LETTERS TO MYSELF A collection of poetry NINA ZIVANCEVIC INTRODUCTION BY JEAN-PIERRE FAYE
BARNCOTT PRESS
Dedicated to Allen Ginsberg and Ira Cohen
Letters To Myself Š Nina Zivancevic 2014 ISBN-13: 978-1499326093 ISBN-10: 1499326092 Cover Mail Art by Ira Cohen. Cover photo of the author by Margo Berdeshevsky. Published by Barncott Press - www.barncottpress.com
CONTENTS Introduction 1 . Letter To Tsvetaeva 3 Poem for Em 4 . Berlin 7 Cure 9 The Elizabethans… called it dying 24 World Championship in Good Manners 25 The Faucet 27 The American Embassy 28 The Day Ms.Cruz Died 29 I dared look into Nardala’s eye (and it was cold) 30 A Punk Story 31 And all these encounters… 32 Bhuto Dancers 33 Signs Out of an Ancient Art History Book 34 We will All Meet in Serinda 36 I'm a lost little girl 37 The Queen is Kind and Gentle 39 Under the Sign of Kybele 40 Circus Workshop 42 Prometheus 43 Prometheus II 44 .
For Dunja’s B-day 45 Last Night I Dreamt of You… 46 Andy Warhol’s Factory 47 Society 48 Love is Just a Four Letter Word 49 Phoenix 50 Discipline is like a glue 54 It Feels… 55 Knowledge 60 In a Factory of Words 61 Jean Cocteau Street 62 Chalk Circle 63 St.Valentine’s slippers 64 Instead of a photo or a drawing, on Christmas Eve 2010 65 Elysian Fields of Power 66 . Alba avis 68 A limine (should I refuse it from the start?) 70 “Mise en danger pour Art” 72 La Tsarina 73 About the Author 25 . Selected Bibliography 26
Introduction I’m writing this text in words which describe and sculpt something beyond description , something which I named as “passionate insouciance”, something which qualifies these poems, leaving a certain belated, close and meaningful impact on me. The substance is mysterious but it is constantly nourished by the poetry. I am talking about the poetry and the poetics of Nina Zivancevic which is transparent whatever language she chooses to write in. Be it in English, in French or of coursein Slavic languages, whenever I hear these poems, I always come close to the poetic essence in them, but I never really reach them. Great spiritual friendship in poetry connects my verse with hers and crosses quite joyfully in this continuous landscape which continuously varies its passionate insouciance. I have the feeling that in her poems an entire landscape finds itself in a sudden danger. Already, the “Yugoslav landscape” dwells in me as a memory of those terrible winter days of February and March of 1943.1 I had heard at that time a fist through the air landing on the face of the European Southern Slavs which had been grouped under the pretty name of the Yugoslavia, the country which “destroyed itself ” much later. But at that time the people of that country had shown a splendid resistance during the winter and spring of 1943 fighting the Nazis. The situation today has seen eight ‘Yugoslav’ republics set themselves against each other after after the collapse of original Federative Republic of Yugoslavia which prided Fouth Enemy Offensive ending in the Battle of the Neretva (also called the Battle For the Wounded) Yugoslavia,20 Jan - late March 1943. 1
1
itself for its “non-alignment”. However, the poems of Nina Zivancevic survive among the songs, the poems of the world, and those of life. They adapt themselves to posteriority, and to the rhythm of the shortest-lived and the liveliest moments – “fortunately” as they place themselves in the midst of something which disturbs the daily order of things, “unfortunately”. This humorous verse escapes the definition as it is both dangerously relentless and triumphant. These poetic instances/events come from the liveliest substance on earth which precedes their creation. And they are Nina Zivancevic’s very own, these poems which are marvellous. Jean-Pierre Faye
This a free extract from Letters To Myself by Nina Zivancevic (Barncott Press 2014), which is available in print and ebook editions. Full purchasing details are here.
2
Letter To Tsvetaeva Ah, now our time has come, Marina. You visit me at night while l sit alone with a glass of wine in hand - you who do not need a key for you the most secret door of my room is always open: abandoned by our mothers, we both loved children and poetry, and hated Paris and poverty, wearing the one and only dirty dress, we kept clear of landlords and cops. We both had blue eyes, many lovers, and the incapacity to live with anyone. Ah, l almost forgot: our fathers, too, had similar jobs - they occupied themselves with museums and art ... Still, l got angry yesterday when someone called me Marina ... l'm neither important nor odd enough to send daily reports to Beria ... How furious l was that you hanged yourself ! What courage, what a double cross, what a lie, what a betrayal of poetry ... Marina, l'm a child as you can see, about you and life I really know nothing. Translated from the Serbian, by Charles Simic, published in the NewYorker, October 2009.
3
Poem for Em Self–control is what you need, and Character,” my Love said while slamming the door behind a small clinic on boulevard Malesherbes in Paris …now it’s raining and it’s cold and I am in pain. -- “You have 3 days to check in here and solve this problem” the doctor said “otherwise every-thing is going to burst.” …and it did... the cysts, the time, the money, the lovers. My lover called me last night to tell me How much he missed me – He sent me a poem he wrote for me In a computer program which I could not open Just at the time I believed I could have A heart-opener for everyone’s heart; My Love had heard my Lover calling and asked: “Who’s THAT calling you, in the middle of the night?” “It’s a young poet bursting with impatience,” I said, “he did not mean to do you any harm…” -- The doctor’s looked at me and gasped: “All this growth is at the point of necrosis- it’s going to burst soon and then…it won’t be so pretty…” 4
This love story is going to last – forever although it could Burst out any second and burn my soul And then – it won’t be so pretty… -- They injected the scanner liquid into my veins – my blood got warmer, I lifted up my hands…. His face lit by moonlight, his thick black Hair on my stomach, The blood got warmer and warmer WE kissed and kissed through the moonlight, his Sweet saliva, his ultra-light kisses, his hard hard cock Inside of me “Come my love, he said, - let us come together …” “The scanner is over”, the doctor said, “and you were lucky - you were not allergic to this product.” HIS face in semi-light over my Sweaty thighs, his fingers on my nipples, My face on his soft abdomen, this love which Last forever… Oh! My wet superb love! We could not stop Touching each other Ever since we met! “THE growth is less significant on 5
The left side of the ovaries than on the right one”, the doc said, “Don’t worry, doc – if you have to cut me up, just go ahead, I AM such an obedient patient, but the idea that my body turns into a salad – just doesn’t make me smile…” “I don’t want to be tender, I don’t want you to caress me – I want you to destroy me”, Trakl’s sister told the poet, and I wanted you to crush me and then lick me away and cover with kisses… “It’s very addictive after a while,” my good friend told me “once you start with heavy erotica you can never stop – until death do us apart – And now the doc awaits for me there On the other side Of heaven
6
Berlin Homage to Bauhaus school! Homage to that feeling of straight lines and a certain sense of organisation, to that sense of modesty and a feeling of enormous guilt everyone here pays homage to Jewish-ness, Jewish-less, the Jewish museum here and a Temple there, the man who translated my poetry has just buried his parents who, allegedly, worked for the Reichstag and made ovens for the concentration camps! Someone had to do that job, or did they? And he, Out of guilt, started translating my poetry! And again, here’s a woman artist who’d like me to make a quilt with her “for the monument to the women who saved Berlin”… I understand, the winter is terrible here, hard winds blowing across the plain, the Berliners were all starved to death when the allies came to the rescue. And I don’t have to see the so called Jewish cemetery, nor Hitler’s bunker to feel the hurt, the agony and the humiliation of those who could not die, but continued to live, in such a post-post different world. Post-damer Platz, homage to Klee in the New National Gallery. He foresaw, in his brilliance, the years to come in Berlin, In 1930s he used to paint swastikas on each and
7
every portrait he made, and then he went mad‌ Hard winds are blowing across the Berlin plain And soon they will blow me away; The sooner you face your own destiny, the faster you reach redemption The 13th century altar piece from Schwabia shows how religious the Germans are, a thought here, a sense of metaphysics there, a breath, a belief and a system; sleep well you, tired country, no need to clean your immaculate Brandenburg gate, fear no Turks or Serbs, someone or something will surely take your people to Heaven and the hour of Passion will be yours‌
8
Cure I: ON SMALL OBJECTS Small objects are precious they take time to breathe they contain energy and then they walk they talk they talk to all sorts of folk and talk and talk and talk and talk The stairs are there to measure the heartbeat see how it flutters and then flies away its rusty colours covered with sand and seaweed Beckett was surely right that bun is just a (s) word and man is not much better Oh to breathe the loveliness of summer the precious small objects the sand and lazy seagulls taking off the importance of being recycled the present the future and then the past a suffocating object placed on a palm a swing a tinge a happy momentum Memories come and go in snatches they do not devour just deflower a perfect ladylike gown walks through 9
the garden where the night had said good-bye to small pebbles lush wisterias you have to figure out the exit you figure out the keys you taking a breath of air before you descending the staircase before you becoming a bride a nightmarish groom before you throwing these small pebbles at other people and yet other people counting them up never playing with them too tired to play who are these people too feverish to play left all alone to the seagulls and to that bright bright sand unforgiving no rectangular swallows no feathers no pomp no remorse no swallows no feathers no pomp no remorse
II: LOVE IS TRUE Love is blue love is gold love is true 10
stop being childish write that poetry swallow your medicine brush up your shoes and go to school and be a fool get out of your castle and blow it off Orlando said noon is humble feeding on crumbs small objects speak Swahili and retain their post modern post comatose glamour where night shivers and closes its shimmering veil saved from certainty saved from knowledge saved from the poverty of information along a shady dock an object takes its place round and wise and nourishing it says nothing about its hidden days about its strange taste about its glorious past it is extemporal Mother do you love me? Mother do you care? And do I care, for you? There you will trot along the tiny pebble path and leave me all alone in the universe peopled with buns and stars and shiny trinkets staggering books and loud records subliminal objects cheerful dictionaries encapsulated in time with carrots beetroots thistle remedies witch’s brews cobblestones agate rings cobalt sunsets light rain washes away huge robots impertinent bills mortgage loans stupid yawns hammered in 11
love comes back to me and is blue gold and true
III: SEA BED night will wash away the pebbles soaked in mud expressionist yearning sweet sweet smell of amber the odour of amber neutral and divine very French and rigorous unprotected stern scared and oblivious the trucks loaded with words sentinels of yearning ministries of waiting cafes filled with challenge schools full of undertakers names peppered with history jokers stuffed with science a bluff a cough a nut he is a bluff and you are a nut and we are riding in a magic shell covered with ice and legendary silence come to me right now the eye of my apple heart of my flower is trying to keep that promise it made at the bottom of the deepest crimson sea
12
IV: PHILOSOPHER’S DEATH Never did I think of you before you were gone The table was clean the glass empty the plate full of my mistakes and you just slid through the door was closed and someone was knocking at it Come in I said The wind pushed it open That was an old woman with a ragged face Spitting blood was somewhat lonely was dressed Like my mother and looked like me She smiled at me and toothless curse had reached Me there, I am your death she said, oh I am not ready Not ready right now have to read a lot of Stoics have to acquire my Buddha hood Get ready she hissed and I pushed her away, slammed the door and fell down Woke up covered with Gothic sweat I turned on the radio and listened to Bach Lived with some people who hated poetry Serendipity in fashion stupidity in labour Speedy fingers of Glen Gould At one occasion he claimed he encountered God Counterpoint is everything, like in music like in life He said while humming along Bach’s exuberant variations Ironing wrinkles of serenity sprinkling the lawns of domesticity 13
Feeding house mice thrilling expectations They were not great they were not solid they were not cold They were just minuscule whispers of that loud staccato of her insanity that unbearable arpeggio of his complicity that bloody counterpoint of his lousy promise
V: THE DOCTORS COME AND GO The doctor came and saw me and what did he prescribe? You’ve had too many poems for dinner, Far too many plays, three bad novels and two borderline novellas Five doggerels for breakfast and a romance for lunch Very very bad for your diet very very sad for your brain WHAT A STRAIN WHAT A STRAIN WHAT A STRAIN And the doctors come and go munching seedy sultanas Wearing dirty bandanas reproducing an everlasting shock In a life filled with schlock, schlock and sleaze, mice and geese Made at the bottom of the deepest crimson sea
14
VI: JUST BEFORE Oh, just before the morning light before sunrise before dawn Before it starts getting very bright very soft Very charming very round small objects reappear Before sunset before dusk after the storm Come on right now dance with me Don’t sit in your giddy corner don’t just smile don’t just cry Don’t just don’t you know better you’ve just tried You’re that hero you’ve been working full time Nine to seven, eight to five, ten to eleven, six to ten Come on rinse it off and wear it out Daytona glow sunsets Beaches and rusty lights shaky movements in the dark Lousy giggles squashed in rain You know me so well take my umbrella tickle my feet Your sense of humour I will nourish under the young banana tree Two slices of ham a cherry salad please I cannot remember my dreams although I fall asleep Every evening at the same hour and it is early To say if the hour is late and happy if it is stubborn and reminiscing If it is lazy and unforgiving Filled out with schlock, schlock and sleaze with a minor breeze on the horizon’s freeze Fed on mice and geese Made at the bottom 15
Of the deepest crimson sea
VII: A FRANK O’HARA MEMORIAL JULY 25 2006 Was Frank O Hara as large as New York City? Or was New York City as large as Frank O’Hara? We learnt they both came from Ireland. Was he carnal was he flippant was he funny? Was he tragic was he simple was he fragile or Was he strong was he eclectic or was he Surrealistically dialectic? Was he blue was he green Or was he brown? Was he a siren a hedgehog A diamond or a clown? Was he a nurse was he a bottle Did he dance or did he throttle? Was he into dolls Dogs or into spiders? Was he high on whisky on beer On amphetamines or on cider? Was he Jewish Finish or just outlandish? Was he demanding oblivious Problematic tender uptight or just selfish? We learnt that he was everything and then some…Irish And then everyone went out and had some booze And then everyone went out and had some booze And then everyone went out and had some booze And then everyone went out and listened to some Scarlatti And then everyone went out and listened to 16
some Scarlatti And then everyone went out and then…
VIII: A VISIT TO BLAKE’S HOUSE They wrote hefty volumes on Allen’s poetry After all, he took himself quite seriously Just once, he said, “it’s a shame, they’ve got you”, But who were “they” he did not say… He probably meant – the gargoyles of capitalism, But he said so many things. and sometimes I would drift away, and sometimes I would fall asleep… And I would probably always outguess what he meant but it was just “probably” and I was just a “would” who wanted to change her life, living like Beckett or Joyce, tinkering with three languages to Write in, losing the essence big way Obeying the gargoyles of money and place big time, And it was just “probably” that I would write and earn my credit Like Gertrude Stein, as I was not An American in Paris, as I was just- like Allen had mentioned Before “A crazy Eastern European, in New York, somewhat like Naomi totally left alone, to her own madness….” 17
Then Peter, repeating the family pattern, Anne and Steve And Bob keeping a tiny flame, a hope Their presence at the wake And then the vultures, people who never read the Sunflower sutra The supermarket oracle the Wichita the Vortex, the Sutras Allen patting my belly 3 months before I delivered my baby I saw him only once after that we saw a movie He regretted for not having children, Then Peter, repeating the family pattern, Anne and Steve And Bob keeping a tiny flame, a hope Their presence at the wake But he had no children We, Eastern Europeans understand each other quickly, he said, We think too fast, of course Allen said to mini- me But we are on mescaline and we’re supposed to think fast— Nothing, just nothing is too horrible or too beautiful Whatever it appears to be, it’s not me, Ginzy said, but Dudjom Rinpoche, and I kept laughing and laughing “I don’t want to see you sad face anymore”, he added. He loved that old Blake’s “O, Lo’ why did you make me so different from the rest of the world, good Lo’, why have I become a poet?”
18
IX: TECHNO BEAT Once I had a dream or rather a nightmare I was living in a mad house with people With no name ; they had neither time Nor knowledge to face themselves They were jealous of my daydreaming They were envious of my looks They neither read or wrote newspapers and books They were small time crooks- I say they And it was silly me, attracted by their energy Boiling for eternity… Energy energy energy That vicious prophecy of the techno beat When I was up, they were down When I was sad they took me for a clown Energy energy energy of the techno beat They catered to a trance and I was a pagoda They always had to dance, my bygone fashion-moda… Energy energy energy of the techno beat One is doomed to wriggle while stomping his feet Microphone is handy and so is my amp I just want to mingle in a techno trance Once I had a dream and there is no shame I was living in a madhouse with people With no name… 19
X: RIGMAROLE She was pushing a pushcart He was blowing his trumpet A mermaid was making somersaults And the dolphins were winning gold medals The seals were eating fish Tin-Tin was drinking beer My shoe was making a long squeaking sound And my son was stuffing himself with carrots The parrots were screaming OH LA LA And the karaoke student was yelling OBLADI OBLADA Jane was smoking a joint and Max Was playing his blue guitar And Lateef was thinking of all these things as they Really are Tin-Tin and Max and Jane and Dick with his blue guitar I’ve lost my teeth but Did not lose all my battles to sanity and good sense Rules the world and a bunch Of flowers oh flowers Flowers and pots Pots and flowers Pots and terrorists This poem could Do without
20
XI: YOU ARE So funny in your seriousness Your hesitations keep you awake This chamber music this shallow mood this apricot sunset This thunder coming out of your eye You are so wonderful and simple Scared and venomous you are dopey Tired and confused cheerful and analysed Wakeful and synthesised sunny and advertised Waiting for a new button to light it up for you Supreme percussionist you hear your own droning sound Going from no place onto nowhere You dance like a concubine with your chin up You are so dumb you cannot recognise the sound of your mother’s horn You are the disco king and your music is too loud to be blue Too bad to be true Just look at you and admit it Darwin was right We all came from the monkeys I am your side-effect your true blue Too good to be blue Too bad to be true And now, the hour of Final redemption has come‌the Lord of Ignorance Is knocking at your door time to smoke your joint Time to shave your head time to ruffle up your bed 21
Wash your feet And go to sleep with you, my love, I’ve always been on my own, quite quiet and all alone.
XII. AMAN ZAMAN someone has tried to do me in Someone was sad and really bad Someone has tried to wash it off Someone has tried to brush it down Someone has tried to play the clown Music was good and so we tuned in And there you’ve gone snapping your fingers Dialling numbers and howling at the moon You said AMAN and I said ZAMAN For the sake of Lord and to the end of time My feet so light and thoughts so heavy A hopeless night and shimmering sky Cold thin air to the end of time Tumultuous hooves and headless riders If we move an eyelid will such RAHAT And sheer light show the hour of SAHAT OK, Bashi, let the girls weave the fabric Of oblivion You said AMAN and I said ZAMAN, 22
For the sake of Lord, and to the end of time The symmetry of that cemetery Has fed on so many dancers The flightless eagles and sleepy lions Have heard our song before it was recorded Before we rehearsed and uttered these elegant notes This sleepless presence this patient flutter You said AMAN and I said ZAMAN Aman, aman, to the end of time.
23
The Elizabethans… called it dying According to the Japanese mythology there is only one day in a year, in a century when two stars meet, two stars that are lovers and in love, and that day is July 7, 2004, so we met… I know how lovers come to kill one another – if Passion is there; once I almost did it, then Althusser killed his wife out of euthanasia, then Burroughs killed his wife out of negligence, then There were Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungeon and then This pop singer of Noir Désir who kept a low profile At his trial, poor guy, if you looked at his face you could see That he already outlived his punishment and his Hell; Don’t worry my love, I will never hurt you, I’d never even Dream of it – it’s like, the hour of love Is already gone, but we are reinventing it, with its goady Desire, its gothic equipment, with a simple prerequisite ‘eager-to-be-loved’, tender, naked and beautiful: When all the masks and costumes fall off We remain silent and perfect.
24
About the Author Poet, essayist, fiction writer, art critic, translator and contributing editor to NY ARTS from Paris, Allen Ginsberg’s former assistant, Nina Zivancevic has published fourteen books of her own poetry, three books of short stories and has three novels (see Bibliography). The recipient of three literary awards, she has edited and participated in numerous anthologies of contemporary world poetry. As editor she has contributed to New York Arts Magazine, Prestup, American Book Review, Modern Painters, East Village Eye, Republique de lettres. She has lectured at Naropa University, New York University, the Harriman Institute and St.John’s University in the U.S. She has taught English language at la Sorbonne and History of the Avant-garde Theater at Paris 8 in France and at numerous universities and colleges in Europe. More of her work including sound and video recordings is available on her personal website.
25
Selected Bibliography Books: Poems, Belgrade, Nolit, 1983 (Prix de Poésie Brankova). Growing Bridges, Belgrade, Nolit, 1984. Books of the Independent Publishers, Bgd., N. Knjiga, 1985. More or Less urgent, Minnesota, New Rivers Press, 1988. I Was a War Reporter in Egypt, New York, Leaves Press, 1992. Searching for Philippe Sollers, Paris, Noel Blandin (en français). Inside and Out of Byzantium, New York, Semiotexte, 1994. Byzantine stories (en serbo-croate), Beograd,Vreme Knjige, 1995. Poet's Diwan, Zrenjanin, Branicevo, 1995. Minotaur and the Maze, Vršac, KOV, 1996. Vendors of Dreams, roman, Narodna Knjiga, Belgrade, 2000. As I Said Before, roman, Prosveta, Belgrade, 2002. Death of New York City (Sélection des Poèmes, préface de Charles Simic), Cool Grove, New York, 2002. Le Retour d’Orphée (nouvelles), Prosveta, Belgrade, 2003. J’ai été cette journaliste de guerre en Egypte (poésie), L’Harmatan, Paris, 2004. La Lettre P, (poetry journal), Beogradska Manufaktura Snova, Belgrade, 2004. Krajem Veka (poésie) Beogradska Manufaktura Snova, Belgrade, 2006. Cr njanski, la Serbie, l’exil et le retour (monographie), l’Harmattan,Paris, 2007. Sous le Signe de Cyber-Cybèle (poèsie), l’Harmattan, Paris 2009. Isceljenje, Mali Nemo, Pancevo, 2011. Iznenadni Blesak (interviews), Glasnik, Beograd, 2009.
26
Onze Femmes Artiste, Slaves et Nomades, (monographie) Editions Non Lieu, Paris 2011. Crnjanski i njegov čitalac, Mali Nemo, Pančevo, 2012. L'Amour n'est qu'un mot, l'Harmattan, Paris, 2013. Umetnost Hvatanja Bumeranga, Povelja, Kraljevo, 2013. Living on Air, Barncott Press, London, 2013. Livres Traduits (accompagnés d’introductions critiques aux auteurs traduits): Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching, Belgrade, Grafos, 1981. Walter Abish: How German is it?, Novi Sad, Bratstvo-Jedinstvo, 1987. Charles Bukowski: Notes on Ordinary Madness, Belgrade, 1985. Kathy Acker: Great Expectations, Niš, Gradina, 1986. Lynne Tillman: Haunted Houses, Novi Sad, Bratstvo-Jedinstvo, 1990. Julia Kristeva: Selections d’Entretiens, Plavi Jahac, 2001. Dictionary of English Slang and Idioms , 2003, Prosveta, Belgrade Simone Weil: La Pesanteur et La Grâce, Svetovi, Novi Sad, 2007. Anthologies: (Préfaces et Etudes Critiques): Editor: "Other Voices - Anthology of Contemporary American Verse", Vršac, KOV, 1997. (50 poètes contemporains presentés dans 250 pages). Co-editor: "Anthology of Oral Poetry” (Ethnopoétique), Prosveta, 1987. "Serbian Poetry from the beginning to the present" (avec Dr. Milne Holton), Yale University Press, 1988. Contributions: "Contemporary East European Poetry", ed. George Emery, Oxford University Press, Ardis. 27
"The Horse Has Six Legs", ed. Charles Simic, Graywolf, MI., 1992. Anthology of the Contemporary Women’s poetry, ed. Radmila Lazic, Free B92, pp.124-135, Belgrade, 2000. Hatred of Capitalism, Semiotext(e) Reader, ed. Sylvère Lotringer and Chris Kraus, pp.67-83, Semiotext(e), Columbia University Press, New York, 2001. Burroughs Live, Entretiens de William S. Burroughs (1960-1997), pp.522-526, Semiotext(e), Columbia University press, New York, 2001. Sheets to the Wind, anthology of women writers of the world, edited by Claire Kincannon, Dancing Ink Press, Paris, 1998 (pp.69-80). Antologija Pripovedaka srpskih knjizevnica (anthology of short stories), edited by Rajko Lukac, Zepter Book World, Beograd, 2002. Shamanic Warriors Now Poets, anthology of poetry, prose edited by J.N. Reilly and Ira Cohen, R&R Publishing, Glasgow, 2003. Anthology of Serbian Fiction Women Writers, ed. by L.J. Djurdjic, Beograd, 2004. Violentes Femmes, dans le catalogue pour l’exposition à Château de Tours, 2005. Up Is Up: New York’s Downtown Literary Scene, 1974-1992, edited by B.Stosuy, NY University Press, New York, 2006. Selected Articles: “The Surreal World of Lou Dubois”, The Tribes, 2010. “The Art of Selena Vickovic”, Modern Painters, 2006. “Museum at Quai de Branly”, Tribes, 2006. “Language in exile”, Serbian Studies, 2005. “Interview with Ira Cohen”, Jacket, 2003. Interview with Julia Kristeva, NewYork ARTS, Avril 2001. 28
Interview with Jean Baudrillard, NewYork ARTS, Vreme, Juillet 2001. Interview with Annette Messager New York ARTS, Janvier 2001. Interview with ERRO, New York ARTS, Mai, 2001. Interview with Enzo Cucchi, Woman, Barcelona, Mai 2000. Poetry and/as Ecstasy, American Book Review, Vol.23,no.4, Mai-Juin 2002, p.10. Aliens and Anorexia by Chris Kraus, American Book Review, vol.22, no.2, Janvier-Février 2001, pp.13-15. The Foreign Eye, American Book Review, vol. 20, no.5, JuilletAoût 1999, p.29. Interview with Baruchello, Moment I, Belgrade, Juillet 1999. The Industrial Roccoco - The 1980s in New York, (numéro édité pour Moment, Belgrade, Août 1999). "Metaphysics of Miloš Crnjanski", Sveske, (revue littéraire), Pancevo, 1998. "Crnjanski, The Pillar of Yugoslav Modernism", Talisman, New Jersey, 1998. "Poetry of Michel Deguy", Letopis Matice Srpske, Novi, Sad, Décembre, 1999. "Crystalization of a possibility" (conversations with Sylvere Lotringer) publié dans Delo, (Post-modern Aura,) (revue mensuelle de théorie et critique littéraire), 1999. "On Ethics and Political Conduct", Transkatalog, no.3, Novi Sad, 1995-96.
*
29
Nina Zivancovic, New York 1989. Photo by Ira Cohen.
This a free extract from Letters To Myself by Nina Zivancevic (Barncott Press 2014), which is available in print and ebook editions. Full purchasing details are here.
BARNCOTT PRESS www.barncottpress.com