Charter Flight for Loneliness

*Image found HERE

*Original below, I wrote the poem on Serbian and it’s for my dad.

Charter Flight to Loneliness

It is never hard for you to leave;
Always in the same coat, with a hat
And a suitcase with not a single trifle,
Carrying with you only memories
That tremble lively in your cornea,
Ghastly fearless.
To whom, with whom, in what name do you
Drain a glass to the last drop
On the bosom of the metal angel
High among the clouds?
Each soil bestowed upon you
A same piece of bread,
Let’s not lie to each other –
Perhaps even better;
Perhaps bloody dusks even more beautiful,
Perhaps coldness easier to shake off
And all the alewives spread their legs for you
And take you in under their long skirts,
To sleep inside your pocket
Like a well spent one hour.
You were a wedding guest to each lunation,
Gifting to each frightened lady
Perfumes,
And a better view of the stars,
Being their friend and a brother,
And a lover and a bastard
And a man;
Only a man
Who upon his wings leads
Some other people
To some other town.
Just like that.

But where?
Where else have you laid
Your shattered shards and honey
And
Am I there?
Have you ever found me on a face,
On a drifter
In the London metro?
Maybe in China,
While you were buying an orphan
Some candy with a fresh pair of shoes.
Maybe in Vienna, on some square
Where trumpets play.
Maybe at New Year’s eve
At Düsseldorf,
When everyone kisses and
Wanders of lost
Through this anthill of a world.
Escargot in France,
Wine and pizza in Rome,
But don’t you ever miss that haze –
pink and tender,
from which even the most terrible shrews
shudder –
here above Belgrade?
Do you miss the
Boardwalks and nettle,
Weathered boards?
Your favorite plate and geraniums
And always the same lupine masks.
Did not the ghosts of poets from the river
(some of them even your closest friends)
whisper into you some secret,
some shameful desire
for you to share their murky grave?
Do they not howl, like a pack,
through the green waves?
Here, right here!
Where the painter God
Lifted his tired hand to his head
And a drop of his sweat
Tangled this piece of canvas
Into a grotesque wasteland
In blue.
Then I ask myself
Who invented this biology
And this DNA
And why can’t I
Leave so easily?
Then I think:
“There’s plenty of time!”
“My bones will heal into wings, too!”
“Just like you!”,
while my soul is fasting
and rots in solitude
since it knows of itself.
You are already in Moscow.

You, you need to forgive me,
For I do not see the travelers with naked eyes;
Instead I burn with my heretic monasteries
Out of some childish love,
Out of some pure freedom
Of not knowing
What does it mean
When someone simply has to leave
And strangle each day with the break of dawn
Both hunger and poverty;
You forgive me
When I, under this glass-bell,
Find it in my rights to wish
That precisely THIS breeze
Strokes your gray hair,
Here where the bartender knows both you
And what you’re drinking
And how it was my birthday
And you were somewhere,
Out there,
Completely alone,
While I,
Up to this day,
Await teddy bears
And put my dreams in snow globes,
Titling each one with “Belgrade”
And how will I, for Heaven’s sake,
Go out like this among some foreign crowd,
Full of this
Surreal sorrow
In your name,
And doesn’t it
Really hurt
When you can’t
Even mourn
And wage this war upon your heart
For this castle amidst the Purgatory,
Which seems prettier
Than even banks of Nile,
Or Amazon, or Thames?
Oh, nevermind.

~*~*~*~*~

Carter Let za Usamljenost

Tebi nikada nije tesko da odlazis;
u istom kaputu, sa kapom
i koferom bez ikakvih sitnica,
noseci sa sobom samo uspomene
koje titraju zivahno u tvojoj roznjaci,
sablasno neustrasive.
Kome, sa kime, cemu
olizujes casu
na grudima metalnog andjela
medju oblacima?
Svako ti je tlo
isto parce hleba podarilo,
da se ne lazemo,
mozda I boljeg;
mozda lepse krvave sutone,
lakse otresivu hladnocu
i svaka ti je krcmarica rasirila noge,
i primila te ispod duge suknje svoje
i spavala ti u dzepu
kao dobro utroseni,
bezglavi jedan sat.
Svakoj si mesecevoj meni bio svat,
svakoj uplasenoj dami
poklanjao parfeme,
bolji pogled na zvezde
i bio im I drug I brat
i ljubavnik I skot
i covek;
samo covek koji
na krilima svojim vodi
neke druge ljude
u neki drugi grad.

Ali gde?
Gde si jos spustio srcu i med
i ima li i traga mene tu?
Jesi li me poznao
na nekom licu,
na nekoj skitnici
u metrou u Londonu?
Mozda kad si u Kini
sirocetu na ulici
kupio bombonu i nove cipele.
Mozda u Becu na nekom trgu
gde sviraju trube,
mozda za Novu Godinu
u Dizeldorfu,
u ponoc kad se svi ljube
i gube
senke svoje
u ovom mravinjaku od sveta.
Puzevi u Francuskoj,
u Rimu vino i pizza,
‘al zar ti ne zafali ponekad
ona izmaglica –
roza I nezna
od koje se
i najstrasnije goropadi jeze –
nad Beogradom?
Nedostaju li ti kej i korov
i trosne daske,
tanjir samo tvoj i muskatle
i uvek iznova iste maske
vucije?
Nisu li ti duhovi pesnika iz reke
(neki od njih cak i tvoji dobri drugovi)
dosapnuli neku tajnu,
neku zelju da sa njima delis
u tom mulju grob?
Ovde, bas ovde
gde je slikar Bog
umornu ruku na celo stavio,
Pa je kapi znoj
na platnu ovu
nakaradnu nedodjiju
zamrsio modrim bojama.
Pa se pitam
ko je izmislio
tu biologiju
i taj DNK
i sto ne mogu ja
tako lako da odem?
Pa se mislim:
“Ima vremena!”
“Srashce i meni u krila kosti!”,
a dusa ko da mi posti,
i samuje i trune
od kad za sebe zna.
A ti si vec u Moskvi.

Oprosti ti meni
sto putnike ne razumem
i gorim sa ovim
jeretickim manastirima mojim
iz neke detinje ljubavi,
iz neke ciste slobode,
sto ne znam sta znaci
kad neko mora da ode
i golim rukama u praskozorje
zadavi i glad i bedu;
pa mi oprosti sto pod zvonom od stakla
se usudim da zazelim
da ti bas ovde vetar
pomiluje kosu sedu,
gde kelner uvek zna
sta ces da popijes
i kako mi je bio rodjendan,
a ti si negde bio
sasvim sam,
dok ja I dalje cekam
plisane mede
i stavljam snove u kugle snezne
i na svakoj pisem
“Beograd”;
nikad se nisam makla,
i kako cu, zaboga,
ovakva medju druge,
puna neke
surealne tuge
i zar nije to bas bezveze
kad ne sme ni da se cezne
za ovim cardakom u Cistilistu
lepsim
od Nila, Amazona i Temze,
ma, nema veze!