Do not believe them, stone


*Image found HERE

Do not believe them, stone

Do not believe them when they tell you
That I left.
They are lying to you.
You think tears can so easily be removed from facades,
That dollops unpin under the hot asphalt, just like that,
The cores told with water.
The rivers branch off and travel,
Imprint in mollusk shells the little
Of permanent they have,
But hide their pearls in clay valleys
There in the bed under the bridge,
Where someone we both knew,
Who left on our cheek
This flaming signet of fondness
Coined into a single word,
Has thrown himself down on the curb.
Now his veins pulse through the alleys,
Now we are a holy trinity
That looks alike,
That’s tied in fetters;
Three pieces of meat from three different animals
Diced into a goulash
Of strangers, indigenes and road workers,
Never to separate.
Father, child,
And the Ghost.

They will tell you lots of nonsense!
They’ll tell you that I’m gone,
They’ll say that I left.
Don’t believe them, they are lying,
Don’t believe them even when you don’t feel
the touch of my clumsy fingertips
and you wait for days for me to caress your ridges,
to outline your pursed mouth,
to sign and gift you upon a wall
the song of the deer.
When for hours you await for me to utter you a word
And confess you
That it’s an honor to be hand in hand with you
Both ugly and poor.
I was stillborn in you,
Where could I possibly ever go?
Who else could I thank
For this ounce of honest beauty,
When you are the morning under my chest,
When you gave me these teeth
And now I snap and bite
Like a barbarian.

Don’t believe them when they tell you
That I am cheating on you,
That I’m an adulteress,
A prostitute eager to sleep in clean sheets.
I love you so badly I’m going to serve my sentence,
I’m going to give them my wings,
Let them dress me in pelerines,
Spread all kinds of tempera over me,
Teach me some street corners and cenotaphs,
Not knowing I have no heart.
Long ago I tied it to a string
And it hangs and rots in the windows
Of confectionaries,
To spill on your body
So your gardens grow sweet,
So you abound in blood red cherries.
Don’t worry, I won’t fall in love.
In your embrace
Spring gushed from me once
And will never again.
You know my tongue
A little too much,
Remember I’m a shameless thief
With nothing to offer them
Except a sham made of a smile.

 If you, however, under the weight of mourning
Find it hard to recognize me
In the contours of those lost in smog
And you get to miss my howl
And they way you kissed it,
Here is what’s written in my last will,
Here’s my true name,
Here’s the address
For eternal rest and tranquility:
Let them burn my wreckage
And place it in their clasped palms,
Let them scatter me beneath your neck.
There, I want to be still,
There I want to finally dread
And return to the cosmos
Some zeal,
When above me some other Mary Jane’s
Kiss for the first time and dream down Balkan street,
When they swear to three things only:
And that they themselves are
A haunted, gorgeous town.


Ne veruj im, kamenu

Ne veruj im kad ti kazu
Da sam otisla.
Lazu te.
Mislish li da se suze olako skidaju sa fasada,
Da se raskiva od grumenja pod vrelim asfaltom tek tako,
Bit kroz vodu prepricana.
Racvaju se reke, putuju,
U puzevim kucicama
Utiskuju ono malo
Trajnog sto imaju,
Al kriju bisere
U dolinama od plastelina,
Tu u koritu pod mostom,
Gde se neko koga smo oboje znali,
Ko nam je na obrazu ostavio
Ovaj plamteci zig ljubavi
Prekovane u jednu jedinu rec,
Bacio na trotoar.
Sad mu vene pulsiraju kroz sokake,
Sad smo neko sveto trojstvo
Sto lichi,
Sto se bukagijama svezalo;
Tri parceta mesa tri razlicite zivotinje,
Saseckano u gulash
Od strankinja, domorodaca I putara,
Nikad da se ne razdvoji.
Otac, dete,
I duh.

Svashta ce da ti kazu.
Recice ti da me nema,
Reci ce da sam te napustila.
Ne veuj im, lazu,
Ne veruj im cak ni kad
Ne osetish dodir mojih trapavih prstiju
I danima cekash da ti pomilujem brazde,
Usta napucena da ti ocrtam,
Na zid da ti potpishem I darujem
Pesmu srne,
Kada me satima cekas da ti prozborim
I da ti priznam
Da mi je cast sa tobom pod ruku da budem
I siromasna I ruzna.
Ja sam u tebi mrtva rodjena,
Kuda bih ja uopste mogla da odem?
Kome bih mogla da zahvalim
Za uncu iskrene lepote,
Kad si mi ti jutro pod grudima,
Kad si mi zube ove dao,
Pa sad grizem I ujedam,
Kao varvarin.

Ne veruj im kad ti kazu
Da te varam,
Da sam preljubnica.
Da sam prostitutka
Zeljna ciste postelje.
Volim te toliko silno
Da idem kaznu da odsluzim.
Krila idem da im dam,
Da me nakite pelerinama,
Da me namazu kojekakvim bojama,
Da me nauche nekim uglovima I spomenicama,
Ne znajuci da srca nemam;
Davno je ono
Na strunu okacheno
Da zauvek trune u izlogu nekog bombondzije,
Po telu da ti se prospe,
Bashte da ti budu slatke,
Treshanja krvavih da imash.
Necu se zaljubiti, ne brini,
U tvom je naurchju iz mene
Liptalo prolece
I nikada vishe nece.
Jezik mi znash
I previshe,
Seti se da sam lopov I besramnik,
Samo cu lazno da im se nasmejem.

Ako te, pak, pritisne zal
I ne mozesh ni da me nazresh
U obrisima izgubljenih u smogu,
Pa ti moj jauk zafali da ga celivash,
Evo sta mi u testamentu stoji zapisano,
Evo koje mi je ime pravo,
Evo adrese
Za pocinak I spokoj;
Neka mi spale olupinu
I smeste je  medju dlanove,
Neka me raspu tebi pod vratom.
Tu zelim da mirujem,
Tu zelim da napokon
I vratim kosmosu nazad koji zar,
Kad nadamnom neke druge Mirjane
Se budu ljubile
Po prvi put I snevale niz Balkansku,
Kad se budu zaklinjale samo na tri stvari:
Na tebe,
Na vecnost,
I da su I same
Ukleti, prelepi grad.

~ by Oloriel on April 8, 2014.

40 Responses to “Do not believe them, stone”

  1. Wow–such raw emotion! Beautiful!

  2. Incredible poem, I love it!

  3. Great post…….well done

  4. So, I think that i had read this poem many times on MB. (That poem or similar, but with those emotions…).

    Are you in this photo? 🙂

    • I still have the one from MB. I do know I am a smarach with these Belgrade loving poems(don’t even get me started with the NS one’s too, I think people will start banging their heads on walls!), but what can I do except write what the heart wants!
      Its not me on the picture, I am always the one behind the camera when I am anywhere, but theres a picture of me in my Who am I? page. If you look you will see I don’t blend this nice with the background, I’m more like a blood stain 😀
      Na engleskom el znam da vezbas!

      • Listen, kid, you know that I like you. Almost from the beginning of this stuff with blogging. It was Oloriel, I knew that, behind the camera, in front or whatever.

        Therefore, you aren’t some kind of stain (sometimes tears can leave any trace like a stain, but that’s another story). Especially, you are not something like “smarach”… 🙂

        However, I enjoy your work here, and of course, practice my Tarzan English. Both of which may be useful for me. 🙂

      • I meant “stain” because of hair color. Me and Seth stand out always on playgrounds and stuff and people never approach us to meet us or anything. No wonder, when they are all black hair, brown hair, blonde hair and then theres me – blood red 🙂
        See how all the other moms are in neutral colors, flower skirts. Look how that lady is looking at me, and she even has ginger hair herself 😀 Thats why stain!

      • I understood “stain” like some kind of poetic licence or freedom or something…

        Thanks for link. Little one is to cute and your hair isn’t so unusual (or even provocative or shocking, rebellious), as the “environment” … well, you know.

        Your town (and my, in a way) is large, but not wide enough lately, but there will be, as has been.

      • Your town is what gave me the courage to have it this color. People always treated me differently in Novi Sad, so much more welcoming and kind, not just to me,but it seemed, to everyone.

      • I wouldn’t be so sure. BG is more cosmopolitan than any other town in our country today. However, I like both…:)

      • I must admit I unfortunately did not visit Novi Sad in 8 years, so I have no doubt it changed, as well as the people.
        What I do remember is people sharing popcorn on the square, like everyone is one big family,even with the dirty,smelling,toothless guy who had a cardboard with “The End is Near!” writen on it around his neck.
        People who met me for the first time offered me a place to stay in, whilst in Belgrade, people you meet over the internet are by default thieves, creeps etc (and you can ask the same people who hosted me their impressions upon seeing Belgrade for the first time!). Everyone was so open-hearted, none wanted to borrow my money or told me about poverty every two seconds so I pay their drinks. In Belgrade you take a 20 out and everyone is suddenly :”Oooooh, rich bastard, ajde da castish!”
        Nobody gave me wrong direction when I did not know which bus to take or where is the street I need to go to. In Belgrade, tricking guests is on the scale of a national sport and eveyone wants the gold medal.
        You can pee at McDonalds in Novi Sad without paying for it. There are even separate bathrooms with changing tables for families with babies.
        My writer friends from Novi Sad had creative writing workshops in their schools and uni’s, their books published, their photos shown in galleries, their art encouraged AND they even welcomed me to their classes and my fiesty opinions, and commended my speaking instead of throwing me out of the classroom when I said something the lecturer did not agree with.
        There was a beautiful egyptian themes tea room, with rooms and furniture and vintage stuff, it felt like I am sitting at home, with my friends, chatting and not getting charged a fortune for it.
        There was a pastry shop where everything inside costed only 20 dinars! Even pie!

        I can go on like this forever! 😀

      • Okay, this is one of the faces.

        When I said my town (in a way), I was thinking that’s Belgrade also my place (You know story about my father who lived in, and cetera…).

        I’m glad because you have beautiful rememberance from Novi Sad. I hope you come again soon (to visit EXIT festival or something).

        P.S. (Thanks for free English lessons) 🙂

  5. Wonderful poem and I love that last line.

  6. It carries me away. My heart palpitates, trembles, hurts; it wrings my heart. Such an exquisite poem, Oloriel. It is exquisite, both in craftsmanship and feeling. It is intense. It is poignant. It is sad.

    Let them burn my wreckage
    And place it in their clasped palms,
    Let them scatter me beneath your neck.
    There, I want to be still,
    There I want to finally dread
    And return to the cosmos

    Reads like a dirge!

    • If I love a city this much,imagine how I love another human! No wonder I am dead!

      Thank you very much for reading, and I do hope I will soon have to offer you something more bright and revitalizing for the soul! 🙂

  7. Absolutely amazing O, the last verse is a stand out for me, stunning write and incredible imagery as only I can expect from your work. x

  8. Your love for your city and your eternal relationship is so tangible in your words. I have read such emotions in your writing before and this time again, I am left feeling that ache, that special feeling which I can’t name.
    Great writing. 🙂
    “Let them burn my wreckage And place it in their clasped palms, Let them scatter me beneath your neck.”- How it tells of your feelings for Belgrade and reminds me of Shahid Ali’s feelings for Kashmir and how that makes me want to have such feelings as well for some place. 🙂

    • Thank you, HA! I am sure if you ever visit this place, you would feel the same 🙂

      • I will keep my wish alive of visiting East Europe… well, the entirety of Europe for that matter. 🙂
        I though I’d share Shahid Ali’s lines, which I recalled after reading your masterpiece:
        “I will die, in autumn, in Kashmir,
        and the shadowed routine of each vein
        will almost be news, the blood censored,
        for the Saffron Sun and the Times of Rain….”

  9. Your writing stirs such powerful emotions, Oloriel. What you describe here, is how I felt for years after leaving (or rather abandoning) South Africa.

    “Let them burn my wreckage
    And place it in their clasped palms,
    Let them scatter me beneath your neck.
    There, I want to be still,
    There I want to finally dread
    And return to the cosmos”

    There is such power and punch in the haunting beauty of your words. xoxo

  10. “Don’t worry, I won’t fall in love.
    In your embrace
    Spring gushed from me once
    And will never again.
    You know my tongue
    A little too much,
    Remember I’m a shameless thief
    With nothing to offer them
    Except a sham made of a smile.”

    I love that part. Weird but I can imagine I hear your real voice saying these words. Perhaps that is the mark of very good poetry- that you hear the voice behind the words as well as see the visions that created them.

    • I’d love to offer spoken word, and I have tried too, but I cry when I read poetry, so it is impossible!
      Thank you very much for reading!

  11. So moving. This line sang to my soul “I love you so badly I’m going to serve my sentence, I’m going to give them my wings,”

  12. erosion
    slow motion baptism

  13. This IS my new favorite from you, Oloriel. Beautifully haunting, moving, absolutely touching piece of art. Amazing imagery – as usual.

    • Thank you, hearing that means a lot to me! We writers adore all of our poems in a way, but some we adore more when it’s about certain things that ache you at the moment, like it is with this one and me.

  14. I couldn’t resist commenting. Perfectly written!

  15. I don’t want you to go…

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