Tuesday, August 1, 2023





Here she comes, with a black look

and the smell of darkness.

The night swallows me in her groin.

She is the drop of life that kissed the beginning.

She is the sound more powerful than silence.

I hear it gurgling through the roots of the house,

joins bone to bone, brick to brick,

builds and breaks down,

flows through the walls,

it washes the roofs when we need it

pure thought and dream for dreaming.

She tells me: I came because you called me!

She is the palm of hope with which we knead it

the bread of tomorrow.

She is the body we immerse,

stripped skin,

that we may clothe ourselves in the Spirit

when we stand naked before the mirror of the soul.

And I say: come, because I called you!

Oh, you Dark woman, mother, lover, sister

Water that brings me back to the source

of which I will not be thirst.


The First Spring


The wind blows of the ancients

drying wires,

the stretched world sways

from one corner to another of the rounded sky,

the rivers from which we stole drops have dried up

to make our foreheads dewy.

I see you waving from the fields,

the flowers are blushing under your feet.

Ah, it's spring Temjana!

You build a home for all the bugs

and you leave.

Some other songs are born between the hills.

Some new silences are created in the grass.

It's spring.

The sun goes around the house.

It will rain! – screams mother while watching

in old dryer lines

and the world stretched

from one corner to another

like a covering under the sky.

Quick! Let's go collect expectations

before the rain could soak them.


Fire For My Mother


They say that life is ultimately measured by memories.

We haven't lived in the orange house for a long time,

 on the corner of 12th Street and Maple Row,

I avoided those smiling windows for a long time

overgrown with grass,

and the roof that greedily sank more and more into the earth,

and I knew, along the left corridor to the kitchen,

there are nine my footprints

on the sixth step, a few tears and an inaudible sigh

to my mother,

then people came to know the power of planes to see

from on high, to look down on orange houses

with smiling windows,

I had already forgotten my father's room for a long time

and the gas lamp, the hills beloved books, left open...

none of them he took, and after the third spring

everything remained as if nothing had happened,

and for a long time, there was no one there, neither us, nor the planes,

only mother every day before sunset, before it cools down,

would have traveled 16 kilometers back,

I asked her why, she said:

it is not right, son, to extinguish the family hearth.




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.


No comments :

Post a Comment