SILVANA DIMITRIEVSKA

 

My Indochina

 

Like the slanting eyes of my Indochina,

I mark them under your forehead

the flight of the stars and dragons,

I write them deeply for you

on the cheeks, stomach, groin

the rice fields, the famine on the islands,

the clouds are heavy before the rains,

the monsoons flow through your mouth,

you will hate me for it one day;

hands of silk makers,

eyes in love with the tears of the cotton,

your pores are open and they know

the meaning of the silence;

a handful of rare spices mixed before morning,

you see-here there are the ships of Rimbaud,

float calmly through the green of the field,

now you already deeply believe in everything:

sorrow has seven names, nine faces

and only one sign to commemorate it,

the world does not have eight sides,

nor exact measurements

about the existence of minutes and seconds,

life is born when the stars stand still,

beyond visible air movement,

the body makes love twice, once with the passions,

you breathe like the change of moon menus,

your wrists infallibly remember

- I passionately wrote history on your skin,

with your breathing you rewrite it on the space,

the possessed rounds of opium smoke

on those maps they show it, quite precisely

your desire to kill me, big and wet

like the slanting eyes of my Indochina.

 

Blue Sadness

 

There is a sadness that follows me.

A blue sadness.

She follows my step, sniffs my shadow.

It colors my vision when I look at the sky.

So I believe it's always blue.

It convinces me that it smells

like a forgotten summer.

I line up shells and pebbles

to make a wall between us.

She makes a window with

her thin fingers and says

"do you want to play hide and seek?"

One sadness, one blue sadness.

It never leaves me.

She turn the pages of the books I read.

She sits with me and drinks coffee.

Sniffs with a measure, sighs loudly:

"It always tastes better when it's bitter!"

Talks. She asks questions

and doesn't wait for answers.

She believes she knows everything.

That sadness. That blue sadness.

Round and full. Soft and comfortable.

She runs excitedly like

in a children's chase. She blushes.

Sometimes she is embarrassed,

and then she is silent.

At the end of the day,

she knocks tiredly on the threshold

and no longer has the strength

to go inside.

Then I give her a sympathetic hug

and she finally disappears.

"Don't worry, I say, you will be born again."

 

The Journey

             (to my father)

 

The room is cold and gray.

The bed floats in the middle

and you lie in it sunk in silence.

I'm holding your hand so they don't sail away

your short sighs between two breaths.

The gentle smile of the nurse tells me:

'He doesn't know you. He doesn't remember anything.'

I keep silent while with an invisible wave of my hand

I arrange them around his head

the first word spoken, the first step,

the first slamming of the door,

the last 'I'm leaving, leave me alone.'

I am silent, while I sit dressed in the most beautiful dress,

with neat hair gathered in a bow.

'He doesn't even know you're here' -

she tells me with the same meekness and warmth.

She tries to land like a light feather over my sadness.

I am silent. How can I tell her that neither is he.

His smile has been traveling for a long time.

His step passed the walls of the room.

He crossed the silver, moon-river,

stands tall and handsome as ever,

he laughs at me and waves from the other side.

 

SILVANA DIMITRIEVSKA

 

SILVANA DIMITRIEVSKA is graduated philologist and journalist. She was the coordinator of the literary circle 'Mugri' and the editor of the poetry almanac of the same name. She is represented in the Anthology of recent Macedonian poetry for young people Purpurni izvori by Suzana V. Spasovska, the anthology One Hundred and One Poems, edited by famous Macedonian poetess Svetlana Hristova Jocic, the collection of poetry and short prose by young people from the former Yugoslav territories Manuscript 30. Silvana writes poetry, short prose, essays and haiku verses. She is the author of the anthology Angels with five wings, published as part of Struga evenings of poetry. She appears as a reviewer of several collections of poetry by young authors. She is the winner of the second and third 'Blaze Koneski' prize for a scientific essay. For her first collection of poetry, “You, who came out of a song”, she won the prestige national 'Aco Karamanov' award. For her short story 'Butterfly Skirt' he won the first prize of the contest 'I tell a photo 2021' announced by the Holocaust Fund of the Jews of Macedonia. This year, she won several national and international awards and recognitions.