Saturday, November 22, 2014

Letter from a Poet


Profile of poet Milorad Pejić

Dear Gregory:

"What are poets for in a destitute time?" This remarkable line by the German poet Friedrich Hölderlin has for two hundred years been peddled in literary circles as a collective metaphor about the meaning (or lack thereof) of poetry. Since Hölderlin's query is its own answer, my relationship with this paradoxical question in our time of total moral civilizational collapse is essentially of an esthetic nature. In the consummate disintegration of our system of values (need I cite examples? what are examples for in a destitute time?), the poetic word seems to me like the last "democratic chance" of the person sentenced to death to speak once more, before execution, without calculation or profit or loss, about the "case."

Poetry for me is the only possible way to express myself regarding this case, but at the same time it does not exclude my assuming "civil risk" in this. That deeply intimate compulsion to take a stand comes to me, despite everything, like setting down a heavy weight, a relief from remorse that I'm unable do something more concrete to save the honor of humankind. On the other hand, in my early youth, poetry was a kind of spiritual refuge for me, a bunker of freedom. In it I felt at ease, without an urge to enter the "occupied territory" and get involved in such small matters as defending humanism, but, like all young poets of my generation in those student years long ago in Sarajevo, I was searching for the essence. That time of dealing with "higher things" resulted in 1985 in my first poetry book, The Vase for the Lily Plant (Svjetlost, Sarajevo).

The poems from this first collection had taken more than ten years to write, slowly and painstakingly, but the second book, The Eyes of Keyholes, didn't go any faster either. This latter book was originally published in 2001. The same goes for the collection of poems Hyperborea, which was first published by the Czech company Aula (Prague) in 2011, and also later, after it had received the Slovo Makovo – Mak Dizdar Award for best poetry book in 2012 in the region of former Yugoslavia, by the Mak Dizdar Foundation (Sarajevo, 2013). So, I wrote on average three to four poems a year, resurrecting as a poet every ten years with a small book that found its way into the slender library of some anonymous reader. The poems from my latest, fourth collection entitled The Third Life, which is being readied for publication as we speak, had been coming to me infrequently and ardously in a trickle in moments of weakness, or rather only when I had something to say.

In my physical isolation from literary people, having moved to the north of Sweden in the early nineties of the already last century, I had separated myself voluntarily, and psychologically, from all kinds of associations, organizations, interests, and rivalries. As it turned out, by a happy or unhappy chance, I do not live by the pen to this day but in my "real" life as an ordinary man (like Kafka) I try not to show off the symptoms of my disease. Pressured by a few friends (Adin Ljuca, Saša Skenderija) who "terrorized" me from time to time with their plans to have me publish my third book (Hyperborea), I left my bunker only in 2011.

What Omer Hadžiselimović subsequently did by translating and "advertising" my poems in the U.S.A. during the last couple of years has been incomparably more than anything I myself have done for the promotion of my poetry for an entire three decades. For example, Gloria Mindock, publisher and editor of the Červená Barva Press (Somerville, MA), in reply to an email from Omer, agreed to publish my book Oči ključaonica (The Eyes of Keyholes) in English and thus open one of American doors for me "without inquiring about our acquaintance" (from the poem "The House of H. Lundbohm"). And you, Gregory, are a rare bird as a man of literary taste for having granted me space on your website without asking for any additional references and recommendations.

You ask when and how I first recognized a "literary trait" in me. Where does the poet in me come from? That question posed itself most specifically as early as 1978 in Tuzla, where I lived, when I had to decide what to study after high school. I wanted to study in Sarajevo to become a writer, but my father gave me this ultimatum: Either study economics or nothing! You can't make a living as a writer, he said, and I don't have the means—after the four years of your Sarajevo studies—to support a poet by training.

It was then in fact that I realized for the first time in my life that I wanted to be a poet, and I agreed to study economics. Today's supermodern technology using a routine DNA test could probably establish easily whose poetic gene I inherited, but that is completely unnecessary since I had found the answer to that question in a closet more than forty years ago. Just as adolescents hide pornographic magazines between winter coats, that same father of mine had, stowed away among some rags, a set of twenty or so pocket books by the most notable Yugoslav poets bought with his first miserable salary of a rail worker. Many years later he gave us an "unpleasant" surprise by bringing home one evening a small mechanical typewriter he bought in six installments with his modest salary as an Institute of Social Work employee.

There was also other "evidence" of an earlier date that could be used against my father, but it had been destroyed (or forbidden) with the entry of my mother into his life. I heard, in fact, that as a young man he had a tamburitza he played on and sang at village get-togethers, not only on his home ground but also in "enemy territory," where in sundry brawls with this riotous troubadour taking part even knives are known to have been drawn.

In parts of my poems that have reached you, you surely can recognize the ambiance of such lives. Almost all places, persons, and events mentioned in these poems have existed or still exist in reality. My poems are true stories, Gregory, and each of them is based on a separate and deep life experience. I sometimes thought that I should write short stories instead of poems, but I have somehow become dependent on the hard, strict, and brutal form of a poem. Not only that—in time I have also established firm "technical principles" inside the poem itself, which I could most easily explain using Einstein's well-known comparison of life and bicycle riding, where only by moving can we maintain the balance. Writing a poem is the same as riding a bicycle. First we pedal on flat ground, like being on an outing, passing by forests, pastures, lakes, houses, road works…Then comes a hill where you have to strain with all your might to keep the machinery from stopping, after which you go downhill, which is the most exciting of all but also the most dangerous. Just like in life itself! The only difference is in the way you come to a stop, which, unlike in life, you don't perform by using the brakes, but in full possible speed and at the height of elation your entire rushing equipage goes for and crashes into a concrete wall.

Many of these endpoints originated in that same way and on specific trips, but these were never calculated trips, where I would actively seek ideas and inspiration in order to write down something and return home with "material." It was rather that each of those poems actively waited at each of those described places to crash into me as if into a concrete wall when I accidentally stumbled on it. It was such "unprofessional" involvement with literature that helped me stay away from that depression Hemingway fell into: "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." I bleed, my dear Gregory, only when I'm writing—fortunately very rarely, and only when I have something to say. "To sing is the same as to die," wrote the great Yugoslav poet Branko Miljković, and I have always felt myself that inexplicable masochism of poetry, that marvelous and horribly unbearable pain of birthing a poem.

I've noticed that the poems from my collection Hyperborea have been best received by my Bosnian readers, I suppose because that book deals with the phenomenon of "reserve homelands." Specifically, many recognized themselves in it—those who, like me, have been displaced around the world during the Balkan wars of the 1990s and who found their new homes in foreign countries, made new friends, and learned new languages. At the same time, strong, unbreakable ties with the country they were born in keep their original identity in motion, which stirs internal conflict between two homelands, on the one hand, while on the other the process of reconciliation continues.

I think that through the poems in Hyperborea I myself reached some sort of awareness. Today, when I step back and I read them through a stranger's eyes, my opinion that the notion of a homeland is directly associated, and with good reason, with the word patriotism, which is nothing else but a business idea used by powerful interest groups in every society and every homeland to mobilize cannon fodder for their own goals, often even the most wicked ones. Pondering this phenomenon of reserve homelands for a long time, I became cured of all variants of sick patriotism, saying to myself that "I would not die under any flag" (from the poem "Hyperborea II," Hyperborea). Later, I explained that position differently in the poem "The National Anthem" (The Third Life):

          We moved a lot. In the waters of countries
          and cities, our fingerprints have washed away;
          in alcohol, our blood group has evaporated.
          We no longer belong to anyone. Any national
          anthem I hear, I stand stiff like at a closed
          railroad-crossing gate, till the train passes.

Last year I accidentally ran into a very concrete confirmation of my belief. The French mystic and theologian Hugh of Saint Victor (1096-1141) went even further when he explained the phenomenon of patriotism and homelands this way:

          The man who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner;
          he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong;
          but he is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign land.
          The tender soul has fixed his love on one spot in the world;
          the strong man has extended his love to all places;
          the perfect man has extinguished his.

I would not have paid much attention to Hugh's thousand-year-old record in 1992, when I first left my first homeland (Bosnia), but I fully comprehend these words today after having lived for over twenty years in Sweden which, cured of patriotism, I affectionately call my "reserve homeland." So I find that in my old age I have come dangerously close to becoming the perfect man, one who has extinguished his love for any place in the world and is no longer hostage of any one homeland.

I am only a hostage of language and books, especially the unread ones. But not those flaunted in the media. I am fed up with the unbearable torture on the part of the cultural elite which, in the service of the mass consumption of "bestsellers" without taste or smell maintains an inflation of kitsch. I wish, on the recommendation of a genuine reader, to have some of those "private" little books drop into my mail box every weekend, books that are not bought but are passed from hand to hand like some compromising material.

Yet there are still genuine readers (a dying breed everywhere), believe me, even in Sweden, where the production of kitsch is one of the most important industries. A couple of weeks ago I was invited to read my poems for the first time at a festival of poetry. So, after twenty years I was again taking part in an evening of poetry, before a demanding audience. Before those people I felt at first like the straying Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmerin his superb poem "From an African Diary" (1963):

          A young man found a foreigner lost among the huts.
          Didn't know whether to take him for a friend or a subject
          for extortion. His doubt disturbed him. They parted in confusion.

Yes, we parted in confusion late that night, going back through a chestnut-lined street to our small lives. I do not know if they had accepted me as a friend, but not for a moment did I feel as an object of extortion. All in all, it was a pleasant evening in which I had an opportunity to state the "case" without any calculation.

Lately I have been "assisting" Omer Hadžiselimović with translation of my poems into English and working a little with Jorik Otterbjörk on polishing some of my own translations into Swedish. With neither of them did I "contract" the job. Both fell into the trap willingly and enthusiastically, without putting up any conditions. That is why I try not to split hairs. Only from time to time I like to remind them that the translations shouldn't be better than the originals.

So, I can say only the best about the translations. The passion of translating one's own poems into a foreign language can only be compared with that masochistic passion of giving birth to them in the original. In many poems I have discovered some new aspects only in translation, and only in translation was I able to "view them with objective eyes . . . as someone else" (from the poem "Fr. Omer," The Third Life).

It feels good when now and then I send a new poem into the world, and when it suddenly comes out in a magazine or materializes on a website, but I've felt for some time now that "only memories are news my tired friends are still curious about" (from the poem "Friends in the Universe," Hyperborea). And so the circle is slowly closing and I inevitably return to that time of long ago when I was seeking the higher things. When on Saturdays I step out to pick up the morning paper I wish I'd find in my mailbox some old unread book sent as a recommendation by a genuine reader. I even catch myself in sinful thoughts of wishing to plant there, the evening before, my first book of poems from 1985.




Dragi Gregory!

Čemu pjesnici u oskudno vrijeme? Ovaj izvanredni stih njemačkog pjesnika Friedricha Hölderlina "troši" se već dvjesto godina u književnim krugovima kao kolektivna metafora pitanja o smislu i besmislu poezije. Budući da je Hölderlinova dilema istovremeno sama sebi i odgovor, moj odnos prema ovoj paradoksalnoj pitalici u današnje vrijeme totalnog moralnog kolapsa civilizacije u suštini je isključivo estetske prirode. U potpunom raspadu sistema vrijednosti (treba li da navodim primjere? čemu primjeri u oskudno vrijeme?) pjesnička riječ mi izgleda kao posljednja "demokratska prilika" na smrt osuđenog da se još jednom, neposredno prije smaknuća, bez ikakve računice, dobitka ili gubitka, izjasni o "slučaju".

Poezija je za mene znači jedini mogući način da se estetski izjasnim o "slučaju" ali ne isključuje pri tom ni preuzimanje "civilnog rizika". Taj duboko intimni poriv da zauzmem stav dolazi mi uprkos svemu kao spuštanje tereta, oslobađanje od griže savjesti zbog toga što za spas časti čovječanstva nisam kadar učiniti nešto konkretnije. U ranoj mladosti poezija mi je, međutim, bila neka vrsta duhovnog pribježišta, bunker slobode. U njemu sam se osjećao komotno, bez potrebe da izlazim na "okupiranu teritoriju" i da se bavim takvim sitnicama kao što je odbrana humanizma nego sam, kao i svi mladi pjesnici iz moje generacije onih davnih studentskih godina u Sarajevu, tragao za suštinom. To vrijeme bavljenja "višim stvarima" rezultiralo je 1985. godine prvom knjigom pjesama Vaza za biljku krin (Svjetlost, Sarajevo).

Pjesme iz ove prve zbirke pisane su preko deset godina, sporo i mukotrpno, ali ništa brže nije išlo ni kasnije sa drugom knjigom Oči ključaonica koja je izašla iz štampe prvi put 2001 (Bosanska riječ, Tuzla Wuppertal; drugo izdanje 2012) niti sa zbirkom pjesama Hyperborea koja je po prvi put publicirana 2011 u češkoj izdavaćkoj kući Aula (Prag) a potom (nakon nagrade Slovo Makovo – Mak Dizdar za najbolju knjigu poezije za 2012 na prostorima bivše Jugoslavije) i u izdanju Fondacije Mak Dizdar 2013 (Sarajevo). Pisao sam, dakle, u prosjeku 3-4 pjesme godišnje, vaskrsavajući kao pjesnik svake desete godine sa po jednom knjižicom u maloj biblioteci nekog nepoznatog čitaoca. Pjesme iz najnovije, četvrte zbirke pod naslovom Treći život koja je upravo u pripremi za štampu, kapale su takođe rijetko i teretno, u momentima slabosti ili bolje rečeno samo onda kada sam imao šta kazati.

U svojoj fizičkoj izolovanosti od književnih ljudi, preseljenjem na sjever Švedske početkom devedesetih godina onog već prošlog vijeka, dobrovoljno sam se udaljio i mentalno od svekolikih udruženja, organizacija, konkurencija i interesa. Sticajem sretnih i nesretnih okolnosti ne živim ni danas od pera nego gledam da se u svom "stvarnom životu" običnog činovnika (poput Kafke), ne razmećem simptomima svoje bolesti. Pod pritiskom nekolicine prijatelja (Adin Ljuca, Saša Skenderija) koji su me s vremena na vrijeme "terorisali" svojim planovima o publiciranju moje treće knige (Hyperborea) izašao sam tek 2011 iz bunkera.

Ono što je potom Omer Hadžiselimović učinio na prevođenju i "reklami" mojih pjesama u USA posljednjih par godina neuporedivo je više od svega što sam uradio sâm na planu promovisanja vlastite poezije tokom cijele tri decenije. Tako će se na primjer Gloria Mindock, vlasnica i urednik izdavačke kuće ČERVENÁ BARVA PRESS (Somerville), kao odgovor na jedan Omerov mail, prihvatiti publiciranja knjige Oči ključaonica na engleskom i time otvoriti za me jedna od američkih vrata bez raspitivanja o našem poznanstvu (iz pjesme Kuća H. Lundbohma, Oči ključaonica). A i ti si rijetka ptičica, Gregory, kad si me, kao čovjek od književnog ukusa, upustio na svoj sajt ne pitajući ni za kakve reference i preporuke.

Pitaš me kad sam i kako po prvi put prepoznao tu "književnu crtu" kod sebe. Otkud pjesnik u meni? Pitanje se najkonkretnije samo od sebe postavilo još 1978 godine kada sam se, nakon srednje škole u Tuzli gdje sam živio, trebao odlučiti za daljnje studije. Htio sam učiti za književnika u Sarajevu ali mi je otac postavio ultimatum: ili studij ekonomije ili ništa! Od književnosti se, veli, ne živi i ja nemam sredstava da poslije četiri godine tvojih sarajevskih univerziteta izdržavam školovanog pjesnika.

Tada sam u stvari po prvi put shvatio da želim biti pjesnik i pristao da studiram ekonomiju. Današnja supermoderna tehnologija vjerovatno bi putem običnog DNA-testa lako utvrdila od koga sam naslijedio taj pjesnički gen ali je to potpuno nepotrebno pošto sam odgovor na to pitanje našao još prije više od četrdeset godina u ormaru. Kao što pubertetlije kriju pornografske novine među zimskim kaputima onaj isti moj otac imao je u krpama komplet od dvadesetak knjiga džepnog formata najpoznatijih jugoslovenskih pjesnika, kupljen od svoje prve, bijedne plate pružnog radnika. Mnogo godina kasnije još nas je jednom "neprijatno" iznedaio donoseći kući jedne večeri malu, mehaničku pisaću mašinu kupljenu na šest rata od svoje skromne plate činovnika u Zavodu za socijalni rad.

Bilo je još "dokaznog materijala" starijeg datuma koji bi se mogao upotrijebiti protiv mog oca ali je uništen (ili zabranjen) ulaskom moje majke u njegov život. Čuo sam, naime, da je kao momak imao tamburicu na kojoj je svirao i pjevao po seoskim sijelima i to ne samo na domaćem terenu nego čak i na "neprijateljskim teritorijama" zbog čega su se, u prepirkama sa buntovnim trubadurom, znali potezati čak i noževi.

U jednom dijelu mojih pjesama koje su dospjele do tebe prepoznaješ sigurno atmosferu iz takvih života. Gotovo sva mjesta, lica i događaji koja se u njima pominju postojali su ili još uvijek postoje i u stvarnosti. Moje su pjesme istinite priče, Gregory, i za svaku od njih imam zasebno i duboko životno iskustvo. Pomišljao sam ponekad da umjesto pjesama pišem priče ali sam nekako postao ovisan o tvrdu, strogu i surovu formu pjesme.

I ne samo to – uspostavio sam vremenom i čvrste "tehničke principe" unutar same pjesme koje bih najlakše mogao objasniti uz pomoć poznate Einsteinove usporedbe života sa vožnjom bicikla u kojoj se jedino u kretanju održava ravnoteža. I pisanje pjesme je isto što i vožnja biciklom. Prvo se mota po ravnom, kao na izletu, pored šuma, pašnjaka, jezera, kuća, radova na putu... Zatim dolazi brdo gdje se mora zapeti iz petnih žila da se mašinerija ne zaustavi a nakon toga silazi se nizbrdicom što je od svega najuzbudljivije ali zato i najopasnije. Baš kao i u životu! Jedina je razlika u načinu zaustavljanja koje se, za razliku od života, ne postiže upotrebom kočnica nego se u najvećoj mogućoj brzini i pri najjačem zanosu cijela ekipaža usmjeri i razmrska o betonski zid.

Mnoge od tih poenti nastale su upravo na taj način i na konkretnim putovanjima ali nikada nisam putovao iz računice, tražeći aktivno ideje i inspiraciju da bih šta-god zabilježio i vratio se kući sa "materijalom". Prije će biti da je svaka od tih pjesama aktivno čekala na svakom od tih opisanih mjesta i smrskala se o mene kao o betonski zid kada sam slučajno naišao. Zahvaljujući takvom "neprofesionalnom" bavljenju književnošću nije mi se dešavalo da padnem u onu Hemingwayevu depresiju: "Nema šta da se piše. Jedino što možeš jeste da sjediš iznad pisaće mašine i krvariš". Ja krvarim, moj Gregory, jedino kad pišem - srećom rijetko, samo onda kad imam šta da kažem. "Isto je pjevati i umirati", rekao bi veliki jugoslovenski pjesnik Branko Miljković i uvijek sam i sâm osjećao taj neobjašnjivi mazohizam poezije, tu divnu i užasno neizdrživu bol porađanja pjesme.

Primijetio sam da su pjesme iz knjige Hyperborea naišle na najviše razumijevanja kod mojih bosanskih čitalaca. Pretpostavljam da je to zato što se ta knjiga bavi fenomenom "rezervnih domovina". U njoj su se, naime, prepoznali mnogi koji su se, kao i ja, tokom posljednjih balkanskih ratova devedesetih godina prošlog vijeka raselili po svijetu i našli svoje nove domovine u stranim zemljama, stekli nove prijatelje i naučili nove jezike. Istovremeno, jake i neraskidive veze sa zemljom u kojoj su rođeni održavaju prvobitni identitet u kretanju čime se stalno s jedne strane raspiruje unutrašnji konflikt između dvije domovine a s druge traje proces pomirenja.

Mislim da sam kroz pjesme u knjizi Hyperborea i sâm prošao kroz neku vrstu osviješćenja. Danas kad ih čitam sa distance, kao neko drugi, učvršćuju me u stavu da pojam domovina asocira direktno i ne bez razloga na riječ patriotizam koja je opet ništa drugo do poslovna ideja na kojoj jake interesne grupe u svakom društvu i u svakoj domovini prikupljaju topovsko meso za dostizanje svojih, često čak i najperverznijih ciljeva. Sazrijevajići nad fenomenom rezervnih domovina izliječio sam se od svih varijanti bolesnog patriotizma konstatujući da ne bih ginuo ni pod kojom zastavom (iz pjesme Hyperborea II, Hyperborea). Kasnije ću taj stav obrazložiti na drugi način u pjesmi Himna (Treći život):

          Mnogo smo se selili. U vodama zemalja
          i gradova isprali se otisci prstiju, u alkoholu
          izlapila krvna grupa. Nikom više ne pripadamo.
          Koju god himnu čujem stanem ukočen kao
          ispred spuštene željezničke rampe, dok voz
          ne prođe.

Prošle godine slučajno sam naišao na jednu veoma konkretnu potvrdu svog uvjerenja. Francuski mistik i teolog Hugh of Saint Victor (1096 - 1141) otišao je još dalje objašnjavajući pedagoški fenomen patriotizma i domovina na sljedeći način:

          Taj kojem je njegova domovina ljupka neiskusan je početnik;
          onaj kome je svako tlo kao njegovo rodno već je jak;
          ali savršen onaj je čovjek kojem je cijeli svijet strana zemlja.
          Neiskusna duša vezala je svoju ljubav za jednu tačku na svijetu;
          jaka osoba raširila ju je na sva mjesta;
          savršen čovjek ugasio je svoju.

Njegovom hiljadu godina starom zapisu ne bih možda pridavao značaj 1992. godine, u vrijeme kad sam napuštao svoju prvu domovinu (Bosna), ali te riječi sasvim razumijem danas nakon preko dvadeset godina života u Švedskoj koju, izliječen od patriotizma, od milja zovem mojom "rezervnom domovinom". Primjećujem zato da sam opasno blizu da pod stare dane postanem savršen čovjek, onaj što je ugasio svoju ljubav za svako mjesto na svijetu i nije više talac ni jedne domovine.

Talac sam još jedino jezika i knjiga, posebno onih nepročitanih. Ali ne tih o kojima trube u medijima. Sit sam neizdržive torture od strane kulturne elite koja, u službi masovne konzumacije bestsellera bez ukusa i mirisa, održava inflaciju kiča. Volio bih da mi, po preporuci istinskog čitača, svakog vikenda upadne u poštansko sanduče neka od onih "privatnih" knjižica koje se ne kupuju nego predaju iz ruke u ruku kao kompromitujući materijal.

A istinskih čitača (koji su svagdje vrsta koja izumire) ima, vjeruj mi, još uvijek čak i u Švedskoj u kojoj je industrija kiča jedna od najvažnijih privrednih grana. Prije par nedjelja pozvan sam, naime, po prvi put da na jednom festivalu poezije čitam svoje pjesme. Nakon skoro dvadeset godina učestvovao sam praktično ponovo na jednoj pravoj večeri poezije, pred zahtjevnom publikom. Osjećao sam se u početku pred tim ljudima kao zalutali švedski pjesnik Tomas Tranströmer u svojoj sjajnoj pjesmi Iz jednog afričkog dnevnika (1963):

          Mladić opazi stranca zalutalog među kolibama.
          Nije mogao da prelomi da l bi ga htio za prijatelja
          ili kao predmet ucjenjivanja. Neodlučnost ga učini
          očajnim. Raziđoše se zbunjeni.

Jeste, razišli smo se zbunjeni vraćajući se kasno u noć kroz aleju kestenova u svoje male živote. Ne znam da li su me prihvatili kao prijatelja ali ni jednog momenta nisam se osjećao kao predmet ucjenjivanja. Sve u svemu prijatno jedno veče u kojem sam dobio priliku da se, bez ikakve računice, izjasnim o "slučaju".

U posljednje vrijeme "pomažem" Omeru Hadžiselimoviću oko prevođenja mojih pjesama na engleski a radim pomalo i sa Jorik Otterbjörk na dotjerivanju jednog dijela mojih vlastitih prevoda na švedski. Ni sa jednim ni s drugim nisam ugovarao "posao". Obojica su u zamku upali svojom voljom i sa vlastitim entuzijazmom ne postavljajući nikakve uslove. Zato gledam da ne cjepidlačim. Jedino ih s vremena na vrijeme podsjećam na to da prevodi ne smiju biti bolji od originala.

O prevođenju, dakle, sve najbolje! Sa strašću prevođenja vlastitih pjesama na strani jezik jedino se može mjeriti ona mazohistička strast njihovog porađanja u originalu. U mnogima sam otkrio tek u prevodu neke nove dimenzije i tek u prevodu mogao sam se odmaći od svojih pjesama i sagledati ih očima objektivnim...kao neko drugi (iz pjesme Fra Omer, Treći život).

Prijatno je kad ponekad pošaljem u svijet poneku novu pjesmu i kad poneka od njih izađe iznenada u kakvom časopisu ili osvane na nekom sajtu ali primjećujem u posljednje vrijeme da su jedino uspomene novost za koju još imaju radoznalosti moji umorni prijatelji (iz pjesme Prijatelji u svemiru, Hyperborea). Krug se time polako zatvara i vraćam se neizbježno onom davnom vremenu traganja za višim stvarima. Kad izlazim subotom da uzmem jutarnje novine radije bih da nađem u poštanskom sandučetu neku staru, nepročitanu knjigu poslanu kao preporuka od nekog istinskog čitača. Uhvatim se čak i u grešnim mislima da veče ranije poturim samome sebi svoju prvu knjigu pjesama iz 1985.

S poštovanjem!

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