Literature in Macedonian, and later graduated from the Macedonian Institute for Media. She was the coordinator of the literary circle ‘Mugri’ and editor of the same edition. She is the winner of the prestigious national poetry award “Aco Karamanov”. In the past two years she has won several national and international poetry awards and recognations. For her story ‘Butterfly Skirt’ she won the first prize in the national competition ‘I tell a photo 2021’ announced by the Holocaust Fund of Macedonia.


1 comment :

  1. BEST in Macedonia! Original writer, perfect, extraordinary, one and only, enchants with writing, that is Silvana Dimitrievska!