Inspiration

PREZIR

2008-04-28T15:48:00.000-07:00

U ovom vremenu imam status stoke
traže da budem onaj koji kleči,
i da u stvari pevam karaoke,
tuđu muziku i tuđe reči.

Prezir počinje kada sve shvatiš
i kada smrad do tebe dopre,
požuriš da svoje račune platiš
i da deponiju napustiš što pre.

Đavo sa crveno-crnim plaštom
slobodno šeta rajskom baštom
opet su trgovci ispred Hrama
mnogo zle krvi je među nama.

Svet se promenio - sve Juda do Jude
ološ nameće svoje ideje,
i vidim lažne i bivše ljude
kameleone i fariseje.

Pilati peru krvave ruke
za zverstva pronađu opravdanje
počinjem da se smejem od muke
mozak je dobio mesečno pranje.

Sebičan, bahat i malouman
po svetu pravi rusvaj grdan
Sotona tvrdi da je human
i da je Anđeo Milosrdan.

I nož iz leđa ponovo vadim
nada je smenjena razočarenjem
po ko zna koji put to radim
bez trunke mržnje, sa prezrenjem.

Uzalud želja u zidu plača
zid puca kao da je pravljen od gipsa
vidim da stižu četiri jahača
i znam da dolazi Apokalipsa.

Bora Đorđević

CRY, THE BELOVED COUNTRY / PLAČI VOLJENA ZEMLJO

2007-08-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

Cry, the Beloved Country, and light with your tears' powers
the thought smoldering in the desire that can never
rest.
Of all the tears that are shed now on this Planet of ours,
it's the tears of My Country's children that are the saddest.

Who shall, and what with, for all those Children's Tears pay,
for fear, no sleep and happiness which into the unknown soar?
Who shall give back the children everything taken from them away,
by this evil, contain within one single and short word - war?

Cry Beloved Country, lonely and stigmatized unfairly.
Your tears have long entered the Collections of Poems true.
You have lifted all your Children's bones from the pits barely,
When your Children are being thrown into bottomless pits anew.

You who are destroying Churches, huts and palaces all,
you fanatic warriors, man-haters, sun-eaters wild,
who are you making now this New Life and New World for,
when children from you in the forest, among the beasts hide?

Cry, Beloved Country, the tears of the bereaved Mother
of children who in wolves' and fox' lairs underground school.
With their fathers and mothers pointing guns at one another,
while their uncles the knives at them and at one another pull.

Let the looks and the guns pointed now at all Children's hearts
and at the White Birds above all the trenches turn to stone.
What kind of life can there be when a Child from this Life parts?
From whom shall the dawn break above Children's Graves, all alone?

There is not a Flag in this rotten world, and there should not be,
no matter what it's made of, pure silk or the velvet soft,
deserving the wind fluttering it for the world to see,
if with drops of Children's blood it's sprinkled so very oft.

Cry, Beloved Country, in the jaws of the dragon mean,
(and let there be more of You, at least in the Tears you shed),
until All Three Gods take pity on You, till they have seen,
and cease the death thrown among men and dogs, among the dead.

Take a look at your Children, at those old faces of theirs,
youngsters with crutches, learning to walk now, like their fathers,
helpless and withered Infants all sitting in their wheelchairs,
graves with no names, with no tombstones,
and the grief Crazed Mothers,
and homeless Old Men, in plum, orchards, alone or in pairs,
burnt out sticks, staring into the sky, like many others.

Cry, Beloved Country, and light with your tear's powers
your heart beating within the desire that can never rest.
Of all the tears that are shed now on this Planet of ours,
it's the tears of My Country's children that are the saltiest.

Plači, Voljena Zemljo i Suzama osvetli
Misao koja tinja u svakoj našoj želji
Od svih Suza koje sad kaplju po Planeti

najtužnije su Dečje Suze u Mojoj Zemlji.

Ko će, i čime, da plati tolike Dečje Suze
Strah, Nesanicu i Radost odletelu u nepovrat
Ko će Deci da vrati sve ono što im uze
ovo zlo, stalo svo u kratku reč - rat?

Plači, Voljena Zemljo, oljagana i sama
Suze su Tvoje davno ušle u Pesmarice
Još nisi sve Dečje Kosti ni povadila iz jama
a već ti opet bacaju Decu u jame bezdanice.

Vi što nam rušite Crkve, kućerke i palate
ratnici fanatici, ljudomrsci i suncožderi
za koga Novi život i Novi Svet stvarate
kad Deca beže od vas u šume, među zveri?

Plači, Voljena Zemljo, Suzama Mališana
što uče školu u vučjim i lisičijim jamama
Očevi i Majke im se gledaju preko nišana
a Stričevi i Ujaci na njih palacaju kamama.

Neka se skamene pogledi i nišani uprti
u Dečja Srca, u Bele Ptice nad rovovima
Kakav to Život može da nikne iz Dečje Smrti
Kome će svanuti dan na Dečjim Grobovima?

Nijedna Zastava na ovom trulom svetu
makar od same svile i kadive satkana
ne zaslužuje da se zavijori na vetru
ako je i Dečjom Krvlju pokapana.

Plači, Voljena Zemljo, u čeljustima ale
(neka Te bar u Suzama što više bude)
sve dok se sva tri Boga na Tebe ne sažale
i ne preseku pomor bačen međ pse i ljude.

Pogledaj svoju Decu sa staračkim licima
Mladiće na štakama što uče prve korake
Uvelu Novorođenčad u invalidskim kolicima
Bezimene Grobove, Raspamećene Majke
i Starce beskućnike u tuđim šljivicima
što zure u Nebo, nalik na ugašene ugarke.

Plači, Voljena Zemljo, i Suzama osvetli
Svoje Srce što kuca u svakoj našoj želji
Od svih Suza koje sad kaplju po Planeti
najslanije su Dečje Suze u Mojoj Zemlji!

Dobrica Erić

(1992)

Translation - Mladen Jovanovic

PONOSNA PESMA

2007-08-15T10:51:00.000-07:00

Ja pevam
grla čista
kao što drvo lista
pevam kroz lavež pasa
kao što pšenica klasa
pevam s grumenom zemlje u šaci
kao što Sin peva o Majci
i molim anđele
dečicu bestelesnu
da mi usliše i prime pesmu.

Ovo je moja jedina
i jevanđeljska Zemlja-Majka
moja Kneginja
moja gospođa varošanka
moja seljanka storučica.
A oko nje se digla halabuka i hajka
ko da je vučica
ko da je hajdučica.

S njom sam pola stoleća
cvetao i klasao
zrio i gnjio
pevao i plakao
i da sam juče umro
ne bih znao
da ovo nisu voćke kalemljene
ni polja lebna
ni potoci
već prerušene munje, vukovi i poskoci!

Nagrdiše mi zemlju
onoćiše mi dane
zatrniše mi sunce
pa se ježim i srdim
oljagaše mi ime i prezime
kuću i ukućane
al ja se opet ponosim što sam Srbin!

Kažu da sam divljak
i da nisam u pravu
što branim svoju kuću
svoj krst i krsnu slavu
A oni meni
u mojoj rođenoj Zemlji
udaraju međe
prekrajaju tapije
i pečate crvenim voskom
prozore, vrata, kapije.

Trpaju na moje pleće
svo belosvetsko smeće
i čekaju da padnem
da posrnem
ili bar da se zgrbim
ali ja stojim ko krst
ko Hristovo raspeće
i ponosim se što sam Srbin!

Ponosim, kažem,
ali u mom ponosu
nema poniženja prema drugima
gordosti ni poruge
Kad bi svi ljudi mogli
da se ponose onim što su
ne bi niko imao razloga da mrzi druge.

I samo što ponekad proškrgućem gnevno
ne bi li me čula planeta usnula
jer znam da nas čeka prokleto Lijevno
đe u njemu bijeli se kula!

Moja zemlja je ista onakva
kakva je uvek bila
Duša joj ko lebac
ko kiseljak starinski
Svakog je Ona tim lebom
dočekala i počastila
i ispratila, s poslacima
onako domaćinski.

Samo se više ne slažemo
sa onom Božijom besedom
Ko tebe kamenom, ti njega lebom
Promenili smo malo i mi
svoju čobansku ćud
pa ko nas lebom
mi njega lebom, medom i vinom
a ko nas kamenom
mi njega kamenčinom
I zato smo evo stali pred strašni sud.

Poabaše mi ruho
naružiše mi lice
oko srca mi lanac
na ustima katanac
uspavaše mi pčele i ućutkaše ptice
al ja se opet ponosim
što sam Srbin, Balkanac!

I samo što ponekad zabugarim gnevno
ne bi li me čula nebesa usnula
jer nas opet čeka prokleto Lijevno
đe u njemu bijeli se kula!

Samozvani mirotvorci što nas zavadiše
crnim tamjanom nam Zemlju okadiše.
Dušebrižnici bez duše i srca,
glavešine, glavonje i glavoseče bez glava
pobornici za ljudska prava i slobodu
pouzimaše nam ključeve svih prava
sad hoće i nasušni hleb
vazduh i vodu.

Đavolji sinovi i pasji sinovci
korov ištrkljao iz bolesne klice
srebroljupci
pravdomrsci
krivodelci
i drugi zlikovci
okrivljuju mene za svoje krivice.

Blate me, brate Ivo, za trojicu
muče me kao Malog Radojicu
ko Starog Vujadina sa obadva sina
Oće da me pretvore u makovo zrnce
Kradljivci istine i sunčevog sjaja
podmeću mi svoja kukavičja jaja
Tako postah neka napast neviđena
napastvujem dnevno tri stotine žena
pečem belu decu, pravim male Crnce
Sude mi za svoje grehe i zločine
i za sve ono što oni meni čine
Gospode, pogledaj ozgo iz plaveti
i zaštiti me od ovih aveti!

Moji mladi se čude
što se trujem i lečim
pesmom
psovkom
inatom
kao i moji stari
Šta bih ja drugo sa ovolikom tugom

Kriv sam jedino zati
što ne umem da klečim
(osim
da prostiš
pred ženom
kad radim one stvari)
a grešan što proćerdah
uz dert
i žal
i sevdah
onako vašarski
bećarski i ratarski
svoj stid kosovski
i ponos kajmakčalanski
Ali to ne shvataju ni preci ni potomci
golobradi starci i bradati osnovci.

Moj đed je bio domaćin čovek
u osvit ovog veka
Imao je vršalicu
vodenicu
valjalicu
tri lampeka
Moj otac je džambasio besne konje i karuce
A ja imam samo dušu
samo ovo ludo srce
što mi priča u grudima
o životu o ljudima
što mi peva
što mi plače
što se smeje
što me boli
što mi bije neprebolno
kao ono teško zvono
zvono crkve kralja Petra na Oplencu u Topoli!

I neću da budem sluga
ni žbir
ni udvorica
ni paž
Zato mi staviše na glavu trnov venac srama
A moja Zemlja je tek izašla iz jama
moja kraljica, obučena u pšenicu i raž,
moja velikomučenica Srbija
ukavežena, popljuvana i slana
Ali ja znam da je sve ovo jedna velika laž
i ponosim se što sam Srbin
Srbenda sa Balkana!

I samo što ponekad arlauknem gnevno
ne bi li me čula sazvežđa usnula
jer znam da nas čeka prokleto Lijevno
đe u njemu bijeli se kula!

Dobrica Erić

(1993)

A Prayer / Molitva

2007-04-14T04:09:00.000-07:00

Oh Lord, have mercy on those who have power,
Three times I pray,
Because they are in danger to become oppressors.

Oh Lord, have mercy on the rich,
Three times I pray,
Because they are in danger to become dissipated.

Oh Lord, have mercy on the poor,
Three times I pray,
Because they are in danger to succumb to despair.

Oh Lord, have mercy on those who have world knowledge,
Three times I pray,
Because they are in danger to worship themselves,
And make You fade away.

MOLITVA

Gospode, pomiluj one koji su na vlasti,
Tri put Ti se molim,
Jer su u opasnosti da postanu nasilnici;

Gospode, pomiluj one koji su u bogatstvu,
Tri put Ti se molim,
Jer su u opasnosti da postanu raskalašni;

Gosode, pomilu siromahe,
Tri put Ti se molim,
Jer su u opasnosti da padnu u očajanje;

Gospode, pomiluj one koji su sa svetskim znanjem,
Tri put Ti se molim,
Jer su u opasnosti da sebe obogotvore
i Tebe zaborave.

Rocks

2007-04-01T13:39:00.000-07:00

Today I have been so cheerful.

But now I hardly breathe,

and my smile is hazy, weary.

Far away, somewhere beyond the Scottish shore,

blue rocks rise from the very sea,

so enormous, so lonely, so dreary.

I remember them. I see them now.

Their blue color entangles my soul.

A horrible shudder comes over me,

also an endless sorrow.

Miloš Crnjanski

Sumatra

2007-04-01T13:37:00.000-07:00

Carefree, light and gentle,

we think: how silent the snow-covered

peaks of the Urals are.

If sad because of a pale face

lost one night,

we know that, instead, somewhere,

a stream flows with colour!

At least one love, one morning, far away,

enveloped our soul, tighter and tighter,

with the fathomless peace of the blue seas,

shimmering beads of coral, red,

like cherries at home.

We wake in the night, smile, tenderly,

at the Moon with a strung bow,

and we caress distant hills

and mountains to ice, softly, with our hand.

Miloš Crnjanski

A Hand / Ruka

2007-04-01T13:34:00.000-07:00

Heavy, full of bony sawdust,

an old hand lies in a lap.

Outlined on it are

a blue branch of veins

and an alphabet of wrinkles, entangled.

Only when lifted to the back of a child's head,

it enlightens and enlivens

like a watered plant,

the poison and the fatigue drain out of the veins,

the sawdust of bones is joined,

a joint lies in a joint.

But as soon as the child leaves,

the hand drops again

and falls into the lap.

* * * *

Teška, puna koštanih opiljaka,
leži u krilu staračka ruka.
Na njoj je ocrtana
modra grana vena
i azbuka bora, zamršena.

Tek kad se digne detetu do zatiljka,
zasvetli se i prene
kao zalivena biljka,
otoči se otrov i umor iz vena,
opiljci kostiju se spoje,
legne zglob u zglob.

A čim dete ode,
ruka opet klone
i padne u krilo
kao u grob.

Desanka Maksimović

For Lies Spoken out of Kindness / Za laži izgovorene iz milosrđa

2007-04-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

I seek mercy

for those who lack the courage

to tell the evil one that he is evil

or the bad one that he is bad,

for those who hesitate

to hurt with the truth,

for the people who lie out of kindness.

For the man who would rather be humiliated

than humiliate,

for the man who has no heart

to pull down a mask when he sees it

on someone's face,

for people who cannot insult

those of different thoughts and creeds,

for those who never could

pronounce a sentence to others,

for whom all judges seem strict,

for every kind untruthful story

and other similar weaknesses.

* * *

Tražim pomilovanje
za one koji nemaju snage
zlome kazati da je zao
niti rđavome de je rđav,
za onoga kome je žao
čoveka istinom unesrećiti,
za ljude koji lažu iz milosrđa.
Za čoveka koji će ponižen biti
radije nego koga da ponizi,
za onoga koji i kad nazre
obrazinu kome na licu
nema srca da je zdere,
za ljude koji ne mogu da uvrede
ni čoveka druge misli i vere,
za one koji nikad ne bi mogli
drugome presudu da izriču,
kojima se sve sudije čine stroge,
za svaku milosrdnu lažnu priču
i slične njima slabosti mnoge.

Desanka Maksimović

For All Mary Magdalenes

2007-04-01T13:20:00.000-07:00

I seek mercy

for the women stoned

and their accomplice - the darkness of the night,

for the scent of clover and the branches

on which they fell intoxicated

like quails and woodcocks,

for their scorned lives,

for their love torments

unrelieved by compassion.

I seek mercy

for the moonlight and for the rubies

on their skin,

for the moonlight's dusk,

for the showers of their undone hair,

for the handful of silvery branches,

for their loves naked

and damned -

for all Mary Magdalenes.

Desanka Maksimović

Sea without Poets

2007-04-01T13:19:00.000-07:00

You wait for a moment to adapt yourself to wards

But there is no such poet

Nor a world fully free

O bitter and blind sea

In love with shipwreck

Branko Miljković

In Vain I Wake Her

2007-04-01T13:15:00.000-07:00

I wake her for the sun self-explained by plants

for the sky strung between fingers

I wake her for the words that burn throat

I love her with my ears

You have to go to the world's end and find a dew on grass

I wake her for far away things that resemble these

for people who frontless and nameless pass down the street

for anonymous words of city squares I wake her

for the manufactured landscapes of public parks

I wake her for this planet of ours that will perhaps

be a mine in a bleeding sky

for the smile in stone of comredes asleep between two battles

When the sky was no longer a big bird cage

but an aerodrome

my love full of others is part of the dawn

I wake her for the dawn for love for myself for others

I wake her though this is more vain than calling

a bird that alighted forever

she surely said: let him look for me and see I'm not there

this woman with the hands of a child whom I love

this child asleep without having dried her tears that I'm waking

in vain in vain in vain

in vain I wake her

for she will awake different and new

in vain I wake her

for her lips will fail to tell her

in vain I wake her

you know what flows but it does not speak

in vain I wake her

you have to promise a lost name someone's face in the sand

Branko Miljković

An Evening on the Isles

2007-04-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

The blue wide deep

is asleep,

Cool and silent falls the night.

On a dark sea rock, dying fast,

Is the last

Scarlet ray of evening light.

The church bell tolls,

With doleful moans

The rocky hills resound.

With sighs of sadness, unending,

Heads bending,

Kneeling on the ground.

The poor folk, meagre

And eager,

Pray before their God;

They beg, but not a word

Is heard

From the crucified Lord.

The nearing repose

Is close,

Cool and silent falls the night;

On a dark sea rock, dying fast,

Is the last

Scarlet ray of evening light.

Aleksa Šantić

Tension / Napon

2007-04-01T12:11:00.000-07:00

A germ cried out: I want to sprout

out of darkness, up to height.

From split chest I will hoist

the most beautiful hymn of the sun.

A wing cried out: to be born

out of terrible blood torment

on calm stars to sail (I want)

to be the first on the sun.

A tear cried out: oh, to drop

out of pain that sob!

I'll bring into the world, when I fall,

the first rumor of human's soul.

* * *

NAPON

Zavapi klica: želim nići

Iz mraka, do vrhunca!

Iz prslih grudi ja ću dići

Najlepšu himnu sunca.

Zavapi krilo: da se rodim,

Iz strašnog mučenja krvi!

Zvezdama mirnim da zabrodim,

Na sunce da stignem prvi.

Zavapi suza: vaj, da kanem

Iz bola koji grca!

Doneću na svet, kada panem

Prvu vest ljudskog srca.

Jovan Dučić

Sunset / Zalazak sunca

2007-04-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

The sky, like copper in the furnace, shines,

The river crimsons in the evening glow;

And now, from that dark wood of ancient pines

Does not a stealthy flame begin to show?

And listen - somewhere in the distance, turns

The waterwheel, with droning hoarse and deep;

But while the heaven above the valley burns,

The mayfly on the water lies asleep.

Another evening!...in my mind I see

Beyond three oceans, in some land afar,

In the first hush of sunset, mournfully

Sitting, where shadowy emerald mountains are,

Pale as Desire, a woman I do not know,

Thinking of me, and crowned, and shining bright;

Heavy, perpetual, boundless in her woe,

There, on the verge of stillness, gloom, and night.

Before the garden lies the sea outspread;

The dark-blue gulls fly off, a scattered throng,

And in the rosebush, withered now and dead,

Once more the wind is murmuring its sad song;

And two huge sphinxes face the golden sky

And keep their mute and voiceless watch, while she

Weeps, and the tired sun slowly from on high

Sinks down behind the vast and spacious sea.

To me her name, her features, are unknown;

Yet, standing here, I fill her every thought;

For those pale lips declare true faith alone,

Faith mighty as death, as love that hopes for naught.

- Ah, never tell me it's not so, nor say

That my poor heart on lies itself hath fed;

For I should weep, for ever and a day;

No never again should I be comforted!

* * * * *

ZALAZAK SUNCA

Još bakarno nebo raspaljeno sija,

i crveni reka od večernjeg žara;

još podmukli požar kao da izbija

iz crne šume starih četinara.

Negde daleko čuje se gde hukti

vodenički točak promuklijem glasom

al' nad dolinama dok još nebo bukti,

cvet vodeni već je zaspo nad talasom.

Opet jedno veče...I meni se čini,

negde daleko, preko triju mora,

pri zalasku sunca, u prvoj tišini,

tužna u senci smaragdovih gora

- bleda kao čežnja, nepoznata žene,

s krunom i u sjaju, sedi, misleć na me...

teška je, beskrajna večna tuga njena

na domaku noći, tišine i tame.

Pred vrtovima okean se pruža,

razleće se modro jato galebova;

šumori vetar tužnu pesmu snova.

Dva grdna Sfinksa prema nebu zlatnom

stražare nemo i bezglasno tako,

dok ona plače...A za morskim platnom

umorno sunce zalazi polako.

I ja kom ne zna imena ni lica

sve njene misli ispunjavam tade.

Vernost joj zbori sa bledih usnica,

silna kao smrt, k'o ljubav bez nade...

Ah! ne reci mi nikad: nije tako,

ni moje srce da to laže sebi;

jer ja bih plak'o, ja bih večno plak'o

i nikad se utešio ne bi'.

Jovan Dučić

Signs by the Road / Znakovi pored puta

2007-04-01T10:29:00.000-07:00

I knew a man who managed to find an evil word for whatever thing he didn't have, or couldn't understand. So long as a man is the prey of his passions, a slave to his sense, and the plaything of his imagination, any secret torment or bitterness he feels is easier to understand and to bear, because it is deserved, and seems the natural consequence of a flawed existence. But later on, when he has mastered his selfishness, and is wholly given over to work and able to live for others, yet still espies that same bitterness at the end of every path - then, truly, a man does not know what to think, and he has nothing left to hope for. There remains at moments just one shining hope, as fleeting as lightning, that all this is not true reality; the thought that we will wake up, groaning.

IVO ANDRIĆ

Story about a Strong-one

2007-04-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

On the very same chain, firmly joined by hands and neck, there were two convicts, a strong one and a weak one. The weak one thought about slavery and was gloomy, and the strong one thought about freedom and was cheerful. Several times, the strong one wanted, by one strain, to break irons and run away, but that was choking, bleeding, killing the weak one.

One night, the strong one was keeping vigil. He was thinking about his hills, where, before long, he walked, powerful and fierce like nature; where wild boars were afraid of him; where he went to eagles' nests, and, with bloody hands, choked old ones and stole young ones; and from where he tore down stones, aiming to hear their death in abysses; and where he lived powerful, unbridled and noisy, like waterfall.

The night was dark and guard fell asleep. Irresistible illusion of freedom filled up his cruel spirit. Irons strained and broke. He rushed over his drowned companion, over guard, through meadows with black grass, in the river with black water, to which he threw himself like young, passionate beast; and reached the free shore. In back of his hills, has risen the large, bloody, midnight moon.

Nature has welcome him with smile, with joy, with spread arms, with blessing. Because nature doesn't know about justice, but of force.

Jovan Dučić

Poetry in Prose - "Blue Legends"

Sun

2007-04-01T09:49:00.001-07:00

He was born at Ionian Sea, at seacoasts full of sun, dark gardens, and pale statues, and like a sea gull, he bathed in azure, light and fragrance of permanent warmed waters. His mother often carried him through cool shades of some trees which leaves smelled of dream.

Unlucky poet! When he was a child he went to a country where the sky is pale and icy, the sun is white and cold, and through those seacoasts winds cry. And one thought, like a wound, warned him eternally to his sunny seacoast, dark gardens and calm statues. Together with waves and winds, he wept bitterly and brokenhearted on the strand of melancholic unfamiliar sea.

But, when his hair, blond like faded leaves, became white; when his passionate and nice eyes, that once had a colour of branches of winter lemon or shallow sea, became unclear; when in his veins he felt the winter without its spring, Destiny brought him back again to Ionia.

There everything was like it was before. But He wasn't the same anymore: and sunny seacoasts of joyful and passionate Ionian Sea he couldn't recognize! Painful, he closed his eyes tightly, and looked inside himself. And, look! there he saw that former sun, that amazing and enormous sun that once made everything around him alive - leaves that had the smell of dream, and that he could see the white and cool blood of statues flowing through calm stone, and made him live and suffer the deep and huge passion of men.

It was the Sun of Youth that passed, the sun that shined still only deep in evening's twilight of one's soul and that gave, to everything that it illuminated, the strange and magic beauty of Illusion.

Because, things have the appearance that our soul gives them.

Jovan Dučić

Poetry in Prose - "Blue Legends"

"Belgrade is Belgrade''

2007-03-31T16:13:00.000-07:00

Nothing describes Belgrade like the three words "Belgrade is Belgrade" that we utter at the airport after coming home from abroad. Belgrade abounds in love, warmth and wonderment; we feel safe here and we're happy to live in this city. If we haven't made much of our lives, it is enough to say that we have managed to live in such a fine place as Belgrade - the unfulfilled dream of many provincials. Belgrade does not like having its picture taken. It hates to pose. It will not keep still. It does not do well in photographs - it always looks like some place else.......

....There are few things in Belgrade that I have not seen elsewhere. Perhaps only three: its rivers, its sky and its people. Of these three ancient elements the unique spirit of Belgrade is born.

Clouds scud across the sky where the Sava gives itself to the Danube, combining mists with eastern and western winds - that dramatic Belgrade sky that resembles a huge celestial battleground. The spiritual state of its inhabitants is portrayed in this sky at any moment of the day.

People who grew up on a stone hill beneath such an exciting panorama cannot be but broad of gesture, stormy of temperament and of changing mood. These people, who stay in their city despite everything, even as history destroys and crumbles it, covering the land with layers of leaves and remnants of previous settlements and past civilizations, such people are capable of building their city anew, in a relaxed and unpretentious way; they are capable of building a city of human proportions. It is as comfortable as a friendly pub; the town does not put fear in the hearts of visitors with its enormity, but binds its visitors forever with a hundred invisible threads.......

...The spirit of Belgrade lies concealed in the unique chaos of its fruit and vegetable markets, and, above all, in the supple walk of Belgrade women. Watching these women on the city streets is like seeing a fantastic modern ballet with no other sound than striking heels! Pale city girls who grow up suddenly, accustomed to city life and the yearning looks of passers-by; independent, cynical, audacious and polite at the same time, with the innate elegance of millionaires behind cunningly concealed poverty - it is upon them that newcomers feast their eyes until they disappear from sight, as if upon some secret signal, leaving the streets inconsolably barren and bare.

The spirit of Belgrade gives birth to daring vertical lines, out of which spring new city quarters and old quarters fall into ruin; it bridges rivers and clears away the rusted tangle of railway lines overgrown with grass to secure a better view of the rivers and the sky. It toys with architecture and the laws of town planning.

This city will never attract the inquisitive collector of beauty, but it will do something completely different: it will arouse an almost physical pain of longing in those who have spent any time on its streets, even a few days, just as a photograph of a long lost love can inflict mortal pain.

The plan of its streets becomes something akin to a topographical map of our hearts. This city of ours will bewitch us with its charm, but it will never reveal the secret of that strange love, a love that is beyond comprehension. We shall remain its willing prisoners forever, having chosen Belgrade for this one life from among the innumerable magnificent cities of the world.

Momo Kapor

from the book "A Guide to the Serbian Mentality"