Two poems of Duska Vrhovac
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08 July 2018
Author :  

 || Duska Vrhovac ||

 

Duska Vrhovac (Duška Vrhovac), poet, writer, journalist and translator, born in 1947 in Banja Luka, ex Yugoslavia. She graduated from the Faculty of Philology of Belgrade University. She has published 20 books of poetry, many of which have been translated, in part or in full, into more than 20 languages. She is considered one of the most important contemporary poets from Serbia. She has received important international awards for poetry and the gold medal for the “generosity, dedication, perseverance and creative contributions that are made to spread the culture of the nationalities of the Republic of Serbia". She participated in many literary and other gatherings, festivals and manifestations in the country and abroad.

Duska Vrhovac is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia (Vice President of the Board for International Relations), Association of Literary Translators of Serbia, of the International Federation of Journalists, and she is Ambassador to Serbia by Poets of the World (Movimiento Poetas del Mundo) and current vice president for Europe. She lives in Belgrade/ Serbia.

 

 

MYSTIC RAINS

 

I was picking red peonies with you last night

by the muddy Bistrica river.

From the sky were falling white petals on us

from the hands of souls who haven’t found peace.

From grass could be heard whisperings of ancient lovers,

the sound of horsemen clatter was coming from the road,

as in the poems of Hikmet Nazim.

 

While drops of the mystic rain were colouring our faces

Your eyes were sparkling balsam for the soul

and with some damned synergy

your hot breath on my mature lips

was turning into scarlet dew drops.

Everything was unreal except the night,

except our tears and blessings of our Lord.

 

Now I know that you are and what is and what is not.

If you were a blue dawn of my gentle death

and painful twilight of their outgoing youth;

if you were stopped voice of the primordial scream,

the runaway dream of fullness of a sleeping angel

who got tired of the excessive desire

and wished to rest on my shoulder.

 

 

 

TO FIND MY OWN WORD

 

Countless poets have already told

how they see a whole world in a grain of sand,

infinity in the palm of a hand, all heaven in an eye,

and how a single day can be an eternity..

 

Many of them have glorified love,

cursed suffering, sorrow and pain,

described death, hell, paradise and a happy home,

earnest that everlasting shall be their work and name.

 

Everything has been said and seen,

forewarned, sung and written about,

and there is nothing that has never been.

 

So why then do here I stand

Like the first woman and the first man,

As if I were a God.

 

To say what was told?

To describe what is written?

To find my own word.

 

 

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