Secret
I was nine years
old when I discovered a sacred secret.
I woke up early,
before dawn, at the moment when
day and night
are equal on God's scales.
In the room
stood that meek and tiny figure,
that pillar of
mercy and truth.
In one hand she
held the threads of the sky,
connected to
each side of the house.
In the other,
she crushed the grains sprouted from the ground.
Between, she
added a handful torn from his thigh,
one from under
the sternum and one from the forehead.
Three - I told
myself, one for each of the children.
She crossed the
air with a powerful swing.
Strong and fast,
as if competing
with the arrival
of the sun.
As dawn broke,
the room lit up empty.
The kneaded
bread was left resting on the table.
House
I built myself a
house on a dry hill, among dry trees.
Let it not be a
native field, a blooming meadow.
Let it not be “a
tree planted by abundant waters,
which brings its
fruit in its time, and
whose leaf does
not wither” (Holly Bible, Psalm 1:3)
A house in the
winds, on a dry hill, among dry trees.
Every night come
fortunetellers,
they measure my
days again and again
and the judgment
and the measure are always the same.
The first one
says: I have nothing to give him.
He has emptiness
in the fingers.
Where should I
insert the thread to sew on it,
the longing with
the palm, the moment with eternity?
The second says:
I have nothing to give him.
I look at him
and see nothing.
He is neither in
the day, nor is the night his.
He neither
treads on the earth, nor walks in the heavens.
The third is
silent, and then as if with a fiery sword
overhead he
swings and cuts.
His fingers are
empty,
because he hid
the silence in them.
He is nowhere,
because he sees what is not seen.
He also
understands the language of the stars
and on the dust
in the fields.
I will give him
to carry both a curse and a gift.
He will live and
die every day.
He will build a
house, but he will not have a house for himself.
He will gather
fruit on a dry hill, from dry trunks.
I'll let him
have the body of the word,
and in the place
of the soul I will put a song.
The Day Temjana Was Born
The day Temjana
was born
was an ordinary
day.
Bread and fish
were being prepared.
Water was put
into the barrels of wine.
The men were
looking up at the sky
sharpening the
scissors.
The children
with slingshots were aiming at the clouds.
And Grandpa,
crinkled under the ledge
continuously
spoke something inaudible,
it seemed as if
tying the word in knots under his tongue.
The day Temjana
was born
the grapevines
were pruned.
The children
with slingshots summoned a storm.
The women looked
at the black sky
and spat in
their bosoms.
Only Grandpa
didn't stop talking
and cutting the
grapevine shoots.
One word in a
knot under the tongue,
three steps
forward, one upright
and a strong
swing with the blade.
The day throbbed
in the rhythm
of pruning and
reshaping.
Tack-tack
children to the clouds.
Spit-spat women
in their bosoms.
Clack-clack in
the flesh of the grape vines.
The day
throbbed. Pruned and reshaped itself.
At the last tack
and spit and clack
Grandpa waved up
so hard,
it seemed as if
he cut the knot between
the clouds in
the sky and the roots of the grapevines.
The word
remained floating in the interspace.
In the silence
of that ordinary day - Temjana was born.
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
recognations.
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