M (trackstar99) wrote in cellardoor_,
M
trackstar99
cellardoor_

new poem : Pristina, 2001



 Pristina, 2001


poezija—dubokog bunara i izvora, škorpiona, noći stvari:
I tako sam došao do ideje da na osnovu iskustava dođem do novog tipa plovila . . .

David, I write this for you in part because you said ”the failure in Kosovo” which
was, yes, a case of things not coming out right. it remains with me so much though
I was not there at the worst of times, when I got there I felt much the fireman late to the fire,
I walked into a world that was in a bad way, but I won’t say ”shattered again” for
it was not: it was more as if all the lights were out and we’d run short of firewood,
lamp oil, trying to make light with tallow, with candles, old ways given over to even
older ways. 

teze da je grad velika kuća, a kuća mali grad. [Zahvaljujući toj lako razumljivoj.]

the thesis here is, we built trust into cities, we built ourselves up and that’s where
the stress falls, for everyone wants the very best of homes. in the clatter of war they
fled to the mountains and it’s mountains all around—it’s places made to be cold of
winter and muted colors of the night. deep blues of slate and shale and the ivory-white
of bones left to the waters of fog, the light of afternoon before the sun sets and the wind
moves in again. those are the colors there, known to old people and uneasy to the young.

it was a time of no pictures, nothing instant : 
Nije bilo instant fotografija u boji, samo crno - bele, a za razvijanje je . . .
to develop the . . . the memory, the end, it took time. you would not have your
memory back until a week later, at best. labs were out of chemicals and the doctors
even were out of film for their x-rays. a doctor’s brother was a veternarian and had
film still but no patients, so he brought the hospital the last of his film. that is how
they did 29 x-rays that night—because of the vet, walking down the mountain, at
the witching hour, shells falling in the distance.

when I got here, they were out of memories, too—as all had been shared and there were
no more. when I got to Pristina, the streets were dark and the clock tower couldn’t keep time.
the power was out and I saw few people milling around. you could eat something perhaps
by candlelight not at Lorik but someone’s house—a family all sad eyes staring aground. or
watching windows, looking for whatever would be next, and slowly recalling for me their
stories. still, for many, there memories were simply not yet ready. they had not yet
developed.

I learned it wasn’t until socialist times that households were always counted by ethnicity:
those who say the Ottomans were keen on exact numbers of what they most
feared give them far too much credit for their tenacity. somehow, we still in the wake
of all this woke from all this and were fortunate.

sugestiji, odnosno uobrazilji ili naprosto o dobrom spletu okolnosti.
ne mogu znati:
te njegovim uklanjanjem spašavaju nesretnika od uroka odnosno kletve

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