KADO magazine No 3., 2013. by DIOGEN pro culture magazine

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KADŌ Calea Poeziei Revistă de poezie, cultură poetică şi spiritualitate euroasiatică / Review of Euro-Asiatic Poetry, Poetic culture and spirituality

Year II, no. 1 (3) March 2013 Issue dedicated to Bosnia and Herzegovina

ISSN 2284 – 9165 ISSN-L = 2284 – 9165

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DIRECTOR FONDATOR: Marius CHELARU Redactor şef adjunct/ ASISTANT TO THE EDITOR IN CHIEF: Cristina RUSU English Editors: David G. Lanoue (Xavier University of Louisiana) Daniela Andronache (Medgidia, Romania) Lecture en français : Marilena Lică-Maşala (Paris, France) Charles P. Yemy (Paris, France) International Board: Sabahudin Hadžialić (Sarajevo, BOSNIA and HERZEGOVINA) Roman Kissiov (Sofia, BULGARIA) Djurdja Vukelic Rozic (CROATIA) Marilena Lica Maşala (Paris, FRANCE) Güner Akmolla (Constanţa, ROMANIA) Mihaela Albu (Craiova, ROMANIA) Vasile Moldovan (Bucharest, ROMANIA) Valentin Nicoliţov (Bucharest, ROMANIA) Laura Văceanu (Constanţa, ROMANIA) Halil Ibrahim Özdemir (Erzincan, Turkey) Erkut Tokman (Ankara, TURKEY) Riza Fazîl (Simferopol, Autonomous Republic of Crimea, UKRAINA) Baki Ymeri (ROMANIA, MACEDONIA) coperta: doina buciuleac

K A D Ō - C a l e a P o e z i e i is published twice a year. All articles in this journal have undergone peer reviews. - The Editors assume no responsibility for any statement of fact or opinion expressed in the published papers. Cover & Pictures from Sarajevo, Travnik (Bosnia and Herzegovina) and from Iaşi (Romania): Marius Chelaru Coperta 4/ the back cover: The Thinker of Hamangia, Romania Correspondence regarding subscriptions and editorial correspondence should be send to:

e-mail: kado_poem@yahoo.com; Tipărit la BLUE SIM & CO, Bd. Carol I, 3-5, Iaşi,

S U M A R

Romanian Classics – Poetry About Orient Iacob Negruzzi Kaher - versiunea română/ p. 7 Kaher – versiunea în limba turcă/ Turkish version/ p. 10 Kaher – versiunea în limba franceză/ Version en français/ p. 13 Interview

“I can be a writer of the nations, not a national writer”; dialogue with writer and journalist Sabahudin Hadžialić (Bosnia and Herzegovina)/ p.16 POETRY Poezie din Bosnia şi Herţegovina/ Poetry from Bosnia and Herzegovina Sabahudin Hadžialić/ p. 25 Nemanja Hodžaj/ p. 29 Jagoda Iličić/ p. 33 Irena Marić/ p. 37 Nihad Mešić River/ p. 41 Ibrahim Spahić/ p. 45 Amir Šulić/ p. 49 Džejlana Šutković/ p. 53 Goran Vrhunc/ p. 57 Poezia din Franţa/ Poetry from France Alain Pizerra/ p. 61 Jean-Baptiste Tati Loutard/ p. 63 Poezie din Grecia/ Poetry from Greece Klety Sotiriadou/ p. 67 Sotirios Pastakas/ p. 69 Poezie din Romania/ Poetry from Romania

Eusebiu Camilar/ p. 71 Elisabeta Isanos/ p.75

Luli/ p. 79 Poezie turcă/ Turkish Poetry Metin Cengiz/ p. 83 Haiku – Tanka - Senryu

Do I think there are national or regional traits in haiku? I do, but I don’t feel these are usually the most important aspects of such work (Dialogue with Jim Kacian, USA)/ p. 85 Haiku poems simultaneously circulate in many languages, just as water flows through pipes (Dialogue with Vasile Moldovan, Romania)/ p. 93

Haiku din Bosnia şi Herţegovina / Haiku from Bosnia and Herzegovina Samira Begman Karabeg/ p. 103 Mirsad Denjo/ p. 104 Ljubomir Dragović/ p. 105 Smajil Durmišević/ p. 106 Aida Šečić Nezirević/ p. 107 Gordana Radovanović/ p. 108 Ružica Soldo/ p. 109

Haiku din Statele Unite ale Americii/ Haiku from United States of America (Pages of the HAS) Randy Brooks/ p. 110 Angela Terry/ p. 110 Sari Grandstaff/ p. 111 Adrienne Christian/ p. 111 Francine Banwarth/ p. 111 Michael Dylan Welch/ p. 112 paul m./ p. 112 David G. Lanoue/ p. 112 Haiku din Romania/ Haiku from Romania (Autori din Iaşi/ Authors from Iaşi) George Bădărău/ p. 113 Rafila Radu/ p. 114 Iulia Ralia Raclaru/ p. 115

Edurad Ţară/ p. 116 Amalia Voicu/ p. 117 Cristina Rusu/ p. 118 Marius Chelaru/ p. 119 Studii şi eseuri/ Studies & Essays/ p. 82 Sabahudin Hadžialić - Lukić per se (Bosnian version)/ p. 120 Sabahudin Hadžialić - Lukić per se (English version)/ p. 137 David G. Lanoue - Beyond Haibun: The Haiku Novel/ p. 157 Elisabeta Isanos – Eusebiu Camilar et la culture orientale (IIème partie)/ p. 163 Book Reviews Samira Bergman – „Der letzte Prinz“ (Zlata Zuni)/ p. 172 Samira Bergman – „U bionjači Jednoroga“ (Otopljeni smisao sebstva, by Sabahudin Hadžialić)/ 176 Samira Bergman - In the whites of Unicorn (Dissolved sense of self, by Sabahudin Hadžialić)/ p. 168 Ines Peruško-Rihtar – “Uvid sadašnjosti“(Sabahudin Hadžialić)/ p. 180 Ines Peruško-Rihtar – „Insight into the present” (Sabahudin Hadžialić)/ p. 184 Nihad Mesic River – Ne moramo o politici-izabrani i novi zapisi“ (Sabahudin Hadžialić)/ p. 188 Nihad Mesic River – We do not need to talk about politicisselected and new writings(Sabahudin Hadžialić)/ p. 188 Poeţi invitaţi la Maratonul de Poezie de la Sarajevo în 2012/ Poets invited to the Poetry Marathon in Sarajevo in 2012 (Marius Chelaru) Giuseppe Napolitano/ p. 189 Mexhid Mehmeti – ”The Long Night/ p. 189 Diti Ronen – „littlebird”/ p. 191 Samira Begman Karabeg – „Unicorn”/ p. 194 Sabahudin Hadžialić – „Poems”/ p. 195 Note about contributors/ p. 196

Romanian Classics – Poetry About Orient Iacob Negruzzi Iacob Negruzzi s-a născut la 31 decembrie 1842, la Iaşi, a murit în 1932, la Bucureşti, al doilea fiu al lui Costache Negruzzi şi al Mariei Gane, a studiat în Germania, unde a absolvit liceul, apoi dreptul şi a dobândit titlul de doctor 1863. Cu o activitate remarcabilă şi pe tărâm profesional (a fost jurist, profesor universitar la Iaşi şi Bucureşti, de unde a ieşit la pensie în 1897), politic (deputat), vicepreşedinte, secretar general şi preşedinte al Academiei Române. La fel de notabilă este şi activitatea sa de scriitor. A scris, versuri, teatru, proză, critică, memorialistică. În 1863, împreună cu Titu Maiorescu, Vasile Pogor, Petre P. Carp a fondat societatea culturală „Junimea” (care a avut un rol important în viaţa României, în cultura ţării noastre) şi revista acesteia, „Convorbiri literare”, pe care a condus-o între 1867-1895. A fost cel mai longeviv diriguitor al acestei prestigioase reviste literare.

Kaher1 Pe-o peatră mucezită, lâng’o moşche bogată Acoperit cu sdrenţe, un cerşetor zăcea Şi veşteda lui faţă de ani era brăzdată Ş'a lui vedere scursă de mult acum era. 1

Kaher a domnit în Bagdad pe la anal 950 d. Ch. Istoricul Arab care a descris istoria acestui Kalif îl citează ca exemplu de deşertăciunile lumii şi nestatornicia soartei. (n. Iacob Negruzzi.) Al-Qahir Bi'llah (Abu Mansour Muhammad Al Qahir Bellah) – calif abbasid, a stăpânit la Bagdad între 932-934. Departe de ceea ce înseamnă numele său, lQahir bi’llahi/ „victorios prin voia Domnului”. L-a urmat la tron pe fratele său după un şir de comploturi ale curtenilor, dar domnia sa a fost una de proastă factură. (n. M.Chelaru) 7

Pe drum, pe lângă dînsul, cu pasuri regulate Toţi bine credincioşii încet, tăcuţi, treceau Cu mînile pe pepturi şi frunţile plecate Spre templul rugăciunii pios se îndreptau Şi pasurile line loveau a sa ureche Dar nime spre bĕtrânul privirea nu pleca Şi nici da o pomană în mâna sa cea veche Şi voacea lui cu jale acest fel cuvênta:

„O! frate care intri în templul de credinţă Nu trece lângă mine cu suflet nendurat! Priveşte alba-mi frunte plecată de căinţă, Priveşte cum isvorul vederii mi-a sĕcat!

„O! pune o pomană în astă veche mână, Ce veştedă, sbîrcită, spre tine s'a întins Căci ea odinioară a fost a ta stĕpână, Ş'a 'ntregei lume frêuri intr'însa a cuprins. „Kalif am fost odată, ş’al meu grozav renume Pe-aripa biruinţei sbura îndepărtat, Puternica mea voace cutremura o lume, Regi şi'mpĕraţi la tronu-mi supuşi s'au închinat. „Aveam o mândră faţă şi ochi plini de scântei Vedeai de bogăţie palatul meu gemĕnd Copii aveam ca ângeri şi multe dulci femei, Slăvit ca şi profetul eram pe-acest pămênt.

„Dar vai! împins de-un demon, eu crud, fără de lege A bunului meu frate, eu tronul am răpit Şi ghiare înspre dînsul întins'am sacrilege Ş'in a lui Allah templu pumnaru-mi l’a lovit. „Deatunci ani făr’ de numĕr trecut’au peste mine Şi fie-ce minută, un secol a ţinut Sdrobit şi orb sunt astăzi şi moartea nu mai vine Sa'îngroape amintirea grozavului trecut. „O! frate! înspre mine privirile senine Le pleacă şi nu trece cu ochiu nendurător, Azi june eşti şi mândru, dar mani poţi fi ca mine Căci nime nu cunoaşte ascunsul viitor!” Astfel gemea bătrânul, dar toţi cu ’nfiorare Şoptind: Kaher! Kaher! fugeau cu grabnic pas Ş'intrau în templul sacru să spele'n închinare Aspectul cel sinistru ce'n minte le-a rĕmas. (conformitate cu ediţia 1894, prezentare şi note: Marius Chelaru) Notă:

Am ales grafia din volumul Iacob Negruzzi, „Scrieri complecte”, volumul II, „Poesii, Satire, Epistole, Idile, Balade, Poesii lirice, Idei şi Maxime”, Bucureşti, Editura Librăriei Socecü & Comp., Calea Victoriei 21, 1894 (la p. 173-174), şi nu reproducere fidelă a poemului aşa cum a apărut în revista „Convorbiri literare”, numărul 1- Anul II, 1 martie 1868, la secţiunea „Poesii”, p. 15.

Iacob Negruzzi (Yakob Negruzzi) (1842-1932) Yakob Negruzzi 1842 nin 31 Aralık ayında doğdu Yiasş’da ve Bükreş’te 1932 yılda vefat etti; Kostake Negruzzi’nın ve Marya Gane’nin ikincı oğlu, eğitimini Almanya lisesinde ve üniversitesinde doktorluğunu kazanarak 1863 te bitirdi. Çalıışmalarında başarı kazandı (avukat oldu, üniversite pröfesörü, Yiasş ve Bükreş’te, 1897 de emekli oldu, politik dönemde millet vekili yetişti, yrd.prezident, genel sekreter, Romen Akademyasında preyident, yazar olarak ayni başarılarla tanıldı. Şiir, tyatro, düz yazı, edebiyat kritikası, hatıralar yazmıştır. 1863 te Titu Mayoresku, Vasile Pogor, Petre P. Karp ile birlikte Junimea/ Gençlik vakfını kurmuş (onun rölü önemli Romanya’nın kültürel hayatında, ülkemizin kültüründe ve Edebiyat Konuşmalari dergisinde en uzun ömürlü adamları olarak 1867-1895 lerde dergi onun çalışmalarıyile yer aldı. Kaher1 Küflü taşın üstünde, bol çimen arasında Dilenci yatıyor paçavuranın sarılmasında Onun soluk yüzü gösterer bize yıllar Bakışı akıp giderken, sade ızları kalar. Yolda, onun yanında, adımları bir olar Yavaş geçti dindar insan, onlar sessiz yolcular. Elleri koyarlar göğsünün üstüne, alınları aşada Yolculukta duva ettiler tapınımlarına. 1

950 lerde Isa a.s., sonra, Kaher Bağdad'ın padişası olmuş. Arap tarihçisi bu Kalifenin kaderini yazdığı zaman onu misal gibi görmekte geçici, luzümsüz, yararsız ve denişmelerle karışan dünyamızda. (not I. Negruzzi). Al Qahir Billah (Abu Muhammad Al Qahir Bellah) – abasid kalifesi, 932-934 yıllarında Bağda'ta bulunmakta. Isminin mânalarına uzak olarak, l-Qahir bi'llah demekte. Etrafındakıların düzenlerine karşı taht'a geçiyor, illa onun padişahlığı uğursuz olmuş.(n. Marius Kelaru) 10

Sessiz adım yavaşıdan vurular kulaklara, Bir kimse bakıp duramaz öyleli ihtiyara. Solmuş koluna bir kimse sadakasını koymaz Dertli sesi ortalıkta öyle sözlerle kalmaz:

O, kardeş, girersin sen bunun tapınasına Geçme yanımdan ters bakıp bana! Pişmanlı anlıma gözlerini koyarsın, Gözümün kuvetinin sönmesini anlarsın.

O! Bu ihtiyar avuşuma sadakanı sen ver Nekadar kurumuşsada, o sana uzatılır Bir vakıtta senin sahibindim ben Onun için de dünyaları toplamıştın sen. Kalif oldum bir vakıt, benim şanlı adım Uçardı, hep uçardı, zaferler kazandırdım, Kuvetli sesim dünyayı titretmiş bir zaman Kral ve padişah tahtında çöktü dizlerim, aman.

Benim kibirli yüzüm, ateşli gözlerim nerede? Zenginlik içinde sarayım kaldı inlemelerde. Melek gibi evlatlarım, benim tatlı kadınlarım Ben gençlimdeki dünyamda bir Peygamber tanıldım. Aman! Beni bir şeytan bozdu, merhametsiz oldum Öz kardeşimin tahtını hem istedim hem çaldım. Utanmadan ona tırnaklarımı uzattım Kamamı Allah’nın tapınağında ona dikledim.

Ondan son üstünden durmadan yıllar aktı, gitti, Dakika bana bir asır olarak, sonsuz bilindi. Bugün vurdular, görmez oldum, ölüm de unuttu O fena geçmişim kaldı, gömülmez oldu. O, kardeş, al bana doğru senin bakışlarını Merhametsiz gözünle geçme yanımdan, Sen bugün menlikli gençsin, yarın benim gibisin Çünkü bilmez hiç kimse neler geleceğinin. Böyle inlendi o ihtiyar, yavaştan konuştular, Kaher!Kaher! dediler bir seste etraftakılar Girdiler kutsal tapınak yerine yıkanmak içün Hatıralarında bazı kalan felâketler içün. Not Ben 1894 yılının kitabının basım gerçeklerini göze aldım Maryus Kelaru (not ve tanıtım) Not „Tekmil Yazıları” Yakob Negruzzi’nin ciltinde ve tanıtımında olduğu grafyasını kullandım ve II- ciltini Şiirler, Yergiler (satirler), Kompaniyler, sok. Calea Victoriei 21, 1894 (s.173-174); hesaba almadan ciltnin kopyasını, nasıl basıldı Edebiyat Konuşmalarında 1 – no. II yıl, 1 Mart 1868, Şiir Seksyasında, s.15.

Iacob Negruzzi (Né le 31 décembre 1842, à Iasi – d. en 1932, à Bucarest) Illustre écrivain, hommes de Lettres, juriste, universitaire, homme politique, président de l’Académie Roumaine. Il est le deuxième fils de l’écrivain, homme politique et du fondateur de l’Académie roumaine, Costache Negruzzi, et de Maria Gané. Il suive le lycée et l’Université de Droit à Berlin, et passe son doctorat en sciences juridiques (1863). De son retour dans les Principautés Roumains, il continue la mise en œuvre du programme culturel-littéraire-politique de la génération de son père, génération d’avantgarde, obstinée par l’indépendance, l’unité, le progrès et la renaissance du peuple roumain. En 1863, Iacob Negruzzi, à côté de Titu Maiorescu, Vasile Pogor, Petre P. Carp, contribue à la fondation de la société culturelle „Jeunesse” (dont son programme a joué un rôle extraordinaire dans la vie culturelle des Pays Roumains et dans l’ensemble de la nation roumaine) et de la fameuse revue Conversations littéraires, dont il a été le rédacteur en chef le plus long temps, de 1867 à 1895. Son œuvre littéraire compte de poèmes, théâtre, prose, critique et études littéraires, mémoires. 1

Kaher

Sur une pierre moisie, près d’une riche mosquée, Un mendiant gisait, couvert de lambeaux ; Son visage décharné était sillonné par les années, Son regard était depuis longtemps vidé. 2 1

Kaher a régné à Bagdad autour de 950 après Jésus Christ. L’historien Arabe qui a décrit la vie de ce Calife, la cite pour exemplifier les vanités et l’inconstance du destin (NDA). 2 Al-Qahir Bi'llah (Abu Mansour Muhammad Al Qahir Bellah) – dit Kaher, a été le 18ème calife abbaside ; il accède au pouvoir, grâce à une suite des complots, à la mort de son frère, Moktader Billah, le 17ème Calife de Bagdad, de 932 à 934. Loin de régner selon la signification de son nom, l-Qahir bi’llahi : « victorieux par la volonté d’Allah », son avarice lui fit commettre, selon les historiens, des cruautés inouïes envers sa mère, ses autres parents et ceux qu’il crut d’être enrichis sous le règne précédent. Le 14 avril 934 de JC, il eut surpris dans son palais par une faction qui lui fait crever les yeux et le détrône. Réduit à l’état de particulier, il tomba dans une telle misère qu’il était obligé de mendier à la porte de la Mosquée. Il continua de vivre ainsi jusqu’à sa mort, arrivée le 3 de Dgioumadi de l’an 339 (le 18 octobre 950). 13

Près de lui, cheminant d’un même pas, Les croyants doucement passaient silencieux, Fronts penchés, mains sur les poitrines, Vers le lieu de la prière ils se dirigeaient pieux. Leurs pas légers raisonnaient à son oreille, Mais personne ne regardait le vieux, Nul n’offrait une aumône à sa main vieille. Et de sa voix dolente1, il disait ainsi : « Ô, frère qui entre dans la mosquée sacrée, Ne passe pas si près de moi d’une âme acharnée ! Regarde le blanc de mon front penché de pénitence, Regarde combien s’est éteinte la source de mes yeux ! « Ô, remets un don dans cette main ancienne Qui fanée, ridée, vers toi se dresse ! Car, c’est elle qui fut jadis ta reine souveraine, Si bien qu’à la terre entière elle tenait les rênes. « J’étais Calife une fois et mon renom énorme Porté par l’aile du triomphe, s’envolait au lointain, Ma voix toute-puissante faisait trembler le monde, Les rois et les princes soumis s’inclinaient devant mon trône. « Mon visage était fier, altier, et mes yeux flamboyants, On voyait mon palais gémir sous la richesse ! J’avais des enfants adorables et beaucoup de femmes aimantes, Vénéré comme le Prophète j’étais sur cette terre. « Hélas ! Poussé par le démon, cruel, perfide, J’ai usurpé le trône de mon frère bien-aimé ; Vers lui j’ai lancé mes griffes fratricides Et dans la maison d’Allah je l’ai poignardé. « Depuis, nombre d'années se sont écoulées Et chaque minute me semble une éternité ! 1

Dolent, dolente : plaintif, malheureux. 14

Me voici ce jour épuisé, aveugle, espérant la mort Pour enterrer le souvenir de mon passé glorieux. « Ô ! frère ! Penche vers moi ton clair regard Et ne passe pas de ton œil hautain ! Fier et jeune aujourd’hui, demain tu pourras arriver comme moi, Car nul ne peut connaître l’avenir occulte ! » Ainsi se lamentait le vieux, mais les gens craintifs Murmurant : Kaher ! Kaher !, s’enfuyaient à pas hâtif Et rentraient dans la mosquée, laver par la prière Le spectre sinistre qui avait marqué leur l’esprit. Texte présenté et annoté par Marius Chelaru Traduction inédite en français par Marilena Licǎ-Maşala Paris, le 5 janvier 2013 N.B. La traductrice remercie Charles P. Yemy pour les suggestions concernant l’adaptation en français de ce texte. Référence bibliographique : Iacob Negruzzi, « Œuvres complètes », tome II, Poésies, Satires, Lettres, Idylles, Balades, Gestes, Poésies lyriques, Pensées et Réflexions, Bucarest, les éditions de la Librairie Socecü & Comp., 1894, pp. 173-174.1 1 La première version de ce poème est parue à Iasi, dans la revue Conversations littéraires, n° 1, 2ème année, 1er mars 1868, chapitre « Poésies », p. 15, d’une graphie légèrement différente de la deuxième version, ci-dessus présentée. Au 19 ème siècle, la langue littéraire roumaine, après avoir utilisé plus de trois siècles l’alphabet cyrillique, l’ancien grec et le slavon, pour la rédaction des textes diplomatiques, liturgiques et les premiers écrits imprimés, se trouvait à l’aube de la graphie aux lettres latines. Iacob Negruzzi fait parti de la génération révolutionnaire et progressiste des intellectuels des Principautés Roumaines qui tentaient, en légitimité totale, tenant compte de l’origine romaine du peuple roumain, l’écriture avec les lettres de l’alphabet latin. Cette nouvelle orientation suit, d’ailleurs, l’évolution culturelle et spirituelle de l’Europe Moderne, de la seconde moitié du 19ème siècle. En tant qu’État-nation, la Roumanie n’existe que depuis 1er décembre 1918. Avant la fin de la Première Guerre mondiale, il existait des Principautés Roumains, dotés d'une certaine cohérence sur les plans linguistique, culturel, économique, et parfois politique, malgré le voisinage / l’infleunce ou parfois, l’occupation des provences roumains par les empires de proximité, autricien-hongrois, russe, ottoman. L'extension géographique de ce monde roumain ne correspondait pas exactement avec celle de la Roumanie actuelle et a varié au cours de l'histoire. Le 24 janvier 1856, par exemple, a eu lieu la première union de deux des Principautés Roumains, la Moldavie et la Valachie

INTERVIEW “I can be a writer of the nations, not a national writer” Dialogue with writer and journalist Sabahudin Hadžialić (Bosnia and Herzegovina)

I met „Sabi”1 on internet, through our common friend Roman Kissiov from Sofia. It was about a collaboration for Carmina balcanica magazine. Right away we saw that we have similar temperaments. I translated some of his poems, then we met in Sarajevo, a town with an “old side” like from a story in which time seems to forget to pass and allows only a tram rail or electric light to remind you what year it really is. Sabahudin Hadžialić is a big man, almost two meters tall, who is careful with people around him, respectful of the work of the others, and who puts his whole heart into what he is doing. Sabahudin Hadžialić was born on 23.9.1960 in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina. He is a member of the Writer Association in Bosnia and Herzegovina, of the Croats Writer Association in Bosnia and Herzegovina, of the Writer Association in Serbia, of the “Ivo Andrić” Academy (Belgrade), of the The Journalists Association in his country, and he is Ambassador of Poetas del Mundo. He is editor in chief of „Diogen” magazine and editor in chief of the e-magazine “MaxMinus” (Sarajevo). He is a freelance editor of the Publishing Houses Dhira and Küsnacht, in Switzerland. He writes poetry, prose, book reviews, articles, essays, aphorisms, theater and publishes in almost all magazines and journals from Serbia, Croatia, Macedonia, Slovenia and from his own country. He has published in journals in England, Ireland, Spain, Italy, USA etc. He has books published in Bosnia and Herzegovina and abroad.

Marius Chelaru Sabahudin Hadzalić, I think that if you want to know a man, you could start with the most beautiful part of his life, childhood. So, please tell us

The interview was published, in Romanian language, in “Poezia” magazine, Iaşi, Autumn 2012.

about your childhood, your native land, your family, people from that time, about school etc … Sabahudin Hadžialić At the beginning, I think that every part of human’s life is the best part of it. Namely, all depends on the eye of the beholder. To make it even simpler, I think that man should always stay a child, and play the game of life. Why? Because only by being a child can we play at creating new reflections of life. Of our own life, in principle. But we must, at the same time, be very careful to be aware that we have responsibilities, which involves risk. What is that responsibility and risk? The answer is simple: Innocent creation of thought that leads, through the game, to the solution of problems within life, never forgetting that we are just visitors on this earth and will go to heaven and/or hell, depending on how we play the game on Earth. To make long story short, I had a very happy childhood, taking the first steps in the game of life. Currently, I have just finished a first part of a novel trilogy in which there is some autobiography in the section that takes place in the 21st century (the other part of the novel occurs in the 11th century). In it, my main character remembers his childhood through the words:”Happiness is not a way of living during childhood. It is the raison d’etre of childhood.” Simple, but the truth. On other hand, to talk about “native land, your family, people from that time, about school etc…” would be too much, although I would like to underline that, again, in a simpler way, we were better people: my land, my family, people from that times, the schools. Now? Everybody, focused on survival (including me, of course), forgets the beauty of living and the fact that what really matters are one’s family, the land, the people, and the school of life. Have we been better people, or just will we always have “good old times” regardless in which time we are living? Why is that? Because, as time is passing by, it is getting worse and worse for human civilization in general. So, every new time will say about the past ones: those were good old times, weren’t they? M.C. When we met in Bosnia and Heryegovina we discussed, on road to Travnik, about all kind of clichés, about how little we know one about each other, today, when they say that information has opened all 17

roads… What is the meaning of „B and H” from the point of view of the beginnings of writing/ literature?

Individual good wins in the short term S.H. If you are targeting B and H as (B)osnia and (H)erzegovina, then, it means everything. First of all – motherland, but the land of “egalité, fraternité and liberté” and not like it is today, in post-war B and H: the land of sorrow, hatred and envies”. Solution is: to understand the best part of all human beings living in B and H and to start building a society of understanding diversity to be able to have a country of love. The slogan of DIOGEN pro culture magazine, of which I am Editor in Chief, is: We are unifying diversities. That is worth fighting for. And, in regards to your question, “What is the meaning of „B and H” from the point of view of the beginnings of writing/ literature? The meaning is that this is the land of our children, not ours. Even we, the writers, should only think about that, to inspire the nation and its leaders to think about a better future for our kids. Because if we think about the common good, in the long term, everybody wins. Individual good wins in the short term, nothing else. But, if you think about B and H as (B)osniaks (Muslims) and (C)roats (Catholics) then you should add S as (S)erbs as well because three main nations are living here within Bosnia and Herzegovina (political entities, the Republic of Srpska and the Federation of B and H). The answer to the above-mentioned question is within my thought/aphorism: “We are three tribes of the same people, but the problem is…WHICH ONE?” Also, it is great inspiration for writing as well. To understand each other and to interact culturally as much as possible to be able to avoid the implosion of closed groups which will happen if we do not interact with “others”. Again, another quotation of mine: “The nation is a historical category. We just need to wait for the end of history.” M.C. How is it that you are interested in culture, poetry, writing, generally speaking? Did you have a spiritus rector, a model? Can we speak in your case about mentors with whom you did or didn’t meet face to face or not, who influenced in one way or another your road in writing? 18

S.H. The answer is simple: It is written in my genetic code. It just came out of me that I would be a person who would like to leave a mark through making a world a better place to live for all of us. You can see this on my website. M.C. As a matter of fact, when was the first time that the muse visited you? What happened then, and what were your next steps? S.H. I would not call it a muse. I would rather call it fate, destiny…Why? Because the muse is an imaginary being. The real being is fate, destiny…When did it meet me? I think on the day of my birth. It left a mark for me to start writing at age nineteen. Not before. And since it started, it has lasted, so far, thirty-three years. The next steps? I still need to find them. Namely, every time I think I have met my next step, it has been running away . . . away from me. M.C. When and how was your literary debut in journals and in personal books? S.H. My literary debut in journals was back in 1979 as a reporter for the “DZUBOKS” rock music magazine in Belgrade (Serbia) doing reportage from Mostar (Bosnia and Herzegovina) regarding rock concert of the band MOST (English: BRIDGE). Another debut, in books, was in 1987, being announced as one of the three best young poets in the former Yugoslavia (among 256 poets), winning the third position and having my first poems published in the Anthology of poetry MAY PEN (Svetozarevo, Yugoslavia, 1987). Again, the debut happened on the day of my birth, meeting my fate and/or destiny. Why? It has already been written in the book of destiny. Of my life.

It is not difficult to write. It is difficult to know how to write

M.C. We discussed in Bosnia and Herzegovina the topic of roads, mostly between Sarajevo and Travnik, about Ivo Andric, and about literature from the former Yugoslavia. In fact, tell us how are the literature, the culture, the editorial activity and press in B and H today? S.H. Shortly- as late poet Branko Miljković from Yugoslavia (19341961) has said: “The day will come when everybody will write poetry”. Yes, through social networks (FB and others) everybody writes not only poetry but also prose and all other footprints of their soul, but as I have said recently: “It is not difficult to write. It is difficult to know how to write.”…for prose and for poetry: “Everybody can write poetry but only few can write a poem.” Reflections of the previous war exist within writings as well. For me, that is a source of inspiration to make naked stupidity of chauvinism on all sides, because not even a single soul (not to mention culture sui generis) can exist without interacting with other souls and/or cultures. Through writing I interact with similar souls with the goal to make this world a better place for everyone, regardless of his/her ethnic, racial and/or gender stand. Being Chairman of the BH Journalist Union back in 1998, I have said that today you can become a journalist having very little background in the profession. Yes, we have an inflation of journalists and a deflation of knowledge. Only a few magazines and journalists can call themselves authentic. The others serve the tycoons and chauvinists. Why? Because human beings are hypocrites within their souls. Me? I just do no like democracy. Why? Because instead one idiot, I serve millions of idiots. It is a shame that I am the only living writer within the area of the former Yugoslavia who is a member of the Bosnia and Herzegovina Association of Writers (Sarajevo, BiH), the Croatian writers association of Herzeg Bosnia (Mostar, BiH), the Association of writers Serbia (Belgrad, Serbia), and the Association of writers of Montenegro (Podgorica, Montenegro). Why? To show that I can be a writer of the nations and not a national writer. 20

The future? Only through knowledge. But knowledge based on facts and not knowledge based on myths. M.C. And, also, what are you doing in your daily life? Tell us about Diogen, MaxMinus, about the magazines you work on … starting with the first private journal from BaH, which you own, and about radio … S.H. Simply, writing, editing, writing, editing…Just recently, in Albania in June 2012, when I was, as a really honored person, asked to present myself at the Festival of Poetry in Sarande, I said: “I do not want to talk about myself. Just Google me (DIOGEN pro culture magazine, MaxMinus magazine).” My work should speak instead of me. About the first private newspaper in Bosnia and Herzegovina back in 1990, I can just say that it started a few months prior to the war and we knew we were doing a good job. Why? Because, all three chauvinistic sides were attacking us. How? For one issue of the newspaper, named POTEZ (in English: THE MOVE) we were attacked as being Pro-Muslim; for another issue, Pro-Croat; and for another, ProSerb. Again – Why? We were telling the truth which was sometimes supporting mentioned stands, but as soon as we were talking against the stands which did not suit any of the sides, we were enemies of the people. In reality, we were just enemies of the thieves. The last twenty years of “democracy” just proved that we were right. Also, there is another question: Who is worse than a communist? The answer is: the former communists. Sabahudin Hadžialić has never been either a communist and/or a chauvinist. He just has tried to be a simple human being. I can talk for hours about my TV and Radio experience, but I would like to kindly ask you to visit my website and you will find what Sabi was saying back in 1987 and 25 years later (on video, until 2012.). Do not trust me. Just check it out, please. M.C. You are translated in several languages; your poems appeared in magazines in my town, Iasi, in Romania. Tell us about your writings.

S.H. Yes, I am translated in 15 languages of the world (in magazines and anthologies), and I have published books in five languages, but my main language is the language of writing (prose and poetry). Which, as DIOGEN pro-culture magazine’s slogan says, unifies diversities…? In the moment when we finish writing, regardless of whether is it poetry or prose, it does not belong to us anymore. It belongs to the readers. I think you should ask them. Me? I am just a small insect in a civilization of lost hearts. M.C. I traveled almost everywhere in countries that resulted from the former Yugoslavia. The recent conflict which led to this state left deep wounds, visible in one way or another everywhere. Are they visible in your writings, too? And, generally speaking, which are themes of your poetry, of your writings? S.H. As I mentioned before, the recent conflict left scars not only on human bodies, but also on human souls in general within the area of former Yugoslavia. Yes, it is visible in my writing. How? In a sense of resurrection of the truth that the recent war was not only a conflict between nations (what the fuck are nations if we are all human beings?) but the conflict between civilization and barbarians. Who are they? The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind. This was not a civil war. It was the war between beggars of the mind and civilized people. Who are they? It was the war for expanding territory for “my people” against “his/her people”. Who are they? Their names, finally, were not generalized as Serbs, Croats and/or Bosnian Muslims…their names were bastards on all sides. Also, how to find, finally, who they are? Check out the International court in The Hague. After all, it is a legitimized court. Any decision they made against war criminals from all three sides, I agree completely with. Why? Because I am a human being and not a Bosnian Muslim and/or Serb and/or Croat. M.C. You write aphorisms, poetry, essays … Is there any genre you can say it is your “favorite”, and why? 22

S.H. It all depends. As mentioned, it has depended on what fate and/or destiny has given to me. Sometimes, it is one genre, and another day is another. My only “favorite” genre is the reflection of the human soul on the page. Sometimes it is aphorism, than poetry, than essays, than novel, than short stories, than plays…Why? I do not have this answer. M.C. Sarajevo is an interesting town, in my opinion yet untouched irreversibly and totally by what they call “progress”. The poetry marathons that you have organized and the way you lead your magazines have shown me an other side of your personality. You like to create opportunities for others, for people whose art you believe in, as far as I can see… S.H. Sarajevo used to be better city. Nowadays, Sarajevo is trying to recover. It’s still recovering. If the poetry marathon, „DIOGENES is seeking human beings”, has succeeded in helping Sarajevo to recover in just a little way, I am more than satisfied. Yes, I like to create opportunities for others. What is in it for me? Nothing, but just a feeling that „good does good”. Not everybody can be supported by my side. Only real writers and real poets and real human beings: Three in one. For the good of civilization. M.C. Let us finish with thoughts about the future, and thank you that you accepted to have this conversation. So, what are your projects? S.H. First of all, thank you for the opportunity to present my thoughts within your precious magazine, and the future…? Well, I have finished the first part of my Trilogy CROSSROADS OF THE WORLDS (the title of the first novel is BOX OF LIFE) and hopefully I will publish it before the end of this year. I’m working on the second part of the trilogy now. I am also traveling a lot: festivals of poetry and writing; editing magazines: DIOGEN pro culture and MaxMinus magazine; editing other writers’ books; teaching at the University (Faculty of media and communication) in Travnik (BiH) and working 23

on my PhD thesis (until 2014); preparing the THIRD poetry marathon for 2013 (a lot of new changes in it) in the World, as the longest, biggest and, hopefully, the best Poetry marathon so far. What else…? Writing essays, reviews, aphorisms, poetry, short stories… And, of course, trying to be better human being, in the first place. Above all. Iaşi, Romania, 20.06 – Sarajevo, 27.6.2012, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Poetry Poezie din Bosnia şi Herţegovina/ Poetry from Bosnia and Herzegovina

Sabahudin Hadžialić Stope U sumraku mojih sjećanja otisak njenih uskrsnuća Borim se u bijegu ne stižem Bol je neizmjerna mojom krivicom sluđena I dalje se molim i volim jer ona je uvijek tu ostaje vaskrsava. Buđenje Odsjaj sopstvenog ludila blješti u noći mojih nemira. Liječiti vapaje ljudskih snova ne mogu sam. S kim ću? I kada? 25

Sabahudin HadĹžialiÄ&#x2021; Foots Within the twilight of my memoris footprint of hers resurrections I am struggling on the run not getting The pain is immeasurable My fault infauted I contuinue to pray and love because she is always here remains resuscitate.

Awakening Reflection of my own madness shining within the night of my restlessness. Treating the cries of human dreams I can not do alone. With whom I will? And when? 26

Maglina duše Osvjetljujem pakao sunovrata dok nestajem u gubitku smisla... sebe. Borba za ovaploćenje duše maglinom se vabi. Da li će opstati....duša? Ili nestati među stijenama, liticama, traganja. Padu stremeći.

Ona... pjesma Pjesma o njoj optočena mojim suzama dekadama nastajaše... I, u trenutku izblijedelosti, svjetlost bljesnu daljinom i namjerom... Nestade pjesme sa njenim povratkom. Varam li se, ili je ona moja ...pjesma? 27

Nebula of the soul I am enlightening the hell of daffodils while disappearing in loss of the sense... me. Fighting for the incarnation of the soul is wooing with the nebula Whether will survive...the soul? Or disappear among rocks, cliffs, of searching. Aspiring towards the fall.

She... the poem The poem about her decanted with my tears through decades arises And, within the time of blenching light flashes through the distance and intention... The poem dissappeared with return of her. Am I wrong, Or she is my ...poem? 28

Nemanja Hodžaj

Veliki teatar apsurda Automatizam pokreta U velikom teatru apsurda. I onda kada misliš Da poštenje i vlast Na istom su mjestu U strukturi vremena. U tvome srcu tada Gadan je kvar, Izvršena nova lobotomija. Automatizam misli U izmaglici zbilje i haosa. Fiktivni mediji okupiraju sve, Tvoja su čula čisto svezana Kao krhotina stakla sada si, Duša ti je pravilno srezana. Unutarnja slika, to je tjeskoba, Anhioznost kao struktura lika, U tebi je sukob generacija.

Novembarska tišina Krijući bore, puštam snove, Da upravljaju mnome, Bez trunke laži i sigurnosti, Podrhtava dodir zbog bojazni. 29

Nemanja Hod탑aj The Great Theater of Absurd Programmed expressions A scene in the great theater of absurdity. And when you think That honesty and authority Are found in the same place In the structure of these times. In your brain then There is an awful misconception, A new case of lobotomy. Programmed expressions In the haze of reality and chaos. Fictional media occupy everything Your senses are firmly bound Like shards of glass, your soul Has been systematically carved. Internal image, filled with anxiety, Anxiety as a frame of character Within you is the conflict of generations.

November calm Hiding wrinkles, letting dreams guide me, Without a shred of lie and certainty, My touch tremoring with fear. 30

Lakoća dodira, sljepoća pogleda, Kratkoća koraka u prašini oblaka Strujaju misli brzinom bljeska, Brzinom kvara, moždanog udara. Kočenje ručnom junacima nije ''as'' što ga čuvaju u prepredenom rukavu, Inspiracija počiva na prozoru ludila. Krijući bore, puštam snove, Ko mačem se borim Protiv proklete zore.

Jadnici života Ulični čistači se svitanjem gube, Prosjaci prosjače zrake prve. Jadnici života, mučeničkog kova Želudaca praznih ne mare za dan. Gledaju u činiju Što je drže pred sobom Kao vjernik u nebo Što spasitelja čeka. Samo sekund, zamolit ću te! Prije no što sudit počneš, Zamisli kolika je njihova patnja Pred zalogajem hljeba što u kanti stoji. 31

Tenderness of touch, blindness of sight, Tiny steps in the dust cloud Lightning stream of thoughts, A swift breakdown, like a stroke. Abrupt surrender is not a heroes '' ace'' kept in sleeve Inspiration rests on the window of madness. Hiding wrinkles, letting dreams guide me, Like a knight in a sword fight, I am fighting against the cursed dawn.

Wretches Street sweepers are fading with sunrise, Beggars beg the first rays. Wretches of life, made up of anguish With empty stomachs, Indifferent about the day. Looking at the bowl Holding it in front Like a believer, Waiting for the Messiah. “Just a second, I request of you!” Before you start to judge, Imagine how great their suffering is In front of a morsel of bread, Lying in the trash. Translation: Sven Babić 32

Jagoda Iličić

Iščekivanje Čeka te jedna prazna stolica U mnoštvu koje talasa Usred buke u kojoj se miješaju glasovi Usred boja reflektora i žurbe Koraka u visokim potpeticama Kravata s inicijalima Brižljivo popeglanih okovratnika Kapi parfema zakačenih iza uha Čeka te ta jedna strahovito prazna stolica I kao crna rupa usisava blještavi svemir dvorane.

Jutro, more, obala U tirkiz uronjen kamen i zlatni sunčev vez. Bijela plesačica njiše bokovima na pučini. Lepršaju joj jedra vjetarom zaigrana. Sanjiva obala, poput ispruženog tijela tek razbuđene žene, doziva tople ruke sunca.

Jagoda IliÄ?iÄ&#x2021;

Awaiting An empty chair waits for you In a crowd that sways In the midst of the noise in which voices mingle In the midst of the spotlight colours and the haste The steps in high heels Ties with initials Carefully ironed collars Parfume drops hung behind the ears A dreadfully empty chair waits fot you And like a black hole sucks in the dazzling space of the hall.

Morning, sea, shore A stone plunged in turquoise and the sun's golden embroidery. A white woman dancer sways her hips on the open sea. Her sails flutter carried away by the wind. A slumberous shore, like a streched body of a women just awakened, Invokes the warm hands of the sun.

Masakr Preko krhkih svjetiljki, kroz noć razlila se magla. Kao ogladnjeli psi tragom nečega zakopanog u tami pojurili su snovi. Uronjeni u tople plahte svojih gnijezda klizavu svilu noći igrali smo se čudima sve dok ih nije pokosila nemilosrdna konjica jutra.

Neki… Nekima polazi za rukom razvući trenutak na čitav roman. Neki roman svedu na trenutak. Neki nemaju ni roman ni trenutak. Oni se, jednostavno, još nisu rodili. Za sada žive samo svoje čekanje 35

Masacre Fog spilled over fragile lanterns throught the night. Like hungry dogs tracing something buried in the dark our dreams rushed off. Covered in warm sheets of our nests and the slippery silk of the night ee played with miracles until they were slashed by the merciless morning cavalry.

Some Some manage to stretch a moment over a whole novel. Some reduce a novel to a moment. Some have neither a novel nor a moment. They are, simply not yet born. For now they live only their waiting.

Irena Marić

Razdijeljeni...razdvojeni... odvojeni...odijeljeni... od sebe...u sebi... podijeljeni...podvojeni... u dijelovima...nesvjesni... tumaramo...

sadašnjost... mjesto susreta s vremenom... Merkur kad čini se sve već rečeno je... preispisujemo... iza konačnog, kaži da li si papagaj, ptica rugalica ili zmaj? iza vrata okamenjene vječnosti, beskonačnost nije nezamisliva...

Irena MariÄ&#x2021;

Split apart . Separate , separated . of ourselves , inside . divided , ambivalent . in parts , oblivious . shambling .

Present. just a place in time ... Mercury when it appears everything is said , rewrite... behind the final, just tell me are you a parrot, Mockingbird or dragon? behind this door of eternity forever is unthinkable ...

Trio za jazz kroz dim nazirem nasmijano lice osijedjelog crnca... uz pratnju kontrabasa, dugo u noć, raspravljali su se klavijatura i saksofon... mnoštvo glasova... poput živog bića, pričini mi se, igra na vjetru drvena kućica... na kraju ulice oblak je već prijetio mjesečini...

Budin Blues Noćas će Buda svirati blues i pjevat će tugu bez žalosti pomiren prazan i tup... osmijehnut će se bolno... bez bola... uzvratit ću mu smiješak... ispiti tu čašu bluesa i otići od sebe... pomirena sa sobom...

Trio for jazz through the smoke obscurin' smiling face of black person ... accompanied by a bass, late night , discussed between the keyboards and saxophone, number of votes ... like a living thing, I think, music plays a wooden hut in the wind at the end of the streets, cloud is treatened moonlight.

Buddha Blues Buddha tonight will play the blues and sing without sorrow mourning reconciled emptiness and dull. smile will be painful ... without pain. I will give him smile ... exams this cup of blues and go away from myself reconciled with myself.

Translated by Liora-Amina Beriša

Nihad Mešić River Još sam tu Ne zanima me ni "sumrak zapada?, ni "agresivni istok". Ne volim barikade. Ni kad mase na barikade jurišaju. Osjećam sav svijet i ljude sve svojim, ali mi dozvoljeno nije tako. Nisam eto prispio. Ne uklapam se, a ni volio ne bih. Da sam isti i da vazda isto, mislim i živim. Dok je tako, još sam tu. Šutnja Šutimo zajedno. Ništa nam ne treba više. Znaš da sam tu. Za tebe. Znam da si tu. Za mene. Zato život vrijedi.

Nihad Mešić I am still here I am not interested In “twilight of the West”. and “aggressive East”. I don’t like barricades. Or masses charging at barricades. I feel the whole World And peoples mine, Though I am not allowed to. So, I am not adapted. I do not fit in, And I wouldn’t like to be Always same, thinking and living same. Until it is so, I am still here.

Silence We are silent together. Nothing more is needed. You know I am here. For you. I know that you are here. For me. That is why life is worth living.

Od Kovača do Jevrejske opštine (Sarajevo 2012.) Ulicama sarajevskim prolazim. Sve me nešto sjeća na 1984. Orvelovu. Olimpijsku. Osjećam se kao kaldrma, kojom silazim s Kovača prema Jevrejskoj opštini preko nabujale Miljacke, što je betonom pokriše. Do pola. Valjda će mi, valjda će nam, nekad skinuti ovaj teret s prsa. Da mi kamenje do izražaja dođe. U Sarajevu povodom "Pjesničkog maratona" 20/21.3.2012.

Neobičan Neobičan da sam ja, to sam uvijek htio, ali šta vrijedi želja ta, kad sam želju krio. Da sam bio hrabriji, ili makar blesav, sada kad sam stariji, svijet bi bio sretan. Šta mi vrijede sada tapšanja i ponos, kad još uvijek mnogi povuku me za nos. Neobičan da sam ja, to sam uvijek htio, ali šta sad vrijedi želja ta, kad sam zalud snio. 43

From Kovači to Jewish Municipality (Sarajevo 2012) I pass by Sarajevo streets. Somehow, everything reminds me on 1984. Orwell. Olympics. I feel like the stonestreet on which I go down from Kovači over the snow-melting Miljacka to the Jewish Municipality, covered with concrete up to half. Hopefully, once they would remove this burden of my chest. Of our chests. So my stones come to expression. On the occasion of the "Poetry Marathon" on 20/21 March 2012 in Sarajevo

Unusual To be unusual, That is what I always wanted. But what is the worth of my wish now Since I was hiding it. If I were more courageous Or at least crazy, Now when I am older World would have been happy. What to do now With applauses and pride When still there are plenty Who pull my nose. To be unusual, That is what I always wanted. But what is the worth of my wish now. When I was dreaming in vain. Translated by by Nihad Mešić 44

Ibrahim Spahić SVJETLOST I BI SVJETLOST, I BI SVJETLOST, I BI SVJETLOST, ZAR SAMO ZATO ROĐENJE? ZAR SAMO ZATO ŽIVOT? ZAR SAMO ZATO SMRT? ZAR NE BI SAMO SVJETLOST? ZAR NE BI SAMO SVJETLOST? ZAR NE BI SAMO SVJETLOST?

ZAČEĆE BEZGRJEŠNO BEZ DODIRA BEZ SJEMENA I JEDNO I DRUGO I TREĆE

PRASAK ROĐENJE NASTANAK PRAPOČETAK ZAR SVE TO NIJE BILO U MIRU TIŠINI I TAJNOVITO? ZAR JE BIO SAMO PRASAK? 45

Ibrahim Spahić LIGHT AND THERE WAS LIGHT, AND THERE WAS LIGHT, AND THERE WAS LIGHT, IS THAT THE ONLY REASON FOR BIRTH? IS THAT THE ONLY REASON FOR LIFE? IS THAT THE ONLY REASON FOR DEATH? WAS THERE NOT ONLY LIGHT? WAS THERE NOT ONLY LIGHT? WAS THERE NOT ONLY LIGHT? CONCEPTION IMMACULATE, WITHOUT TOUCH WITHOUT SEED BOTH THE FIRST AND THE SECOND AND THE THIRD.

THE BANG BIRTH CREATION ORIGIN WAS IT NOT ALL IN PEACE SILENCE AND MYSTERY COULD IT HAVE BEEN JUST A BANG? 46

ALPINIST SA MNOM SE PENJE PRASTARO MORE SA MNOM SE SPUŠTA I DIŽE MJESEC I SUNCE S NJIMA SE RAĐA I UMIRE RUNOLIST SA MNOM SE NEBO POD OBLAKE SKRIVA SA MNOM SE DO VRHA STIŽE

RIJEČ OSTAT ĆE SAMO LJUBAV KAD SVE JEDNOM ODE OSTAT ĆE PJESMA NAD PJESMAMA I KAD NESTANU RIJEČI

THE ALPINIST CLIMBING WITH ME THE ANCIENT SEA SETTING AND RISING WITH ME THE MOON AND THE SUN WITH THEM IS BORN AND DIES THE EDELWEISS WITH ME THE SKY HIDES BENEATH THE CLOUDS WITH ME THE TOP IS REACHED.

THE WORD ONLY LOVE WILL REMAIN ONCE WHEN EVERYTHING VANISHES THE SONG OF SONGS WILL REMAIN EVEN WHEN WORDS VANISH.

Amir Šulić Stvaranje Isklesaću te, bezoblična stijeno, Oštricom tuge i neizmjerne bijede, Izgubićeš mir u okrilju njenom, Zbog spoznaje nesretne i blijede. I ne pitaj mene, zakon slijepi, Zašto moraš patiti i propasti, Iako te muči i nimalo ne krijepi, Ta će ti se tamnica još i dopasti! Zato iscrpi najveće muke, U vlastiti bezdan hrabro se vini, Propadni i uskrsni od vlastite ruke, I na pola puta premoren počini!

Principi stvarnosti Proždirući sebe život postoji, Viče, ćuti, plaši se i ljuti, Iako nebrojeno bića kroji, Ni trunku ništavila neće otkinuti. Tinja tama ostrvima svjetla, Ustreptale oaze u beskrajnoj noći, Koja niti sa krikom pijetla Nikada nad nama neće proći!

Amir Ĺ uliÄ&#x2021;

Creation I will sculpt you, shapeless rock, With blade of immense sadness and misery, You will lose peace in the embrace of her, Due to the unfortunate realization and pale. And do not ask me, the law is blind, Why do you have to suffer and perish, Although your mind, and do not strengthened, That'll be a dungeon you still like it! So exhaust greatest passion, In his own abyss bravely soar, Collapses and arise from their own hands, And on a halfway overwrought die!

Principles of Reality Devouring themselves life exists, Yelling, silent, dismayed and angry, Although countless creatures counts, A trace of nothingness will not rip off. Smoldering dark islands of light, Shimmering oasis in an endless night, That neither the rooster cry Do not pass over us!

Taj pohlepni život i tame sila, Vode drevnu bitku stariju od svijeta, Rat između bola i ništavila, Po kojoj i nebivstvo postoji i cvjeta!

Tjeskoba U hladnoći jasnih, samotnih visina, Prolaznost ne skriva brazde svoga toka, Nestaše iluzije, ta opojna vina, Samo istina se smije, prazna i duboka! Pjesma koja kida tkivo mojih grudi, Ne stiže do ušiju niti jednog bića, Pustinja između mene i ljudi Žudno guta glas svakoga otkrića. Samoća otkriva tajnu ništavila, Daje mu slobodu da buja i raste, Bez najmanjeg srama, ništa ne bi skrila, Prinosi mu krv, ožiljke i kraste! Sve je ponor, bezdan koji vreba, Moje ništavilo prožima sve kutke, Padati, tonuti, patiti sad treba, U iskonu što nas pokreće ko lutke!

That greedy life and forces of darkness, Lead an ancient battle, older than the world, War between pain and nothingness, By whom and non being exists and flourishes!

Anxiety The cold clear, lonely height, Transience is not hiding his wake flow, Illusion disapeared, that intoxicating wine Only the truth may be, empty and deep! The song that breaks my breast tissue, Do not reach the ears of any one being, The desert between me and the people Eagerly swallows every voice discoveries. Loneliness reveals the secret of nothingness It gives him the freedom to flourish and grow, Without the slightest shame, nothing to hide, Yields of his blood, scars and scabs! Everything is the abyss, the hole that is lurking, My nothingness pervades all corners, Falling, sinking, suffering we needs, In origins that moves us like dolls!

Džejlana Šutković Mravi ...uobičajena i svagdašnja svita mravinjaka ljudi kruži oko mene.. i ja s njima kružnim tokovima koračam ne idemo u istom smjeru samo gazimo i koračamo jedni uz druge neki svojim korakom nekuda žure, drugi pak' teturaju lijeno po asfaltu a ja... ja se pravolinjski usmjeravam ka sebi.... na tom putu su agonije i ekstaze, čudna i zamišljena lica isprepleteni koraci lutalica, egom ocrtana dobrota nekoga... ne znam da li da zastanem i osluhnem, pogledam i prozborim.... možda ipak ne.... koračam gazim hodam lebdim i poletim ne previše od tla, niti predaleko u nebo koračam hrabro gazim tlo ne dirajući i ne gurajući ljudske siluete i obrise koje me mimoilaze, preskaču i šapuću hodam polako u mislima svojim ne želeći da mi nit odluta predaleko, vidim ju i idem ka njoj uobličavajući ju u riječ, osmijeh i zamišljeni pogled lebdim da ne posustanem letim da me obmane ne sustignu i spustih se sebi, svom drugu i svom miru...da se ne razočaram da se ne ozlijedim u mravinjaku najljepših cvjetova. 53

Džejlana Šutković Ants A typical army of ants circles around me I join them I walk simultaneously with them We do not go in the same direction We only step on the ground and move along the same way Some move very fast, others slouch and walk lazily along the concrete jungle And I I walk towards myself meeting and stumbling upon various agonies and ecstasies Strange and pensive faces Intertwined wanderers' steps, Egoistic beauty I am not sure whether I should stop and listen, look around or speak Maybe not yet I walk I touch the ground I float And I fly Neither too high above the ground nor too far into the sky I walk bravely I lift and set my foot without touching, without pushing the human silhouettes and shapes that pass me by, jump over me and whisper I walk slowly in my thought preventing my stream of thoughts to escape my mind, capturing them I can see the thought approaching me and I grasp it, I give it a shape of a word, a smile and a bewildered gaze I float in order not to give in I float to avoid deception And eventually I come down to myself, to my friend and to my peace in order not to feel disappointed or hurt in the anthill of the loveliest flowers. 54

Bol pjesmu... riječi upletene u jedan trag na papiru kad izgovorene zabljesnu ili zabole kada zabljesnu izgrade, ostave... kada zabole izgrade, i zabole bol jake su i trajne u beskraju bljeska i boli neka ih i bolnih i blještavih jer su misli, jer postoje jer udahnjuju život svojom boli koja je nekome radost svojim bljeskom koji je nekome bol Bol nije nužno ranjiva, već i izlječiva... osjetimo ju da bi nam pokazala, naučila, kako , kuda i kamo... ona je bolna jer je osjetila ona je bolna jer je voljela ona je bolna jer će da osjeća ona je bolna jer će da voli... Svemir u Tišini dobrodošla tišini... ....ja tišina koja me sluša... ...ja, ja i tišina koju slušam... svemir u meni vrtoglavo širi i osjeća tišinu.. nebo je i večeras iznad krajolika, posmatra me svojm zvjezdanim okom Čuva li me? Pazi li me? Čuvam se, pazim se Čuvam ga, pazim ga, posmatram ga kroz kaleidoskop misli svojih sami smo, svoji smo u sazvježđu ljudskh silueta na modrom plavetnilu male noćne idile Treptaj, uzdah i momenat... čuva me, čuvam se, pazi me, pazim se tu sam... na izmaku... na kraju... na početku... još uvijek sam tu... Gdje? 55

Pain A song. Words wrapped in a trace on the paper once pronounced may flash or cause pain When they shine in a bright but brief way they create and leave When they cause pain they hurt the pain itself They are strong and long lasting In the infinity of flash and pain Let them be painful and flashy Because they are thoughts, because they exist to breathe life with its pain that is a sign of life within, of joy and heartaches After pain there comes a healing Once we feel it it teaches us where and when to go It is painful because it used to feel something It is painful because She loved She is painful because she will continue to feel She is painful because she will love… Universe in Silence Welcome to silence …I ….silence that listens to me ..Me, myself and the silence I listen The universe whirls and spreads and senses the silence within me The sky is above the horizon tonight, looking after me with its starry eye Does it take care of me? Does it cherish me? I take care of myself, I cherish myself I look after Him, cherish Him, and gaze at Him through the kaleidoscope of my thoughts We are alone; we are ourselves amid the constellation of human silhouettes high above the azure -night sky- idyllic freedom A blink, a sigh and a moment It looks after me, It cherishes me, I take care and cherish myself I am here On the wane At the end At the beginning I am still here Where? 56

Goran Vrhunc Strah i predrasude Ovdje i sada samo rijetki će da stanu na putu kad stopiraš il` ako padneš, svejedno, nitko neće da ide za davljenikom, nitko nema vremena, a svi postali bi propovjednikom. Strah od nepoznatog i predrasude prekrivaju oči svojim velom pa se baš najjasnije ne vidi... Da to tamo je živo biće. Na promaji Na promaji držim glavu provjetravam misli pune su prašine, dok mašine rade svoje.

Između Prolazim, s desne strane bijelo, čisto polje mermera, zlatnim slovima uklesano, 57

Goran Vrhunc Fear and Prejudices Here and now only the rare ones will stop on the road you are hitch-hiking, or if you fall, all the same, nobody would go after the drowning man, nobody has time, and everybody would like to become preachers. Fear from the unknown And prejudices Cover eyes with their veil So it could not be clearly seen... That over there is a human being. On the draft On the draft I keep my head Winding my thoughts Full of dust, While machines are doing their thing. In between I am passing by On the right-hand side White, clean Field of marble, With golden letters carved, But, 58

no, smrt opet ne izgleda ljepše. Tišina je sveprisutna, njeno prisustvo ušutkalo me i stavilo teške kapke na oči, prisiljavajući me da ih držim otvorene i da gledam zaustavljenu, neproživljenu mladost kojoj nije mjesto na tom mjestu. A onda, crni, kameni, sivi blokovi sa izblijedjeljim imenima, i jedva vidljivim godinama, godine prvog plača, godine posljednjeg izdaha. Slike su požutjele ili ih nikada nije ni bilo, kandila prazna s izlapjelim mirisom frezija, i porodične grobnice koje niko nema da posjeti osim trošnog i upornog vremena. Potpisujem svoju smtovnicu, nek se nađe ako ne stignem. 59

Death, nevertheless, Does not look better. The silence is omnipresent. Its presence made me silent. And put heavy eyelids On eyes. Forcing me To keep them open And look Stoppped Unlived youth, Which does not Belong there. And then, Black, Stone Grey blocks, With faded names And hardly visible years, Years of the first cry Years of the last expiration. The photos are now yellowed Or they were never There at all, Sanctuary lamps empty With faded scent of freesia, And family grave, With nobody To visit Except dilapidated And persistent time. I sign my death certificate, Just to be on a safe side Until I come. Translated to English by Nihad MeĹĄiÄ&#x2021; River 60

Poezie din Franţa/ Poésie de France

Alain Pizerra (Né le 2 avril 1951, à Paris)

Poète, critique d’art, collectionneur. À Maggy de Coster1 Poids du moineau au trébuchet du passage léger, léger… Peseuses de perles, d’âmes le comptent pour rien. Pétale d’oiseau, plume de la fleur valent l’un pour l’autre et pour tout. Recueil tu pèses lourd dans ma main plus lourd que cet oiseau tombé du nid, là dans mon autre main. Cet oiseau qui gémit et qui détient pourtant la promesse du poème. Cahier bien lourd pour la prison moineau léger déjà s’est envolé. Ode à la liberté retrouvée. Poésie ! Extrait du recueil Aux myrtilles de treize-mille ans suivi de Mon chemin sous la neige, Dol de Bretagnes, Les éditions d’écarts, 2012

Maggy de Coster est une poète et journaliste française d’origine haïtienne, l’une des ami€s du poète. 61

Alain Pizerra (1951, Paris)

Poet, critic şi colecţionar de artǎ. Pentru Maggy de Coster1

Trup de vrǎbiuţǎ în laţul vremii mic, mititel... Precupeţele de perle, de suflete nici nu-l iau în seamǎ. Petalǎ de pasǎre, fulg de floare conteazǎ unul pentru celǎlalt şi pentru tot. Carte, greu îmi atârni în mânǎ mai greu decât astǎ pasǎre cǎzutǎ din cuib aici, în astǎlaltǎ mânǎ. Pasǎre ce suspinǎ şi care ţine totuşi legǎmântul poemului. Caiet prea greu pentru temniţǎ mica vrǎbiuţǎ şi-a luat deja zborul. Odǎ libertǎţii regǎsite. Poezie! Fragment din volumul „La afinele de 13 mii de ani”, urmat de Drumul meu sub zǎpadǎ, Dol de Bretagne, Editura Écarts, 2012

Maggy de Coster, scriitoare francezǎ de origine haitianǎ, este una dintre prietenele poetului. 62

Jean-Baptiste Tati Loutard (1938, Ngoyo, Congo - 2009, Paris) Illustre écrivain et homme politique brazza-congolais, figure majeure de la littérature africaine francophone. Il a remporté plusieurs prix et distinctions nationaux et internationaux, dont : le Prix Tchicaya U’Tamsi pour l'ensemble de son œuvre poétique, 1999 ; la Médaille de Vermeil du rayonnement de la langue française, Académie française, pour l'ensemble de l'œuvre et sa contribution au rayonnement de la langue française, 1992 ; la Médaille d'officier des Arts et Lettres de la République française.

Vieille racine Le temps m’a chantourné Je suis une vielle racine De cette terre tu ne peux m’arracher Je buvais seul l’hydromel de l’aube Le souffle lustral du matin Et je regardais l’Orient s’ouvrir Comme un tarse d’oiseau Maintenant je prends les jours à l’envers Je m’éveille quand le crépuscule Glisse entre les maisons Comme un serpent de rocailles Mon cœur est une terre excavée Le temps se fait homme Dépose mon désamour Dans les terrains vagues Et frappe dans le dos Sur des colonnes déjà penchées Tu es venue tu m’aurais comblé Le sang de la tortue des savanes S’infiltre dans tous mes élans Je me rappelle l’éclipse Que nous observions ensemble La danse du couple sidéral La parade nuptiale du soleil Et de la lune 63

Jean-Baptiste TATI LOUTARD (1938, Ngoyo, Congo - 2009, Paris) Ilustru scriitor şi politician brazza-congolez, figurǎ majorǎ a literaturii africane francofone. Laureat al mai multor premii şi distincţii naţionale şi internaţionale, printre care: Premiul Tchicaya U’Tamsi pentru ansamblul operei poetice, 1999; Medalia pentru Promovarea Limbii franceze din partea Academiei franceze, pentru ansamblul operei şi contribuţia la promovarea limbii franceze, 1992; Medalia de Ofiţer al Artelor şi Literelor al Republicii franceze.

Rǎdǎcinǎ bǎtrânǎ Timpul m-a gârbovit Sunt o rǎdǎcinǎ bǎtrânǎ Din acest pǎmânt, tu nu poţi sǎ mǎ smulgi Singur am bǎut nectarul zorilor Adierea curatǎ a dimineţii Şi-am privit Orientul desfǎcându-se Ca o pleoapǎ de pasǎre Acum primesc altfel zilele Mǎ trezesc când amurgul Lunecǎ printre case Ca un şarpe de stâncǎ Tǎrâm rǎscolit mi-e inima Timpul se face fǎpturǎ Îmi pune dezamǎgirea Pe maidane Şi bate prin spate Pe coloane deja înclinate Tu ai venit tu m-ai fi împlinit Sângele ţestoasei din savanǎ Îmi pǎtrunde tot avântul Îmi amintesc eclipsa Ce-am privit-o împreunǎ Dansul perechii celeste Alaiul de nuntǎ al soarelui Şi al lunii 64

Tu as changé sous le ciel obscur Je te retrouve oiseau de ville Dans un plumage mélanique Le froid d’août se faufile entre nos corps Pour rejaillir en flammerole Le monde est prêt à se défaire Bientôt nous rendrons nos dépouilles À la terre après la ruine des braises Et le désir qui nous reste Annonce une autre germination La corde du chacal vibre encore Dans le chien Et cet amour ne sera plus en nous Que le picotement d’une cicatrice Je suis une vieille racine Et de cette terre tu ne peux m’arracher

Retour de nuit Ma paupière est toute gonflée de ton visage Tout le long des terres lointaines Et mes cils grisonnent de notre vieil amour Dans la crainte de la mort qui l’envahit L’oiseau migrateur niche sur les plus hautes Branches J’épargne pour toi la somme compacte De mes pérégrinations Je suis comme la pluie de passage Qui ne cherche à couvrir ses traces Je rentre par le songe de l’aéronef Et la porte ouverte sur le fleuve Sur les rives astrées de la nuit Et tu es accroupie au creux de l’attente Extraits du recueil La Tradition du Songe, Paris, Présence africaine, 1985 Textes choisis et présentés par Marilena Licǎ-Maşala 65

Te-ai schimbat sub cerul sumbru Te regǎsesc pasǎre de oraş Cu penaj bronzat Frig de august se strecoarǎ între noi Pentru a ţâşni cu flǎcǎri de lunǎ Lumea stǎ sǎ se frângǎ Curând vom reda pǎmântului Rǎmǎşiţele noastre la stingerea jarului Iar dorul ce ne rǎmâne Vesteşte altǎ ivire Vâna şacalului se zbate încǎ În câine Iar dragostea aceasta va mai fi în noi Doar biatǎ urmǎ Sunt o rǎdǎcinǎ bǎtrânǎ Şi din tǎrâmul acesta, sǎ mǎ smulgi tu nu poţi

Întoarcere de noapte Pleoapa mi-e preaplinǎ de chipul tǎu Tot lungul ţinutului îndepǎrtat Iar genele îmi albesc de vechea noastrǎ iubire În spaima de moarte ce-o cuprinde Pasǎrea migratoare cuib îşi face pe cele mai înalte Ramuri Strâng pentru tine întregul Rǎtǎcirilor mele Sunt ca ploaia trecǎtoare Ce nu cautǎ sǎ-şi acopere urma Revin prin visul aeronavei Şi uşa deschisǎ spre râu Spre ţǎrmul înstelat al nopţii Iar tu ghemuitǎ stai în palma aşteptǎrii Din volumul La Tradition du Songe/ Tradiţia Visului, Paris, Présence africaine, 1985 Prezentare, selecţie şi traducere din francezǎ de Marilena Licǎ-Maşala Paris, 28 ianuarie 2013 66

Poezie din Grecia/ Poetry from Greece Klety Sotiriadou Case in Point In alien lands again this year I loiter I spend the days in silence at more hospitable shores I measure out the absence with sea dives Never expressing one single protest. And this full, high-bodied cypress tree, That from a distance gazes sternly on the deserted school, With its tiny rounded cypress cones, Gives nighttime refuge to all flying things. They squawk, peck, flutter, are driven away And return more demanding still –perpetually in motion– For a simple night’s stay on an unstable tangle of a twig, Every night at seven –that Chair-on-high lecture On Survival–at eight they fall asleep. Our case in point is not even a nest, Merely a branch for them to rest on safely, In company and in the darkness of the night· But I have never learned to ask even for that.

Homeland Geography High on the plateaus In certain villages of Boyacá1 The sky pauses to linger On the rooftops Leaves drops of diamonds on the grass. Faces soiled by frost 1

Boyacá: district of Colombia, South America, on the Andean highlands. 67

Sinewy arms Figures in shades of yellow ochre Lined up on the Museum walls Stoop to gather the potato crop. The cornfields flap out their tasseled cheers Clover grows fast over our foot-prints The proud Chibcha1 blood Does not raise the glance Does not face the stranger.

Ode to the Ddryad You step forth from the dense matter of the forest, A reflection of a serene wellspring. Your gaze, a diaphanous promise, Meditates in an invisible inner world. Tinges of ochre on your luminous cheeks, Carmine the rainbow of your lips. *

And your body, rooted and almost unseen, Gives off hints of warm, intoxicating scents. Myrrh and sandalwood and jasmine Weigh heavy on your eyelids. You are not yet of my world. You are not of the East, yet you are rising. *

I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wait for the glass to shatter, I almost touch the luminary form. A door half-open, secretly reveals its oaken essence, A labyrinth extremely hard to exit. There, in your closed hand, You tightly clasp the thread of life. Translated by Jane Assimakopoulos 1

Chibcha is the name of the indigenous tribe who lived on these highlands. 68

Sotirios Pastakas

Fifteen years ago I buried my father. Fifteen years later I buried my mother. Today, on her memorial service my sister told me, that we fed a hundred and fifteen people. Today I’ve learned that no matter what quantities I keep on eating I will never satiate myself.

Which Murano? Who, when, where, on which journey, with which ex? Mementos from which past life have I been amassing, for endless years before I’ve met you. Ah, Venice! So many years ago. Ultimately you did well to smash it. There’s no perfume oozing from this shattered Murano. Nor could anyone engorge it as a lump.

I prowl from table to table for a slice of bread a bone of pork steak or some lamp chop leftovers. On Sundays I become a dog.

Get an empty plastic bottle size large, and fill it with fresh-cut olives adding a spoonful of salt and some water. In four months they will be ready to eat.

Between death and life what is left for me is a broccoli salad.

This mouthful of food too we shall gulp alone the way our tiny soul uses to feed and then turns the face somewhere else, like the cat who goes and hides under the table.

A new human is made like meatballs: with crumbs and mince-meat. Knead the balls, throw them in the frying pan and hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your man.

Transated by Antonia-Belica Kubareli

Poezie din România/ Poésie du Roumanie Eusebiu Camilar Tata Palmele cu cari frămânţi pământul, îngropându-ţi truda şi necazul, palmele cu miros de ţărână mi-au lovit de-atâtea ori obrazul. M-ai bătut de-atâtea ori cu pumnul suduindu-mi sfintele icoane; n-ascultai nici plânsetele mamei -„Nu-mi lovi copilul drag, Ioane!” Am fugit de-atâtea ori de-acasă, prin tăceri de stuf pierzându-mi urma; am fugit de-atâtea ori de frica biciului cu care mânai turma... ...Eu sorbeam cu inima lumină din incendiul înserărilor; mă chemau din turnuri nevăzute clopotele depărtărilor. Şi de-aceea n-ascultam de tine, Patriarh de-o seamă cu necazul, cu ogorul frământat de lacrămi, şi de-aceea-mi pălmuiai obrazul. Şi de-aceea mă băteai cu biciul suduindu-mi sfintele icoane, pe când mama te ruga zadarnic: -„Nu-mi lovi copilul drag,Ioane!” ( „Lumea”, XIX, nr.5441, 15 iunie 1936) 71

Mon père

Le marchand frappait à la porte, et les pleurs m'étranglaient: „Père, vends-moi, qu'il m'emporte, ne vends pas mes agneaux aimés, ne les donne pas, il va les pendre et leur passer sur le cou le couteau, le sang encore vivant va s'épandre, il en arrosera toute la cour, le bourreau... Laisse-les-moi, épargne les agneaux, que j'aille avec eux dans les prés, ne les donne pas pour qu'il les vende au kilo, fendus, coupés, déchiquetés... Combien de printemps, mes yeux, en y pensant, se brouillaient d'avance, combien de parvenus se régalèrent de la chair d'agneau de mon enfance... Combien de printemps, dans le pré, je disais aux ondes de mes agneaux que le bourreau avait tués, pour en vendre la chair au kilo... (Du volume „L'Appel des fontaines”, 1937)

Doamne, sunt singur Doamne, sunt singur. Auzi-mă. Focurile toate s-au trecut. Trâmbiţele-nalte, zadarnic răsună pe ziduri de lut. Nu se mai roagă la izvoarele soarelui căprioarele, iezii mărunţi; încremeniţi, ghemuiţi, încleştaţi, ciobanii dorm acoperiţi de munţi. Chemându-te din slăvi în chiote, în fulgerări de coase şi pumnale, atâtea rânduri de flăcăi şi ierburi au strălucit în ţarinile tale şi ţi-au văzut în ploile înalte picioarele de-argint cum strălucesc. Flăcăi şi ierburi putrezesc prin ţarini şi alţi flăcăi şi ierburi cresc. Doamne, sunt singur. Auzi-mă. Focurile toate s-au trecut. Trâmbiţele-nalte, zadarnic, răsună pe ziduri de lut... Uneori se aud morile adâncului măcinând pe sub munţi, pe sub stânci; sub uriaşe turle de cremene uneori s-aud buciume-adânci... În zarea de cânepă vânătă s-au dus verii mei, fraţii mei. Ciobani străvechi mă aşteaptă de mult, să mă culc între ei... („Cetatea Moldovei”, nr. 1, 1 ianuarie 1943) 73

Dieu, je suis seul Dieu, je suis seul. Entends-moi. Tous les feux se sont éteints. Les trompettes, là-haut sur les murs d'argile, résonnent en vain. Les biches et les chevreaux ne s'agenouillent plus aux sources du soleil; pétrifiés, accroupis, acharnés, sous les monts, les bergers dorment un lourd sommeil. En T'appelant de Ton ciel, les jeunes hommes crient et font briller leurs faux, tant de jeunes hommes et tant d'herbes éclairèrent Tes champs comme des joyaux et ont vu à travers les pluies l'éclat de Tes pieds d'argent. Ces jeunes hommes et ces herbes pourrissent et d'autres poussent dans les champs. Dieu, je suis seul. Entends-moi. Tous les feux se sont éteints. Les trompettes, là-haut sur les murs d'argile, résonnent en vain. Quelquefois, on entend les moulins qui travaillent sous les pierres et les cimes, sous les gigantesques tours, on entend des buccins résonnant en abîme. Vers l'horizon de chanvre violet, mes frères, mes cousins sont partis. Que je me couche entre eux, les vieux bergers patiemment m'attendent depuis. (La revue „Cetatea Moldovei”, janvier 1943) Textes choisis, traduises en français et présentés par Elisabeta Isanos 74

Elisabeta Isanos

Timpul tău În zori de tine mi se face zi, mă înnoptez în asfinţit de tine, e-un timp de care nu vei auzi, unde ajun după ajun se ţine. Pietrişuri roze-verzi tresar sub apă, perfecte aurore cu fântâni! Tristeţea mai nainte să înceapă e consolată-n adieri de mâini. Fac alte vremuri, care nu au chip, nici sărbătoare roşie, nici dată: nisipului – o pace de nisip, şi pietrelor – o linişte de piatră. Şi dacă soarele răsare rău şi ca rebut este întors la bază, răzbită, pielea mi se luminează: în mine iese răsăritul tău. Mă chinui totuşi, fiindcă niciodată lumina asta nu ai cum s-o vezi, cu toate că sunt plină de dovezi, e-o fericire care nu se-mparte cum ploaia risipeşte marea-n noapte: doar pe cuvânt va trebui s-o crezi.

Temps

Ton arrivée c’est pour moi l’aurore, et c’est à ton départ qu’il fait nuit. Personne, ce temps, ne le connaît encore, veille après veille arrivent, à l’infini. Gravier rose et vert au fond de l’eau, matin parfait, fontaines murmurant! Toute tristesse est consolée avant de commencer, par la caresse des mots. Je fais un autre temps, sans nom et face, un temps sans chiffres et sans fêtes rouges, et que la paix qui convient se fasse: pierres immobiles et sable fin qui bouge. Et si le vrai soleil se lève trop tôt, mis au rebut, noir et retourné, un autre jour se lève de ma peau et m’illumine toute, c’est ton lever. Pourtant, je souffre: je ne peux jamais te faire voir ton propre jour qui monte, la seule preuve qu’il existe c’est moi... Un tel bonheur ne se partage pas comme la pluie en gaspillant la mer... Tu dois croire ce que je raconte.

Sânge despletit

Mai despletit ca basmul arăbesc, multiplul sânge, în singurătate, cu tropote de tălpi ce se-mbulzesc, s-apropie, legiuni, şi-n tâmple bate. Când sânge la plural în trup cuprinzi, nu spui „eu dorm”, îţi vine să zici „noi”... Ca muştele când lampa o aprinzi, am cucerit ferestra luminată, cum spre Ierusalim, desculţi şi goi, mergeau oştiri cruciate, altădată. Aş vrea-napoi să fac aceleaşi drumuri, să mă retrag spre marginea cu fumuri, ca să râvnesc din nou lumini la geam... Să nu mai fiu aproape ci departe, să mă întorc în timp, din nuntă-n nuntă, şi să dispar în urmă fără moarte... Mulţime lungă în trecut eram, ce singură-s, din lume-aşa de multă!

Sang dénatté

Mon sang dénatté comme les Mille Nuits et Une, toujours solitaire, bien qu’il soit plein, murmure pareil à une foule qui vient, c’est une légion en marche infinie. Le sang pluriel, comment dire „je dors”? En palpitant, le pouls dit „nous dormons”... Papillons qui volent vers une lampe allumée, à la conquête d’une mansarde, ils sont venus en corps, tels vers Jérusalem, autrefois, les Croisés. Je reculerais maintenant, en levant le siège, me retirant vers les banlieues enfumées, pour être encore loin, et non pas aussi près, en me frayant chemin dans les convois de noces, je disparaîtrais quelque part, sans mourir, pour rêver de nouveau les mansardes célestes... J’étais autrefois multitude précoce, combien seule maintenant, d’une telle foule, je reste! Textes traduises en français par Elisabeta Isanos

Luli (1955, Teiu, România)

Scriitoare, traducǎtoare, ziaristǎ, stabilitǎ în Franţa.

Fir de viţă românească Stârnite au rămas în sângele meu românesc, Căile perşilor zoroaştri, atraşi de calendarul solar Al dacilor, meşteri fǎuritori ai Sarmizegetusei. Sumeţite au rămas în sângele meu românesc, Drumurile cuceritorilor romani, Seduşi de arta divinaţiei şi iniţierii dacilor, Pe vremea regilor lor, Burebista şi Decebal. Ridicate au rămas în sângele meu românesc, Oasele hoardelor marilor migratori, Ispitiţi de fâneaţa colinelor daco-romane, Şi-au venit iarba cailor dunăreni sǎ coseascǎ, Aurul Carpaţilor sǎ foloseascǎ, Mierea fecioarelor sǎ prânzeascǎ, Cărbune din trupul stejarilor sǎ ardǎ. Împletite au rămas în sângele meu românesc, Visele pelerinilor de peste mări şi zări, Veniţi în hora Unirii Principatelor sǎ se prindǎ, Şi-a Marelui Regat al Românilor, Cu graniţe în formǎ de inimǎ. Ţesute au rămas în sângele meu românesc, Pânzele din fir de cânepă, de in, de borangic, de lână, Fir tors din caierul tradiţiilor, Din care femeile din satul meu Şi-au gǎtit casele, oamenii, copiii. În cătarea timpurilor, 79

Luli (1955, Teiu, Roumanie)

Traductrice, journaliste, écrivaine roumaine, installée à Paris depuis 2007.

Apprends-moi Apprends-moi, Sage Homme, Sage Homme Noir, Toi, qui a l’âge De ton vieux continent, La clé du savoir, Le savoir-faire la paix Avec l’impatience du vent, L’humilité du temps, L’éclat éblouissant du miroir Et l’arrogant passage de l’histoire. Apprends-moi, Homme sage, Sage Homme Noir, Toi qui accepte Le présent À l’heure de mon cœur, Le secret de ton savoir, Ton savoir-vivre en paix, Comme le zéphyr léger Et la lumière suave. Apprends-moi, Sage Homme, Sage Homme Noir, Toi qui accepte, 80

Răzvrătită mi-a rămas în sânge Brazda dorului de libertate A ţăranilor învăţători, Fondatori ai neamului meu. De atunci, purtând iubirea pe căi, pe drumuri, Iubirea de triburi, de fire, de doruri cuibare Încolţinde în pătulul trupului meu românesc, Devenit-am, eu însămi, îndărătnică hoinară. Paris, 14 Florar MMXI

Fontana di Trevi M-a pus la cale mama, Într-un amurg de vară târzie, Să plec la Roma, zălog s-arunc un bănuţ În Trevi, vestita fântână, În cinstea lui Cupidon, Fiu al iubirii lui Venus cu Marte. Venus, zeiţǎ ce-mi stârneşti iubirile! Marte, tu, zeu, ce-mi aduci furtunile! Cupidon, tu, copil nǎstruşnic, Cu mine zgârcit peste măsură! Vrăjită am rămas de liniştea barocă a fântânii Ce adăpost găsi, în inima ei, lui Ocean, zeul nesfârşirilor, Şi carului său purtat de doi căluţi de mare, Sculptaţi în cinstea frumuseţii îndrăgostiţilor De oriunde. Paris, 9 Florar MMXI 81

Toi qui m’accepte, Le savoir-attendre, Ton savoir-attendre. Poème lu à l’Institut Culturel Roumain de Paris et à la librairie Congo, 4-5 octobre 2011, au lancement de l’anthologie bilingue françaisroumain, Du Congo au Danube. De la Dunǎre la Congo.

Au pays de tes yeux Pour Eco

Au nom de l’amour pur, Au nom de la plus riche amitié, Au nom de la plus belle rencontre, La flamme de la fête s’est allumée À l’arc-en-ciel nocturne du Réveillon. Au nom de l’amour pur, Au nom de la plus riche amitié, Au nom de la plus belle rencontre, La peau fanée de mon cœur esseulé Reçut les plus nobles atours tissus Par la tendresse de ton cœur reclus. Au nom de l’amour pur, Au nom de la plus riche amitié, Au nom de la plus belle rencontre, J’ai embrassé l’éternité d’une nuit Au pays abritant le noir de tes yeux, Bercés par le murmure des cimes millénaires, Arrosés par l’écho du Kur-a1, le rêve trop éloigné. Paris, le 6 janvier 2013 1

Kur-a - nom donné par les Sumériens au territoire habité par le peuple Kurde, dans l'Antiquité. 82

Poezie turcă/ Turkish Poetry Metin Cengiz My son My son resembles me to a long way And his mom to earth I’m away, in prison His mom taught him to walk Translated by Övünç Cengiz

Another By the abyss. Vaguely trees underneath. A waterfall. My mother’s bread on my mind. My heart breathing of a forest. Trapped. Only laughter and curses. My knees wobbly. If only I could fly. Had wings of comet tails. Suddenly my ribs give. My bones scattered. Trapped. Endless dark. Thank heavens in my cell. Over. Should ready myself for a little later. With a cigarette in my hand. Half-burnt. Translated by Mustafa Ziyalan

An Apocalyptic Chain of Melody In my destiny i am an unimaginably huge wound My face sucks in blood as i wipe it with my handkerchief As my voice scatters in the wind like that of the fall My letters intermingle with the pollen Letters are the alchemy of defying the world To songs left unfinished They are like an ever-changing malignant tumor They are that stagnant water which chums 83

In my oversized universe that won't fit into books: Like a lilac stain They seem to leave a trace in the night So, with a new cause is the dawn breaking Filled with the cries of leaves gone berserk And as i thus keep pouring my venom on my wound The sentences turn into an apocalyptic chain of melody Let the sun fall on my forehead, my sweat turn cold At this most challenging point of my epileptic anguish No, my love, i will not spell out this song for you With its aroma discarded, metamorphosed in riots I have long since stamped my seal Put down my clumsy signature On the most challenging part of life And at every sunrise i have brushed my teeth Pressing life hard onto my flesh -Come on, pick up that comb that adores poems And start the day combing your hair Translated by Suat Karantay

At Times At times comes someone Settles down into my heart Surrounding my whole body The iron protecting me melts Utters words Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never heard Telling me about myself Whisks me far away Upsetting my world No, this is not the only thing i want to explain This is someone else or you perhaps But i understand in the end I am the traveler of myself Translated by PÄąnar Besen 84

Haiku – Tanka – Senryu Do I think there are national or regional traits in haiku? I do, but I don’t feel these are usually the most important aspects of such work Dialogue with the haiku poet, editor and publisher Jim Kacian (USA)

I have published, together with Olimpia Iacob, a poetry selection signed by Jim Kacian, introducing him to the readers of “„Convorbiri literare/ Literary Conversations” magazine, one of the most prestigious, the oldest and important from Romania. I had the opportunity to work closer with to the anthology Călători pe meridiane haiku/ Travelers on haiku meridians (with 20 haiku authors from Romania and USA, which I published in Romania. We write one to each other on various items, and each and every time Jim answered quickly and with kindness. So was now, when we agreed to have this dialogue. Jim Kacian (James Michael Kacian), an American haiku poet, editor, publisher, and public speaker was born on July 26, 1953, in Worcester, Massachusetts. He has lived in London, Nashville, Bridgton (Maine). Now resides in Winchester, Virginia. In 1993, he founded Red Moon Press, as far as I know the largest publisher of haiku and haiku-related books outside Japan. In the same year he began editing the haiku journal South by Southeast. He was in the editorial staff of Frogpond, the journal of the Haiku Society of America, he is co-founder of the World Haiku Association with Ban'ya Natsuishi and Dimitar Anakiev. In 2008 he formed and created “The Haiku Foundation”, a non-profit organization which has the main goal the archiving English-language (official start-date: of January 6, 2009).

Marius Chelaru

You’ve resided in Europe as well as the USA. Was this the result of your wish to see the world, to travel, or perhaps something else? Jim Kacian In the beginning it was mostly just good fortune, as my sister was involved in the travel business. But after a short while I realized 85

what a blessing it was to be exposed to the ways of men and women around the world. And over the past few decades the stimulus of meeting haiku poets on their native turf has been another great incentive. M.C. In ’80s you wrote, recorded and sold songs during your time in Nashville. How was your beginning in poetry and music… and music still has a place in your life? J.K. I wrote poems from the time I was in high school, and published them from the time I was in college, but like many others, once I began writing haiku I have written longer poems only occasionally. My songwriting career lasted about 10 years and it was fun, but I never tried to make my living doing it. Happily, I’m just now finding a way to get music back into my life, which makes me very happy. M.C. How did you discover haiku? J.K. As so many others, I first came to haiku via The Dharma Bums, Jack Kerouac’s novel about Gary Snyder and Allen Ginsberg in California. Kerouac is as much memoirist as fiction writer, and so many of the items in his books correspond with reality. When he mentioned a 4-volume set of books authored by one R. H. Blyth, I looked them up (in a book catalog—this was before internet!) and sure enough, they existed. I ordered them and found they were just what I needed at the time. And I haven’t stopped since. M.C. One of the questions to which we will never probably have an unanimously accepted answer, is if haiku, once “exported” from Japan all over the world, is still haiku? How do you see this? J.K. I suppose it doesn’t really matter much to me. Whether or not haiku is accepted as the “same” as Japanese haiku, it is still something, and it 86

has its challenges and value and proponents and truths and so on, and it has been compelling enough to me to include it in my life all these years. So I’ll leave that discussion to others. M.C. After Basho and Masaoka Shiki which moment from the “haiku life” do you believe is the most important, meaningful, and why? J.K. If I’m understanding the question correctly, you want to know what I consider to be the seminal moments in the history of haiku, yes? M.C. Among others, yes J.K. Again I’ll leave the Japanese history to experts in that field, but I think for haiku in English, which I know a bit more about, I would say Ezra Pound’s publication of “In a Station of the Metro” in 1913 raised the level of expectation for the genre; Paul Reps’ popularization of the genre beginning in the 1930s brought it to a whole new audience; Jack Kerouac’s sessions with Zoot Sims brought a collaborative energy to a genre that itself was born of collaboration, and also removed haiku from the strictures of syllable counting (though we still hear about such things even today); the founding of the first dedicated journal, American Haiku, in 1963 gave poets a place not only to publish but to compare notes and progress; Harold Henderson’s comments, in his Introduction to Haiku in 1965, that it would be poets who would decide what haiku was to become, gave a necessary permission to haiku in English to become its own things instead of remaining, for the most part, a pale imitation of Japanese haiku; the publication of the haiku anthology, edited by Cor van den Heuvel, in 1974 (and again in 1986 and 1999) by a major New York publisher established haiku’s credibility not only among haiku poets but in the general culture; the founding of the Shiki Haiku Salon and Dogwood Blossoms in the mid-90s ushered haiku into the internet generation and helped make it a global phenomenon; I could go on, but I think these are some of those seminal moments.

Some people need or desire more structure than others, some people like tradition more than innovation M.C. From hokku to haiku, from kigo to keywords… And the road to kigo, as far as I know, is a real story, as well as kidai. Some critics say that when we discuss Basho or Issa, we are applying these terms thinking of hokku. The “internationalization” of haiku created the premises for enlarging the background of the debate. Tokyo Haiku Manifesto 1999. A First Step toward World Haiku… It has been more than ten years since then. How do you evaluate this approach now? Please, tell us a few words about these concepts, also about the idea that there are people who consider that if we eliminate kigo and/or kidai “the spirit of haiku” will disappear. J.K. I guess all I really want to say about such matters is that some people need or desire more structure than others, some people like tradition more than innovation and vice versa, and that this isn’t going to change. I don’t think my opinion on these topics matters so much as my poems might: if my poems make a compelling case for one direction or another, then that’s the best argument I can make. And if my poems support both sides, all the better. M.C. As far as I know, Issa wrote 109 haiku without kigo. They say that the debate about “experiment” in haiku began in Japan starting maybe in the epoch of Masaoka Shiki and two of his most famous students, Hekigotō (who became the editor of Hototogisu in 1897, then of the Nippon journal, 1902), more radical, innovator, and Takahama Kyoshi (1874–1959). We remember that he wrote in 1912 that, as a matter of fact, kigo is an artificial restriction for beginners. Then, in time, there appeared concepts such as muki haiku. Well, what does experiment mean for you in haiku? How far can we go without abandoning the haiku domain? J.K. Again, I don’t think my opinion is as important as my poems. I will say that I feel that any art that limits its process to only those things that have already been tried is sounding its own death knell. And I 88

personally don’t think it’s all that difficult to view the new while still appreciating the old: recognizing John Martone’s innovation doesn’t mean you therefore can no longer appreciate James Hackett’s. M.C. Jim, in Romania it is considered, with arguments, that Ion Pillat is the creator of the one-line poem. I wrote a book about this, and about international “connections” with the one-line poem. Higginson wrote about the one-line haiku and the one-line poem (without quoting Ion Pillat, maybe unknown, at that time, in international haiku media). Do you believe that it is an essential matter or a matter of mere detail, writing haiku in one line or in three lines? J.K. I think it’s a matter of great significance, artistically — one-line haiku offer technical possibilities that simply aren’t available in three lines in English (or Japanese, for that matter). I, too, have written a book on this subject (where i leave off / waar ik ophoud, in English and Dutch, ’t Schrijverke 2010). But more important than writing poems in one line is writing poems in exactly the form the poem demands, whether that be one, two, three or more lines, vertical or horizontal, organic, free or whatever else. The poet’s task is to make the right decisions on behalf of the poem, so saying anything doctrinaire like we should write poems in one line misses the point. M.C. It is common knowledge that today haiku is different than in the past. There are poems accepted in one way or another as haiku, about all kinds of issues - incest, war, violence etc. Which would be the “definition” of the “haiku spirit” today? J.K. I have no idea, and would not wish to restrict the conversation in any way. I think if haiku decides it can only be about “classical” topics it will still have its adherents, but it will not be able to comment very meaningfully on contemporary life, and that would be a great loss to haiku. The German polymath Goethe said “I can imagine myself doing anything.” I think that’s a useful way to proceed. It’s the poet’s job to make his or her case for any topic or treatment he or she might wish to use: a poem about war might move us more or less than a poem 89

about cherry blossoms depending on the skill of the poet, and that, it seems to me, is how it should be. M.C. Some critics say that haiku is and will be haiku only in Japan, impregnated by the spirit of that place. Any haiku written by a nonJapanese is not haiku, but maybe, at the most, a haiku-like poem. Is there any truth in these affirmations ? J.K. I suppose if you believe them, then there’s truth in them. I don’t feel it makes much difference to me what my work is called: it either succeeds in its task of reaching my reader or it does not. M.C. You have discussed the haiku in the South Eastern part of the continent, in the region where Romania is (the idea that my country should be in the Balkan region is under debate here). We collaborate to a haiku anthology. What kind of haiku do you believe it is written here, in this region (maybe you can discuss about some countries you know). Do you see or can you distinguish some trends? Can you detail a little bit? J.K. I don’t know that I can speak credibly to this. I did not make the decision on what countries ought to be included in Knots: The Anthology of Southeastern European Haiku Poetry. But of course that title does not place Romania in the Balkans, but in Southeastern Europe, which is true enough. Do I think there are national or regional traits in haiku? I do, but I don’t feel these are usually the most important aspects of such work. And I’m afraid I couldn’t speak knowledgeably to such traits in Romania. M.C. There are all kind of debates concerning the terminology, but how do you feel the computer can influence haiku, haiga, Japanese lyrics, generally speaking? J.K. If you’re speaking of random generators, then I suppose it’s possible that a poem generated randomly has a random chance of 90

making an emotional appeal to a human, but there certainly have not been many instances of this. If you’re speaking of how computers link us, I think the effect has been inestimable—haiku is a global phenomenon and much of that is due to the ubiquity of computers, especially among the young. Nothing has spread haiku culture (all culture, for that matter) faster than the internet. And if you are speaking of technical matters of how we can arrange haiku because of the availability of word processing and layout programs, these are simply additional tools for the poet to consult in arriving at the optimum presentation of his or her work. M.C. How do you see haiku in USA and Canada now? J.K. Wow, that’s a broad topic. I think haiku in North America has several “pockets,” and there is surprisingly little overlap among them. One is popular culture haiku, mainly online among the young and with little interest in haiku history, literary achievement or anything like these things—it’s mainly a game for expression, almost entirely a syllable-counting challenge to say whatever one wishes to say. A second would be those online haijin who are more serious that the previous group but who lack any sort of training other than what they’ve found online. There are quite a few online sites which specialize in this sort of brief self-expression, but the fact that it’s conducted in haiku is almost secondary. Then there are the various regional and national haiku groups, which more or less actively read, write, study and publish haiku. And then there are a few poets who take haiku very seriously and are concerned with how it works and grows. This is not meant to be shocking — I feel it’s true of all the arts that at any given time there are only a few whose work is concerned with advancing the field. Most are concerned with making a reputation for themselves, or with making money, or some other tangential element. M.C. Let us speak about your writings, about your activity. You created some interesting projects, such as Red Moon Press, the Haiku Foundation. Tell us about your work on these projects.

J.K. Another really huge topic. I’ll try to do my best while being brief. Red Moon Press has always had the mission of publishing the best poets — and the best haiku — in English. I feel we’ve done well in that regard over the 20 years we’ve been in business. We continue to publish our annual anthologies (The Red Moon Anthology, contemporary haibun) and 6-10 individual collections a year, plus the postscripts series, chapbooks of recently deceased poets. We have over 150 titles in our catalog, some 100 of which remain in print. The Haiku Foundation has as its mission two things: to archive the history of English-language haiku (through projects like a hard copy library, a digital library, a video archive, the Haiku Hall of Fame, and so on), and to create opportunities for the future (like our National Haiku Poetry Day, the HaikuNow! contests, the Touchstone Distinguished Books Award and Touchstone Award for Individual Poems, and so forth). We are different than most other haiku societies in that we do not have a membership, charge dues or publish a journal. We are a projectbased group of volunteers that tries to identify gaps in resources in haiku, and fill them. We have a website we hope you’ll check out:www.thehaikufoundation.org. And we hope you’ll be inspired to join us with your own project. M.C. Let us finish with your projects, and thank you that you accepted to have this conversation. J.K. Thanks for having me, Marius, and I look forward to my next visit to Romania, where I hope I’ll have a chance to meet you all in person. Take care.

„Haiku poems simultaneously circulate in many languages, just as water flows through pipes” Dialogue with Vasile Moldovan, Vice-president of the Romanian Society of Haiku I have collaborated with Vasile Moldovan for many years, since he became the president of the Romanian Society of Haiku. We participated in several cultural events related to Japanese poetry, symposia, and festivals. One autumn, being invited to a meeting organized by the Haiku Society in Constanţa, we shared the same hotel room in Mamaia, enjoying the opportunity to have a long talk. Then, a few years later, he accepted to write the foreword for one of my books on the history of Japanese-origin poetry in Romania, starting to write it at Pecs, in Hungary, where we participated in an international haiku festival, when I told them (both him and Ban’ya Natsuishi, the president of The World Haiku Association, in Japan, Sayumi Kamakura, chief editor of Ginyu magazine, Japan, Valentin Nicoliţov, the current president of The RSH, Laura Văceanu, president of the Haiku Society in Constanţa, and others) what I intended to do. Every time I dealt with him, Vasile Moldovan gave a prompt reply in his personal style.

Marius Chelaru Mr. Vasile Moldovan, you are well-known both at the national and the international level through your literary work in the field of Japanese poetry as well as through your activity not only as an author, but also as the president, then vice-president of the Romanian Society of Haiku. How did you first approach haiku, Japanese lyrics? Vasile Moldovan You took me by surprise. It’s been a long time since then. As far as I can remember, I was a journalism student and I needed a license for the Library of the Romanian Academy. It was the only library in Bucharest in which one could read the periodicals of all the epochs. Being “armed” with a typed recommendation from the faculty and a handwritten personal letter of application, I still felt hesitant to present the documents at the secretary’s desk. I was well-connected in various fields but not at all in the field of the library of the “immortals”. To pull myself together, I spent some time drinking a coffee in an underground bar, which was unfortunately demolished later. Whom do you think I met there? Nobody else but Şerban Cioculescu. I sipped my coffee with great difficulty. I was overwhelmed by his presence. I knew him only through 93

his books. Little by little, the atmosphere became friendly and I dared to ask him some questions. When I started talking about Nichita Stănescu’s1 poetry, the venerable critic made a grimace. Then he began to criticize it in a civilized but firm way. I dared to contradict him, but he became more irritated. At least, you should admit, I told him at one time of our conversation, the fact that Nichita Stănescu introduced haiku poetry in Romanian literature… I thought he would remain speechless. But he replied: “Young learner, –he spoke sharply to me– I can see that you haven’t read Al. T. Stamatiad2…”. We remained silent for a while. I told myself that I didn’t have any chance any longer to get the library license. But he made me come with my feet on the ground. “Why are you crumpling those papers? Let me see…”. He saw them and signed them. Thus I had the door of the Library of the Romanian Academy opened as if it was heaven’s gate that opened. As for ”Şerban3 the bad guy”, in my eyes he turned into Saint Peter with heaven’s keys. M.C. You are one of those who closely know “the haiku community” – if I am to employ a widely used term in our country. Tell us about the evolution, in your view, of the way in which things evolved, about the first steps in the foundation of the haiku associations/societies in our country. V.M. I believe that 1989 stands for a threshold in the revival of haiku poem, first in its offensive towards Western Europe and Northern America and then all over the world. In 1989 the Haiku International Association was founded in Tokyo and also its magazine, „HI” („Haiku International”). The Romanian poet Marian Bodea published the following haiku in its first issue: ”The parrot is dead/ But how brightly have remained/ All his own colours!”. The same year another book was 1

1953-1983. One of the most important Romanian poets of the 20th century. Alexandru Teodor Maria Stamatiad (1885-1956), poet, prose writer, publicist and translator. He published two anthologies of Japanese poetry that included haiku and tanka, From the Songs of the Japanese Courtesans, Bucharest, 1942; Silk Scarves. Japanese Anthology, Bucureşti, 1943. I analysed his role and contribution in the field of the Japanese poetry in Romania in Marius Chelaru’s book, ”Al. T. Stamatiad and Japanese poetry”, The „Orient” Collection, „Biblioteca Haiku” series, Nr. 4, the Publishing House of Poetry Cultural Foundation, Iaşi, 2011. 3 Şerban Cioculescu (1902-1988) important Romanian critic and literary historian, professor at the universities from Iaşi and Bucharest. 2

published - Lyrical Interferences. Haiku Constellation by Florin Vasiliu and Brânduşa Steiciuc, a fundamental work in Romanian literature, as is R. Blyth’s Haiku for the English readers. M.C. Personally, I have always started from the premise that the authors of Japanese-origin poetry have managed to produce many good things. Nevertheless, we must admit that there are also some deficiencies that can be remedied, quite naturally, with good will, skill and, of course, with financial support. What is your opinion of the Romanian haiku associations, of the way they are today, of the manner in which they cooperate as well as of the form in which the authors of Japanese origin poetry are organized? V.M. The main haiku promoter in Romania was Florin Vasiliu. He was well acquainted with Japanese civilization, from the start, since in the 60s he worked as a diplomat in the Japanese capital. Up until 1989 he had published three books about Japan and, after that, about thirty. He founded the Romanian Society of Haiku in March 1991, starting from a haiku literary club that had been already functioning for a year. About 200 poets all over the country organized meetings in various cities such as Cluj and Târgu-Mureş and also literary clubs became affiliated with this society. The same year the Romanian Society of Haiku was affiliated with the Haiku International Association. The president of the Haiku International Association from that epoch, Sono Uchida, published a haiku book in Romanian and had a meeting with the members of the Romanian Society of Haiku in Bucharest. The next year, Ion Codrescu founded the Haiku Society in Constanţa, that in its turn, became a sister association of the Haiku International Association. In 1992 the first international haiku meeting in Romania and probably in Europe took place in Constanţa. While the Romanian Society of Haiku organizes monthly meetings with its members from the capital, the Haiku Society in Constanţa organizes such meetings twice or three times a year in which poets participate from all the regions of the country. The School of Tanka and Renku in Slobozia, founded and coordinated by the poet Şerban Codrin, organized similar meetings for several years as well as the Haiku Club entitled Ephemeral Joys in Târgu-Mureş, founded and coordinated by Ioan Găbudean. 95

M.C. In this context, let’s discuss about the publication of the first “specialized” magazine. I suggest talking about the “Haiku” magazine of the Romanian Society of Haiku in Bucharest, that has been published for several years now… V.M. The first issue of “Haiku” magazine was published in March 1990, one year before the society’s foundation. It was a totally unexpected thing. The magazine was published in 14,000 copies. Today this mass number of printed copies for a literary magazine is beyond imagination. In addition to Florin Vasiliu (chief editor), outstanding personalities of Romanian literature were members of the editorial board: Marin Sorescu, also during the period in which he was the culture minister, Ştefan Aug. Doinaş, Ion Acsan, the only among the best haiku translators, appointed honorary president of the Romanian Society of Haiku, and the Romanian-American writer Gabriel Stănescu (the secretary of the editorial board). The chief editor made a publication exchange with similar magazines from Japan, Germany, U.S.A., France, Croatia and Serbia. This kind of exchange is still ongoing. The oldest haiku magazine in Romania has been regularly published in a bilingual edition, Romanian and English, in good technical-editorial conditions for almost a decade by Valentin Nicoliţov, the current chief editor and president of the Romanian Society of Haiku. It also organizes an international annual haiku contest in Romanian, English and French. Numerous foreign poets, especially from U.S.A., France, as well as from the Balkan countries – Bosnia-Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, Greece, Macedonia, Serbia, Slovenia– have published in this magazine. At the beginning of the year 1992, there was published the “Albatros” bilingual magazine of the Haiku Society in Constanţa, a book-like publication. Just like the “Haiku” magazine in Bucharest, the “Albatros” in Constanta has been uninterruptedly published for more than two decades, the current editor, Laura Văceanu continuing the most valuable part of the former series of the publication founded by Ion Codrescu, one of the well-known Romanian authors of haiku/ haiga at the international level. Another seven haiku magazines, subsequently founded, among which we can mention Orion in Slobozia and Orfeu in Târgu-Mureş, did not share the luck of the first two magazines, thus they have become pages of literary history for some time. 96

M.C. I would say that, in spite of the crisis, things have settled down now. Although it is not a general characteristic, there are famous magazines that, without being totally “dedicated” to Japanese-origin poetry, have some columns in which the activity of the haiku poets is mentioned or in which the editor publishes translations or original haiku poems. I enumerate only a few of the magazines with which I have been collaborating (most of them in Iasi, but also in Paris, Bucharest, and other places) , „Poezia”, „Carmina Balcanica”, „Doina”, „Cronica”, and, more recently, „Kadō”. How would you characterize the authorial and editorial landscape in this field in comparison with what is happening at the international level? V.M. In addition to the publications enumerated by you, I would like to point out „Arca” in Arad, „Sud” and „Amurg Sentimental” in Bucharest, and „Dor de dor” in Dor Mărunt. M.C. There are definitely other magazines that allocate space more or less frequently to Japanese poetry; I’ve referred only to the ones from Iaşi with which I collaborate. V.M. Haiku poems are frequently published in culture magazines but especially on blogs and online magazines which is a good and a bad thing at the same time. The “Haiku” magazine has created its own blog coordinated by Valentin Nicoliţov and Maria Tirenescu. There is also a blog, a magazine, to be more precise, Romanian Kukai, founded and coordinated by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu, that contributes to a great extent to the popularization of haiku, and it periodically organizes haiku contests. One of them that has reached its second edition and has an international dimension, takes place in English. Therefore, as one can see, high quality haiku, senryu, and tanka are widely published in Romania. Another more delicate problem is that of the literary critique. Florin Vasiliu published a history of the haiku movement in Romania; there are also your books of critical essays/literary critique and analysis. Quite obviously, these works are important, but literary critique is still poorly represented, with one or two exceptions, and the reception critique in the literary magazines. The Haiku Library in „Poezia” magazine constitutes a happy exception that has been consistently 97

published for so many years. „Poezia”, as far as I know, having a reasonable number of printed copies and a book format, will be a lasting acquisition for many public and private libraries. The second exception consists in the online column entitled The New Romanian Literature by George Bădărău and partially taken over by some culture magazines. In other words, haiku societies must train their own critics so that the valuable works of so many haiku poets may not remain unknown. As regards to the haiku books, there are many more books published in Romania than in any other country in which there are haiku poets. The majority of them are bilingual; others are trilingual, a fact that facilitates their international circulation. The negative aspect is that they are published at the expense of the authors. Neither the professional associations nor the sponsors are willing to publish the books of Romanian haiku poets. M.C. Traveling the world, both in Europe and in other regions and exchanging letters with various colleagues, I was able to understand the way in which the editorial activity within the field of Japanese poetry is performed compared to the way in which it is performed in our country. What do you think of the editorial activity in Romania in this field, of the space allotted to Japanese-origin poetry by the Romanian literary magazines, other than “the specialized ones”? Do you believe that it has changed during the years, and what do you think of its current situation? V.M. The haiku poem is occasionally published in the majority of the culture magazines. Even though editors consider it a window open towards the world, this one seems to be, even from the beginning, extremely narrow, more like a shutter through which light is filtered through a dense strainer. This is due to the fact that the great poets who also wrote haiku poems: Nichita Stănescu, Marin Sorescu, Ştefan Aug. Doinaş, Adrian Păunescu – passed away, and the valuable haiku poets, if we are to mention just a few – Ştefan Gh. Theodoru, I on Codrescu, Radu Patrichi, Dan Doman, and Eduard Ţară – are more famous abroad than in our country. Therefore, we have a rather poor perception of the haiku movement, and I don’t think it will improve overnight. M.C. Some time ago I wrote about the role the internet plays in the dissemination of the Romanian poets’ work, about the fact that through 98

the internet they could easily participate in what was going on at the national and international level. I am taking into account not only the publication and contests but also the information dissemination and the exchange of ideas. Considering all this and also the context of our former discussions about “paper support and virtual support”, how do you see these changes? Secondarily, to what extent does the internet matter in Vasile Moldovan’s poetical life? V.M. People say that if you don’t use the internet you don’t exist. This statement is true for any field, not only for haiku. But for the haiku poem, more than for Western poetry, the use of the internet is decisive. Considering its concision, its publication on the internet is easier and faster than its publication on paper. The publication is not the only easy task but also its creation, especially when talking about collective works such as renku, haiga, and photo-haiku. I myself wrote, by means of the internet, together with poets from Australia, Denmark, U.S.A., Holland, Belgium and Malta, chain poems that were subsequently published on line or in paper magazines or anthologies. In “The Top”1, which showcases the work of the most creative haijin in Europe, Romania is represented for the years 2010-2012 with 10, 9 and 6 poets respectively. “The Top” was the result of the poems published on line in English, French, Italian, and Spanish. However, we shouldn’t exaggerate the role of the internet in the dissemination of haiku poems. Many online magazines and haiku blogs have disappeared overnight. Analyzing the confidential number of printed copies, haiku books are, in my opinion, the main instruments through which haiku poems are disseminated. M.C. You once wrote that the Romanian authors have inherited from Traian Chelariu2 the rigour he used with respect to the 5-7-5 rule. There have 1

Krzysztof Kokot has published, on a Polish literary blo/ forum, a „top”, in his opinion, in fact a list entitled „European top 100 most creative haiku authors”, which was appreciated, but started some discussions concerning his criteria, how coudl he compare translations/ quality of these etc. 2 Traian Chelariu (1906-1966), writer, professor, publicist and Romanian translator. Among other things, he published a selection of translations, Japanese Soul, Cernăuţi, 1937, that was considered a reference work by the Romanian haiku authors. I analysed his role and contribution in the field of Japanese poetry in Romania in the volume: Marius Chelaru, Traian Chelariu and Japanese poetry,

been some debates in recent years (and I’m not thinking only of the Matsuyama Declaration or Tokyo Manifesto) about modern trends in haiku. How do you think Romanian authors relate themselves to all these things? V.M. There have been numerous debates on this theme. It seems that the “Albatros” magazine prefers the free form of haiku, without rejecting its classic form anyway. Nevertheless, the “Haiku” magazine cultivates its classic form which can be seen from the regulation of the haiku international contest that requires the strict observation of the syllable count. In my opinion, what really matters is not the form of the poem, but its contents, the soul and talent one puts in a poem. The great writers place themselves outside or even above the literary trends that are ephemeral like any other fashion. M.C. As regards the “rules”: in the context of the previous discussion, it is said that beyond a certain limit in observing them, there is a kind of “dogmatism”, that the authors have to make a selection of these rules so that they can preserve “the haiku spirit”. In your opinion, how should an author make his selection? V.M. In terms of the number of syllables, I’d prefer the SLS form, that is to say short line, long line and then another short line, as most of the English poets. Thus, we wouldn’t destroy the beauty of some lines that could be admirable through their contents. Besides this, what I do appreciate when talking about the Romanian poets, the Japanese poets and the English poets is the juxtaposition of two images. It is about two different realities that are in opposition such as the eternal and the ephemeral, the full and the void, life and death. If a haiku poem has three lines, it must have two distinct parts: one of them should be made of one line and the other one should be made of two separated by caesura, marked by punctuation signs. The poem should be read twice and the reader or the reciter should make a rather long pause between the two parts. Thus an equilibrium between antitheses is produced. Reading a haiku poem can be compared to the scale of a fountain that is ”Orient” Collection, ”Haiku Library” – Nr. 2, The Publishing House of ”Poezia” Cultural Foundation, Iaşi, 2011.

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a lever with unequal arms. As for kigo, I see it in a broader sense than that of classical Japanese haiku. We shouldn’t forget that we are living in 21st century Europe, three centuries after Basho wrote haiku; therefore the terms defining the concept of kigo today are quite different. But the most important thing, in my opinion, is the novelty that your poem brings. To write on a certain theme totally differently than what your predecessors wrote. Thus your poems will become memorable and worthy of any anthology made according to some demanding criteria. M.C. This issue of the “Kadō” magazine is dedicated to a country from the former Yugoslavia, Bosnia and Herzegovina. You have collaborated with authors and magazines from this part of the world. What do you think of these authors and their activity? V.M. My editorial debut is definitely related to Bosnia-Herzegovina. In 1997, around Christmas I was on a plane that was about to land in Sarajevo together with other journalists, when the pilots were summoned to fly back since they did not get the flying permit. But we didn’t have enough fuel to go back. There were hard moments both for us – the journalists and the pilots. After a few minutes that seemed to me like an eternity, we got the authorization to fly to Zagreb. We were saved. In those moments I thought that if I had died I wouldn’t have left any trace of my existence. Hundreds of newspapers articles are as ephemeral as the lambs’ snow1. Therefore I decided not to postpone my editorial debut. After the winter holidays I managed to reach Sarajevo “on four wheels”. There we were invited to get a bird’s eye view of the city in a helicopter. Those terrible moments came to my mind once again, maybe not with the same intensity. The pilots tilted the helicopter to the right as well as to the left so that the cameramen could film better. I had the feeling that we were about to crash, especially since I heard that two pilots had lost their lives a few days before. I could hardly 1

After “the eight days of “the old woman” (traditionally, they say between 1-9 of March, when the weather is whimsical, „Old Dochia” disavows her nine waistcoats, taken then by her sisters, which have diminutives like the days of the week; Romanians choose a favorite day - if it is sunny, you will have a lucky year, if it is rainy you must not expect to a good one), “the snow of the lambs” is the last snow of the year. It comes in the spring.

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write several haiku poems keeping my word book on my knees. If I am to die, I told to myself, they might survive. After I came back home, I urgently published my first haiku poems, Via dolorosa. The stanzas I wrote in the helicopter were put together in a group entitled Winter at Sarajevo. Whenever I have the opportunity I read with pleasure the haiku poems of poets from Bosnia and Herzegovina. At least one of them, Ljubomir Dragovic, is well known to Romanian readers since he won a prize in our international contest. These days I am happy to hear that Smajil Durmisevic, a collaborator of the “Kado” magazine, won second prize in the prestigious contest organized by Mainichi Daily News with the following poem: “summer heat/ drinking water a boy/ doesn’t see the fountain”. On the other hand, I want to point out the fact that ”Diogen” magazine, coordinated by Sabahudin Hadzialic (both of them are your collaborators), published, according to the Croatian poet Djurdja Vukelic-Rozic’s proposal, haiku poems written by the Romanian poets Vasile Moldovan, Valentin Nicoliţov, Eduard Ţară, Ion Untaru and Laura Văceanu. This way, haiku poems simultaneously circulate in two or many languages just as water flows through pipes. M.C. I want to end this interview with the presentation of Vasile Moldovan’s poetical projects. At the same time, I would like to thank you for the interview that you offered for the readers of “Kadō”1 magazine. V.M. In the near future I hope to publish a book of love poems, Twinned Souls. And I am also working on a tanka book and on another one of senryu that I haven’t baptized yet, although I could have done it on Epiphany. After that, I’ll keep on writing haiku poems, because I have plenty of projects which I prefer not to mention for fear that they might disappear like some beautiful dreams when you wake up.I thank you for the opportunity you offered me to publicly express myself and for the patience that I hope the readers will also have, with which you have listened to me until the end. Interview, presentation and notes by Marius Chelaru Translated by: Daniuela Andronache; Proof reading: David Lanoue 1

The Romanian version of this interview was published in ”Poezia” magazine, Iaşi, the spring issue, 2013.

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Haiku Bosnia and Herzegovina Samira Begman Karabeg Alone in darkness larvae weaving a silk dress Sama u tmini larva haljinu tka svilenog leptira In the sea darkness the waves swaying the sparks of a starry sky U tami mora valovi ljuljaju iskre zvjezdanog neba The sky in the sea an embrace in infinity the sea in the sky Nebo u moru zagrljaj u beskraju more u nebu Purple sky bathing the gold of wheat fields with the shine of ruby Purpurno nebo kupa zlato žitnih polja sjajem rubina This weeping willow strenght is its beauty no trace of weeping Žalosna vrba u ljepoti joj snaga žalosti ni traga English translation by Đurđa Vukelić Rožić 103

Mirsad Denjo One broken lantern. All the flies swarmed to another one... Razbijen fenjer. Sve mušice pohrliše k drugom… The Moon is descending down the sharp rocks, whole in Neretva Mjesec silazi niz oštre litice, sav u Neretvi. A peasant in the field planting his sweat into the veins of red-peppers Seljak na njivi u žile ljute paprike ukopava znoj. Stumbling, falling getting up, falling - a kid on the rocky paths. Posrće, pada diže se, pada – kozle na kamenjaru. Impaling the Moon on his horns – a billy-goat on a bluff, feels important. Nabivši Mjesec na rogove – važan je jarac na litici. English translation by Gordana Valand 104

Ljubomir Dragović long dawning… a cabbage neck motionless in the first snow Dugo svitanje. Kupusov vrat nepomičan na prvom snijegu. heavy clouds … a lightning hoof clearly outlined Gusti oblaci. Jasno se ocrtava kopito munje. tirelessly echoing even in a dream – the voice of a night cricket Neumorno i u snu odjekuje glas noćnog cvrčka. white peonies a monk touches their glow with his mantle Bijeli božuri. Monah mantijom dotiče njihov sjaj. high seas – a lonely islet surfaces for air Usamljen otočić izronio na pučinu po malo zraka. English translation by Saša Važić 105

Smajil Durmišević life at the cemetery – from a tiny bush of dry grass peering primroses Na groblju, život Iz ćube suhe trave Jaglaci vire deserted villages dogs, cats and people wandering in the town Sela su pusta Lutaju gradom – psi, Mačke I ljudi shadows in a vase – a bunch of withered roses fading in silence U vazi sjene Buket uvelih ruža Tiho se gasi you, a blue butterfly do you feel the touch of my gaze? Leptiru plavi, Da li sojećaš dodir Moga pogleda by the forest's edge dead, yet fragrant bodies the pine, spruce and a fir tree Na rubu šume Mrtva mirišu t’jela Bor, smrča, jela English translation by Đurđa Vukelić Rožić 106

Aida Šečić Nezirević She sings, she dances, she kisses… And so on, so on Until she revives Pjeva, pleše, ljubi… I sve tako Dok jednom ne oživi. The hair-the snow The face-the snow, the lips-the snow Waiting for the prince Kosa snijeg Lice snijeg, usne snijeg Čekanje princa New moon is mowing the sky While The old man is sitting on the meadow Mladi mjesec kosi nebo dok Starac na livadi sjedi A small child stood in a puddle Look, Tsunami! - exclaimed the earthworms Djetešce stade u lokvu Gle, cunami! - Viknuše gliste A proud river Enchanted by the sea Fell its head over heels Ponosna rijeka Morem očarana Izgubi glavu English translation by the author. 107

Gordana Radovanović Dawn on two soft palms, longing for unknown me. If only it's mine! Zora na dva meka dlana žudi za mnom koju ne zna. Da je samo moja! Spring announcement: along the forest road, torn patch of snow. Najava proleća: duž šumskog puta zakrpa snega. Rows of beehives. Past flowers' lives, kept in colourful boxes. Niske košnica. Životi bivšeg cveća u šarenim kutijama. Meeting of equals: the runaway waves’ strength, brought back to the cliffs. Susret jednakih: snaga odbeglih vala, vraćena stenju. On bluish pane, grape-vines and olive-trees painted by frost. Na plavom oknu, čokoti i masline, mrazom slikani. English translation by the author 108

Ružica Soldo Dark hills counting the stars with the shore in the distance Plavi brežuljci u daljini s oblakom zvijezde broje Sunrays kissing the raindrops rainbow in the sky Kapljice kiše sunčane zrake ljube duga ne nebu A restless offing a ship in the harbour washing the shore with the sea Pučina nemirna morem obale pere lađa u luci A gull on the cliff calls the flock by screaming at the sunset Na hridi galeb kliktanjem jato zove zalazak sunca Leaden twilight hung over the town heavily silent dogs Olovni sumrak nad gradom teško visi utihnuli psi English translation by the author 109

Haiku from United States of America Pages of the HSA Founded in 1968, the Haiku Society of America promotes the writing and appreciation of haiku poetry in English. The majority of its over 700 members reside in the USA, but there are also members in other countries. Membership is open to all readers, writers, translators, and students of haiku. The HSA sponsors conferences, lectures, workshops, readings, and contests. The society’s journal, Frogpond, presents haiku by HSA members and others, as well as articles and book reviews. In an effort to reach out in friendship to our brother and sister poets in Romania, we (the HSA’s Executive Committee) offer these haiku. Enjoy!

dark neighborhood we drive through an ice storm to the baby hospital snowman he has a best friend again all saints day I light two candles with one prayer Randy Brooks, Electronic Media Officer that fine line between blossoms and fruit… again crossing it only remembering the scent of rain first kiss (Frogpond 34:1) trying to name the color of the sun yellow peony (Modern Haiku 42.2) Angela Terry, Secretary 110

summer sleepover the boys skateboard all night long flying into dawn Pop Tarts and canned goods my teenager’s appetite still strong in the storm sliver of a moon I trace the oilcloth pattern with my finger Sari Grandstaff, Second Vice President candy wrapper amongst the leaves the smell of hotdogs sandwich now coffee now naptime spring church whispers the smell of peppermints Adrienne Christian, Ripples Newsletter Editor skin of peace – a slip of the tongue (Modern Haiku 43.3) no desire to talk it through first moon of winter (The Heron’s Nest 14.1) swallowtail maybe I’ll say yes (The Heron’s Nest 14.2) Francine Banwarth, Frogpond Editor 111

mountain road â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the moonlight slides across the dashboard out in slippers to move the garden hose the new window road dust on the blackberries bear tracks Michael Dylan Welch, First Vice President snow clouds each of us seeing someone else field of yarrow a butterflyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s path could be more efficient (Frogpond 35.2) icy road we both claim to have been Napoleon (Mariposa 27) paul m., Treasurer acorns everywhere the squirrel drags a pizza my vow of disobedience old stone church painted rock canyon we fill our pockets with ghosts David G. Lanoue, President 112

Romania Authors from Iaşi George Bădărău Cosaşii bătând soarele din coasa lor – Ce zăpuşeală! Les faucheurs battant le soleil sur leur faux – Quelle chaleur! Narcise ninse în mijlocul poienii – cu soarele în cap Narcisses enneigées dans la clairière – soleil sur la tête Mlădiţe negre – Pe-un turn înalt, barza stă într-un picior Pousses noires – sur une tour haute, la cigogne sur une jambe Un acoperiş alunecă în noapte sub luna nouă Un toit glisse dans la nuit sous la nouvelle lune Case în râpă – Puzderia de greieri o mai locuiesc Maisons en ravin – La myriade de cigales l’habite encore 113

Rafila Radu

cucii răguşiţi în gradina umbrită nici un cireş copt thick cuckoos – in the shadowy garden no ripe cherry-tree până şi apa câinelui fierbinte băută de ciori even the hot wather of the dog drunk by crows uimită mama: pioneze-n loc de solzi prânz fără peşte mother amazed: tacks instead of scales lunch without fish miros de Crăciun cozonacul meu la copt îngeri in colind smell of Christmas my pound cake at ripe angels in carol sperietoarea cu fustele căzute – strugurii tot cruzi the scarecrow with its fallen skirts the grapes still green English version: Alexandra Flora Munteanu 114

Iulia Ralia Raclaru Linişte-n seară – pisica miroase fulgi lipiţi de geamuri Soirée tranquille Le chat sent des flacons Mis sur la vitre

În cea’a deasă vârfurile răchitei – mersul melcilor Bouts d’osier au-dessus du brouillard – marche des escargots Secundele cad – îngropată sub valuri aleea de cireşi Secondes qui tombent – les eaux arrachant les cerisiers Linii negre , linii verzi – ochii alunecă doar până-n orizont Lignes noires, lignes vertes – mon regard s’arrête juste sur l’horizon Desface noaptea din ramuri în grădină – numai luna Défaite la nuit des rameaux au verger – seule, la lune

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Eduard Ţară

Aşa tăcute după şampanie – paharele noastre So silent after champagne – our glasses Sfârşit de an – vechea valiză-aşteaptă încă la uşă Year’s end – the old suitcase still waiting at the door Pentru o clipă centrul universului – primul fulg de nea For a moment the center of the universe – the first snowflake Şemineu – oftatul ei îndoaie ultima flacără Fireplace – her sigh bending the last flame Vechi samovar – sub praful de un deget luciu de toamnă Old samovar under the dust autumn light

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Amalia Voicu Atâta toamnă Împrăştiată pe străzi Frunze strânse-n colţ So much autumn Dissipated on the streets Leaves in the corner Sus piramida Calul la poalele ei… Om şi Dumnezeu A pyramid in the sky Downside the restless black horse... The man and the God. Cer greu de toamnă... Pe drum trecători grăbiţi Şi lustragiul Heavy autumn sky... Passers-by on the full street Silent shoeblacker Roua zorilor Preot dând cu agheazmă Stelele sclipind The dew in morning Priest using holy water Stars are glistering O scoică goală Legănată de valuri Şi luna plină! A deserted shell Swinging easy by the waves Only the full moon!

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Cristina Rusu Satul în ceaţă – o candelă pâlpâie la troiţa din drum Village in mist – a candle flashes at the road trinity Începutul toamnei – un fluture desenat pe vechea lampă The start of the autumn a butterfly drawn on the old lamp Burniţa deasă – pe peronul gării doar un câine ud Thick drizzle – On the platform of the station Only a wet dog Crengile goale – pe-o margine de lună ţese un paing The bare branches – on an edge of the Moon a spider is weaving Casa părintească – lângă nucul înverzit umbra bunicii The parental home – near the greened walnut my grandma’s shadow

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Marius Chelaru seară de vară – câinele bea din baltă toate stelele summer evening – the dog drinks from the plash all the stars flori doar pe rafturi pe zid o floare de neon – oraş primăvara flowers only on stands on the wall a neon flower – town in spring capela pe deal e deschisă spre ceruri – jos oraşul the chapel on the hill is open to the sky down there the city Urmă de copil spre casa părăsită – seară de iarnă child foot-mark to the abandoned house – winter evening

vrabie pe stâlp în jur doar maşini ninse – singurătate sparrow on the pillar all around cars covered by flurry – loneliness 119

Studii şi eseuri/ Studies & Essays Sabahudin Hadžialić Lukić per se1 Govoreći o romanima Vitomira Lukića moram navesti filmski realitet, koji nadahnjuje dok nam pokušava dočarati ne samo kolorit svakodnevnice male bosanske kasabe (Donjeg Vakufa, ali i Bugojna, gdje se išlo po tekstil za šivanje, kako sam autor veli) u romanu ALBUM iz 1968.g., već i osjećaj zajedništva, pripadnosti porodici kao osnovno polazište ovog oblika Lukićeve proze, dok je neobične uloge davao stvarima, prozorima, naprimjer pišući „gledali su nas širom rastvoreni nalični prozori...“...zar prozori mogu gledati?...Književnost je umjetnost riječi koja je dovedena do vrhunca nadnaravnosti i kod Vitomira Lukića, zar ne? Iskrenošću plijeni dok plemenitost općenja gradi. Poslušajte „..pod nogama smo osjećali sklisko kao iznutrica dno prekriveno finim netaknutim blatom..:“ Umjesto da osjetimo zgražanje nad ovakvim poređenjima, mi pred sobom imamo jasnu, sirovo surovu sliku odrastanja realnošću optočenim, ali ne zamjerajući čak ni blatu koje u nama živi kao nešto prljavo, grozno...ono je fino, netaknuto. No, onoga trenutka kada do njega ljudska ruka dođe, već tada postaje ono što iskonski u nama jeste...prljavo, ružno. Drugim riječima, osjećaj da je neka druga ruka, a ne ljudska ispisivala ove retke vam se ne može oteti ni jednoga trenutka...jer...kao da je spisateljski duh izašao iz onoga drugog duha, čovječijeg, odvojio se i živjevši vlastiti život, stvarao, i stvorio novu realnost. Lukićevsku. Nadasve. Njegova bolna realnost i tih sedamdesetih godina je podsjećala, a u stvari je bila preteća, ne njegovom greškom, već greškom tadašnjih vlastodržaca koji se, da se ne zavaravamo, ne razlikuju mnogo od današnjih, a imam običaj kazati Socijalizam je bio truo sistem. Sa kapitalizmom je proces završen....velim, bio je preteća jedne Jesice Jung, odnosno savremenik Charlesa Bukovskog...poslušajte...“..ja sam osjećao kako se svježi stup sunca kao staklena osovina spuštao kroz mene potresajući moju unutrašnjost čitavim drhtajima radosnog orgazma, kao kad sam sjedao na konja ili skako nag u vodu....odnosno....Okrenuli su je na bok kao mlitavu balu ne obazirući se na ostale skroz su joj zagalatili spavačicu preko omekšanih i u dno izlivenih sisa, koje su, sljepljene uz bedra, silazile postrance. Jedino su joj tupe, kratke bradavice bile još djevojačke....“ Eh...razmislite malo, i vi bi 1

Vitomir Lukić, književnik (1929-1991, Bosna i Hercegovina) 120

potpisali ove riječi...samo je on imao znanja, ali i hrabrosti da ih napiše. Koliko vidim, to bješe prije nekih četrdesetak godina a danas bi neki željeli i tu nepatvorenu iskrenost zatomiti do bola...isti oni koji ukidaju Deda Mraza u Sarajevu, odnosno grade nelogične koalicije lijevo-desnih, odnosno desno-lijevih namjera. A u suštini se ne mogu očima vidjeti! Mogu, jer u zemlji gdje svi kradu, niko ne krade, zar ne?...No, da se vratimo Lukiću, jer on je smjernica naših nadanja, toliko inspirativnih...Ah, ta Kristina, i kao da je upravo u romanu ALBUM autor opisivao sve Kristine, Alme i Mirjane naše mladosti...“..jer u prirodi je primitivnih ljudi da svoj vlastiti život gledaju tuđim očima...“ Koliko samo snažne istine u jednoj jedinoj rečenici Vitomira Lukića. Detalj unutar poruke je izuzetno važan jer detalji čine usmjerenje ka konačnom cilju, razumjevanja u shvaćanju bivstvovanja samog. O, tempora, o mores...mi i dan danas živimo vlastitu smrt... gledajući život tuđim očima. Eh, kako lijepo zvuče ti pozdravi sa kraja tridesetih godina prošloga stoljeća/vijeka i ona riječ „zdravo“ dok osluškujem kako Lukić veli „To kratko i još nepriznato vrijeme izmislilo je svoje pozdrave, vještačke, i koju su na nešto obavezivali, a stari poznanici su i dalje govorili „zdravo“ u čijem je prizvuku bilo sjećanja.“, veli pisac dok nam približava tmurna vremena pred početak onog drugog, velikog rata. A danas se upravo toga „zdravo“ odriču i zeleni i plavi i crveni. Unutar ovoga kratkog i još nepriznatog vremena... citiram autora. Zaista, Lukićev spisateljski duh je nadograđivao čovječiji. Itekako. Nadživjevši i učeći nas. Rat na ovim prostorima u stvari nikada i nije prestajao. Postojala su samo intermezza prividnog mira. Kako tada, tako i danas, koliko god mi šutjeli o tome. Vitomir Lukić znao je, kao prosvjetljena vizija proročkih riječi, prepoznati i uobličiti ne samo svoju viziju pakla, odnosno džehennema, što neko ratom nazvaše. Znao je znati. Jednostavno. Neupitno. Jako. I nadahnuto. Tako je i opisao sopstvenu porodičnu golgotu u romanu ALBUM. Riječi „Ima li možda neke hrabrosti koja je vrlina“...i odgovor „Ima, svaka hrabrost je vrlina. Svaka. Ona je vrijedna divljenja. Utoliko je vrlina....“ je refleksija starogrčkih snažnih manifestnih oblika snage unutar hrabrosti same. I David je pobijedio Golijata, ali znanjem unutar hrabrosti same. Ovdje, o životu se samom radi. Hrabrosti usmjerenom. I smrt kod njega životom postaje. Kristina nestaje ovjekovječena romanom dječije, nepatvorene, iskrene ljubavi. Riječju usmjerena. Vitomirovom. Kako i sam kaže...“pošao sam sam da tražim Kristinu...Jedino i tako se moglo tragati za Kristinom, jedino po slutnji...“ Kristina bješe i sjenom unutar mozaika traženja, gledanja i nadanja. Toplota osjenčenosti izražaja je ovdje, kako i rekoh na samom početku osvrta ka ovom romanu, filmski umješna i scenaristički osmišljena. Ovo je 121

film života, odnosno život filma. Kristinog. Ali i njegovog, Lukićevog. Koji se iznova i iznova rađao...“..u dubini pramagline, obasjan velikom slutnjom.“ O egzotičnosti njegovog visprenog jezičkog višesloja neću govoriti, već ću samo citirati dio SMS poruke koju mi je poslao kolega prof.dr. Antun Lučić:..“Jesu li ti uručili Lukićeve egzotične knjige. U drugom romanu HODNICI SVIJETLOGA PRAHA iz 1989.g., Vitomir Lukić snažno jasnoćom vlastitog izražaja podsjeća na Danila Kiša iz knjige „Rani jadi...“ Konkretnost vlastitog iskaza, nerijetko blasfemično dovedena do savršenstva, pred nama stvara kritičnu mogućnost sopstvene kreacije – suživljavanja sa dramom likova koji kreiraju radnju. Oprostite, dešavanje samo. Unutar romana pretpostavljenih nakana. U susretu čovjeka i društva u kojem egzistira. Opstanku težeći. Nerijetko i u praznoj bogomolji, ispunjenoj duhom. Ne samo njegovim. Jer „...nema niti jednoga dana u našem životu bez prošlosti...a vrijeme ne može učiniti ništa više da bi postalo materijom života.“ A duša je tokom sna u permanentnom dodiru sa smrću, jer jednostavno zaboravi gdje je i uvijek viziju traži i na drugoj strani, preko granice...Žestica Bulgakovljevih čitanja, pretočenih sopstvenim megalitnim vizijama današnjice, stvaraju puninu kreacije. Po meni, ovo djelo je naracia studiorum, oblik čudnih kretanja koje traži višeslojnu didaktiku, odnosno sintetiziranu pristrasnost. Čitalaca, ali i kritičara, opservatora HODNIKA SVIJETLOGA PRAHA. Snaga riječi ovdje je mitskih usmjerenja. Naime, poslušajte „...Tih nekoliko spokojnih godina pred rat narušile su najezde prosjaka koji su ritualno ljubili komad kruha prije nego što ga spuste u torbu....Stizali su obično predvečer kada su se u okvirima prozora hladili tek ispečeni kruhovi. Ali na milje ispred njih išao je pojas jeze od sutrašnjeg dana kome su oni izricali presudu istog trenutka čim bi stupili na dvorišnu kapiju mješavinom proklinjanja i sulude pobožnosti, pa bi zatim padali u retoriku ispod koje je nestajalo sve što postoji....a veliki bi se eshatološki spektakl završavao obično izbacivanjem klobuka pjene tamo gdje je na usta do tada isticala užarena lava strašnoga suda, a na blatnjavom tlu, ispod zraka ispunjenog povećim maslačcima, tijela proroka dotrajavala su u epileptičnim napadima ispuštajući krike, cvrkute, roktanja, lavež, skičanje, pućpurikanje, cvilež, meketanje, njisku, kreket, praćen nadimanjem guše, zavijanje sa bjeoločnicama prevraćenim unutra, zviždanje, jeku, frktanje, tako da nijedna životinjska vrsta iz Nojeve barke nije ostala bez glasa....“ Dubina njegovih objašnjenja i opisa je nemjerljiva. Ali i jednostavna u složenosti svojoj. Kada kaže „...Pravi instrument je čovjek, jer on čuje muziku dok još nije dospjela do zvuka. A to se događa onog časa kada ga sudbina dovede u sazvučje sa istinom.“...autor samo naizgled nerazumljiva sazviježđa 122

sudbine razgrće jednostavnošću naracije objašnjavajući neobjašnjivo. Pitko. I jasno. Itekako! Aristokratska reflektivna osionost svadbe opisana u ovom romanu nije ništa drugo do snaga pojavnosti kako i ovi prostori monolitnost plemstva sadrže, ali nedovoljno istražen. Valjda zbog „viška historije“ kako nam se prigovara sa svih strana. Naravno, taj „višak“ proizvedene historije/istorije/povijesti i nije ništa drugo do stvaranja novih, ali lažnih, plemstava. Primjera radi, da li znate šta je najpopularnije u Sarajevu posljednjih godina? Da se nose fotografije na retuširanje i da se današnje glave postavljaju na ondašnja tijela uz riječi kako smo „iz begovske porodice...Evo, vidite, na fotografijama naših pradjedova u Sarajevu...“ vele. A oni dođoše iz krajeva gdje i dan danas struja jeste...čudo. Onozemaljsko. No, nisu samo begovi u pitanju. Ima tu i kneževa i grofova. Ovozemaljskih. Baš kao i odgovornost koja kaže, a na pitanje odakle ti vlasništvo nad tolikim nekretninama...a Mihovil Jerg veli „Naslijedio sam...Zemlju sam naslijedio od svojih predaka...Pošto tvojih predaka više nema-nastavi isljednik-odgovarat ćeš i za njih.“ Da, jer historija počinje sa nama. Prije nas ništa bilo nije. Jadni, ni shvatali nisu da je povijest kriminogenih nagona u stvari creacia sublimaris ljudske sujete. One iste koja od prijeratnih čistačica kreira Predsjednika Ustavnog suda, odnosno od vozača kamiona predratnih stvara generale današnje. Ali i ondašnje. Onomad. U onom nenarodnom sistemu. Da mi je samo znati kako da nazovemo ovaj „narodni“, današnji? Demokratski. A ja ne volim demokratiju, jer umjesto jednom, služim mnoštvu idiota! Ovaj političko-tragi-komični triler Vitomira Lukića je samo opis realnosti koju je živjela jedna generacija na jedan način dok se ovaploćenje uvijek nastavlja, ali na drugi, već u sljedećoj generaciji. Nažalost. Organi(zirana)zovana anarhija1 je usud ovih prostora. Balkanskih. Njegov barokni stil uvoda u roman iznenada postaje tendencija krimi priče uobličene na političkoj potki. Jasnoj. Do bola. Sveukupnog. Ljudskog. „A ljepota se ne sastoji u putnicima, ni u putu, nego u putovanju.2“ Upravo o tome i govori ovo prozno djelo Vitomira Lukića. Putovanju usmjerenog konačnom osvješćenju ljudskoga u nama. U barem pokušaju. Kroz pisanu riječ, Oprostite, prenesenu smislenu uobrazilju o mogućnostima opstanka. Huxlijevsko-Orwelovskim umijećem objašnjenja naizgled neobjašnjivog i razotkrivanjem suštine gluposti koju je jedan život svojevremeno kreirao kao postulat činjenja svakodnevnice, samo naizgled u onomad onoj 1

Knjiga eseja „Organi(ziirana)zovana anarhija“, Sabahudin Hadžialić, 2004.g. Bosna i Hercegovina 2 Kineska poslovica 123

Kraljevini Srba, Hrvata i Slovenaca, ali u stvarnosti bola koju na ovaj način preživljava svaka generacija koja živi na prostorima Planine krvi, a Balkanom je zovemo...citiram...“...Mihovilu Jergu su bile oduzete sve oranice okrenute prema jugu s obrazloženjem da su upijale višak sunca koje po nepisanom pravilu pripada svima. Zatim je odlukom prijekog suda izvršena konfiskacija zapadnih šuma jer su izvozile preko granice reakcionarne sjene za vrijeme ljetnih sutona.“...kraj citata. Poznato, zar ne? No, sukob granica svjetova, novog i starog, kako on naziva u stvari sukob sirovog, surovog, malograđanskog i nesuvislog svijeta sa novim, suptilnim, iskrenim i otvoreno altruističkim oblikom življenja i djelanja, kod Lukića je na pijadestalu mudrosti. Ne mudrovanja već, zaista, mudrosti. On razara onaj prvi snagom argumenta dok se argument snage tog provincijskog življenja i djelanja topi pred naletima razumnih, mislenih rečenica, paragrafa umijeća. Dok Mihovil Jerg odvaja svoje ime od svoje savjesti potpisujući priznanja nejasnih čuđenja, mrtvi ljudi u gaženju realiteta, kao na balu kod „Majstora i Margarite“ Mihaila Bulgakova, kreiraju stvarnost nevidljivih nada. U Eugen Ionesquovom festivalu apsurda ova dramska jednočinka romanom što jeste, dešava se u zaista jednom prostoru veoma jednostavnom i na scenu za postaviti, a pred nama se ruše svjetovi...i rađaju novi...koji bivaju srušeni. Da bi došli još noviji. A u stvari isti oni u kojima pominjemo „stara dobra vremena“, ni ne shvatajući da će i ova naša današnja vremena biti „stara dobra vremena“ jer povijest ljudske civilizacije ide samo ka lošijem i lošijem...kraju...starih dobrih vremena. Uz opis jednog prostora i događaja, pred nama prolaze decenije, vijekovi mogućih pretpostavki civilizacijskih usuda. I nestaju, kao gumicom izbrisani. Da bi se ponovo rodili. Sramežljivi, ali dovoljno cinično - satirični kroz riječi autora koji kaže „Crkvi će biti dozvoljeno da od sada djeluje samo u sastavu kemijske industrije kao proizvodni pogon opijuma za narod, a u liturgiji će se pojam Boga zamijeniti pojmom države.“ Kao da osluškujem odjeke Duška Radovića iz njegove nadasve inspirativne knjige DOBRO JUTRO, BEOGRADE ili Savu Martinovića iz SAGE O SAGU. Filozofski dijalozi ne ostavljaju mjesta sumnji da je pred nama djelo visprenog znalca mozaičnog oslikavanja isprepletene svakodnevnice mudrih nakana. Lukić ne dozvoljava ni jednoga trenutka zasićenost ni prostorom ni vremenom, ali ni dijalogom kod bilo koga od nas. On nas, bez predaha, nagoni da zastanemo, ponovo pročitamo, izvršimo analizu sadržaja, i nastavimo dalje, nadograđajući skromno znanje njegovim znalačkim sadržajem. Smisla. I zaista „homo percepticus“, čovjek posmatrač - u Lukićevoj prozi dobija ovaploćenje u liku koji to prepoznaje, ali se prepušta, uz zaključak, da bi moglo biti i drugačije, tome sa uzdahom. Iako veli da nije. Ipak jeste. 124

Tvrdokorno bolan. Ta veza ljudi, životinja i stvari u djelu Vitomira Lukića, po meni, nije ništa do objedinjeni oblik duhovne isprepletenosti najavljenih mogućnosti da sve jeste, ovdje i sada jer je bilo tamo i nekada. U ovom ili onom obliku. Odnos sa kobilom, odnosno objektima u vlasništvu nije ništa drugo do reinkarnacija duha prožetog snagom uma. Na ovaj ili onaj način. Ali najviše na razini metonimije, sa kojom uspješno sazrijeva i opuštenost narativnih mogućnosti autora. Kroz razarajuću potku stvaranja Svijeta uz odaslane onozemaljske poruke ciljanih težnji ka ovozemaljskim natruhama što se ljudima zovu, Lukić govori o ljudskoj malodušnosti unutar bogatstva očekivanja. Njegov glavni junak je autor sam, ali i čitalac koji nesvjesno biva uznesen na viši stepen svijesti kako bi, na odgovarajući način stvorio....novoga sebe. Produhovljenog, nadahnutog...SEBE. Ja bih na to dodao jednu složenicu a koju bih skromno nazvao SEBENAS. Uspješno koketirajući sa mogućim pretpostavkama viđenja Bogomajke, autor romana HODNICI SVIJETLOGA PRAHA vida vlastite traume mladosti neizrečene, a nadane. Moguće, a nerealizirane. Ili nam se to samo čini? Svjetlost crkvene prosvijeljenosti duhom vjenčanja i ovdje, unutar željenih naraštaja sreće, pokazuje kako predanost određenom cilju može biti nadahnuće samo ako je dobrotom činjenja i rada usmjereno. S druge strane, možeš činiti mnogo toga, ali ako činiš u pogrešnom pravcu, svjetla na kraju tunela nema. Osim u produhovljenom sebi. Bez obzira bio ti vjernik i/ili gnostik. Pisac i/ili čitalac. Njegove, piščeve, godine su „nepomične“ kako sadržajno veli. I jedna jedina riječ kod Vitomira Lukića zahtijeva dugo posmatranje i snalažljivo razumjevanje. Dok se rane vidaju umućene sa vremenom. Života samog. Dok vrijeme stoji. Kako već kazah na početku mojih skromnih poruka ovdje...ono ni ne prolazi jer i ne postoji. U obliku koji mi možemo spoznati. Njegov prolazak kroz prostor koji je najbliži, možda, SABIRNOM CENTRU Dušana Kovačevića, dok hodnicima podzemnog mraka hodi Mihovil Jerg. Da li je to mrak? Ili žudnja za svjetlom. I samog autora. Dok kočijom putovanja ka svjetlosti hodi. O romanima Vitomira Lukića još sve nije rečeno jer čudna je to najava. Valja ih raščlanjivati duhu stremeći. Vlastitom. Zbog sebe. Jer pisac je to učinio već. Vlastitim otiskom. Djela samih. KRATKE PRIČE I ROMANI Drugi tom pred nama su PRIPOVIJETKE I NOVELE Vitomira Lukića. Sveobuhvatnost književnog opusa je veoma uspješno snalaženje u lavirintu predodžbi, pretpostavki, najava određenih prostorno-vremenskih refleksija. Naime, u zbirci pripovijedaka, odnosno u prvoj priči, istoimenog naziva - SOBA ZA PROLAZNIKE sve se može svesti samo u jednu jedinu riječ: ČISTILIŠTE. Ta soba u kojoj se susreću, prolaze njome i razgovaraju 125

osobe potpuno različitih socijalnih i starosnih dobi nije ništa drugo do spisateljska vizija prelaznog stanja duhovnog putovanja u onostrano, čovječije. Rađanje, poslije...I tako do samog kraja kada shvatimo da je greškom osobnost zalutala u sami PAKAO bila...čistilištu stremeći. Jer njegovo, uslovno nazvano, spisateljsko koketiranja sa smrću je u stvari iskonska želja za saznanjem da li je baš sve tako kako i očekujemo..poslušajte: “Ali znao sam: to je smrt. Ona je sveobuhvatna, grana se u krvi i sjećanju kao rak, svaki čas je otkrivamo kako djeluje u nekoj misli ili doživljenom detalju. Ono na što se još uvijek ne smijem odlučiti samo je polazna točka, dakle, to žuto lice iz koga probija uvjerljiva nijansa trave, usta zalijepljena i osušena uza zube, taj osmijeh izvan skale živih osmijeha, onaj gorki i užasavajući humor samog čina: mudri i nemoćni smijeh hladnog, gluhog mesa”. I ova priča pod nazivom LADINA SMRT otkriva raskošan spisateljski talent čovjeka Lukića. Na trenutak kao da susrećemo Borhesa i Lorcu dok Turgenjev nagovara Dostojevskog na zajedničku jutarnju kafu...jer u istoj priči veli i ovo.“Treba čuvati, rekao sam sam sebi, onaj izuzetni bljesak čovjeka koji je prošao kroz vrijeme, dešifrirati ga u zatvorenoj komori svoga duha i objaviti suštinu poruke koju je ostavio. Neka ona bude pokopana među toplim dlanovima koje ću sklapati za nju, neka bude, umjesto u zemlji, izgubljena u cirkulaciji moje krvi i mojih sjećanja. Svako proljeće će oživjeti u pokretu neke slučajne žene. Možda ću trebati živjeti da bih dočekao da mi se u nečijim usnama podmetnu njene, da mi ona kaže neiskazanu nježnost očima neke namjernice. Vjerujem da će opet doći sa crvčcima ovoga ljeta. Njena zamišljenost eteričnog osvjetljenja ove doline u doba punog mjeseca. Ono što treba pobijediti, to ionako ostaje samo meni. Zato pustite me, vaše utjehe ja znam, one će odložiti ono što mi upravo sada treba. Ne smijem ništa uništiti. Večeras ću ostati sam u ovoj sobi. A sutra ću početi zaista živjeti s njom.“ I koga sam zaboravio navesti pored navedene četvorice. Lukića, naravno. I ne samo navedeno. Pred nama se, čitajući priči za pričom otvaraju modaliteti različitih kreacija unutar jedinstvene poruke. Uz osjećaj da spisatelj nadgrađuje čovjeka i vice versa. I sve do legendi gdje se vrijeme pojavi kada živi zavidješe mrtvima dok polagano pretakaše vlastiti život u ništavilo smrti. Bar im se tada tako činilo. Dok nestajahu pod navalom lavine, u legendi o sablasti. Varijable unutar varijacija dužine predočene proze kod Lukića su inspirativno žive. Bez obzira radi li se o nekoliko kartica teksta ili desetinama stranica hartije pred nama, njegova poruka je u jednostavnosti predočenog, usmjerena proročkim vizijama čovjeka u piscu, a nerijetko i obrnuto. Ali, uvijek i nadasve inspirativno. Kako i Turgenjev zapisa svojevremeno „Nema ništa jače i nemoćnije od riječi…“. Kod 126

Vitomira Lukića je moć u nemoći svakodnevnice da nemoć moćna postane. I uvijek uspijeva. Moćno ovladati prostorom i vremenom koje predstavlja književnim žanrovima bez obzira da li se tu radi o svakovrsnoj prozi i/ili poeziji. Njegove rečenice imaju dvostruki pristup čitaocu. Sa jedne strane imamo susret sa kratkoćom nadahnute misli...poslušajte:“Na domaku slučajne misli drijema veliko zlo.“...Dok sa druge strane pred nama je zbunjujuća sentenca raznovrsnosti koja zbunjuje i očekivanja, a kamoli osobnosti čitalaca: „Disao sam damarima i mjehurima očnih jabučica kao žaba kreketuša na vrućem pepelu. Jasno sam ćutio kako je moje veliko napaćeno srce poput zgažene glavnje prešlo u tisuće malih i sva su ona kucala toliko brže koliko su puta bila umnožena.“ Detalji su kod Lukića na pijadestalu svježine književnosti kao umjetnosti riječi. Kao, usudiću se kazati, Leonardo da Vinchi koji Đokondu bješe postavio na pijadestal neprikosnovene vladalice našim čulima, tako i Lukić svoje pisanje pretpostavlja pukim sentencama svakodnevnice koje pokušavamo predočiti. On uspijeva ne samo zbog činjenice da snaga uma jednoga čovjeka čini slabost misli stotine drugih, već i zbog toga što objedinjenost znanja o sebi, po sebi i za sebe u slučaju ovog autora i čini višeslojnost njegove kako prozne poetike ali tako i poetske proze. I kada kaže kako njegovi preci žive u njemu, u njegovim kretnjama, u njegovoj volji kao smrt koja se nastani u tijelu i sve do konačnog sjedinjenja upravo sa njom, autor u stvari, cijelim tokom putovanja ka neumitnom kraju (a njemu se desio dok je u 62.godini života šetao zajedno sa prijateljem Milom Babićem obalom Miljacke u Sarajevu i kada je i zastao pred smrću 30 maja 1991.g.)...kako rekoh autor, u stvari, cijelim tokom putovanja ka neumitnom kraju pokušava samo na trenutak odložiti neumitno, ono što će sigurno doći. Ispunjenim životom samim. A kada piše o životinjama i ljudima, to nije vrhunac groteske unutar pisanih poruka, kako bi neki amaterski pledoaje mogao početi, već je to upozoravajuće strahopoštovanje prema nečemu što mi, kao svjesna bića (mada se pitam u kojem kontekstu svjesnosti... Aristotelovskom ili Hazjajinskom1?) pokušavamo uspostaviti kao lanac sudbine. A mi smo na vrhu tog lanca i vodimo igru. No, da li je baš tako? Naslov O ŽIVOTINJAMA I LJUDIMA je i sam po sebi dovoljno anahroničan da se moramo zapitati zbog čega je u ovom slučaju prednost data manje vrijednim pojavnostima na ovome svijetu. Odgovor je upravo u čitanju Lukića. Kada bih vam sve rekao, ne bi bilo razumno čitati sa već jasnim odrednicama. Jednostavno, jer šta god da kažem, poništiću realno mogućnost kreiranja vaše, vlastite slike o tome. A to ne želim, jer sam 1

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uvjeren da ga svi možemo, ali i moramo drugačije čitati. Radi istine o nama samima, ponajviše. I on, kao čovjek, dok sanja o vlastitoj kući, sanja o Bugojnu...gdje se, makar u snovima osjećao veoma sigurnim...on kaže: „U toj kući u Bugojnu, stanujući visoko iznad sitnih i lukavih prizemlja, moji snovi nisu više imali potrebe za bedemima sigurnosti. Barem u svijetu niskih gradove i udobnosti koja se širila horizontalno, stanovati visoko značilo je sanjati život u sigurnosti.“...Njegovi snovi javi streme. Ispisani, pak na papiri, življi su od nečije jave. Iako još daleko od toga ostaju. Lukić ovdje i sada penetrira duboko u misaone dubine podsvijesti sa željom da objasni neobjašnjivo, a to u ovom slučaju jeste upravo kako i zbog čega upravo te i takve snove sanja. Cijeli jedan manji dio njegovog proznog opusa su priče proizašle iz snova. Kod njega su upravo snovi taj most koji se dijelom može objasniti i kao spona između ovoga i onoga svijeta. Neka vrsta čistilišta duše. Kada smo na trenutak spojeni sa svemogućim... očekivanjima. Evo kako on to objašnjava u priči MOJA MAJKA SE KUPA: „Pitanje postavljeno duši moje majke: Ako se u snu kupamo pred smrt i poslije smrti, nije li san ocean koji sve zna mišlju svojih struja i sve pamti formulom svojih soli. Mogu li vjerovati da je san maternica iz koje će se roditi nada našeg ponovnog susreta kao što sam se ja rodio iz tebe. A u malim snima udostoji me, ugasla zvijezdo moje sreće, barem pogleda koji će obasjati stazu sutrašnjeg dana.“ Vitomir Lukić je i u dijelu sabranih djela naziva PRIPOVIJETKE I NOVELE još jednom potvrdio pitkost književnog pehara koji je kod njega ispunjen vinom nastalih iz grožđa vinograda inspiracije mirakula. Čak i kada selo ostane bez Boga, kako veli..a šapatom uma dodaje: „radeći danju za TEBE, a noću za NJEGA, da bi se kraljevstvo TVOJE slavilo in secula seculorum. Amen.“ Zaista, gdje prestaje pisac, a počinje čovjek? PJESME I DRUGE PROZE... „...Jer nema dolje ništa, pjesma svoje korijenje u njega namače. Slikovitost je pred hirom oplodnje. Kutije smo pune ječanja... Poslije Boga niko se tako nije poigrao stvaranja iz ničega...“ Nerijetko sam bio iznenađen, dok čitah Lukićevu poetiku, lakoćom njegovog izražaja koja se ogleda u čudnim opisima usmjerenih objašnjenjima IGRE sui generis. Iskonsko stvaranje, creacia ultimative je igra kod Lukića, jer on sve posmatra upravo kao igru života, odnosno 128

životnu igru. Jednostavno?..samo naizgled...jer...“...s nekog prozora siđe flauta, obiđe trg i preda riječ melankoliji dana od koje sam je i ja zatim preuzeo...“ Te veze isprepletenosti materijalnog i duhovnog unutar ljudskih stremljenja Lukića predstavljaju unutar jedinstvenog oblika prezentacije – omogućavanja shvatanja njegovog spisateljskog duha u čovjeku i vice versa. U njegovoj poeziji religioznost nije causa prima već je logičan slijed životnih usmjerenja. Produhovljeni oblik viđenja sebe u nečemu što ljudi još uvijek ne vidješe, ali itekako osjetiše, kao condicio prima, uzrok svih stvari. Bogom što nazvaše. Meni, kao gnostiku, uopšte zapitanost o tome ne predstavlja problem jer odgovor je uvijek u ljudima. No i u svetim knjigama se može naći..samo valja čitati i na odgovarajući način ne samo predočavati već i živjeti u skladu s tim. Zbog toga se pitam....a u POKAJANJU-AL TAWBA...Suri IX (prevod Kur'ana časnog od strane Besima Korkuta a po nalogu Kralja Fahda iz Saudijske Arabije...) je navedeno...na str.197...citat: „Licemjeri i licemjerke slični su jedni drugima: traže da se čine nevaljala djela, a odvraćaju od dobrih, i ruke su im stisnute; zaboravljaju Allaha, pa je i On njih zaboravio. Licemjeri su zaista pravi nevjernici.“ A odgovor je, kako rekoh u ljudima, prije svega. A Lukić kaže..“Od igara što mi predstoje/jedino je s igrom kušnje gotovo...i sve te male stvari/imaju nešto u središtu/oko čega se i dalje svijet okreće,/a ti se samo prazniš...a ako porušimo mostove/ispod čega će teći rijeke“. No, da pojasnim zbog čega iskoristih dio Sure IX iz Kur'ana časnog unutar objašnjenja ciljane poetike Vitomira Lukića: - Otvorena igra produhovljenog čovjeka kao odsjaj spisatelja se manifestira iskrenošću predočenih tendencija preinake svijeta. Vitomir Lukić ima jednu rijetku crtu koju veoma mali broj književnih stvaralaca posjeduje, a to je živjeti u skladu sa vlastitim htijenjima i nazorima spisateljstva i stvarati, odnosno pisati u skladu sa vlastitim htijenjima i nazorima čovjekoljublja. Usklađenim sa porukom energije kojoj se svi, at the end of day vraćamo, a zovemo je Bogom, Allahom ili Budom. Razlika između ovoga vremena opterećenog klerikalnim do bola našeg vlastitog, i onoga kada je stvarao Vitomir Lukić je u rečenici, odnosno misli koju nerijetko govorim: „Prije rata smo imali religiju ideologije, a danas imamo idelogiju religije.1“ Slobodno me možete razapeti na stubu sopstvenih očekivanja ako meritorno kažem da bi Vitomir Lukić i danas svrsishodno usmjerio svoje žaoke i protiv današnjih licemjera, kao što je to radio svojevremeno i u vremenu koje se smatralo ateističkim, odnosno nevjerničkim.

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Ipak, njegova poetika, unutar vlastite višeslojnosti sama priča i u POBUNI STVARI...jer “...Nova djeca zločina učiće razlomke na mome tijelu...“..“I tako, dok čekasmo ispunjenje proroštva,/drveće se dvaput presvuče./Škripale su od mraka stranice kreveta/sa ženama koje su se prikazama podavale,/i stenjale su i grebale,/s noktima u svanuću....Jedne noći vrata pobjegoše/sa stražarskih mjesta/i drhtaše kao ovce,/a prostori počeše da se bratime/pred našim bivšim očima....Iz ovoga mjesta otići će samo rijeke/a Sunce će nam ih opet vratiti...“ On je bio permanentni borac protiv rušenja mostova. Kao neimar riječi ih je neprestano gradio. Bivajući i ohol, ali i surov prema samome sebi, ovozemaljskom sebi. Stvarajući pretpostavke da onozemaljski Lukić čistoći vapi. Ovozemaljskoj. Iskrenoj. Ljudskoj. Unutar spisateljskog žara. Lična proza1 No, u knjizi PJESME, I DRUGE PROZE ima još i romana... odnosno njihovih skica... DJETINJSTVO U DONJEM VAKUFU je jedan od onih proznih uradaka koji bi mogli nazvati ličnom, istraživačkom, autobiografskom prozom. Dakle, ne nešto što ostaje u amanetu čitanja već što jeste i vlastiti testament činjenja. Prema sebi. Naime, ne mogu se oteti utisku da je ovo proza više usmjerena istraživanju, ali i propitivanju sopstvenih osjećanja, a ne samo predočavanju sjećanja. Ipak, tu je prisutan i opis prostora, ljudi i običaja toga vremena i okruženja u toj maloj bosanskoj kasabi, Donjem Vakufu. Percepcija i prosjaka tadašnjih za Lukića je poseban doživljaj. Od Zlatnog Joze, preko Stanka do Jure, vidimo koloplet čudnih likova obuvenih nakanama dobrote, ali i

Sabahudin Hadžialić, sjedi prvi s desne strane, govori o Vitomiru Lukiću u Bugojnu, 26.05.2012.

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čeznutljivosti. Unutar svog profesionalnog delanja. Prosjaštva. Evo, uhvatih sebe kako, pod uticajem egzotičnosti jezika Vitomira Lukića, i sam kreiram sentencu...ponoviću... „obuvam nakane dobrote“. No, zaista nadahnjuje. Njegov jezik. Dječija igra kod njega kroz pričanje priča pod jorganom ali i pjevanje pjesama o banu Jelačiću uvijek šalje određenu poruku - o pripadnosti, obuhvaćenosti i jedinstvu. Djece i naroda koji čine. Manjina unutar većine jednog prostora i vremena, zatomljena u vlastiti atar, tražila je i u Donjem Vakufu mogućnost izražaja toploti općenja što stremi. Ne namečući se. Čak ni samome sebi. Iako je čuo od nekoga, kako sam navodi, da je vrag u toj kući koja se nalazi u turskom groblju, a turbetom se zove, ta dječija mašta iskrenošću nije sebi mogla dozvoliti sebi da upita kako to da vrag boravi upravo tu, već je Tom Sojerovskom1 radoznalošću htjela, zajedno sa mlađim bratom, otići i provjeriti zbog čega se na toj drvenoj kućici „čas ukaže svijetla pukotina, čas opet sakrije.“ I čak ni tada, kada bi se približio sa mlađim bratom da provjeri navode o vragu nije bio siguran da li je to tačno jer „Ponekada smo mislili da tu zapravo ništa nema i da nam se samo priviđalo. Međutim, ponovo bi nas obuzela još jača trema kada bi se to s nesumnjivom uvjerljivošću ponovilo.“ On govori o DOBROM KOJI TU ŽIVI i CRVENOM JARCU KOJI PO POJATI SKAČE. Ovaj virtualni oblik realnog svijeta je bio dio njegovog djetinjstva, iznad svega. I ne samo to. Mnoštvo je izvanredno predočenih vitraža susreta, avantura, ali i zrelih promišljanja unutar mladosti htijenja. I dok je dugo tinjala noć u prozorima...Lukić najavljuje smrtno rođenje brata koji živješe samo mjesec dana...Žestoko bolno je i za čitanje, a kamoli za prepričavanje. Idući dalje, egzotičnim otocima Lukićeve proze, dolazimo do onog dijela koje je priređivač SABRANIH DJELA, uvaženi kolega Dr. Antun Lučić, nazvao ZASEBNE PROZE. I odmah, u susretu sa prvom „zasebnom“ prozom na um mi pade još jedna vlastita misao koja veli „onaj ko želi pticom biti, prvo mora napraviti gnijezdo visoko na grebenu“. Da sagledamo svu žestinu smrti u svome iskonskom nadahnuću. Ubistvu jednog života - orla. Briljantna minijatura od samo tri stranice izgleda kao nečiji roman od tri stotine najava, nakana i blijedih realizacija. Samo što u ovom slučaju ima sve ono što minijaturu čini pričom. Životnom. U smrti svojoj. Cjelina je u ovom slučaju svrhovita predloškom značajne najave, uvoda i konačnog creschenda priče. I ne samo ove. Jer pred nama je u ovom ciklusu nešto što izuzetno podsjeća na Raymonda Carvera u svojoj cikličnosti kratkoće jezgrovitosti izražaja, a opet tu je i nešto svojstveno samo Vitomiru Lukiću unutar prepoznatljivosti njegovih odabira. Riječi. Rečenica. Spisatelja kao 1

Mark Tven. „Avanture Toma Sojera“

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čovjeka, ali i vice versa. Od muzičara do zidara, preko portira do željezničara, i sve do indijskih godina, pred nama je osoba željna učenja. Dok vrši pedantno predstavljanje sopstvenih opuštajućih sentenci kao maestral blagih namjera, ali sa burinom koji se iza pučine valja. Kao avet koja dolazi iz svijeta zombija te 1965.g. - kojima krave služe za pravljenje svih vrsta jela, odjednom se sa njim, kako i sam kaže, u Indiji susreću „Te krave...koje...nose sa sobom prokletstvo vječite osude na slobodu, one gaze nekim međuprostorom i odmah ga zatvaraju za sobom. Te bijele, nikom potrebne životinje, zaključane u tajnu svoga jezika, najokrutniji su primjer obožavanja. One ovim svijetom pronose zastrašujuću opomenu slave kao kazne.“ I njegova veza između ljudi, životinja i stvari i ovom prilikom se potvrđuje na primjerima pasa, vrabaca i krava u jednoj dalekoj zemlji Indiji. Toliko dalekoj, kao da nam je, iza ćoška. Kada govorimo o ponašanju ljudi, samih. U džungli na asfaltu. Putopisi Lukić Vitomira su kao i biciklisti u New Delhiju. Najopasniji su, pardon, najdetaljniji, onda kada se najmanje nadate. A jedan je vrli pitac neki još davno rekao „detalj je Bog“. Lukić je upravo na tom i takvom putu i tražio u tom detalju, svoj cilj. Traženja, prije svega. Jer kako je i ranije rečeno, ni put ni cilj nisu bitni. Bitno je putovanje. Uz naglašeno koketiranje sa novinarskom persiflažom putopisa, autor svoje književne odsjaje upravo usmjerava ka mimikriji svakodnevnice odnosa među ljudima na ulicama Delhija, uz prisustvo samog autora. Koji je istovremeno i sudionik i narator. I učesnik i gledalac. Ali i pisac, nebeskih poriva koji kaže: “Nepravedno je i sa spoznajnog stanovišta ako pomislimo da van knjige nema ništa, da knjiga počinje na početku sebe i da se završava sjećanjem. Postoji jedna vrijednost knjige pretpostavljena njoj, koja je time ne zasjenjuje.“ Odgovor je kod Lukića u namjeri da nas odvede putevima traženja. Kao vođa koji vidi. Itekako. Dok indijske kobre, kao opomena upravo tamošnjem smislu za simultanost, upozoravaju o bliskosti smrti na ulicama Delhija, upoznajemo se sa temeljnim stupovima vedske etike koja kaže da dijeljenje postoji bez interesa za nagradu, rad radi rada, a ne zbog njegova korisna ishoda. I kako se ne bi zapitali na kojoj je planeti bio autor, odnosno koja je to zemlja koja interes ne poznaje, ali već sljedećom rečenicom nas razoružava da postoji manjina izabranih koji to slijede i velika većina kod koje postoji, kako autor kaže, otužna prljava slika odsutnog zanimanja za život i stvaralačke posljedice rada. Ovakav esejističko-sociološki pristup je svojstven svojevremeno bio novinarima kao što su bili Jug Grizelj i Veselko Tenžera1. Ovdje imamo pisca isprepletenog novinarskim uzusima koji u nekoliko rečenica piše ono što nekim novinarima treba i po nekoliko 1

Ex-yu novinari

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„čaršafa“ kartica, hajde, da profesionalno usmjeren velim. Povijesno nadahnut pred nas razastire mnoštvo informacija pitkošču omeđenih ali nepretenciozno navedenih. Dok čitate Lukićeva promišljanja uz navođenje imena ljudi i mjesta gdje bijaše tokom boravka u Indiji pune dvije godine pred vama se otvaraju dveri jednog drugog oblika ljudskog postojanja, koje je istovremeno duhovno mirno ali manifestno izuzetno razuzdano. U duhovnosti svojoj. Predlažem da pročitate priču DECEMBARSKA PANORAMA. Kazaće vam se samo. I kada govori o ljudima, ali i o hramovima. Koje su kreirali i stvarali ljudi. Da bi neke druge ljude usmjerili ka duhovnosti samoj. Unutar traženja istine. Bogu što stremi. Kada kaže „Religije su, kao i ideologije, uvijek plaćale danak općem ukusu“, govoreći upravo o hramu u Indiji koji je bogomolja izvana a zabavište unutra, toliko istina blješti da oči moramo pokriti rukama. Uši, pak, ostaju nepokrivene. Nažalost. I kada je krenuo dalje, van New Delhija, svojim KRUGOM PO RADŽASTANU, kao Evlija Ćelebija1 onomad, odnosno kao njegov savremenik Zuko Džumhur2, konkretnošću fascinira dok scene reda kao na filmskom platnu obilazeći prostranstva te azijske zemlje - Indije. A kada krene INDIJSKIM TEMAMA, e, tada je pred nama pokušaj, i moram reći veoma uspješan u svojoj metodološkoj postavci, da se objasni i politički sistem ove mnogoljudne zemlje. Od onih marginalnih skupina do vladajućih struktura. Kao da smo pred profesorom geo-političkih studija koji poznaje ne samo historiju, odnosno povijest već i muziku, odnosno ples. I naravno, kada se susretnemo sa putopisima iz Bosne, tek tada se pred nama ovaploćuje djelo samo. Autor. Dok ide od BRODA, GUČE GORE, PROZORA i sve do LIVNA, Lukić nas upoznaje sa mnoštvom istina, koje su skrivene u njegovim rečenicama bile...i kaže „Kažu – veli gvardijan, mladi tihi čovjek – Krleža je kanonički sin, a Andrić franjevački. To s njegovim rođenjem treba raščistiti, da s nas skine teret.“ A zatim...dok hodi, iz Guče Gore ka Prozoru, kaže „Zaboravio sam kako izgleda Bosna ispod noža i pohodničkih cokula, ona prijeteća, jedinstvena na sebe i na neljubazno nebo i na nesigurne puteve upućena Bosna u kojoj smo se mi rodili i ne pomišljajući koliko su kasabe bile malene, iako im rubove nikada nismo dosezali i tako nam se činilo da su veće od svake naše mogućnosti.“ I sve do susreta sa Gabrijelom Jurkićem3 u Livnu, koji ga se dojmio toliko da je u blagoj polemici sa Jurkićem pokazao da su iz dva rukavca oba umjetnika krenula ka istom cilju - sjedinjenju u božjim nakanama 1

Putopisac iz srednjovjekovnog turskoga doba Ex-Yu putopisac sa kraja XX vijeka /stoljeća 3 Poznati likovni umjetnik iz Ex-Yu 2

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inspiracije. Jedan kistom a drugi olovkom, odnosno perom. Dok ga naziva apostolom ljubavi, Lukić odaje dužnu pažnju senzibilitetu kako slikara, tako i čovjeka Gabrijela Jurkića. U Livnu. Eseji Eseji su kod Jukića, opet, storia specifica i zaista oni su IZABRANI, kako je i priređivač naveo u dijelu knjige PJESME, DRUGE PROZE...pod nazivom IZABRANI ESEJI...Višak historije/ povijesti/ istorije koju mu živimo na prostoru Balkana, oprostite, Jugoistočne Evrope Vitomir Lukić sneno objašnjava: „..Platonove su ideje kao nosioci apsolutnog bitka trebali stvoriti svijet oslobođen već u samome nastanku od svakog apsurda. Ako su jedino one prava realnost, a taktilni svijet oblik prolaznog postojanja, mogli smo se svih dvadeset pet stoljeća tješiti da je ljudska glupost nusprodukt prilikom inkarnacije čiste ideje u materijalni svijet. Platon je bio sklon da nesavršenstvo društva objašnjava njegovim nepoznavanjem smisla ideala i stoga je u idealnoj državi preporučivao filozofe kao vodeći društveni stalež...“ No, to se nikada nije desilo. Danas imamo NACIJU na pijadestalu očekivanja i, obzirom da je nacija nastala ljudskom rukom, valja nama samo sačekati kraj historije koju poznajemo. I tada će i ona nestati, zar ne? Istovremeno, i NADNACIJE su istoga oblika...nestajanju sto streme. Svi se sjećamo lažnjaka sa JUGOSLOVENSKOM nacijom koja je u stvari bila supremacija jednog oblika objedinjavanja pojedinačnih težnji unutar kolopleta mnoštva nagona. I koja nije uspjela. Nestala je u ropotarnici povijesti. No, polemišući sa Lukićem, ne mogu a da ne navedem da ne postoji razlika izmedju „revolucionarnog soc-realizma socijalističkog društva“ i „reakcionarnog turbo-folk mehanizma kapitalističkog društva“ osim u jednom. Tamo smo imali jednoumlje a ovdje danas i sada imamo troumlje. U Bosni i Hercegovini. Samo ću navesti nekoliko redaka sa kojima se može polemisati: „Moral je postao komunistički moral i on je pljačku mogao justificirati ispoljavanjem klasne pravde. Permanentno nasilje nad tuđom sigurnošću i imovinom dobilo je u novom kodeksu prava naziv „klasna borba“ a sva pisana zakonitost bila je legalni oblik bezakonja. Sluganstvo u literaturi uživalo je legitimitet kao „prijatnost u literaturi“. Na ove riječi odgovoriću konkretnim primjerima dvadeset godina kasnije: Pri(h)vatizacija, sakrivanje pod skute nacionalnog pogroma jer kada mene napadaju, brate dragi, napadaju moj narod...ja sam krao po zakonu..jer tamo gdje svi kradu niko ne krade...štrajkovi koji ne prestaju...530.000 nezaposlenih, odnosno blizu 50 % radno sposobnog stanovništva....a živimo u demokratiji..ovaploćenju vjekovnog/stoljetnog sna o slobodi...od pameti, dodao bih...a štrajkujemo, umjesto da uživamo u vlastitim glasovima birajući iznova nove meštre 134

lopovluka, bez obzira da li se radi o „desnim“ ili „lijevim“ varijantama ideoloških namjera...Svijet vječitog proljeća ne postoji samo u komunizmu...I u kapitalizmu postoji itekako...ali za odabrane...I nemojte mi govoriti o jednakim pravima i mogućnostima u zemlji u kojoj je moguće da otac i sin budu istovremeno ambasadori, odnosno u državi gdje istog prezimena mogu ministri biti, doduše na različitim novima vlasti...ovdje se radi o klasičnoj zamjeni teza...i uvjeren sam da bi sa istim žarom Vitomir Lukić, naslonjen na svoje hrišćanske korijene koje teže dobroti, pravdi i razumjevanju (zar sve religije to ne žele...ali jedno je željeti, a drugo, sasvim drugo moći...) i danas pisao o ovoj bandi kao što je pisao o onoj, anamo onoj bandi tada. Odmah se pitate, gdje je rješenje) Naravno, apsolutna sloboda ne postoji, a i Erih From nije jednom o tome govorio. Ipak, postoji upravo to...putovanje ka njoj. To je ona draž usmjerena dobroti, iskrenosti, otvorenosti a protiv licemjerja, zavisti, mržnje. Vidite, mojoj osrednjosti je prije osam godina bilo ponudjeno mjesto ministra u kantonalnoj vladi i mislim da sam jedina osoba koja je odbila ministarsku poziciju u ovoj državi, a kakva smo država, svako od nas će moći biti ministar bar jednom u svom životu obzirom koliko nivoa vlasti imamo...a koliko je vas koji ovo čitate koji bi odbili apanažu od četiri godine meraklijskog odnosa prema vlastitom džepu?..malo, zaista malo..vidite, o tome se radi..sve dok ne shvatimo da ministar jeste tu da služi, a da ne bude uslužen, do tada će nam i biti ovako...a što nisi prihvatio i borio se unutra?- reči će neko, odmah...moj odgovor je sljedeći: zamislite tor sa 20 vukova i ovcom sa njima...sta mislite ko ce preživjeti?...No, da se vratimo Lukiću... Jednostavnost Lukićevog izričaja dok navodi Platona, Aristotela, Kanta, Hegela, Marxa, ide logičnim slijedom da je jedan režim morao nestati kao istrošeni oblik koji više nije mogao „izmišljenim neprijateljima hraniti svoje političke rituale...“ No, kao vjernik, Lukić poziva na dobro. I odmah se slažem sa njime. Jer vjera nije samo predanost Bogu unutar htijenja konačnog objedinjenja u Bogu već i nada za bolje življenje. Čak i u smrti svojoj. Kao i Aristotel u Nihomanovoj etici rekao...gdje se ne bavimo time samo da bismo saznali šta je vrlina, nego zato da postanemo dobri, jer inače ne bi od vrline bilo nikakve koristi...To je ideal Lukićev. Potpisujem. Primjerima. I dalje, u esejima koji slijede, Lukić sihrono, stilistički besprijekorno udijeva misao u naše promatranje okruženja u kojem živimo. Preko Franjevaca, tih čuvara ne samo opstojnosti jednog naroda već i države Bosne i cjelini, preko definiranja početka kulture na određenom prostoru..poslušajte... Kultura počinje onda kada jedan narod preuzme odgovornost za svijet. Dodamo li tome da je ona u svome procesu neprestani izbor, onda je kultura i moralni čin...Da, i uvjeren sam da bi 135

Lukić potpuno sve ponovio kao i na obnoviteljskoj Skupštini HKD NAPREDAK 1990.g. uz jednu naznaku...da bi bio razočaran društvom u cjelini koje je kreiralo troumlje na mjestu nekadašnjeg jednoumlja...umjesto društva izbora mogućih pretpostavljenih dobrota, dobilo smo društvo selektivnih, već odabranih, mogućnosti...ali čega? Erudita Lukić je u neprestanom konfliktu sa čovjekom Lukićem. No, to je veoma inspirativno, pak, za pisca Lukića. I on kaže...Velika djela su uvijek pobjeda nad strastima ograničenja, kao što je za pisca književna istina izvan domašaja religioznih uvjerenja, ideologija, rase i nacije, a da u isto vrijeme ostane najdubljom istinom svake od ovih kategorija uzete pojedinačno...a koliko je samo aktuelna i danas njegova rečenica iskazana na skupu pisaca, održanom u ODJEKU, 26.1.1991.g...Sad će, poslije kratkog predaha, dok političari povrate dah, početi pregovori gdje će kao vrhunske vrijednosti figurirati: nacije, povijesti i granice. Počet će nova faza političke muzeologije. Ta opsjednutost etničkim granicama već je razorno djelovala na duhovnu ograničenost čitavih nacija. Molim!...Dvadeset godina kasnije, kao da se nismo pomjerili ni metar, pardon ni sekundicu vremena od ovoga. Aktuelnost Lukićevih izjava je bolna. I danas smo nesvjesni u svojoj nesvijesti da neprestano živimo vlastitu smrt. Služeći onomad jednoj, a danas potpuno istoj kasti. Lopova, brate. Bez obzira koje ime i prezime nose. Jednoj riječi se klanjam, sa dubokim poštovanjem...a to je KOMPROMIS. To je rješenje koje je predložio Lukić onomad. Ali ko ga je slušao? I kada dođemo do KNJIŽEVNIH RASPRAVA unutar predočavanja ovoga ciklusa ne možemo a da ne naglasimo višeslojnost Lukićevog djela koje nikada nije nametalo već opominjalo, naglašavalo, činilo latentno manifestnim sve naše pretpostavke o nečemu, nekome ili za nešto ili za nekoga...jer i sam kaže: „...ponekad mi se čini da brže razaramo ovaj svijet nego što mu je bilo potrebno da nastane...“ Inspiracio sublimaris koji neumitno nastaje dok čitamo štivo Vitomira Lukića nije ništa drugo do objedinjeno znanje koje je čekalo čitanje. Odgovarajućeg oblika svijesti. Još kada bi mogli i živjeti u skladu sa njime. Evo, iako dolazim iz, uslovno nazvano, druge kulture i tradicije, pronađoh mnoštvo mementum causali sopstvenog opstanka. To i jeste prednost ovih naših prostora koje lažni proroci manama nazivaju. Jedna riječ- ISPREPLETENOST- je prednost, a ne mana. I ZAPISI su inspirativni oblik predožbe o autorskoj snazi. I kada govori o jeziku, tom kauzalnom obliku nacionalne svijesti i pojavnosti, polemikom nadjačava sopstvenu bol. No, nimalo ne vrijeđajući drugoga i drugačijeg, samo tražeći ravnopravnost opstojnosti. Vlastite. Književnik, Sarajevo, 26.5.2011.g. 136

Sabahudin Hadžialić Lukic per se1 Speaking of novels, I have to mention Vitomir Lukic cinematic reality that inspires us while he is trying to depict not only the color of everyday small Bosnian tiny town (Donji Vakuf, but also Bugojno, where they went to pick up textiles for sewing, as the author says) in the novel ALBUM from 1968. g, but also a sense of community, belonging to the family as the basic starting point of this form of Lukic's prose, while the unusual role he gave things, windows, for example, writing „Looked at us wide openned on-personal windows...” ...can windows look at? Literature is art of words which was brought to a climax of the supernatural at Vitomir Lukic's way, isn't it? Encircles the sincererity while building the nobility of communication. Listen to this "we felt under our foot, slippery as innards, the bottom covered with fine untouched mud..:" Rather than feel outrage over these comparisons, we have before us a clear, raw harsh picture of growing up encircled with reality, but no hard feelings even for the mud which lives in ud as something dirty, horrible... it's fine, untouched. But in the moment until it has been reached by the human hand, then becomes what is true in us... dirty, ugly. In other words, the sense that another hand and not human wrote out these lines, exists every momment... because... it's like the writer's spirit came out of another spirit, of man, separated and living his own life, creating, and creates a new reality. Lukić's. Above all. Its painful reality of the seventies of XX century reminded, in fact, was the forerunner, not his fault, but the fault of the then rulers who, not to deceive, not much different from today ones, and I ussuall say that Socialism was a rotten system. With capitalism, the process is completed... I say, he was the forerunner of one Jesica Jung, and contemporary of Charles Bukowski... listen... "...I felt like the fresh pillar of the sun as the glass shaft descended through me shaking my entire interior of full tremors of joyful orgasm, as when I sat down on a horse or I was jumping naked into the water .... or .... They turned her on her side as a limp ball, ignoring the others through her nightgown over softened and molded boos which were sticky with the thighs, went down sideways. Only her dull, short nipples still belonging to the girl 1

Vitmor Lukić, writer (1929-1991, Bosnia and Herzegovina)

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ones..." Eh,... think a little bit, you would have signed these words also... but he had the knowledge, but also the courage to wrote them. As I see it, that was some forty years ago and today some people would like, that genuine sincerity to suppress up to pain ... the same ones who cancels Santa Claus in Sarajevo, and build illogical coalitions of leftright or right-left intents. And in fact they can not look at each other eyes at all! They can, because in a country where everyone steals, nobody is stealing, isn't that right?... But, back to Lukic, because he is the guideline of our hopes, so inspiring... Ah, that Christin, and as it was just in the novel ALBUM that author described all Cristines, Alma's, and Mirjana's of our youth... "...because in the nature of the primitive people is to watch at their own life with other people's eyes..." How a powerful truth in a single sentence from Vitomir Lukic. Detail within the message is extremely important because details make the direction towards the ultimate goal of understanding the notion of being itself. O tempora, o mores ... we still live in our own death... watching the life through other people's eyes. Oh, how nice they sound the greetings from the late thirties of the last century and that word "hello" while listening to Lukic saying "That short and still unrecognized period of time invented its own greetings, artificial, and bounded on something, and old acquaintances continued to say "hello" in which there were a hints of memories. "says the writer, while approaching towards us a bleak times before the start of the second, the great war. And today gives up of that "hello" the green ones and the blue ones and the red ones. Within this short yet unrecognized time ... I quote the author. Indeed, Lukic literary spirit of upgraded the human ones. Very much so. Surviving and teaching us. The war in the region in fact has never stopped. There were only intermezzos of virtual peace. As then, as so today, as much as we might would like be quiet about it. Vitomir Lukic knew, as enlightened vision of prophetic words, to identify and shape not only his vision of Hell, or dzehenem, which somebody called a war. He knew to know. Simple as that. Unquestionably. Very. And breathed. Thus, describing his own family Golgotha in the novel ALBUM. The words "there might be some courage that is a virtue" ...and the answer, "There is, every courage is a virtue. Each one. It's admirable. Therefore, it is a virtue..." is a reflection of the ancient Greek powerfull manifest shapes of powerful forces within the courage itself. So David 138

defeated Goliath, but with the knowledge within the courage itself. Here, we talk about the life itself. Oriented towards the courage. And death within his views becomes life. Christin disappears captured with children's novel, of genuine, sincere love. Directed with the word.n Of Vitomir's. As he says himself ... "I've gone to look for Christin... and the only way one could look for Christi, only through a premonition ..." Christin was a shade within the mosaic of searching, watching and hoping. Heat of shades of expression is here, and so I said at the outset to the novel, if film kind and screenwriting was, artful designed. This is a film of life, or the life of the film. Christin's. But also of his, Lukić's. Who again and again taken birth... ".. in depth ancient nebula, enlighted with big augury." About the exotic's of his lighfull language of stratified I will not say, but I will only quote part of a text message sent to me by colleague, Antun Lucic, PhD: .. "Have they handed over to you Lukić's exotic books?“ In the second novel HALLS OF LIGHT POWDER from 1989, Vitomir Lukic, with his own powerful clarity of expression reminds on Danilo Kis from the book "Early sorrows..." Concrete of the own testimony, often in blasphemous way brought to perfection in front of us creates a critical opportunity of own creation - empathy with the drama of the characters who creates the action. Sorry, just only the happening. Within the novel, the presumed intentions. In the meeting of man and society in which it exists. Striving for survival. Often in the empty places of worship, filled with the spirit. Not just of his. Because "...there is not one day in our life without a past... and time can not do anything more to become a matter of life." And the soul is, during the sleep, in permanent contact with death, because it simply forgets where it is and always for the vision search on and on the other side, across the border... Severity of Bulgakov's readings transufes into own megalithic visions of today, creates the fullness of creation. For me, this work is the naracia studiorum, a form of strange movements that requires layered didactics or synthesized bias. Of readers, and of the critics, observers of HALLS LIGHT POWDER. Power of the words here is of a mythic orientations. In fact, listen to "...Those few complacent years before the war have been undermined with the invasion of beggars who are ritually kissed a piece of bread before they landed it into the bag .... usually arriving in the evening when on the window frames were fanned just baked bread. But a mile ahead of them walked the belt of horror of tomorrow where they pronounced the 139

verdict immediately as soon as they entered the courtyard gate, with the mixture of cursing and piety, and than they would fall in the rhetoric under which is disappearing all that exists .... and a great eschatological spectacle ended normally through the ejection of the cap of foam where in the mouth until then insisted glowing lava of the Last Judgment, and on the muddy ground, under the air filled with bigger dandelions, bodies of the prophets lasted in the epileptic seizures dropping screams, chirping, grunting, barking, whine, croaking, accompanied by bloating of the stifle, howling with white turn inside, whistling, swing, snorting, so that no species of Noah's Ark was not left without a voice.... " The depth of his explanations and descriptions is undetectable. But also simple in its complexity. When he says "...a real instrument is the man, because he heard the music before it reach the the sound. And that happens the moment when fate brought him into harmony with the truth. "... The author just seems that incomprehensible constellation of fate uncovers with simplicity of narration explaining the unexplainable. Drinkable. And clearly. By all means! Reflective aristocratic arrogance of the wedding described in this novel is nothing but power of prevalence that these areas contain monolithic nobilities, but insufficiently explored. I guess because of the "surplus of the history" as we have benn complained to from all sides. Of course, this "surplus" of generated history is nothing more than creating new, but false, nobility. For example, do you know what is popular in Sarajevo withn last couple of years? To carry photo for retouching and that today's heads to be mounted on the bodies of that time, saying that we are "from our bey family... Here, you see the photographs of our forefathers in Sarajevo..." they say. And they came from areas where electricity is today... a miracle. Ethereal. But not only beys are in the question. There are also here princes and counts. Worldly. Just like the responsibility that says, when asked where you got so much ownership of property... and Mihovil Jerga says, "I inherited... I have inherited the land from my ancestors ... Since your ancestors no longer exists- interrogator continues- you will be responsible for them also. "Yes, because history starts with us. Prior to us nothing existed. They, simple as the yare, do not understend that the history of criminal behavior drives in fact are creacia sublimaris of human vanity. Those same which creates of pre-war cleaning lady the after-war President of the Constitutional Court or from the pre-war truck driver creates generals today. But of that time also. Once upon a time. In that non140

people system. I would like to know how we call this "people" today? Democratic one. And I do not like democracy, because instead of one, I serve many idiots! This political tragi-comic thriller from Vitomir Lukic is just a description of reality in which lived one generation in one way, while still continuing, but in other way, in the next generation. Unfortunately. Organized anarchy is the fate of this region. Of Balkan. His baroque style introduction into the novel suddenly becomes a tendency of crime stories shaped by political woof. Clear. Until the pain. Overall. Human kind. "And beauty does not consist in passengers, even in the way, but the journey.1" It is exactly about which this prose art work from Vitomir Lukic talsk about. Travel-related targeting to final awareness of the human in us. At least attempting. Through the written word, excuse me, transferred of meaningful fantasy about the opportunities for survival. Huxly-Orwel-art explanations just seemingly inexplicable and revealing the essence of stupidity that one life once created as a postulate of doing everyday, just seemingly the one recently in the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, but in the reality the pain, which in this way, survives every generation that lives in areas of Mountain of blood, and the Balkans it is called... I quote... "...From Mihovil Jerga were confiscated all acres facing south onwith the explanation that it is absorbing the surplus of the sun that, by unwritten rule, belongs to everyone. Then the decision of Marital Court conducted confiscation of western forests because they exported across the border reactionary shadows in the summer twilight. "... End quote. Familiar, isn't it? However, the conflict of the borders of worlds, new and old one, that he calls, in fact, a conflict of crude, cruel, petty bourgeois and insanity world with the new, subtle, honest and open form of altruistic living and acting, at Lukic is on the pedestal of wisdom. No talking-saying with no menings but, indeed, the wisdom. He destroyed the first with power of the argument while the argument of the power of provincial life and our action melts with the conflict with the background sensible, meaningfull sentences, paragraphs of the skill. While Mihovil Jerga separating their name from his conscience signing the confessions of vague amazements, dead people in trempling of the reality, as at the ball in "The Master and Margarita" of Mikhail Bulgakov, creates the reality of invisible hopes. In Eugene Ionesque festival of absurds this one act play 1

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drama that novel is, is really happening in one space and are easy to set up on the scene of stage, and we are looking to crash of the worlds ... and the new borns... who are being demolished. To become even newer. And in fact, the same in which they have been mentioned as â&#x20AC;&#x17E;the good old days", not even realizing that this our days will be "good old days" because the history of human civilization only goes to worse and worse ... finally ...to the end...of good old times. With the description of one of one space and event, in front of us passes decades, centuries of possible assumptions of civilization destiny. And disaperes, like an deleted with an eraser. To be born again. Shy but cynical-satiriccal enough - through words of the author who says "the Church will be allowed from now on to operates only within the chemical industry as a manufacturing plant of making the opium for the people, and in the liturgy the subject of the God will be replaced the subject of state." It's like listening to the echoes of Dusko Radovic from his extremely inspirational book GOOD MORNING, BELGRADE and Sava Martinovic from SAGA ABOUT SAGA. Philosophical dialogues leave no place to the doubt that in front of us connaisseur knowledge owner of mosaic painting of intertwined everyday wise intentions. Lukic, does not allow for one moment saturation neither with space nor time, but with no dialogue of any of us. He does us, without respite, in compelsing to stop, reread, analyze the content, and move on, upgrading the our modest knowledge with his skillful content. Of sense. And indeed "homo percepticus" the man observer - in LukiÄ&#x2021;'s prose gets embodiment in a character who recognizes it, but gives himself, with the conclusion, that it might be otherwise, to this with a sigh. Although he says he is not. Still is. Intractably painful. This connection of people, animals and objects in the work of Vitomir Lukic, for me, is nothing more than a unified form of spiritual entanglement of announced possibilities that all everything is, here and now, because it was there once upon a time and before. In one form or another. Relationship with mares or facilities within ownership is nothing more than a reincarnation of the spirit pervaded with the power of mind. In this or that way. But in the highest level of metonymy, with which successfully mature and relaxes narrative possibilities of the author. Through devastating weft of creating of the World with send ethereal messages of transmitted pursuit of worldly trappings of what people were called, Lukic says about human despondency within the wealth of 142

expectations. His main character is the author himself, and the reader also who unwittingly gets caught up in a higher degree of consciousness to be able, to properly creates.... a new himself. Spiritualized, inspired... HIMSELF. I would also add a single compound which I modestly call HIMSELF-US. Successful flirting with possible sightings of God Mother assumptions, the author of the novel HALLS LIGHT POWDER heals his own unspoken trauma of his youth, and hoped for. Possible but unrealized. Or does it just seems to me? Light of church enlightmened of the wedding spirit here, within the desired generation of happiness, showing how a particular commitment to an certain aim might be inspiration if done with kindness and doing work-oriented. On the other hand, you can do a lot, but if you're doing in the wrong direction, the light at the end of the tunnel does not exist. In addition to the numinous itself. Regardless if you are a Believer and/ or Gnostic. Writer and/ or reader. His, writers, years were the "fixed" as he substantialy says. And even one word with Vitomir Lukic requires long observation and understanding of shrewdness. While early healing of the wounds scrambled with time. Of Life itself. While time stands still. As I said at the beginning, through my modest messages here ... it does not even passing by because it does not exist. In the form that we can perceive. Its passage through the area that is closest, perhaps, COLLECTION CENTRE of Dusan Kovacevic, while through the the underground corridors of darkness walks Mihovil Jerg. Is it dark? Or craving for light. And even of the author. While the coach of journey he walks towards the light. About novels Vitomir Lukic has not all been told and it is a strange announcement. We should divide them aspiring towards a spirit. Of own. Because of us. Because the writer has done it already. Through the own imprint. Of the works itself. Pripovijetke i novele The second volume bin front of us are short stories and novellas from Vitomir Lukic. „Comprehensiveness of literary work” is very successfully navigation in the labyrinth of concepts, assumptions, announcements of certain space-time reflections. Specifically, in the collection of short stories, and in the first story of the same name, „Room for passersby” can all be reduced to a single word: „Purgatory”. The room in which to meet, talk and pass the persons of completely different social and age groups is nothing more than a writer's vision of 143

the transition state of spiritual journey into the beyond, human kind. Procreation, after ... And so to the very end when we realize that something is wrong in your own personality because you stray into the HELL was.. through aspiring purgatory. Because his, conditionally called, penmanship flirting with death is in fact a primordial desire for knowledge, is that really all that and we expect to hearâ&#x20AC;Ś listen: "But I knew: it is death. It is comprehensive, it splits into blood and memories as cancer, every moment we discoveres it how it works in a thought or experienced detail. What I am still, do not have courage, to have decide is only the starting point, therefore, that yellow face from which pierces convincing shade of grass, mouth glued and dried up the teeth, this smile off the scale of living smiles, that bitter and horrifying humor of the act itself: the wise and helpless laughter of cold, deaf meat." And this story entitled DEATH OF LADA reveals a sumptuous literary talent of human Lukic. For a moment, as if we encounter Borhes and Lorca while Turgheniev persuades Dostoevsky to the common morning coffee... because in the same story says this. "We need to guard, I said to myself, that remarkable flash of a man who went through the time, decipher him it in a sealed chamber of his mind and release the essence of the message that he left. May she be buried among the warm hands that will assemble on her, so be it, instead in the land, lost in the circulation of my blood and my memories. Each spring will revive in the move of some random woman. I may need to live that I welcomed me into someone foist of her lips, that she tells me that unspeakable tenderness with the eyes of some passers-by. I believe it will come again with crictes of this summer. Her muse of ethereal light of this valley during the full moon. What should I win, it remains only in me, anyway. So let me, your consolation I know, they will put off what I need right now. I should not destroy anything. Tonight I'll stay in this room. Tomorrow I will begin to really live with her." And who forgot to specify besides these four. Lukic, of course. And not just stated. In front of us, reading story after story opens modalities of different creations within a single message. With the feeling that writer upgraded human and vice versa. And to the legend, where time appears when the living envied the dead while slowly decants own life into nothingness of death. At least for them in that time so it seemed to be. While disappearing under the onslaught of avalanches, in the legends of ghosts. Variables within the variation of length of submitted prose at Lukic are inspiringly live. No matter 144

whether it is a few pages of text and dozens of pages of paper in front of us, his message is within the simplicity of the subject, focused towards the prophetic visions of the human in the writer, and often vice versa. But always and very inspiring. How Turgheniev once wrote "There is nothing stronger and frailty than word." With Vitomir Lukic is power in powerlessness of everyday that powerlessness becomes a powerful. And he always succeds. Powerful master of space and time that represents the literary genres, whether it is about the sundry prose and/ or poetry. His sentences have a dual approach to the reader. On the one hand we have a meeting with the brevity of inspired thoughts... listen: "on the threshold of random thoughts slumber a great evil"... While on the other hand we are facing a bewildering variety of sentence that confuses expectations, an not just alone personalities of the reader: "I was breathing with vains and blisters of eyeballs like a frog croaker in the hot ashes. I clearly hear that my great tormented heart crushed like a brand plucked crossed into thousands of small ones and they are all knocked so quickly how many times they were multiplied." Details are at the pedestal at Lukic freshness of literature as an art of words. Like, I will dare to say, Leonardo da Vinchi put Gioconda on pedestal of nonnegotiable owner of our sences, Lukic his writing merely assumes to the sentences of everyday life which we are trying to present. He succeeds not only because of the fact that the power of the mind of one man makes weak hundreds of others, but also because the unification of knowledge about himself, by himself and for himself in the case of this author makes the multiple layers of his prose but also the poetry and poetic prose. And when he says that his ancestors live in him, in his movements, in his will as a death that dwelt in the body until the final uniting with just her, the author, in fact, during the entire trip to the inevitable end (and it happened in teh age of 62 while in he was walking with a friend Mile Babic on the river bank of Miljacka in Sarajevo when he was stopped in front of death on May, 30th 1991)... as I said the author, in fact, during the entire trip to the inevitable end is trying only to postpone, for the moment, inevitably, what will surely come. Filled with life itself. And when he writes about animals and humans, it is not grotesque peak within text messages, as to some amateur plea could start, but it is a warning in awe of something that we, as conscious beings (although I wonder in what context of awareness... or

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Aristotelian and/or Hazjajin1?) trying to establish as a chain of fate. And we are at the top of the chain and lead the play. But is that really so? Title â&#x20AC;&#x17E;About animals and humansâ&#x20AC;? is by itself enough anachronistic we have to wonder why, in this case the advantage is given to less worthy phenomena in this world. The answer is right excatly in reading of Lukic. If I told you everything, would not be reasonably readable with clear guidelines. Simply because whatever I say, it would cancel the real possibility of creating your own... your own picture on it. And I do not want to do so, because I am convinced that all we can, and we have to have a different read of his art work. Because of the truth about ourselves, mostly. And he, as a man, while dreaming of their own house, is dreaming of Bugojno... where, at least in his dreams felt very safe... he says: "In this house in Bugojno as resident high above the petty and crafty grounds, my dreams no longer had a need for security walls. At least in the world of law cities and comforts that spread horizontally, to be resident on high level meant to dream a life in security."... His dreams are seeking for reality. The printeed ones, however, on paper, are more alive than someone reality. Although still far from being remain. Lukic here and now penetrates deep into the depths of the subconscious thought in order to explain the unexplainable, which in this case is exactly how and why exactly these dreams he dreamde about. An entire small part of his oeuvre prose arew stories derived from dreams. For him, these are the dreams that makes a bridge which could be partly explained as a link between this and the other world. Some sort of purgatory of the soul. When we're at a moment connected with the almighty ... expectations. Here's how he explained that in the story MY MOTHER IS HAVING BATH: "The question asked to the soul of my mother: If in the dream we are having a bath just prior to death and after death, is a dream an ocean that knows all through the thoughts of its current and remembers everything with the formula of its salt. Can I believe that the dream is the womb from which will be born hope of our reunion as I was gavin a birth from you. And in the small dreams vouchsafe me, the shuted down stars of my happiness, at least with look that will shine the track of tomorrow. " Vitomir Lukic also, in part of the complete works titled SHORT STORIES AND NOVELS reconfirm its drinkability of literary trophies 1

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which in his work is filled with wine produced from the grape of vineyards from inspiration miracles. Even when the village remains without God, as he says .. and with the whisper of mind adds, "working during the day for you, and at during the night for HIM to glorified in YOUR kingdom in secula seculorum. Amen. " Indeed, where the writer stops and starts a human? Poems and other prose ... „... Because there's nothing down, Poems sokaed her roots in it. Picturesque is in a front of whim of fertilization. We are the boxes are full of moans ... After God, it is not nobody played like that with creation out of nothing ... "

I have often been surprised, while I was reading Lukic poetry, his ease of expression, which is reflected in the strange descriptions focused towards explanations of the GAME sui generis. Primordial creation, creacia ultimative is the game at Lukic's, because he is watching all as the game of life and/or the life game. Easy?... Just seems... because... "...from some window walks down a flute, and walked around the square and hand over the word to melancholy fo the day from which than I took it ..." These connections of intertwined of material and the spiritual within human aspirations of Lukić presents, within the unified presentation forms – makins possible of understanding of his literary spirit in human, and vice versa. In his poetry religiosity is not causa prima but is a logical sequence of lifestyles. Spiritualized form of seeing himself in something that people still have not seen, but certainly felt, as condicio prima, is the cause of all things. It has been titled a God. Me, as Gnostic, general questioning about this is not a problem because the answer is always in the people. But in the holy books to be found... just to be read and in a proper way and not only present but also to live in harmony with it. Therefore, I ask... and REPENTANCE of ALTawbah IX... Suri (translation of the Holy Qur'an by Besim Korkut by order of King Fahd of Saudi Arabia...) stated... at pg. 197. quote... "Hypocrites are similar to one another, asking to do naughty deeds, and turn away from the good ones, and their hands are clenched; they forget Allah, so he forgot about them. Hypocrites are indeed true nonbelievers." And the answer is, as I said, in the people, first and foremost. And Lukic says: "From the upcoming games I will faced with/ 147

finihsed is only with the game of trials... and all the little things/ have something in the middle/ around which the world is still turning,/ and you're just emptying... if we pull down the bridges/ under which the river will flow." But to explain why I used Sure part IX of the Holy Qur'an in the explanatory target poetics Vitomir Lukic: - Open game of spiritualized man as a reflection of the writer manifests with the sincerity of presented tendencies of changes of the world. Vitomir Lukic has a very rear thin line which very few writers possess, and that is to live in accordance with their own aspirations and outlook of writings and create and write in accordance with their own aspirations and outlook of philanthropy. Harmonized with the message of energy which we all, at the end of day we return, and we call it God, Allah or Buddha. The difference between this time loaded with clerilacl to the pain of our own, and the one when Lukic created is in a sentence, or thought, I often say: "Before the war we had a religion of ideology, and today we have ideology of religion1." Freely you can crucify me on the step of your own expectations if competently I say that Vitomir Lukic even today would still practical guide his stings against today's hypocrites, as it did once in the time that was considered atheist time or infidel time. However, his poetry, within its own multilayered has a story of itself in „Rebellion of things”. because " the new kids on the crime will learn fractions on my body..."..."And so, while waiting for the fulfilling of prophecy/ trees twice changes clothes./ creaking from the dark pages of beds/ with women who are giving themselves to the phantoms/ and they groaned and clawed,/ with nails in the daylight... One night the door run away/ from sentry posts/ and shaken like sheep,/ and the areas began to the be brotherhood/ in front of our ex-eyes... From this place will leave only the rivers/ and the sun will be back again... " He was a permanent fighter against the demolition of bridges. As an architect of words he constantly build them. Being also a haughty, and cruel towards himself, himself of this world. Creating a presumption that the ethereal Lukic cries fro purity. This world. Sincere. Human. Within literary fervor.

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Personal prose1 But in the book „Poems and other prose”, there are still more novels. or their sketches. „Childhood in Donji Vakuf” is one of those works of fiction that might be called personal, research, autobiographical fiction. So, not something that stays at the behest of reading but it is also a testament to his own acting and doing. Towards himself. In fact, I can not shake the impression that this is fiction more oriented to the research, but also questioning his own feelings, rather than just presenting memories. However, there is a description of the space existed, people and customs of the time and environment in the small Bosnian town, Donji Vakuf. Perception of the beggars for Lukic is a special experience. From Zlatni Jozo, break through Stanko and to Jure, we see the whirl of strange characters who are putting on the intention of kindness, and of yearning. Within their professional actions. Beggary. Here, I caught myself, under the influence of exotic language of Lukic, I create also my sentence. I will repeat: "putting on the intentions of kindness." But really inspiring. His language. Children play with him through storytelling under quilt and singing songs about Ban Jelacic always sends a message - about belongings, clasping and unity. Of children and the people whom they make. Minority within the majority of space and time, oppressed in their own distinct area, looking for the opportunity in Donji Vakuf possibility of expression of the heat that directs towards intercourse. Not imposing itself. Not even to himself. Although he had heard from someone, as he said, that the devil is in the house which is located in the Turkish cemetery, a tomb so

Sabahudin Hadžialić, seeting first on the right, talks about Vitomir Lukić in Bugojno (Bosnia and Herzegovina) 26.05.2011.

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called, the child's imagination with sincerity could not allow to itself to ask how it is that the devil resides right here, but through Tom Sojer's1 curiosity wanted, along with his younger brother, to go and check why in the little wooden house shows "in the momment a light point leaked over and again hide." And even then, when you get close with his younger brother to check the words about the devil he was not sure whether this is true because "Sometimes we think that there is actually nothing and that we only imagine. However, it would have overtaken us stronger jitters when this was repeated with palpable conviction." He's talking about the THE GOOD WHO LIVES THERE AND RED GOAT WHO JUMPS AROUND THE GARDEN. This virtual form of real world was part of his childhood, above all else. And not only that. Multiplicity is presented with extraordinary stained glass encounters, adventures, and mature reflection within the aspirations of youth. And while the night was long-smoldering in the windows... Lukic announces mortal birth of his brother who lived only a month... Furiously is painful to read, and not only for retelling. Going further, through exotic islands of Lukic's prose, we come to the part what the editor of „Collected works”, esteemed colleague, Antun Lucic, PhD., called „Separated proses”. And now, faced with the first "separate" prose it came to my mind another of my own thought which says, "Anyone who wants to be a bird, must first make a nest high on the ridge." Let us review the full glare of death in its primal inspiration. The killing of one's life - an eagle. Brilliant miniatures of only three pages looks like somebody's novel of three hundred announcement, intentions and pale realizations. Except that in this case has everything that makes a thumbnail to become a story. Lifestyle. In its death. A whole in this case is expedient template of significant announcements, introductions and final creschenda of the story. And not only this. Because before us in this cycle, something that is extremely reminds of Raymond Carver in its cyclicity of brevity of terseness within the expression, and yet there is something peculiar only to Vitomir Lukic inside the recognition of his selections. Of the words. Of the sentences. Writer as a human, and vice versa. From musicians to bricklayers, over to the porter and railoraders, and unitl the Indian years, in front of us is the person who wishes to learn. While meticulously presents his own relaxing sentences as a gentle breeze intentions, but with the gust who appears from the open 1

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sea. As the specter that comes from the world of zombies in that 1965 where the cows are used to make all kinds of dishes, suddenly there with him, as he himself says, in India faced â&#x20AC;&#x17E;These cows... that... carry the curse of eternal condemnation to freedom, they trample through some plenum and immediately close behin themd. These white, nobody needed animals, locked in a secret of their language, are the worst example of worshiping. They carry though this world the frightening reminder of glory as the punishment.â&#x20AC;&#x153; And his connections between people, animals and things even in this opportunity is confirmed in the examples of dogs, sparrows and cows in a distant land of India. So distant, as if it was just around the corner. When we talk about the behavior of people, themselves. In the asphalt jungle. Itinerarie of Vitomir Lukic are as the cyclists in New Delhi. The most dangerous are, pardon me, the most detailed, then when you least expect it. And a brave one, once upotn a time said that "God is in detail". Lukic was precisely seeking, at such and in such a way, in the detail, his goal. Seeking for, first and foremost. Because as previously stated, the goal of the path are not of importance. It is important to travel. With pointed flirting with persiflage of journalistic writing, the author of his literary reflections precisely directes towards mimicry of everyday relationships between people on the streets of Delhi, in the presence of the author. Which is both a participant and narrator. And a participant and spectator. But the writer, with heavenly instinct that says: "It is unfair andeven ftom the cognitive point of view to think that there is nothing out of the book, that the book starts at the beginning of the self and the ends with the memory. There is one value of this book that is assumed to it, and that it is not overshadowes it." The answer for Lukic is in order to take us to the search paths. As a leader who sees. Very much so. While the Indian cobra, just as a warning to the local sense of simultaneity, warn about the closeness of death on the streets of Delhi, we are introduced to the fundamental pillars of Vedic ethics, which says that there is sharing with not interest for the prize, work for the reasons of work, and not because of its useful outcomes. And in order not to wonder on which planet was the author and what is the country which does not know for the interest, but in the very next sentence he disarms us showing that there is elected minority who follows that and the vast majority of which there is, as the author says, depressing dirty pictures of absent interest for the life and creative effects of the work. Such an essayistic-sociological approach was once characteristic to the reporters 151

as they were and Jug Grizelj and Veselko Tenžera1. Here we have a writer interlaced with journalistic mores who writes a few sentences what is needed for some journalists in several "bedsheets" tabs, lets say it, professionally directed myself. Historically inspired spreads before us a lot of information but with potability bounded but with unpretentious mentioning While reading Lukic reflections stating the names of people and places where he stayed during his stay in India for two years in front of you opens the gates of another form of human existence, which is both spiritually calm but extremely overt selfindulgence. In his spirituality. I suggest you read the story of the „December panorama”. It would tell it to you by itself. And when we talk about the people, but also about the temples. What have been created by humans. To some other people directs towards spirituality itself. Inside the search for truth. Directed towards the God. When he says, "Religions are, as ideologies as well, always paying tribute to the overall taste," saying exactly the temple in India who is worship outside and a nursery school inside, so that the truth shines and you must cover your eyes. Ears, however, remain uncovered. Unfortunately. And when he went away, outside New Delhi, through its „Circle by Rajasthan” as Evliya Çelebi2 once open a time, and also as his contemporary Zuko Dzumhur3 practicality fascinates with concrete order as long as he puts the scenes like on the big screen as visiting India. And when he goes after „The Indian Themes”, eh, then it is in front of us a try, and I must say very successful try in its methodological setting, to explain political system of this very populated country. From those marginal groups to the ruling structure. Like we have in front of us the professor of geopolitical studies who knows not only the history, but also music and dance. And of course, when confronted by the travelogues from Bosnia, only then the work in front of us embodies. The Author himeslef. While going from4 BROD, GUČA GORA, PROZOR and and up to LIVNO, Lukic introduces to us with many truths that were hidden in his sentences... and he says, "They say - says the Guardian, quiet young man - Krleža5 is the Canonical son, and Andric1 belongs to Franciscan. 1

Ex-Yugoslavis journalists Itinerary writer from Middle age Turskih time 3 Ex-Yu itinerary writer from the end of XX century 4 Cities and places in Bosnia and Herzegovina 5 Miroslav Krleža, famous ex-Yugoslav writer 2

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That with his birth should be set straight, to lift the burden from us." And then... when he walks, from Guča Gora towards Prozor, says,"I forgot Bosnia looks like under the knife and under the campaign boots, the imminent one, unique to itself and to the unkind sky and to unsafe roads addressed to Bosnia, where we were born and not thinking at all of how tiny towns were small, although its edges we never ranked and so it seemed to us it was bigger than any of our opportunities." And until the encounter with Gabriel Jurkić2 in Livno, whom he was not so impressed with so much that within the mild controversy with JURKIĆ showed that from two pins both artists went towards the same goal unification of God's purpose of inspiration. One with the brush and another with pencil or pen. While he calles him the Apostle of love, Lukic pays due attention to the sensibility of a painter, and a man of Gabriel Jurkić. In Livno. Essays The essays are at Jukic, again, storia specifica and really they are CHOSEN as the editor of the book cited in POEMS, OTHER PROSE... called SELECTED ESSAYS... Surplus of history that he live in the Balkans, sorry, South East eruope, Vitomir Lukic dreamily explains: "Plato's ideas as the bearers of an absolute being should create a world free, from the very beginning, of every absurdity. If those are the only true reality, and the world of tactile form of transient existence, we could all twenty-five centuries says within the comfort that human stupidity is a byproduct during the incarnations of pure idea in the material world. Plato was rangy to explain the imperfection of society through its ignorance of his sense of ideals and therefore he recommended in an ideal state the philosophers as the leader of social classes..." But that never happened. Today we have a NATION on the pedestal of expectations, given that the nation is made by human hand, should we just wait for the end of history as we know it. And then it will disapear, right? At the same time, and the SUPRA-NATION are of the same form... aspires to the disappearance. We all remember the faked one with and the YUGOSLAV nation that is in fact a form of supremacy of one unifying individual aspirations within the bundle of many impulses. And failed. It disappeared into the dustbin of history. 1

Ivo Andrić, famous ex-Yugoslav writer, the winner of Nobel prize for literature in 1961 2 Famous Ex-Yu art painter

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But, being controversy with Lukic, I have to underline that there is no difference between a "revolutionary socialist-realism of the socialist society" and "reactionary turbo-folk mechanism of capitalist society" except in one. In socialist society we had a single-mindedness and today in capitalist society we have here and now three-mindedness. In Bosnia and Herzegovina. I'll just quote a few lines from which we could discuss and controversy: "Morality has become a communist morality, and he could justify plunder through the manifestation of class justice. Continuing violence against someone else's safety and property received in the new code of law called "class struggle" and all written legality was a legal form of lawlessness. Abjection in literature enjoyed legitimacy as "amenity in the literature." At these words I will answer with specific examples twenty years later: Acceptation (privatization) policies, hiding under the skirts of the national issue because when you attack me, dear brother, you are attacking my people... I was a thief due to the law... because where everyone steals nobody steals strikes that does not stop... 530,000 unemployed, or nearly 50% of the working population... and we live in a democracy... eternal incarnation of century-old dream of the freedom of speech... I would add a freedom of thinking... we are on strike, instead of enjoying within our own votes again choosing new maestros of theft, regardless of whether it is "right" or "left" variants of ideological intents... The world of perpetual spring does not exist only in communism... And there is it certainly in capitalism as well... for the selected ones... but... Do not talk to me about equal rights and opportunities in the country where it is possible that the father and the son are both ambassadors, or in the state where the same surname can be ministers, however, in a different level of the government... here this is a classic mistake of thesis... and I am confident that with the same fervor would Vitomir Lukic, leaning on his Christian roots that seek for goodness, justice and understanding (do all religions want it... but one thing is to want, and second one, quite another to be able to...) and even today would write about this gang as well he was writing about that gang upon a time. Immediately you are wondering, where is the solution? Of course, there is no absolute freedom, and Erich From not just once have spoken about it. However, there is just that... a journey towards it. That's her charm focused on kindness, honesty, openness and against hypocrisy, envy and hatred. You see, to my mediocrity eight years ago was offered the post of Minister in the cantonal government, and I think I'm the only person 154

who refused a ministerial position in this country, and what kind of country we are, each of us will be able to be the minister at least once in his life considering how many levels of power we have... and how many of you who are reading this who would refuse appanage of four years enyoing attitude towards your own pocket? .. a little, really little.. you see, that's it.. until we understand that the minister is here to serve, and not to be served, until then we will be like this... and why you did not accepted and fought from inside?- someone said, and immediately... my answer is this: imagine a corral with 20 wolves and a sheep with them... Who do you think will survive?... But, lets get back to Lukic... Simplicity of LukiÄ&#x2021;'s expressions as he stated Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Hegel, Marx, going logically that one regime had to disappear as worn shape which could not "through imaginary enemies feed their political rituals..." But, as a believer, Lukic call for good. And immediately I agree with him. Because faith is not just a commitment to God in the final aspiration of uniting in God, but the hope for a better way of living. Even in own death. As Aristotle Nihomanovoj ethics said... where we are not dealing with it just to find out what virtue is, but to become good, else it would not be of any use from virtue... It is ideal of Lukic. I amd underwrite. Through examples. Still, in the essays that follow, Lukic synchronously, impeccable through the style hooks the thought in our observation pof the environment in which we live. Over the Franciscans, these guards not only of the existence of one nation, but also the state of Bosnia and as a whole, through defining the beginning of culture in a certain area .. listen... Culture begins when a people take responsibility for the world. Add to this that it is in its choice is of an ongoing process, than the culture is also moral act... Yes, and I am confident that Lukic completely all over again as the resumptive Assembly of HKD NAPREDAK1 1990... with one remark... that he would have been disappointed with society in general, which have been created by the side three-mindedness from the previous society of one-mindednes ... instead of the society of available choices of presumed goodness, we get the selective society, already choesn, the possibilities... but of what? Erudite Lukic was in constant conflict with human Lukic. However, it's very inspiring, though, for a writer Lukic. And he says: â&#x20AC;&#x17E;Great works are always win over the affections of the limitations, such as for the 1

Croatian cultural assembly in Bosnia and Herzegovina

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writer the literary truth is beyond the reach of religious beliefs, ideology, race and nation, while at the same time stays as the deepest truth of each of these categories taken individually... and how many it is current today this his sentence expressed at a meeting of writers, held in ODJEK1, 26.1.1991.g... Now, they will, after a short breake, while politicians regain their breath, begin negotiations where a high values will figure as: the nations, histories and bounds. Will begin a new phase of political museumology. That obsession with ethnic boundaries, but the already had destructive effect on the spiritual limitations of entire nations. Please!... Twenty years later, we have not even moved for the meter, pardon or for a second period of time since that. Actuality of LukiÄ&#x2021;'y statement is painful. And today we are unaware of our unconscious to continually live our own death. Serving once upotn a time to one, and today exactly to the same caste. To the thieves, my brother. No matter what name and surname they are wearing. I am bowing down to one word, with deep respect... and it is a Compromise. This is the solution proposed by Lukic then. But who heard him? And when we reach LITERARY DISCUSSION presentation within this cycle, we can not but to emphasize the multifaceted nature of LukiÄ&#x2021;'s works that have never imposed anything but warned, emphasized, made latently manifest all of our assumptions about something, someone or for something or for someone ...because he says: "...sometimes I think that we ar fracturing faster this world than what it needed to be created..." Inspiracio sublimaris that inevitably arises when we read literature of Vitomir Lukic is nothing but the combined knowledge that was waiting to be red. Of corresponding forms of consciousness. Even if we could to live in harmony with it. Here, even that I come from, tentatively called, other culture and tradition, I found a mementum causali of the own survival. That's the advantage of our areas which false prophets called a faults. One-wordMESH is an advantage, not a disadvantage. And RECORDS are inspirational form of notions about author power. And when he is talking about the language, that causal form of national consciousness and appearance, with controversy prevails over his own pain. No, not at all insulting other oen and different one, just asking for equality of survival. Of his own. Sarajevo, 26.5.2011.g. 1

Bosnia and Herzegovina cultural magazine ODJEK and his premises.

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David G. Lanoue Beyond Haibun: The Haiku Novel1 There are two ways to write a haiku novel. You can string together a series of haiku that tell a story, as American poet Lenard D. Moore and French poet Claire Dé do in their books, Desert Storm: A Brief History (1993) and Bonheur, oiseau rare: roman pointilliste sous forme de haïku (1996).2 Or, following the lead of Jack Kerouac, you can mingle haiku and prose so that the interpolated one-breath poems reflect on, crystallize and punctuate the action—as Jack does in the first part of Desolation Angels. This second way blends old and new, East and West: Japanese haibun (the diary-like, haiku-peppered prose favored by Bashō and Issa) and the contemporary novel. While Moore’s and Dé’s books are fascinating experiments, the second definition describes what I mean by haiku novel for the purpose of this essay: a literary composition that combines prose fiction and haiku. Although it is a descendent of Japanese haibun, the haiku novel differs from haibun in one important way. The prose sections in traditional haibun resemble journal writing, whereas the prose in a haiku novel builds a structured work of fiction. Both haibun and haiku novel can relate an author’s life experiences, but a haibun comprises a collection of episodic journal entries. A haiku novel shapes such experiences into a unified fictional narrative Kerouac published Desolation Angels in 1965. In the first part of the book, he describes his experience of spending sixty-three days in the summer of 1956 alone on fire watch on Desolation Peak in North Cascades National Park in Washington state. Kerouac includes haiku along with his wildly free-ranging prose. Though he does not continue this process throughout the work—and therefore cannot be said to have written a haiku novel cover to cover—passages like the following point to an exciting new path in literature. And there’s my poor endeavoring human desk at which I sit so often during the day, facing south, the papers and pencils and the coffee cup with sprigs of alpine fir and a weird orchid of the heights wiltable in one day— My Beechnut 157

gum, my tobacco pouch, dusts, pitiful pulp magazines I have to read, view south to all those snowy majesties— The waiting is long. On Starvation Ridge little sticks Are trying to grow.3 In 1999 Gary Bollick brought out A Snowman in July, a mix of stream-of-consciousness narrative and haiku.4 A year later, my own first haiku novel, Haiku Guy, appeared, followed by four others in the series: Laughing Buddha (2004), Haiku Wars (2009) and Frog Poet (2012). A Spanish author, Jesús Huerta Rodríguez, wrote El pintor de haikus (2006)5 —a book that might be considered a haiku novel, though he only uses haiku as prefaces to the major sections of the narrative rather than including them throughout. In our different ways, Bollick, Rodríguez and I have followed the trail blazed by Kerouac in the midtwentieth century. In broad cultural terms, a haiku novel shifts back and forth constantly between what might be described as Western and Eastern modes of consciousness. The Western mind, linear and logical, follows the argument of the prose, while the Eastern mind, nonlinear and sensitive to intuition and emotion, appreciates the harmonies, associations and disjunctions in the poetry. Though I am not a neuroscientist, I have written about this difference of consciousness using the paradigm provided by researchers for describing the different kinds of thinking that occur in the brain: rational, linear thought pertaining (normally) to the left hemisphere; nonlinear, spatial and emotional awareness happening in the right.6 One doesn’t need to study brain structure to realize the applicability of this paradigm to the relationship of prose and haiku in a haiku novel. In fact, a short armchair experiment will suffice. Read the words: “Tom hit the . . .” As you do so, your mind processes the information in a step-by-step, logical way. You know who is performing the action (Tom); you know what the action was (“hit”), and your mind is now ready to receive the answer to the question: “What did Tom hit?” This is your left brain in action. Depending on the word that comes next, that rational part of consciousness will inform an understanding. If the next word is “ball,” you will understand that Tom has hit a ball, perhaps a baseball. If the 158

next word is “jackpot,” you will understand that Tom has won money in a casino or maybe, metaphorically, has succeeding fabulously. If the next word is “road,” you will arrive at a quite different understanding. Whatever the outcome of the sentence, your mind is ready to move forward to the next sentence in linear fashion, as Tom’s story unfolds. Prose consciousness, courtesy of the left brain, moves forward swiftly, word by word. This mode of consciousness is associated, culturally, with Western, scientific thinking. Now, to complete our experiment, read this haiku by Jim Kacian from his collection, Presents of Mind.7 falling leaves the house comes out of the woods Did you feel your consciousness shift? Previously, your Western mind was flowing rapidly forward, following the linear progression of my sentences. But now, suddenly, this haiku appears on the page like a boulder in a stream, inviting a slower, more meditative awareness and appreciation: the realm of the Eastern mind or, in neurological terms, the right brain. If we want to grasp the poetry in it, we do not read this haiku like an informational message to be deciphered. Instead, we pause for a while, allowing its images to sink in: the autumn leaves falling, the house that was hidden all summer becoming more and more visible through the trees . . . as if moving closer to us. We linger with and contemplate this image. The haiku is not a problem to be solved but an experience to be imagined, to be felt deeply, to be meditated on. Haiku novels orchestrate such shifts of consciousness, inviting readers to follow the linear argument quickly but then, once a poem appears on the page, to shift to slower, nonlinear appreciation. A passage from my recent book, Frog Poet, illustrates this phenomenon.8 It’s Mardi Gras season down here in New Orleans. While Buck-Teeth, back in Old Japan, ponders the meaning of a weeping frog at sunset, I have quite different matters to contemplate. Today, the Sunday before the Sunday before Fat Tuesday, my young friend Kris invited me and other members of the New Orleans Haiku Club to his tiny, upstairs apartment for a parade-watching party. Kris is 159

the newest addition to our club. College-educated, under-employed, twenty-something; he came down from Portland to the City Care Forgot to help us rebuild after The Storm and ended up staying. Our gain, Portland’s loss. in the golden tuba all of us bent The prose passage tells a story for the reader to decode linearly. However, the white space and indentation on the page that separates this passage from the words, “in the golden tuba,” signal a shift of writing mode and reader consciousness. Now, the reader must slow down, conjuring and dwelling on images and feelings. The prose paragraph prepared us to picture a scene of a Mardi Gras parade: a marching band passing and “all of us” reflecting in a musician’s “golden tuba.” And who are “all of us?” The people in the crowd who are physically present? Or is this a more general statement about the human condition? The haiku’s last word, “bent,” is not a simple informational conclusion (such as the word “ball” finishing the sentence “Tom hit the . . .”) but an invitation to contemplate. The reflections of people appear distorted in the tuba’s golden mirror, but the word “bent” might further imply malformation or twistedness, perhaps a sinister overtone. Or does the tuba’s golden hue suggest richness and optimism? There is no clear, single, logical answer to the question, “What is the message in these words?” I invite readers to reflect upon the haiku and arrive at their own feelings and ways of appreciating it, relying on their imaginations and their own past experiences. In 2001 the Haiku Society of America, for their annual Mildred Kanterman Memorial Merit Book Awards, issued an “Honorable Mention for Haiku Novel” for my book Haiku Guy. This award is the first official recognition in print of the term, “haiku novel.” Haiku Guy was subsequently translated and published in several countries: Bulgaria, Serbia, France, Japan, Germany and Spain—so the concept of haiku novel has achieved some international standing. I must confess that publishing the book in Japan, the homeland of haiku, raised some anxiety on my part. Many Japanese people still cling to the notion that haiku can only be written in Japanese by Japanese writers. The idea that 160

a foreigner would dare present a “haiku novel” in Japan must have appeared disconcerting if not outrageous to some readers in that nation. In fact, one of my most trusted Japanese friends, to whom I sent the manuscript, advised me not to publish it in his country. That friend, an elderly haiku poet, misunderstood the concept of the book. He assumed that I was attempting to write haibun, and by that measure the book definitely fails. Haibun carries with it an expectation that the prose passages should be imbued with the same poetic spirit that informs the haiku. My experiment, however, followed a different trajectory. Like Kerouac in the opening passages of Desolation Angels, I tried to write contemporary fiction dotted with haiku, deliberately juxtaposing styles (and, as I have mentioned, modes of consciousness): a synthesis of East and West, of Japanese and American sensibilities. I didn’t follow my friend’s advice. I submitted the manuscript to Sanwa, a major publisher in Tokyo, but when they accepted the book I was sure to add a special preface for Japanese readers, explaining, “Haiku Guy is not a haibun; I call it a ‘haiku novel.’ In it, I combine elements of the contemporary novel with elements of traditional haibun.”9 At present, I am putting the finishing touches on the fifth novel of the series, Dewdrop World. While these novels may not follow the haibun of Old Japan in terms of their prose style, I do attempt to transfer several other values of haibun into this new form. Emulating Bashō and Issa, I strive to be artlessly artful, creating texts that do not seem overly polished or contrived. Like my Japanese predecessors, I never take myself too seriously in these books. Also, as Issa did in his great haibun of 1819, Oraga haru (My Spring), I endeavor to be natural and spontaneous, working without an outline and inviting into the text random thoughts, bits of humor, philosophical ruminations, reflections on my life and on life in general, and, of course, haiku. In all of my haiku novels I include the historical Issa (renamed “Cup-of-Tea”) as a character, along with a fictitious crew of his disciples: Mido, the Poet in Green; Kuro, the Poet in Black; Shiro, the Poet in White; and Buck-Teeth, who wears no particular color. I let each story tell itself, sprinkling in haiku here and there, and hope for the best. This summer of 2013, by the way, marks the 250th anniversary of Issa’s birth. According to the traditional calendar of Japan, Issa was born in the thirteenth year of the Hōreki Era, fifth day, Fifth Month—a 161

date that corresponds with 15 June 1763 on the Western calendar. I hope that some readers of this essay will take up the challenge to honor Issa’s anniversary year by writing a haiku novel. Join the movement!

Notes 1. I presented a paper with this title at the Haiku Society of America conference in San Francisco, California (2 December 2000). The present essay expands on what I said at that time in the light of the past twelve years of further thinking about this topic. 2. San Diego, California: Los Hombres Press, 1993; Montréal: XYZ, 1996. A later book of this first type was written by Leonard Oprea, Theophil Magus in Baton Rouge: A Novel in 101 American Haiku. Edition revised by Bogdan Stefanescu. No place: Xlibris, 2007, ©2008. On the lighter side, see K. A. Holt’s comical Brains for Lunch: A Zombie Novel in Haiku?! New York: Roaring Brook Press, 2010. 3. New York: Penguin, 1971. 9. 4. Berkeley, California: Creative Arts Book Company, 1999. 5. Barcelona: Grafein 2006. 6. “The Poetic ‘Ah!’: Haiku and the Right Brain.” Dust of Summers: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku. Ed. Jim Kacian. Winchester, VA. Red Moon Press, 2008 147-54. This is a reprint of an essay that appeared in the online journal, Simply Haiku 5.2 (Summer 2007)—which was an expansion of an essay in Japanophile 13 (Winter 1987-88): 30-34. 7. Lake Oswego, Oregon: Katsura Press, 1996. Unpaginated. 8. Winchester, Virginia: Red Moon Press, 2012. 15. 9.『ハイク・ガイ』は俳文ではありません。私じしんは「俳句小説」と呼んでおります。私が試みたのは、伝統的な俳文と現代小説、それぞれの要素を掛け合わせることでした。Tran. Keiji Minato. Tokyo: Sanwa, 2009. Preface.

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Elisabeta Isanos Eusebiu Camilar et la culture orientale - IIème partie Mots-clefs: Eusebiu Camilar, Omar Khayyam, Saadi, Firdousi, „Les Mille et Une Nuits”, Li Tai-Pe, Du-Fu, Su Tung-Po, Kalidasa

Son intérêt pour le passé s’est amplifié après 1950, peut-être comme une réaction voilée d’Eusebiu Camilar au contexte politique et idéologique, qui imposait l’adaptation de la littérature au dogme du régime. Le récit « Le Chêne de Borzeşti » a paru premièrement dans la revue pour les jeunes Licurici (no. 22, 15 novembre, 1951), et plus tard en volume. Un fragment de « La Porte des Orages » paraît la même année dans Gazeta literară, sous le titre « Ştefan cel Mare » (Étienne le Grand). Le volume paraîtra en 1957, accompagné d’une préface et ayant le contenu suivant : la description de la bataille de Nicopole, une évocation du voïvode Vlad Ţepeş et de son temps, « lorsque l’argent gisait par terre comme les ordures et personne n’y touchait », suivie d’une histoire relative à Ştefan cel Mare, une autre qui parle de son fils Petru Rareş et un épisode du règne d’Ion Vodă. À l’époque où il écrivait les « Contes héroïques », Eusebiu Camilar a composé aussi le drame en vers « La Vallée Blanche », dont le héros est le voïvode Ştefan cel Mare. La première édition des « Contes héroïques » comprend les chapitres: « D’Idantirsus à Décébale », « Mircea », « Ioan de Hunedoara », « Vlad Ţepeş » (Vlad l’Empaleur), « Ştefan cel Mare ». L’édition agrandie et améliorée, la dernière parue pendant la vie de l’auteur, sera imprimée en 1965 : « Lorsque Darius est venu demander de la terre et de l’eau », « Les Aigles des sept collines », « Mircea le Grand », « La Peur des Forêts », « L’Aurochs », « Le Calme du Vent », « Poussières en marche », « Le Temps d’Ion Vodă. » Un témoignage de la bouche même de l’auteur montre qu’il avait l’intention de continuer les « Contes héroïques » ; malheureusement, une maladie impitoyable a arrêté son travail, avant l’âge de 55 ans. Même si l’auteur n’a pas attaché à son texte une bibliographie, je sais qu’il avait consulté les meilleures sources, des chroniqueurs, des historiens et des collections de documents ; sur ces pages on peut encore voir des notes et des paragraphes soulignés. La documentation fond dans le texte, les faits historiques sont animés par le style et par souffle de la poésie. La phrase est impeccable, le mot exact, l’harmonie du discours a 163

des cadences parfaites, sans redondances. Voici un fragment du premier Conte: « Darius s’est prosterné devant les dieux du feu. Ses camps s’étaient agités toute la nuit, en aiguisant leurs armes. Ils se sont rués en avant, les voix jointes en un gémissement unique, mais ils se sont encore une fois écroulés, comme leurs flèches tombantes; et leurs lances et les pierres des frondes transperçaient les ombres, car Idantirsus et les siens avaient rebroussé chemin dès le début de la nuit. » Les « Contes héroïques », le dernier livre qu’il a vu paraître, a été réédité, de plus en plus souvent, pendant à peu près un demi-siècle. * « Beaucoup de prédécesseurs méritoires se sont donné la peine de traduire ou de raconter les immortelles Nuits de Shéhérazade », dit Eusebiu Camilar dans la préface à sa première version, Les Nuits de Shéhérazade (1947). Il mentionne le nom d’Ion Barac, mais comme ni celui-ci ni ceux qui le suivirent n’avaient pas fini ce travail, il a pris la tâche de raconter les « Mille et Une Nuits » intégralement. Ce travail a duré plus de dix ans, c’est à peine en 1956 que la première partie réapparaît en une nouvelle forme, et la dernière date de 1961. Ces contes, dit l’auteur dans sa préface, « portés jadis de Damas en Inde, sur les grandes routes des caravanes et des générations [...] ont été racontés aux cours des sultans, tout comme dans le désert, aux feux des voyageurs. En ma qualité de conteur qui les reprend, je me suis permis d’en omettre des choses et d’y mettre par ci, par là quelques brins de mon modeste trésor ; j’ai insisté spécialement sur la figure de Haroun al Rachid, le calife des califes, qui, déguisé en mendiant ou en marchand, surveillait la manière dont on respectait ses dispositions, pour le bien-être de ses sujets. » Pour vérifier cette affirmation, que l’auteur reprend dans la préface à l’édition suivante, il faudrait comparer minutieusement sa version au texte d’après lequel il l’a créée. Dans la bibliothèque de l’écrivain, il y a une version allemande, celle de Gustav Weil (Tausend und einer Nacht. Arabische Erzählungen, Neufel und Henius, Berlin, 1866, avec les illustrations de Friedrich Gross), mais je ne crois pas que ce soit la base de sa version. Mon opinion c’est qu’il a utilisé une version française, celle d’Antoine Galland ou celle de J.-C. Mardrus1, ou bien toutes les deux. Antoine Galland exprime dans sa préface la conviction qu’un connaisseur de l’arabe pourrait confirmer l’exactitude de sa version et Mardrus se montre tout aussi fidèle à l’original, surtout dans le titre de l’ouvrage (Les Mille Nuits et Une Nuit, traduction littérale et complète du texte arabe...), mais c’était plutôt une manière de répondre aux attentes 164

d’un certain public. En réalité, comme on l’a déjà dit2, ni Galland ni Mardrus n’ont réalisé des traductions ad litteram, mais des adaptations, Galland suivant le goût de son temps, Mardrus en voulant peindre une vision plus ample et plus pittoresque du monde arabe. Coulée dans le moule du conte-cadre, celui de Riar-Shah trompé par son épouse (conte qui semble se prolonger à l’infini, selon la remarque de Borges3, l’œuvre est une compilation de contes de fées, d’anecdotes et de contes divers, depuis les récits de voyage aux histoires d’amour. C’est une œuvre collective, qui passe de bouche en bouche, comme toutes celles qui sont créées « à la limite qui sépare la littérature orale de celle écrite, la poésie de la prose.4 Comme à juste titre dit Margaret Sironval5, les Mille et une Nuits ne sont pas réductible à un texte et n’appartiennent à personne, puisqu’elles n’ont aucun auteur connu, chaque traducteur ou adaptateur peut s’élever au rang d’auteur. » Je trouve surprenant le fait que personne, à ce que je sache, n’a vérifié si dans la version d’Eusebiu Camilar il y a des fragments qui lui appartiennent entièrement. Par hasard, grâce à une découverte digne de faire partie elle-même des Mille et Une Nuits, j’ai acquis un exemplaire de l’édition posthume, de 1968. Je l’ai vu sur l’éventaire d’un bouquiniste et j’ai hésité, car les pages étaient couvertes de notes et beaucoup de passages avaient été soulignés. Je n’ai pas réussi à déchiffrer la signature du possesseur qui l’avait lu le crayon à la main, en soulignant tantôt au rouge, tantôt au noir et en y ajoutant des chiffres mystérieux, arabes et romains. De la préface, il avait souligné le passage où l’auteur dit qu’il avait omis ou ajouté, et en marge, une note envoyait à la page 398, au chapitre « Le voleur repenti ; il est pillé par un autre voleur ; finalement il trouve par ruse sa marchandise, et pardonne à l’autre voleur, à la gloire d’Allah. » Sous le titre, le possesseur du livre avait noté : « Ça s’est passé à Bucarest, entre 1950 et 1960. » Dans le texte, l’histoire, qui s’est déroulée « dans une cité du Levant », est la suivante : une nuit, dans la boutique du voleur repenti, un autre voleur est entré, habillé comme le propriétaire, de sorte que le gardien même l’a aidé à charger les marchandises volées sur le dos d’un chameau, service que le voleur a payé généreusement ; le lendemain, le propriétaire est venu ouvrir son magasin et le gardien lui a remercié pour l’argent. À la recherche des marchandises volées, le propriétaire a trouvé le chamelier qui les avait transportées au bord de la mer, dans un port. Finalement, il trouve les marchandises, mais pas le voleur ; il prend ce qui lui appartient, enveloppant tout dans une couverture ; en route, il rencontre le voleur même, et celui-ci se dévoile en demandant : « En vertu de quel droit prends-tu ma couverture, o marchand bon croyant, n’as-tu pas 165

récupéré ta marchandise ? » Le propriétaire a souri, a donné au voleur sa couverture en le laissant continuer son chemin. L’histoire du « voleur à la couverture » est insérée dans la partie qui raconte les aventures de Haroun al Rachid. Ce serait, bien sûr, intéressant de savoir de quel événement réel parle la note mentionnée, c’est, probablement, un fait divers, dont on avait écrit dans les journaux et beaucoup parlé à l’époque. Une comparaison entre la version d’Eusebiu Camilar et les deux versions françaises consultées montre que cet épisode ne s’y trouve pas, au moins dans la section qui parle du calife Haroun al Rachid (Les Aventures d’Haroun al Rachid, dans la version Galland). En passant, on peut remarquer que l’écrivain roumain n’a adopté ni la structure narrative de Mardrus ni celle de Galland, chez le premier - des formules reprises à la fin et au début des chapitres, chez l’autre - la séparation nette des histoires et l’addition de nombreuses notes explicatives en bas des pages, pour les termes étrangers. La structure narrative d’Eusebiu Camilar est plus laxe : pour désigner la voix qui raconte, il emploie le pronom personnel, la 1ère personne du pluriel, ayant en roumain une valeur impersonnelle en certains contextes, équivalent de on du français, on voit, on dit, ce qui permet l’insertion des fragments nouveaux. En examinant les chapitres qui précèdent l’histoire du voleur à la couverture, j’ai eu l’impression de distinguer aussi d’autres insertions, comme, par exemple, le chapitre On arrive à l’histoire des pyramides. « Mamoun, le fils d’Haroun al Rachid, fouille vainement dans leurs entrailles à la recherche des trésors ; qu’est-ce qu’il y a dans les pyramides ; ensuite, quelques chansons qui parlent de leur éternité et de notre vie éphémère. » Dans la version Galland, j’ai trouvé un bref passage relatif aux pyramides, dans l’Histoire d’Ali Codjia, marchand de Bagdad : « Quand il fut arrivé au Caire, il n’eut pas lieu de se repentir du parti qu’il avait pris : il y trouva si bien son compte, qu’en très peu de jours il eut achevé de vendre toutes ses marchandises, avec un avantage beaucoup plus grand qu’il n’avait espéré. Il en acheta d’autres, dans le dessein de passer à Damas ; et, en attendant la commodité d’une caravane qui devait partir dans six semaines, il ne se contenta pas de voir tout ce qui était digne de sa curiosité dans le Caire : il alla aussi admirer les pyramides ; il remonta le Nil jusqu’à une certaine distance et il vit les villes les plus célèbres situées sur l’un et l’autre bord. » Évidemment, Eusebiu Camilar ajoute la description des pyramides et de leur importance comme monuments durables, suivie par trois poèmes d’auteurs inconnus, création du conteur même. Le charme des « Mille et Une Nuits » est amplifié par ces insertions, poèmes en vers blancs ou rimés, passages en prose poétique, descriptions ou portraits, comme, par 166

exemple, ce fragment du chapitre La mauvaise plaisanterie de Haroun al Rachid à propos d’un vieillard aveugle; ce que dit à ce propos Djafer et ce que répond le vieillard : Haroun dit que, pour guérir les yeux, il faut : « prendre le plus vite possible trois mesures de vent, trois mesures de rayons de soleil et encore trois mesures de lumière de lune ! Ensuite, encore trois mesures de la lumière d’une veilleuse à huile ! Lorsque tout sera acquis, il faut les mélanger dans un égrugeoir sans fond et les laisser pendant trois mois. Après, il faut les broyer très bien, les mettre soigneusement dans une petite boite cassée et les laisser là encore trois mois, à l’air frais... Après avoir fait tout cela, enduis tes yeux de ce remède, pendant trois mois. Ce n’est que de cette manière que tu pourras regarder de nouveau la lumière du soleil et les merveilles du monde… » En remerciant pour le remède, le vieillard souhaite au sultane, toujours en plaisantant, qu’après sa mort, il arrive en Enfer et qu’il soit roulé dans des immondices. Je voudrais mentionner aussi les poèmes insérés dans le chapitre Le scheik Nassrr entre dans l’histoire; qu’est-ce qu’il est arrivé; la porte interdite et les trois filles volantes. Ce sont des poèmes d’amour dont la beauté égale celle du « Cantique des Cantiques » : « J’ai vu ma colombe, en son vêtement vert, se promenant dans le jardin du paradis! Sa ceinture était défaite et ses cheveux lui couvraient les épaules comme une gerbe de blé ! // Je lui ai dit : Quel est ton nom, ma bien-aimée ? Elle m’a répondu : « Sache, jeune homme, que je fais brûler les cœurs des amants… » // Comment lui avouer mes tourments ? Je me suis incliné devant elle et j’ai arrosé de larmes ses chevilles d’or, mais son cœur était aussi dur que la pierre ! Pense, ma bien-aimée qu’Allah a ordonné à la pierre de se fendre et que la source s’en écoule ! Si tu étais pierre, ma bien-aimée, tu aurais pitié de mes souffrances ! » Ou cet autre passage : « Je l’ai vue se levant comme la pleine lune dans la nuit du salut! // Ses hanches étaient comme l’ivoire et sa taille se pliait comme un jeune rameau! // Au fond de ses yeux, il y avait des flèches qui blessaient tous les cœurs ! // La rougeur de ses lèvres était comme le rubis ! Ses longs cheveux noirs lui couvraient les épaules ! // Prends garde à elle, o passant, car son cœur est plus dur que le roc... » Les parties que l’auteur a ajoutées, comme autrefois les conteurs autour des feux des caravanes, sont si bien soudées au texte que son entier reste sans fissure, la lecture cursive, comme si elles y étaient depuis toujours. Dans sa préface, Eusebiu Camilar parle aussi de ses omissions. Qu’est-ce qu’il a omis, c’est un autre aspect à éclaircir. À mon avis, ce sont les passages et les teintes licencieuses, qu’il s’est limité à suggérer en 167

certains lieux, de sorte que le livre reste approprié à la lecture de tous les âges, comme tous les contes durables de la littérature mondiale. Une comparaison minutieuse du texte d’Eusebiu Camilar aux versions françaises mentionnées pourrait éclaircir plusieurs aspects concernant sa contribution à l’enrichissement et à l’embellissement des Mille et Une Nuits. Nous espérons que cette comparaison ne tardera pas, ce qui pourrait attirer l’attention sur l’originalité de son style et de sa composition, sur la beauté de la langue, qualités qui font de sa version roumaine une variante digne d’être rangée parmi les autres versions célèbres, dans la bibliographie des Mille et Une Nuits. * Les incursions d’Eusebiu Camilar dans la culture de l’Orient ne s’arrêtent pas là. Une occasion inespérée, la participation à une délégation officielle qui a visité la Chine en 1954, lui a donné la chance de découvrir ce pays, aventure qu’il a pleinement vécue, en se comparant, pour rire, au voyageur Marco Polo. Avec quelques escales, le voyage continental, en train et en avion, jusqu’à la capitale de la Chine a duré trois jours, du 21 à 24 septembre, et son séjour a compris 46 jours, jusqu’au 6 novembre, période où il a visité, le carnet à la main, une assez grande partie du territoire chinois, Nanking, Shanghai, Hangeu, Canton et d’autres localités, le Fleuve Jaune et un port à la Mer de la Chine du Nord (la Mer Jaune)6. Ses impressions de voyage ont été publiées dans le volume « L’Empire du Soleil », 1955. L’interprète qui l’a accompagné pendant le voyage a traduit mot-àmot les textes dont Eusebiu Camilar avait l’intention de réaliser les versions roumaines. Son nom est mentionné au début du volume As-Ma, fille de l’écho. Mot-à-mot traduit du chinois par Tchou Tzou-Di, traduction libre d’Eusebiu Camilar, et dans la préface du volume « De la poésie chinoise classique » : « La plupart des poésies de ce volume sont le fruit d’un travail acharné, pas seulement en ce qui me concerne, mais aussi de la part de Tchou Tzou-Di. En connaissant le roumain, il s’est donné la peine de les traduire mot-à-mot, en avion, en bateau ou en train.[...]Lorsque toutes les lumières s’éteignaient, lorsque tous les autres étaient portés par les ondes reposantes du sommeil, le pauvre Tchou Tzou-Di se mettait à son travail le plus difficile, tard dans la nuit, soit au bord des Mers du Sud, soit au Nord-Est ou au lointain Sud-ouest. C’est ainsi que Du-Fu et Li Tai-Pe et Su Tung-Po furent traduits, l’un après l’autre, en roumain. » Plus loin, au nom de Tchou Tzou-Di est associé celui de Li-Mou, probablement un autre interprète qui l’avait accompagné pendant une plus brève période de temps. Dans la même préface, ironiquement intitulée 168

Comment je suis devenu... sinologue, en répondant, probablement, à certains échos à la première édition, il « s’excuse » d’avoir osé une telle entreprise et avoue qu’il n’a jamais prétendu être sinologue, mais seulement faire connaître aux lecteurs « quelque chose de la grande, de l’inconnue poésie classique chinoise ». Les seuls qui aient le droit de le juger sont les lecteurs et les auteurs eux-mêmes, Li Tai-Pe et Du-Fu, si « après les réincarnations, selon la croyance des adeptes de Bouddha », il les rencontrait « dans le calme suprême de l’éternité ». Le choix de poèmes commence par un fragment du « Livre Tche-King », intitulé Chanson ancienne, suivi par un poète inconnu d’avant notre ère (Le Chien du vainqueur) ; et la série continue : Tchen Tze-Tzi (La Cigogne blanche), Kao-Ti (Le Chant de l’Ouragan), un poème anonyme (Le Paon vole vers le Midi), deux poèmes de Yang-Kioang, neuf de Li Tai-Pe, parmi lesquels le superbe Pavillon en porcelaine, huit poèmes de Du-Fu, dont La Nuit sur le fleuve et Ode à Li Tai-Pe ; les dernières pièces du volume sont La Légende de la Grande Muraille et As-Ma, la fille de l’écho. * Dans les années 60, Eusebiu Camilar a commencé le travail à la version roumaine de « Sakountala » du poète indien Kalidasa, ayant pour prédécesseur le poète classique George Coşbuc. Dans la bibliothèque de l’écrivain, il y a deux versions françaises du drame : « La Reconnaissance de Sakountala », drame en sept actes de Kalidasa, traduit du sanscrit par P. E. Foucaux, Paris, Alphonse Lemerre, 1874, et Franz Toussaint, « Sakountala », d’après l’œuvre indienne de Kalidasa, L’Édition d’Art, Paris, 1822. La première porte la signature d’Eusebiu Camilar et la date de l’acquisition, 1962. D’une Note concernant l’édition de la traduction d’Eusebiu Camilar (1964), on apprend qu’elle a été collationnée avec la version de Foucaux, mais a eu pour texte de base l’édition Sakuntala recognized by the ring, a sanskrit drama in seven acts, by Kālidasa, the Devanāgari recension of the texte ; Monier Williams, Hertford, 1853. La traduction littérale du texte sanscrit a été réalisée par Eugen Papiniu7. Dans sa préface, Le Fils des grands fleuves, Eusebiu Camilar évoque le poète Kalidasa, en insérant son portrait dans un paysage oriental magnifique, vu par lui-même « au Sud-Est de l’Asie, au pied d’une chaîne de Himalaya », pendant son voyage en Chine, son seul contact, d’ailleurs, avec l’espace réel de l’Orient. Il y voit Sakountala, entre les ombres, un être fragile comme le lotus ; lorsque le vent la dévoilait, je voyais une fille d’une beauté ravissante. Son auteur, Kalidasa, est présenté de la manière suivante : « De la grande, douce et profonde sagesse de Kalidasa émane justement la parfaite connaissance des gens, la compatissante et affectueuse 169

compréhension des faits. Ce que cette œuvre exhale avec une force rare, c’est la nostalgie qui fait sécher sur pied. Tous ceux que le génie des soupirs et de la nostalgie visite pendant la nuit vont glorifier Kalidasa après la lecture de ce livre ! [...] La lecture de Sakountala finie, on reste pensif, les yeux dans le vague. On doit beaucoup attendre jusqu’à ce que la mémoire et l’âme se calment, si bouleversante est la force du drame, si forte l’émotion... » À propos du fils des grands fleuves, Eusebiu Camilar raconte des détails plutôt légendaires ; fils d’un brahmane, il aurait vécu à la cour de Vikramaditya, en prenant pour épouse la fille du rajah, malgré sa vie modeste au temps de la jeunesse, lorsqu’il avait été vacher « dans les campagnes fertiles du Gange ou du Brahmapoutra », détails qui lui rendaient plus proche la personne de l’auteur dont il traduisait l’œuvre. Comme les autres auteurs traduits, Kalidasa a trouvé dans l’écrivain roumain un traducteur-poète qui savait qu’en poésie ce qui compte c’est l’harmonie des mots et la seule importante est la vérité de l’art. La plus grande trahison vis-à-vis d’un auteur est une traduction sans éclat et qui manque de beauté poétique. Poète lui-même, Eusebiu Camilar n’a jamais trahi la poésie, au contraire, ses versions incarnent et suggèrent la perfection de l’original. Amoureux de Sakountala, il lui a dédié ce poème de son volume paru en 1964 : « Loin de moi, ma belle et ma bien-aimée, / Pourtant nos yeux voient la même étoile briller, //Et dans le ciel, la nuit, par un profond mystère, /Ils se rencontrent ainsi à des années lumières... [...] Des monts Himalaya, vers un sérail lointain, / Sakountala descend suivie d’un morne train... [...] Une étoile filante ? Dans le Gange, plutôt, / La belle Sakountala perd son brillant anneau... » « Pour réaliser la traduction de Sakountala – dit Eusebiu Camilar dans sa préface – j’ai surmonté des difficultés indicibles, parmi lesquelles l’impossibilité de la comparer à d’autres traductions, car, affirmation valable pour presque toutes les langues européennes, il n’y avait pas de traductions intégrales, mais uniquement des versions, des adaptations et des compilations. Aujourd’hui, la culture roumaine s’enrichit de la traduction intégrale de Sakountala. [...] J’ai voulu mettre à l’épreuve le fruit du travail de mes mains et de mon cœur, et j’ai invité le peu d’amis que je possède. » Leurs réactions à la lecture du drame l’ont convaincu que ce ne fut pas en vain qu’il avait passé beaucoup d’années de sa vie en traduisant Kalidasa. Certainement, les traductions littérales ont leur importance, surtout pour les spécialistes. Mais les autres lecteurs, ceux du grand public, ne comprendront jamais d’une telle traduction pourquoi un poète appartenant à une autre littérature est si grand et universellement reconnu. Pour faire 170

saisir la beauté de l’œuvre, il faut qu’un autre poète intervienne et qu’il trouve des équivalences aussi belles que les formes originales. Il est temps de le souligner : Eusebiu Camilar n’est pas un simple traducteur, surtout lorsqu’il s’agit de traduire la poésie. Ses versions roumaines ont la beauté et la force poétique des œuvres originales ; ce sont des recréations, selon les exigences et l’harmonie du roumain. Il a ouvert un plus large horizon vers les cultures orientales, persane, arabe, chinoise et indienne, tout en enrichissant notre culture de créations qui durent à travers le temps.

Notes 1

J’ai consulté : « Contes Arabes traduits par Antoine Galland, Les Mille et Une Nuits, Éditions Garnier frères, Paris, 1949 » et « Les Mille Nuits et Une Nuit, traduction littérale et complète du texte arabe par le Dr. J. C. Mardrus, Paris, Librairie Charpentier et Fasquelle, Eugène Fasquelle Éditeur, 1903. » 2 Raphaëlle Léostic, Diplôme National de Master, « Les éditions illustrées de luxe des Mille et Une Nuits dans les années 1920. » 3 Borges, Jorge-Luis, Conférences, traduction française de Françoise Rosset. Paris, Gallimard, 1985. 4 Raphaëlle Léostic, v. la note 2. 5 Sironval, Margaret, Métamorphose d’un conte, Aladin français et anglais (XVIIIe et XIXe siècles). Contribution à l’étude des Mille et une Nuits. Thèse de doctorat en littérature générale et comparée, Paris, Université Paris III, Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1998, 2 vol. 6 La toponymie est celle utilisée par Eusebiu Camilar dans ses carnets de notes. 7 Dans la bibliothèque de l’écrivain, il y a un dictionnaire sanskrit-anglais, « A sanskrit-english dictionary, etymologically and philologically arranged, with special reference to cognate indo-european langages, by Sir Monier MonierWilliams. Oxford, at the Clarendon Press, 1899. » Il porte la signature du possesseur, Eugen Papiniu, 1918, Londres. Il m’a semblé étrange que les deux derniers chiffres de l’année ont été effacées et modifiées (1918 remplace 1938); on peut constater que le dictionnaire n’a pas été utilisé. Je crois que le dictionnaire a été l’élément qui a conduit Eusebiu Camilar à ce traducteur, ancien diplomate avant la guerre (à bon entendeur, salut !), autrement une présence très discrète parmi les orientalistes du temps.

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Book Reviews Buchrezension „Der letzte Prinz“ Samira Begman: Dialog mit der Vergangenheit auf der Suche nach der Wahrheit über die Zukunft „Der Weise spricht so viel, wie der Gesprächspartner versteht!“ Die neueste Saga über den ewigen Kampf zwischen Gut und Böse von der Autorin Samira Begman reicht mit seinem historisch-poetischem Bach bis zu den Märchenzeiten des mittelalterlichen Bosniens. Dort, an der Dreiländergrenze der Welten, nistete sich die Philosophie ein von der religiösen Lehre über das Licht, das aus der Dunkelheit geboren wurde. Durch die Zuwendung zur Liebe und Güte, den Quellen der Schönheit vom Lebenswandel, führt uns Begman ein in eine bereits vergessene Welt der Verbannung von Dichotomie. Darin triumphiert das Gute als Prinzip der verfeinerten und melancholischen Dimension künstlerischer Suche nach den Schlüsseln des Glücks. Diese bleiben immer nur einen Fingerbreit über den Möglichkeiten des Menschen sich zu entscheiden, das Dilemma zu lösen, welchen Weg er wählen soll. Erst die subtile Rüge oder der unabsichtliche Fluch der Gerechten stellt die zerstörte Balance wieder her zwischen der Eitelkeit, der Grobheit und des Hochmuts auf der einen, sowie dem Gesetz über die kosmische Harmonie auf der anderen Seite. Diese Harmonie erhält im Universum das Gleichgewicht zwischen Licht und Dunkelheit, Geburt und Sterben, Sterblichkeit und Unsterblichkeit, Materielles und Spirituelles. Die Geschichte über den letzten bosnischen Prinzen findet im Heimatland der Autorin statt. Dort lebt immer noch der Geist des zoroastrischen Dualismus' von Mythen und Legenden. Diese handeln vom ewigen Kampf zwischen Gut und Böse, gesprossen in der manichäischen Kultur vom mittelalterlichen Bosnien. Ihr Ideal ist vererbt und in der mentalen Struktur des Egos als subtile Dimension der Welt eingebaut. Diese Welt liegt ausserhalb der Sinneswahrnehmung, des Geistes und Intellekts, also auf dem Niveau der intuitiven Erkenntnis. Die allegorische Art, in der die Autorin schreibt, hat nicht selten die Architektur eines komplexen und tiefen Symbols, einer Personifizierung, einer erweiterten Metapher – die Architektur von Ereignissen am Rand des epischen Hörensagens, die ihre eigene Erkenntnis sind, durch eigene Erfahrung durchlebt, in turbulenten Zeiten historischer Brüche. Diesem entnimmt sie ihre ideell-philosophischen und moralischen Kriterien, welche sie in ihr eigenes Wertsystem umgiesst, woraus unerschütterliche Geistigkeit herauswächst. Mit dem Stil einer Kennerin der Kulturgeschichte dieser Räume, worüber alle Aufwallungen und Brüche von Kultur-, Ideologie- und Rassenbarrieren umbrachen in einen duldsamen Gang zu irgendwelchen anderen und vermenschlichten, aber mächtigeren Richtlinien der Zivilisation, kehrt Begman zurück zum ursprünglichen bosnischen Wesen und seiner Inkarnation der Güte als Hauptprinzip, welches nicht verschwunden, sondern erst vorläufig infolge der Ereignisse zu diesen verhängnisvollen Turbulenzen auf dem Balkan unterdrückt ist, um als bedeutsamer Faktor der avantgardistischen, neuzeitlichen, romantischen Poetik des Engagements der Autorin zu erscheinen. Der Weg des Protagonisten in der Saga über den letzten bosnischen Prinzen bis zur Selbsterkenntnis ist durch einen schmerzhaften und duldsamen Prozess bedeckt, worin

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die eigene Grösse in sich zusammenfällt. Deswegen verwahrt er sich, wie noch kein Herrscher vor ihm, gegen seine Freunde und Familie, was der beendete prophezeite Fluch ist, der bei Überheblichen eintrifft. Dadurch transformiert sich die kosmische Zelle in ihr Gegenteil, und deshalb ist für eine neue Balance ihr Replizieren notwendig. Denn sie werden nur durch Strafe wieder Teil des Universums. Durch ihre Grobheit ist die Integrität der Persönlichkeit des Gerechten tief zerrüttet, so wie beim Bauernsohn Besohn. Als dieser den König Radischa sieht, wie er machtlose Tiere tötet und selber unbewusst sündigt, verflucht er den Gewalttäter, dass er sich in einen bedeutungslosen Marienkäfer verwandelt, wobei er sich nicht glücklich fühlt, als der Fluch einzutreffen beginnt. Das tiefe und wahrhaftige Gefühl der Konsternation begleitet ihn sogar auch nach der Begegnung mit Prinz Marienkäfer, der darauf besteht, ihm mit seinen besonderen Sinnen zu helfen, die Wahrheit und die Lehre zu erkennen. Denn Besohns Reinheit, Rechtschaffenheit und Mitgefühl führen ihn noch in jungen Jahren zum Meister Klaatsch, der ihn ins Geheimnis einweiht, dass das Böse nicht schaffen kann, sondern lediglich vergeudet. Dort macht Begman eine Mistral-Verbindung zwischen Vergehen, verkörpert in der Gestalt des letzten bosnischen Prinzen sowie in der Strafe, aufgrund welcher er seine eigene Mission entdeckt: „Alles hat eine tiefere Bedeutung, selbst dann, wenn wir sie nicht erkennen und es uns scheint, als wäre alles von Übel. Die Trauer eines guten Menschen vereint sich einmal mit derjenigen eines bösen. Daraufhin erweicht das Herz des Übeltäters, und seine Leidenschaft wird besänftigt. Das Leid bringt das Glück hervor, aber nur dann, wenn man für sich und für andere nach dem Glück trachtet.“ In tiefer Resignation die unbegreifliche Diskrepanz zwischen dem Individuum und Universum verbildlichend, enthüllt uns die Autorin durch die Erzählung eines reifen Schöpfers die ewigen Wahrheiten über die Einsamkeit, Ohnmacht, Ungerechtigkeit durch die vergessene Prophezeiung, welche der Meister dem Besohn erzählt: „Es wird die Zeit kommen, da werden die Menschen schwach und machtlos sein, so dass sie dem Einfluss himmlischer Körper von der dunklen Seite zufallen werden. Und ihr Verstand wird sich trüben und ihr Sehvermögen wird sich vermindern. Die Illusion wird das Wissen bedecken und die Sprachen verdunkeln, so wird niemand den anderen verstehen. Es werden die Pfeiler einstürzen, auf denen dieser himmlische Körper und diese Menschheit ruhen: Wahrheit, Reinheit, Gnade und Weisheit. Und es wird eine neue Menschheit auf den Pfeilern des Sieges, der Macht, des Reichtums und des Ruhms entstehen. Und dieser himmlische Körper wird abmessen, auf ihre Markierungen einschlagen und die abgetrennten Teile nach sich benennen. Aber der Teil auf seiner Kerbe, wo das Wasser des Lebens und der Allgegenwärtigkeit zusammenfliessen, wird nach dem Wasser benannt. Und für immer wird in dieser Erde alles zugegen sein, was auf diesem himmlischen Körper zusammengeflossen und verdampft ist, um ihm Mass und Spiegel zu sein. Und wenn der entscheidende Kampf zwischen Gut und Böse geführt wird, werden sich die himmlischen Portale auch in der Erde öffnen, die den Namen trägt, der das Leben bedeutet. Dann wird sich das Wort erheben und die Macht des Schöpfens haben, genau wie jetzt. Dann werden sowohl die Menschen als auch die Geister auf dem gleichen Feld ernten, und jene, die nicht sehen, werden Wunder sehen.“ Der Kampf zwischen Gut und Böse ist eigentlich der Kampf unserer eigenen Lebenserfahrungen. Er ereignet sich aus dem Inneren, ist jedoch in die äussere Welt als Manifestation gesamter Taten oder Untaten projiziert. Eine der Hauptwaffen in diesem inneren Kampf sind die Identifikation und Interpretation, in welcher die

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Persönlichkeitstransformation durch Degradation oder positiver Progression stattfindet, worüber Begman in Form eines Dialogs überzeugender philosophischer Erzählung schreibt: „Was, kannst du etwa Gedanken lesen?“ „Ja,“, antwortete Marienkäfer, „jeder Gedanke, Wunsch und jedes Gefühl stellen eine Kraft dar, die sich durch eigene Wellen, schallende Schwingungen und Farben ausdrückt. Das menschliche Auge kann diese Farben nicht sehen und das menschliche Ohr kann diese schallenden Schwingungen nicht hören. Doch instinktiv kann man diese Wellen spüren, aber ohne entwickeltes Gehör und Sehvermögen ist der Mensch nicht in der Lage sie zu erkennen. Diese Wellen trachten danach, sich mit Gleichem oder Ähnlichem zu vereinen. Dadurch werden sie noch stärker, und so schafft diese Kraft unsere Wirklichkeit.“ Soweit das Gedächtnis dieser Welt reicht, wird die Tugend an Sieg, Reichtum, Ruhm und Macht gemessen. Die Machtlosigkeit der Autorin infolge tragischer Ereignisse in der Heimat, mit Trauer und Verbitterung sowie eigenartiger Empörung, bleibt umhüllt von nebligen Erinnerungen an die Geschichten aus uralter Zeit über Bescheidenheit und Demut, welche im Wertsystem des New Age Paradigmas eine fast groteske Konnotation reinkarnierter neuzeitlicher Tugenden dekadenter Führungselite bekommen haben. Als Schriftstellerin, engagierte kulturelle Gesandte, komponiert Samira Begman eine völlig eigene Sicht auf die Welt, die sie durch einen hoch ethischen philosophischen Einschlag über das historisch festgelegte kollektive Bewusstsein und seiner Äquivalenz in persönlichen und sozialen Verhältnissen der Individuen gestaltet, durch subjektives Erkennen und Annehmen universaler Moralwerte. Vielleicht illustriert das am besten ihre Überlegung über Bosnien und den Bosniern, die verfluchten, anzündeten, vernichteten: Päpste, Kaiser, Könige, und die Überlebenden kehrten immer wieder zu ihrem Starrsinn zurück. Im Nachhinein formten sie einen relativ geschlossenen Verband, als Inseln in der Welt der Dauerdrohungen. Besonders wertvoll ist der Abschnitt, worin Besohn mit Marienkäfer als Begleiter Gesprächspartner zu finden versucht, denen er die Weisheit der Grossväter übermitteln würde, so lange wie er mit der Leidenschaft an seine Absichten gebunden ist, aus welchen Vortrefflichkeiten die Generationen auch sein mögen. Als er spürt, dass er von seiner Suche ermüdet, wendet sich Marienkäfer an Besohn, bereit die Wahrheit zu empfangen. Er erklärt ihm, dass der Mensch mit seinen Taten eine Spur in Raum und Zeit zurücklässt: „Sie selbst haben es aufgeschrieben, mit ihrer Tat und ihrem Leben. Sie woben den Faden des vollendeten Menschen in die Qualität und in das Wesen dieses Planeten ein. Und er wird für alle Zeiten auf die Menschen wirken, die ihr Herz von den Eigenschaften der Dunkelheit gereinigt haben und danach trachten, die Fackel zu sein, die anderen leuchten wird.“ Die Autorin spricht nicht in der Sprache ethnischer, sondern moralischer und philosophischer Richtlinien. Damit bestätigt sie die Religion der Gleichheit, welche ein bedeutender Teil der Weltbürger immer noch negiert. Dies bestätigt er folgendermassen; ihre materialistische Anhänglichkeit gegenüber dem Ideal ethnischer Souveränität und Suprematie, Ausscheider zwischen Ethnie und Gerechtigkeit in der dekadenten Absicht, mit Überheblichkeit über die planetarischen Ressourcen zu herrschen, und das unter einer sehr sofistizierten Maske von Anhänglichkeit an das multiethnische Konzept des universalen Wesens. Seinen streng kontrollierten Nationalismus dosiert jeder ein wenig mit Unterschiedlichkeit als Beweis für Autochthone zur Glorifizierung erhöhten Nationalismus innerhalb der internationalen Familie, welche mit ihren Wurzeln tief ausserhalb gemeinsamer Interessen reicht. Diese sind mit Kosmopolit in der Synergie mit der Liebe zum Menschen festgelegt, worauf

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Begman in ihrer Schlussbeobachtung hinweist: „All deine wunderbaren Eigenschaften, Besohn, die Liebe, welche du bedingungslos allen Wesen erweist, die Treue, Ausdauer, und über alles das Mitgefühl gegenüber den Schwachen, sind der Krug, worin die Weisheit der Grossväter fliesst sowie der Schlüssel, womit die Schatzkammer des Wissens geöffnet wird. Niemand ist in der Lage, die Lehre der Grossväter zu empfangen und zur Schatzkammer des Wissens zu gelangen, wenn er sein Herz nicht reinigt und diejenigen Eigenschaften entwickelt, über die du verfügst. Du gehst auf der Erde mit dem inbrünstigen Wunsch zu helfen, womit du diesen Faden eingewoben hast, der auf jene einwirken wird, die sich nach etwas Leuchtendem sehnen. In ihrem Herzen jedoch, tragen sie bewusst oder unbewusst immer noch die Eigenschaften der Dunkelheit. Darum sind sie nicht fähig diesen Wunsch mit der Weisheit der Grossväter zu erfüllen. Und du, Besohn, du bist dieser Weg. Und mit deiner Tat hast du ihn auch für alle anderen auf der ganzen Erde gebahnt.“ In der Absicht, in die Tiefe der Tragik der Ereignisse durchzudringen, die von der normalen Auffassung von Menschlichkeit, Freundschaft, Liebe, Wahrheit und Gerechtigkeit abweichen, verschweigt Begman mit der Philosophie des Erbes und mit der seit Jahrhunderten sorgfältig verborgenen Weisheit den eigenen Dialog mit der Gegenwart. Indem sie sich auf die Hinterlassenschaft der Grossväter beruft, die sich in die hohen Gebirge zurückgezogen haben, bestimmt sie für sich als Menschen wie auch als Künstlerin, dass der Faden historischer Erinnerung nicht verloren ist, und dass nach tragischen Erfahrungen die Reinigung kommt. Dies tut sie durch die Suche nach den verlorenen Wegen, auf welchen sie zu den Menschen gelangen will, indem sie dornige Bergabhänge neuer Bezeugungen rodet. Es gibt keine Zukunft, mit der man die Vergangenheit ausradieren kann, so wie es die Autorin Samira Begman in ihrem Märchen ausrichten lässt. Ihre Kunst und Geschicklichkeit schriftstellerisch-philosophischer Überlegung und Hörensagens ist das Erbe der Zivilisation, welches die nationalen und staatlichen Grenzen überschreitet. Dabei bleibt es teilweise das kulturelle und familiäre Milieu, das Samira Begman offensichtlich in jungen Jahren als Künstlerin, Denkerin und überzeugte Weltbürgerin profilierte, immer und restlos konsequent der Tradition Räume, denen sie abstammt. Ohne ihre Ahnen und ihren Einfluss auf die Formierung einer Schichtpersönlichkeit sowie einer komplexen Sicht auf die Welt zu negieren, sind die Tradition und Mythologie ihres Heimatlands ein unversiegbarer Brunnen wertvoller Tat über die spezifische Philosophie des Aufstands gegen Irrtümer. Dies in einer Atmosphäre, die schwer eindeutig zu beschreiben ist und die zwischen der Ruhe im Annehmen des Schicksals und der Demut, aber entscheidender Empörung gegen die Unmenschlichkeit gegenüber Schwachen und Machtlosen sowie tragischen Vorurteilen oszilliert. Der erste entscheidende Krieg ist der Krieg mit sich selbst, weshalb Begman dem letzten Prinzen von Bosnien die Märchenrolle des Antihelden verleiht, der sich in einen Marienkäfer mit paranormalen Fähigkeiten transformiert, welche die Grenzen des Diesseits überschreiten. Der Triumph, der in diesem Krieg gegen sich selbst errungen wird, stellt die Grundlage dar für den Sieg auch in anderen Dimensionen der eigenen Existenz und des Seins. Dabei meidet die Autorin Samira Begman die ewige menschliche Falle, in die moralische Nomenklatur des Teufels und Gottes Willen einzuführen, wie sie das tun würden, was im Einklang mit ihren bewussten Zielen, unbewussten Idealen oder verzerrten Weltbildern steht.

Zlata Zunić

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Otopljeni smisao sebstva1 Ja žena Ja žena, ja kurva, ja duša djetinja, stvaranja svijeta. Autorica Mogu li pjesmom život obujmiti? Odgovore vaseljenske dati? Mogu li sjećanje na ramenima ponijeti? I svjetlosnim žigom opstati? Mogu li smisao stradanja pronaći? Unutar sopstvenih pojanja? Samira Begman Karabeg refleksivnost vlastitog otiska unutar poetike smisla sebstva kreira nadajući se ne samo da će sopstvenu dušu osloboditi bremena godina patnje, već i prenijeti moguću sreću. Onu pronađenu sreću unutar kreacije koja objedinjuje višeslojnu nju. Pjesnikinju. Ženu, prije svega. Iz nje toplota vrućih voda izvire dok pokušava, nesvjesno (no, šta je svjesnost do vid creacie sui generis), ovaplotiti riječi i Karla Manhajma2 u vječitom krugu ponavljanih pitanja: Ko je u pravu? I zbog čega? Filozofska promišljanja pjesnikinje ovdje nisu u konfliktu sa snovima poeta o cvijeću, sreći i ljubavi. Ne! Dapače, iskustveno jaka, pred nama se otvara arhipelag saznanja, od Kanta, preko Hegela i sve do samozatajnog, buđenju ustreptalog Sartra. Junga da i ne pominjem. Iz svake riječi, poruke, pjesničkog stava, kao malj po tijelu usnulih 1

Knjiga poezije „U bionjači Jednoroga“, Izdavač DHIRA verlag, Kusnacht, Švicarska, 2012. - ISBN 978-3-905869-51-4 2 Ne treba li, kad ispitamo sve mogućnosti ljudskog mišljenja, na osnovu toga zaključiti da postoje bezbrojni mogući putevi kojima se može ići? Zar ovaj društveni proces uspona u atinskoj demokratiji nije izazvao veliki talas skepticizma u istoriji zapadnjačkog mišljenja? Zar sofisti grčke prosvećenosti nisu bili izraz sumnjalačkog stava zato što su se u njihovom mišljenju o stvarima sukobljavala dva načina objašnjavanja? S jedne strane postojala je mitologija, stil mišljenja jednoga plemstva koje je još vladalo ali je već bilo osuđeno na propast, a sa druge strane više analitički stav u mišljenju gradskog zanatlijskog donjega sloja koji se kretao naviše. Ukoliko su se obe ove forme tumačenja sveta susticale u mišljenju sofista i ukoliko je za svaku moralnu odluku bilo u najmanju ruku dve norme a za svaki kosmički i društveni događaj bar dva objašnjenja, nije čudo što su se sofisti skeptički izjašnjavali o vrednosti ljudskog mišljenja. Stoga je glupo na ograničeni školski način koriti ih zbog toga što su oni u svojim saznajnim teorijskim naporima bili skeptičari. Oni su jednostavno imali hrabrosti da iskažu ono što je svako osećao – hrabrosti koja je zaista karakteristična za tu epohu – naime, da je ranija nedvosmislenost normi i tumačenja sveta bila uzdrmana i da se zadovoljavajuće rešenje moglo naći samo u temeljnon podvrgavanju sumnji i u razmišljanju o suprotnostima.“ Karl Manhajm (IDEOLOGIJA I UTOPIJA, Izdavač NOLIT, Beograd, biblioteka SASZVEŽĐA, str. 10. i str.11., 1978.g.)

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nadanja, udaraju nas valovi probuđenih misli. Ljudskih. Ženskih. Njenih. Stav1 je nešto građeno decenijama. I, naravno, kao i svaki čovjek koji želi živjeti unutar određenog društva smisla (bar se nadati) i ona, iako pokušava vladati kreacijom vlastitog otiska, stvara društvo samo. Kako i navedoh, iskustveno jaka, mora, ipak, voditi računa da, kada posvećuje pjesme dragim ljudima, ali i onim manje dragim, ne izgubi suštinu pojavnosti. Naime, na prostorima bivše Jugoslavije je veoma popularno biti u medijima2, prisutan pred očima različitih javnosti bez obzira koliko to nekome smetalo ili ne. Pojavnost u ovome slučaju mora biti usmjerena mogućim alternativama jednostavnih, ljudskih pretakanja služenju...ljudskosti, ako jesmo, ili barem pokušavamo, ljudima biti. Ponegdje se još uvijek, nenadano, nađu pjesme sa satiričnom potkom, koje kao da strše upozoravajuće iznad ostalih, no, i one su tu, unutar konteksta uobličavanja društva po sebi. Samirina poezija je ponekad i žudno provokativna dok vabi ljubavi stremeći. Njeni svjetlosni otisci nisu samo trag na snijegu u proljeće nadanja, već čvrsto korijenje unutar jeseni života. Njena usmjerenost sociološkoj alegoriji simbolike svijeta kojeg gleda, ali i sluša upijajući neštedimice sopstvene strahove, je inspirativni oblik iskrenog straha od smrti. Jednoroga. Ona je zaštitnica mitskoga bića u sebi. Ne radi vlastitog spasa, već širih, nama teško pojmljivih ciljeva. Da, ona spašava ciljeve: istine, ljubavi, inspiracije, čežnje... Teško je izdvajati posebnost unutar njene poetike, jer kompletan oblik predstavljene poezije i nije ništa drugo do život unutar vlastitog ukazanja. Sama činjenica da još nije uspjela ispiti do kraja krv iz kaleža Jednoroga, upozoravajući nas na sudbinu nas, nedoraslih. Onoga trenutka kada zavrsi sa time, svijetu neće trebati više njena, upozoravajuća poezija. Jednostavno će poezijom postati. Svijet. Samira je osobnost karaktera koji još uvijek istražuje, unutar granica ljudskosti, čak i u pjesmama. Njeno istraživanje nije ništa drugo3 do vlastita percepcija sebstva. I tada nastaje problem. Nama. Da shvatimo snagu suštine njenih nadanja. I na kraju, njeni različiti oblici poetskih odraza i unutar haikua su samo drugačiji oblik istovjetnih namjera: Da moli, upozori, voli, ali i traži. Ljubav, prije svega. Od one prema i od čovjeka, do one nama još uvijek nepojmljive. Dok ne ispijemo kalež. Krvi vlastite, možda. 1

Prema Jungu, stav predstavlja gotovost psihe, koja može biti svesna ili nesvesna i predstavlja usmerenost, odnosno očekivanje. 2 Kako prosjaci uma vele:“ da mi je da bidnem i izađem u medijima, pa da umrem“, dok im meštri public relations, spin-majstori i ini šapću na uho: „ i negativna reklama je reklama“. Upravo tako, koliko god da činjenicama raskrinkavaš licemjerje, lopovluk, zavist i zlobu ovdašnjih prosjaka uma, tim toliko gore po činjenice. I penju se ka vrhu vlasti, književnosti, ljudskosti?! Da li, jer, ipak, „toranj kada padne i dalje je toranj, dok je smeće i dalje smeće, bez obzira koliko se penje..kako veli jedna njemačka poslovica.“ (Iz knjige eseja radnog naslova „Zamjenska sudbina“ u pripremi, S.H., 2012.) 3 banalizirajući tu pojavnost

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Dissolved sense of self1 I, a woman I, a woman, I, a whore, I, a soul of the child, creation of the world. Author

Can I use the poem to encompass life? To give ecumenical answers? Can I carry the memory on the shoulders? And with stamped light survive? Can I find the meaning of suffering? Within my own chants? Samira Begman Karabeg’s reflectivity in her publication, poetics of the self sense, creates hope that she will not only relieve the burdensome years of suffering from her own soul, but also communicate possible happiness: the happiness found within creation that unifies and completes her as a poetess and, first and foremost, as a woman. From her emanates the heat of hot water while trying, unconsciously, (but what is consciousness other than the form of creation sui generis?), to epitomize the words of Karl Mannheim2 in a perpetual circle of repeated questions: Who is right? And for what? Philosophical reflections of the poetess here do not conflict with the dreams of poets about flowers, happiness and love. No! Indeed, with a strong experience, in front of us opens an archipelago of knowledge, from Kant to Hegel … all the way to a quiet, awakened and trembling Sartre. Not to mention Jung. From 1

Book of poetry „In the whites of Unicorn“, Publisher DHIRA verlag, Kusnacht, Switzerland, 2012 - ISBN 978-3-905869-51-4 2 Should we, when examine all the possibilities of human thought, conclude that there are countless possible ways we can go through? Has this rise of the social process in Athenian democracy not caused the surge of skepticism in the history of Western thought? Were the Greek sophists not an expression of enlightenment through a doubting attitude because in their opinion about things there conflicted two ways of explaining? On the one hand, a mythological thinking style, which is one of the nobility that still existed but was doomed to fail, and on the other hand a more analytical view of the opinion of the upwardly mobile segment of society. If you have both of these forms of interpreting the world converging in the opinion of the Sophists, and if for any moral decision there existed at least two standards for each cosmic and social event and at least two explanations, it is not surprising that the sophists declared themselves skeptical about the value of human thinking. Therefore, it is foolish to criticize a limited school, because they in their cognitive theoretical efforts were skeptic. They simply had the courage to express what everybody felt - courage that is truly characteristic of that era - namely, that the earlier norms and unambiguous interpretation of the world were shaken and that a satisfactory solution could be found only in the subjecting of basic doubts when thinking about opposites. "Karl Mannheim (Ideology and Utopia, Publisher Nolita, Belgrade, SASZVEŽĐA library, p. 10th and p.11., 1978)

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each word, message, poetic attitude, like a mallet hammering on the body of sleeping hopes, we have been hit with the waves of awakened thoughts. Of the Human. Of the Female. Her thoughts. Attitude1 is something which has been built over decades. And, of course, like any man who wants to live within a certain society of the senses (at least to hope for) she also attempts to rule the creation of her book and, in it, create a society. As I stated, though empirically strong, she must, however, take into account that, when she dedicates the poems to dear people, and to those less dear, not to lose the essence of manifestation. Namely, within the area of former Yugoslavia it is very popular to be in the media2, present in front of various audiences no matter how much someone likes it or not. Appearance in this case should be directed to the possibility of simple humanity...to the attempt, at least, to be, human. In some places still, suddenly, you find poems with satirical predestination, as if warnings protruding above the rest, however, and those poems are here, in the context of shaping society itself. Samira's poetry is sometimes eagerly provocative while wooing and aspiring towards love. Her light prints are not just a footprint on the snow in the spring of hopes, but the firm roots within the autumn of life. Her focus towards sociological allegory of symbolism of the world that she is watching, listening and absorbing unsparingly her own fears, is the inspirational true form of fear of death. Of the Unicorn. She is a patron of the mythical creature in herself. Not for her own salvation, but broader, our hardly understandable goals. Yes, she saves aims: truth, love, inspiration, yearning ... It is difficult to identify a specialty within her poetry, because the poetry presented here is nothing else than the life within one's appearance. The mere fact is that she failed to drink up until the end the blood from the chalice of the Unicorn, warning us about the fate of us immature ones. The moment she finishes with that, the world will need more of her warning poetry. It will simply become the poetry. The World. Samira is the personality of the character who is still investigating, within the limits of humanity, even in her poems. Her research is nothing more3 than her own perception of self. And 1

According to Jung, the attitude is a readiness of the psyche, which may be conscious or unconscious, and present a direction, in other words - the expectation. 2 How the beggars of the mind (rednecks) would say, "to me that I go out and to be in the media, and to I die," while their masters of public relations, spin-masters and others are whispering in their ears: "A negative advertising is and advertising also." That's right, no matter how much, using the facts, you disclosure hypocrisy, thievery, envy and malice of the local beggars of the mind, that is so much the worse for the facts. And they climb to the top of government, literature, humanity?! Is it, for, though, "the tower when it falls and remains the Tower, while the trash is still trash, no matter how many climbs it has... says a German proverb." (From the book of essays titled "Replacement fate" in preparation, SH, 2012.) 3 To render commonplace the appearances.

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then the problem arises. For Us. To understand the essence the power of her hopes. And in the end, her various forms of poetic reflections even within haiku are just a different form of identical intents: To pray, to warn, to love and to seek. Love, first and foremost. From those we know and from those who to us still are still inconceivable. Until we drink the chalice. Of our own blood, maybe. Sabahudin Hadžialić, Writer and editior Sarajevo, 03.02.2012, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Osjetilne spoznaje odlučivanja1 Quid est essentia? Festina lente, charissime lector2 „Ja ne sanjam o sreći. No ne sumnjam o sreći. Gle ovoga dvojstva i trojstva moga: ima u meni tmine no ima u meni vedrine,

i moja divna sloga.“ (pjesma ZAPIS NA PRAGU, Tin Ujević – knjiga POEZIJA, Tin Ujević, SVJETLOST, Sarajevo, 1989., str.89.) Poetika kontradiktornosti suvislosti usmjerena. Knjiga poezije UVID SADAŠNJOSTI, pjesnikinje Ines Peruško-Rihtar pred nama razastire čudne

Knjiga poezije „Uvid sadašnjosti“. Izdavač : Štamparija Fojnica d.o.o., Fojnica, BiH, 2012. ISBN 978-9958-17-022-5 2 Šta je suština? Požuri polako, dragi čitatelju....“U raspravi s Ernestom Laclauom na Internetu, Judith Butler iznijela je krasnu hegelovsku misao u vezi s odlučivanjem: ne samo da se nijedna odluka ne donosi u apsolutnoj praznini, daje svaka odluka kontekstualizirana, da je ona odluka-u-kontekstu, nego su i sami konteksti na neki način proizvedeni odlukama, lo jest, postoji stanovito udvostručivanje donošenja odluka .... Prvo je tu odluka da se označi ili omeđi kontekst u kojemu će odluka (o tome kakve se razlike ne smiju uključiti u dani poredak) biti donesena, a zatim označavanje odredenih vrsta razlika kao neprihvatljivih. Neodlučivost je ovdje radikalna: nikada se ne može dosegnuti "čisti" kontekst koji prethodi odluci; svaki kontekst je "uvijek-već" retroaktivno konstituiran odlukom (kao u slučaju razloga da se nešto učini, koji su uvijek barem minimalno retroaktivno postulirani činom odluke koju utemeljuju - tek kad već odlučimo vjerovati, razlozi za vjerovanje postaju nam uvjerljivi, a ne obraćamo). Drugi vid iste postavke jest taj da ne samo da nema odluke bez isključivanja (tj. svaka odluka isključuje niz mogućnosti) nego je i sam čin odluke moguć tek putem svojevrsnog isključivanja: nešto mora biti isključeno da bismo postali bića koja donose odluke.“ Slavoj Žižek „Škakljivi subjekt-Odsutno središte političke ontologije“ (Str.15., TDK „Šahinpašić, Sarajevo, 2006.)

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nakane osobnosti naturale autorice izgrađenog osjećaja za prostor, vrijeme ali i egzistencijalnost unutar neodlučnosti radikalne odlučivosti same. I u poeziji. Unutar mogućnosti traženja, isprepletene mudrošću, ljubavlju i predanosti sebi, drugome, prirodi unutar oboje, ali i prema snažnim varijacima sveobuhvatnosti čudesnog okvira postojanja, ona diše. Vatreno, jasno i itekako glasno. Kada govori o ljubavi, ona je Afrodita uznesenja: „Mislit ću na tebe/i onog dana/kada kiše prestanu ljevati,/kada sve oluje postanu tiše/i onda kada vjetrovi prestanu puhati/u noći hladne,/dok će bijeli snijeg padati.“...no, ona je i nihilizmom optočena „Mislima prolazim očima tvojim,/jer sve prolazi i sve će proći.“...dok ciničnim htijenjem saopštava „Na dlanovima zapisano stoji,/život i smrt u jednom,/bliske izdajice ljudskoga roda.“ Kao na dotrajaloj drvenoj barci u susretu sa nemirnim valovima svakidašnjice, dok je vjetrovi usmjeravaju hridima konačnih odluka, ona se bori riječima sreće i tuge, kreirajući sopstvene odluke, raznoseći žestinom nastupa sve ono što joj smeta unutar kreacije sopstvenog bića. Koje voli, pati, ali i bori se protiv gladi...života, ali i smrti. Istovremeno znajući, da na ovaj ili onaj način, svakako...gubi. I kada pobijedi. Ines Peruško-Rihtar je autor smisla. Koji obuhvaća ne samo vlastita, poželjna očekivanja, već i čitateljska. Ona je nas pročitala, upravo u trenutku njenog čitanja, sa naše strane. Apsurdnost prethodne rečenice se očituje u očekivanim nadama smisla. Autorskog. Dok kreira stihove čudnih nakana...“... Što je čovjek od čovjeka/dok uživa u zraku što diše,/u mističnoj dubini kroz portal smisla/hladno prekoračenje svijesti...“Vratolomije svijesti koje oduzimaju dah i nisu ništa drugo do otvaranje grobnice izgubljenog Krona, boga žetve, koji u ovome slučaju, kastrirajući postojeće vizije, kreira snažnu, novu Afroditu. Žestina njenog otiska je vrlina njenih nagona dok veli „...šuti i ne plači,/zatvori oči i zaboravi,/jer stigao je anđeo smrti,/da nas spasi....“ tražeći smisao u besmislu svakodnevnice čekajući nošenje „kaleža iste duše“. Ovdje je podsmijeh je u smijehu vlastitome. Nimalo ciničan, isuviše suvisao, u potrebi da razazna sopstvene boli smijući se. Smijući se svemu, ali ponajviše sebi, ona shvata da samo na taj način pravi otklon od bijednih, jednostavnih, životnih repeticia. Koje nisu mater studiorum. Kao ni povijest sama. Usudući se kazati da pjesničkom uobličenošću Ines stvara nove kanone unutar shvatanja ideologije svijesti ljudske predanosti. Smislu. Kojeg nema. Ali i ima. Zavisno od kuta gledanja...“ Darujem ti sebe ljubavi,/u svađama, psovkama,/ prijateljima,/ u instrumentalu,/ u pjesmi, stihovima,/ kroz pogled bez riječi,/u znoju što kaplje sa čela“...Njena ljubav nije svakodnevna predanost, iako snažna, već suština samog poimanja te riječi...ljubavi...koja ne mora biti samo fizička (a jeste), isprepletena (a jeste), psihološki iscrpljujuća (a jeste), svjetla (a jeste) i mutna (a jeste). Već isključivo jeste sve navedeno unutar 181

nesavršenog oblika svijesti u biću koje koristi samo 6 % vlastite mogućnosti spoznaje mozgom što se naziva. A kako bi i bilo drugačije od osobnosti koja je proizvod laboratorije Svevišnjeg (kako god ga mi nazivali) dok je pokušavao pripremiti mit o čovjeku, kreirajući mit o nesavršenosti upravo tog...čovjeka. Njene minijature (oprostite, iluminacije) su priča specifica, jer se pred nama otvara novi svijet razotkrivenih, upravo, mitova o poeziji. Snažne reference jednostavnih naboja eksplozivno razaraju mogućnost shvatanja suštine. Što i jeste bio cilj. Kako? Odgovor je u „vođenju“ pjesama koje, u ovom slučaju dalijevski, namjerno, nedorečeno, nama ostavljaju mogućnost da izađemo iz lavirinta tunela na svjetlo dana ni ne sluteći da je svjetlost na kraju upravo tog tunela bio samo bljesak odlazeće zvijezde. I šta tada? Nastavljamo čitati Ines. Život poetica ove pjesnikinje i jeste neprekidni neprekinuti pokret. Jednom je neko lijepo rekao: Cilj nije ništa. Kretanje je sve. I upravo zbog toga njeno hodanje, iako je, samo naizgled, usmjereno drugome, usudiću se dodati: Da, drugome, ali alter egu vlastitome. Pjesnici upravo skrivenim metaforama nerijetko razotkrivaju sopstvena traumatična iskustva preslikavajući ih na papir naših osjetila. Dok hodamo ka...smislu. U tišini bučne svekolike stvarnosti, ova pjesnikinja pronalazi riječi utjehe vapeći ka poimanju suštine egzistencijalnosti per se, kako i sama veli...“ Rekli su mi/ nemoj nikad sumnjat/a ja se ipak pitam.“ Don Ivan Grubešić1 je nedavno rekao da ateisti, ali i teisti sumnjaju. I da je to dobro ka konačnom shvatanju sveobuhvatne svijesti koja nas vodi iz jednog u drugi svijet. A ona se pita! Dok i dalje traži mir u srcu, vlastitome. Bez prestanka pokušavajući ispraviti upravo „grešku u sistemu“ javstva. Čak i kada plaće riječima usmjerena nekom drugom prostoru unutar vremena istovjetnosti usmjerenog...“...u Zagrebu u rano ljeto,/plovim po moru misli/kao za inat grču realnosti.“ Shvatajući prolaznost života, ali ne i svijesti o njemu, i u njemu, pjesnikinja u Oblaku2, ali i u Sjeti3 zazire od kraja. Znajući da sve i jeste upravo stvoreno unutar zadovoljstva i boli, zaboravu stremeći. Contradictio in adiecto? Ne, već suština stvari. Sve je u dvije navedene riječi. Zadovoljstvo stvaranjem, ljubavlju, trajanjem i srećom i bol u razaranju, zaboravu, mržnji i nesreći. Ljudsko je. Ne samo griješiti. Oksimoron u upotrebi nije samo „krštenje kišom“ već i „razigrane noći“ dok postaje „nagrižena od starosti“. I sve u jednoj pjesmi „Odgovori, Odjeci, Umirući“ koja, po meni, i jeste kutni kamen njene poezije. U ovoj knjizi. Zbog čega? Odgovor je jednostavan. Najsloženije stvari su najjednostavnije a u 1

Doktor znanosti-sociolog religije, svećenik i političar (Dicmo, Hrvatska, 1936) OBLAK...Okrenula sam pogled ka nebu/draguljasti oblak plovi/ zagušljivim zrakom lagano/kao brod ka svojoj luci/kao da se oprašta od života/harmonično u krugu/mješavinom zadovoljstva i boli. 3 SJETA...U sjenci trajanja,/izreknut zaborav/utopljen u noći,/težak kao tuća/kao nebo iznad mene. 2

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navedenoj pjesmi je sve rečeno. Suštinsko. Njeno. Objedinjujući htijenja usmjerena razumjevanju života i smrti... ljubavi i mržnje...jin i janga. Da ne nabrajam. Kazaće vam se samo, kada je iščitate, ne samo pročitate. Čak i kada koketira sa virtualnim, digitalnim svijetom XXI vijeka, pred nama je starica samospoznaje. Učena i vidljiva nit apstraktnog otjelovljena u realnom svijetu nadanja. Unutar zadovoljstva i boli, da ne zaboravim. Dok koristi duhovnošću opijene riječi ona jasno zna čemu je usmjerena...“ Gospa u mojoj podsvjesti nadzire moć/kako zapaliti ili obuzdati/mudrost ili duh svemira.“...znajući da „Prirodna“ nije samo u naslovu pjesme već i u glazuri činjenja samog. Kada vjeruje. I sebi. No, kao krešendo sopstvenog bića, pred nama je i mozaik kretanja naslova knjige unutar UVIDA SADAŠNJOSTI. O ovoj pjesmi su suvišne riječi. Dovoljno je čitati. No, ja predlažem da je gledate. Vidjećete štošta neviđenog. Unutar osjetilne spoznaje odlučivanja. U tijelu žene u ženi, idući ka drugoj pjesmi, nekoj drugoj JA1. Ines je nadahnuta pjesnikinja. Vođena nevidljivim strunama alternative, ne prepuštajući ništa slučaju, trezveno se suočava sa realnošću i „vodi igru“. Igru rođenja, ljubavi/života, ali i smrti sui generis, za koju navedoh i u DIOGEN pro kultura magazinu2: „Neopterećena svakodnevnim jadikovkama izgubljenih nada, pred nama se otvara valovita sjena...sreće. Radosti postojanja, htijenja i želje. Da voli. Da bude dio bitka vlastitoga. Ne otuđeni, već uljuđeni oblik svjesnosti koji i traži...da voli...i traži...da bude dio... Istovremeno, Ines Peruško Rihtar vlastitu snagu crpi upravo iz te predanosti ljubavi. I uz sopstveni Perpetum-ljubavi- mobile, opstaje. U inat lažnim predanjima. Da ne pominjemo fake love, at all.“ Poezije Ines Peruško Rihtar nije samo poezija toka svijesti rastresenog bića. To je i putokaz na raskršću razorene sudbine. Ali kamo? Odgovor prepuštam vama, poštovani čitaoci, jer i vaša sudbina poimanja je određena upravo načinom viđenja ove poetike sublimaris. Zavisno od čitanja. Upravo ove poezije. Unutar osjetilne spoznaje odlučivanja. I vaše.

Jedna zora, /bez pardona u hodniku/Insomnična, /u zvuku koji nestaje, odzvanja./Uštipni me za ruku kasnije/Kosti, krevet i ja. 2 http://diogenplus.weebly.com/ines-perusko-rihtar.html

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Sensory cognitions of deciding1 Quid est essentia? Festina lente, charissime Lector2 I do not dream about happiness. But I have no doubt about happiness. Behold this duality and trinity of mine: there is in me Darkness but there is in me serenity, and my wonderful unity. " (Poem Records on the doorway, Tin Ujević- a book POETRY, Publisher „Svjetlost“, Sarajevo, 1989., Pg.89.) A poetics of contradictions directed towards coherence. The poetry book INSIGHT INTO THE PRESENT, from the poetess Ines Peruško-Rihtar, spreads before us the strange yet natural personality of the author with a constructed sense of space, time and existentiality within the indecision of radical decision itself. And in poetry. Within the search options, entwined with wisdom, love, and commitment to self, others, both within nature, but also with a strong sensitivity to the wonderful and conmprehensive frame of existence, she breathes. Fiery, clear and very loud. When she talks about love, she is the Aphrodite of the ascension: "I'll think of you / and on the day / when the rain stopped pouring down, / when all storms become quieter / and when the winds stop blowing / in the night of cold, 1

Book of poetry „INSIGHT INTO THE PRESENT“. Publisher: Štamparija Fojnica d.o.o., Fojnica, BiH, 2012. ISBN 978-9958-17-022-5 2 What is the essence? Hurry slowly, dear reader.... "In the discussion with Ernesto Laclau on the Internet, Judith Butler presented a wonderful Hegelian thought in relation to decision-making: not only that no decision brings to an absolute void, that every decision iscontextualized, that it makes-of-context, but the contexts itself are somehow produced through the decisions, i.e. there has been some duplication of decision-making... First is the decision to designate or border the context in which decisions (about what differences should not been included in the given order) to be made, and then highlight certain types of difference as unacceptable. Radical undecidability here exists: One can never achieve a "clean" context preceding the decision, each context is "always-already" retroactive constituted with decision (as in the case of reason to do something, which always at least minimum retroactively postulated that the act underlying the decision - but only when you choose to believe, the reasons for beleiving become convincible to us and we do not pay attention). Another aspect of the same settings is that not only is there no decisions without exclusion (ie, every decision excludes a number of features), but is itself an act of decision is possible only through a kind of exclusion: something must be off to become beings who make decisions. " Slavoj Zizek "Ticklish subject-absently center of political ontology" (p.15., TDK "Šahinpašić, Sarajevo, 2006.)

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/ while the white snow falling. "...however, she is encrusted with nihilism "with my thoughts going through your eyes, / because anything goes and everything will go. "... while cynically she informs the will, "It is written on the palms, / life and death in one, / close traitors of the human race." As if sailing on a wooden boat on the choppy waves of everyday life, while the winds blow her towards the cliffs of final decisions, she struggles with the words of happiness and sadness, creating her own decisions, exercising the ferocity of performing whatever bothers her within the creation of herself. The love, suffering, and fighting against hunger ... life, and, also, death. At the same time knowing that in one way or another, well ... she is losing. Even when she wins. Ines Peruško-Rihtar is an author of meaning. That includes not only her own proper, desirable expectations, but also the ones of the readers. She reads us, just in the moment of us reading her. The absurdity of the previous sentence is reflected in the hopes of the authoress. While creating verses of weird intentions ... "... What is a man from a man / while enjoying the air he breathes, / within the mystical depths through the portal of the meaning/ cold overdraft of the awareness". She opens the tomb of lost Kron, the god of harvest, which in this case, by castrating the existing visions, creates a powerful, new Aphrodite. The ferocity of her poetry is the virtue of her instincts while saying "... shut up and do not cry, / close your eyes and forget about it, because the angel of death has arrived/to save us ...." seeking meaning in the absurdity of everyday life while waiting for "the chalice of the same soul. " There is ridicule in her own laughter. Not at all cynical, too coherent, in the need to discern her own pain, laughing. Laughing at everything, but mostly to herself, she realizes that only in that way she makes a real departure from the miserable, simple, life repeticia. Which are not mater studiorum. Like history itself. I'll dare to say that through poetry, Ines creates new canons within the understanding of the ideology of consciousness of human commitment. Towards the sense. Which does not exist. And does exist. Depending on the angle of view ... 'I give you me, love, / in the fighting, swearing, / friends / in the instrumental, / in poem, verses, / through the view without the words, / through the sweat dripping from my forehead, "... Her love is not an everyday commitment, though strong, but the essence of the concept of the word ... love ... which does not need to be just physical (and it is), interlaced (and it is), psychologically exhausting (and is), of light (and is) and cloudy (and is). But only is all of the above within the imperfect forms of awareness within the human being who uses only 6% of a learning capacity which is called a brain. And so that was different from the personality who is a product of the lab from Supreme being (whatever we call it) while trying to prepare the myth of the human, the myth of creating imperfections just that ... human. 185

Her miniatures (sorry, illuminations) are story specific, because they open in front of us a new world of precisely revealed myths about poetry. Strong references of the simple explosive charges destroyed the possibility of understanding the essence. Which was the goal, really. How? The answer is in the "running" of poems that, in this case, like a Salvador Dali, deliberately incomplete, leaving us the opportunity to get out of the labyrinth of tunnels to the light of day not even knowing that the light at the end of that particular tunnel was just a flash of a departing star. And what then? Keep reading Ines. The poetic life of this poetess and the uninterrupted continuation of movement... Once someone said: The goal is nothing. The movement is everything. And just because her way of walking, though, seemingly, directed to the other one, I dare to add: Yes, the other one, but towards her own alter ego. Poets through just hidden metaphors often reveal their own traumatic experiences. As we walk towards ... the sensation. In the silence of a heavy overall reality, this poet finds words of comfort through crying towards understanding of the essence of existentiality per se, as she says ... "They told me / Do not ever doubt / but I still wonder." Don Ivan Grubesic1 said recently that atheists but also theists have doubts. And it's good that our eventual comprehensive understanding of consciousness takes us from one world to another. And she wonders! While still searching for peace in the heart, her own. Constantly trying to correct exactly "a system error" of the self. Even when she cries with the words directed to somebody else within the time directed towards identity ... "... in Zagreb in early summer / I navigate across the sea of thoughts / as if to spite of the cramp of reality." Realizing the impermanence of life, but also not an awareness of it, and in it, the poetess in the CLOUD2 but also DOWNCAST3 is averse to the end. Knowing that everything is just created inside of pleasure and pain, aspiring towards the oblivion. Contradictio in adiecto? No, but the essence of things. Everything in these two words. Pleasure of creation, with love, happiness and lasting and pain within destruction, oblivion, hatred and unhappiness. It is human. Not just to make mistakes. She uses oxymorons, not only "baptism with rain," but also "playful nights" while becoming "etched with age." And all this in one poem, "Answer, echoes, dying," which is, for me, the corner stone of her poetry. In this book. Why? The answer is simple. The most complex things are the simplest and in the 1

Doctor of Science-PhD-sociologist of religion, priest and politician (Dicmo, Croatia, 1936) 2 CLOUD... I turned my eyes back to the sky / jewel cloud is floating / trhough the stuffy air / like a ship to its port / as it bids farewell to the life / harmoniously within the circle/ with the mixture of pleasure and pain. 3 DOWNCAST ... In the shadow of continuance / declared oblivion / drowned in the night / heavy as the hai / as the sky above me.

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above poem everything is said. Essential. Hers. Bringing together the aspirations focused towards understanding of life and death ... Love and hate ... yin and yang. To name just a few. They will tell it to you only to read but when to read. Even when she is flirting with the virtual, digital world of the XXI century, in front of us is the old lady of self-realization. Erudite and visible thread of abstraction embodied in the real world of hope. Within pleasure and pain, not to forget that. While she uses spirituality intoxicated words she clearly knows on what she is focused ... "Virgin Mary in my consciousness monitors power / control how to put on fire or correct / wisdom or the spirit of the universe." ... Knowing that the "Natural" is not only in the title of poem, but within the glaze of doing itself. When she believes. Even herself. But as the crescendo of her own being, in front of us is a mosaic of movement within the title of the book INSIGHT OF THE PRESENT. About this poem there is no need to write. Just read it. However, I suggest that you look hard at it. You'll see a lot of things unseen. Within sensory knowledge of making. In the body of a woman in a woman, going to another poem, another I (me)1. Ines is an inspired poetess. Guided by invisible strings of alternatives, leaving nothing to chance, soberly facing reality and "calling the shots". Game of birth, love / life and death sui generis, in which I specified in DIOGEN pro culture magazine2: " Unladen with daily laments of lost hopes, in front of us opens the wavy shadows ... of happiness. Of the joy of existence, aspirations and desires. To love. To be part of her being. A not estranged, but civilized form of consciousness that seeks ... to love ... and seeks ... to be part of ...At the same time, Ines Peruško Rihtar derives own strength exactly from the commitment of love. And with her own Perpetuum-love-Mobile, she survives. In spite of the false traditions. Not at all to mention the fake love." The poetry of Ines Peruško Rihtar is not only stream of consciousness from a distracted being. It is a signpost at the crossroads of destroyed destiny. But where? I leave the answer to you, dear readers, because your fate is determined by understanding exactly how these poetic visions have been seen. Depending on the reading. Exactly of this poetry. Within sensory knowledge of the making. Even yours. Sabahudin Hadžialić, 23.10.2012, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

One dawn, / without pardon in the hallway / Insomnic kind, / in the sound which fades, echoes. / Pinch my arm later / Bones, bed and I(me). 2 http://diogenplus.weebly.com/ines-perusko-rihtar.html

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Rijeka sopstvenog lika1 Nihad Mešić River i jeste rijeka sopstvenog lika, što i njegov nadimak veli. No, podsjetnik poete kao da izvire iz šesdesetih, Dilanovskih, godina prošloga stoljeća/vijeka. On je na granici čuđenja. Ponekad opor. Ponekad blag. Ali uvijek svoj. Samozatajan. Pomalo stidan. Ali, ipak, samo svoj. Njegovi treptaji riječi nisu zle misli nade već iskonska želja da kaže što želi, ali i misli. O tome. O čemu piše. Oprostite, živi. Njegove pjesme su čudnoga sklopa. Razumljive, pak. Bolno. Razumljive. No, istovremeno kao svjetionik pomažu nama, čitaocima, ne samo da iščitamo njega, nego nerijetko i sebe. Unutar poezije ovog vrsnog pitca nekog2. River that comes from its own character3 Nihad Mesic River is a river that comes out from its own character, as his nickname says. However, as a reminder, this Poet looks like springs from sixties, Bob Dylan ones, of the last century / century. He is on the verge of amazement. Sometimes harsh. Sometimes mild. But always his own. Write in his own kind. Sometimes little bit a shame. But, still, his being is only his being. His blinks of the words are not an evil thoughts of hope, but a primordial desire to say what he wants, but also what he thinks. About it. What he writes about. Excuse me, lives. His poems are of the strange circuit. Understandable, however. Painful. Understandable. But at the same time as a beacon the poems help us, the readers, not only to read him, but quite often ourselves. Within the poetry of this superior persons who really asks. 4 Sabahudin Hadžialić 1

Knjiga poezije „Ne moramo o politici-izabrani i novi zapisi“, Izdavač „Bosanska riječ“, Tuzla, 2012, ISBN 3-936910-66-9, na stranici 107. 2 Osvrt objavljen u magazinu DIOGEN pro kultura, 2009, http://www.diogenis.0fees.net/autori.authorsNihadMesicRiver_files/autori.authorsNihad MesicRiver.htm, i prenesen u knjigu 2012 3 Book of poetry „We do not need to talk about politicisselected and new writings“, Publisher „Bosanska riječ“, Tuzla, BiH, 2012, ISBN 3-936910-66-9, on the page 107. 4

Review published in “DIOGEN pro culture” magazine, in 2009, and transfered in book 2012.

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Poeţi invitaţi la Maratonul de Poezie de la Sarajevo în 2012 * Poets invited to the Poetry Marathon in Sarajevo in 2012 With the joy of living, but Feeling the wing of loneliness I met Giuseppe Napolitano’s poetry first when I published in “Poezia/ Poetry” magazine, in Iaşi, some translations signed by Marilena Lică Maşala. Then, around a little over two years ago, I met him in Sarajevo; we discussed poetry; we both participated in reading sessions in a downtown café in the old part of the city. He gave me his books and he told me that he would like to have in Romanian a bigger one, but for now this is it. At that time, reading his books, I founded some lines which seem to be a “self portrait”, an epitome of his manner of understanding life : “Prendere tutto per buono e prenderlo come viene/ e impegnarsi a viverlo a fondo/ ogni attimo di vitta quale che sia./ Accetare il domain/ con fiducia/ perché se viene è Lui che ce lo manda”. His books, though with different nuances and without being monotone, occupy nearly in the same “chromatic” scale, characterized by nuances like: the joy of life, of “tasting” of a way of living (“Vivere/ giorno per girono ignorando il futuro,/ momento per momento assaporare/ la gioia, il pianto,/ l’estasi, il dolore”), the communion with nature, the frozen touching of the wing of loneliness (being, in his words, “burattinaio della mia malinconia”, or “ospite”, or…), and sometimes the pressure of the flowing of time. For Romanian readers, as I said, he succeeded to publish (in Italy), a book, but he wanted more, he told me. Let’s hope that future will help him. Giuseppe Napolitano, Refren de aparenţe, poems, translated by Ana Covaciu, Edizioni Eva, Isernia, Italia, 1998, 36 p., Alla riva del tempo, Ani di poesia, con una nota di Giuliano Mancorda, cover: with a picture by Dino Bartolomeo – Leggende dell’anima, Edizioni Guida, Napoli, Italia, 2005, 98 p., Quanto di te, Contrappunto a Roland Barthes, con una nota di Marcello Carlino, 2011, 48 p.

On the geography of the memories and many others when, after all the misfortunes, what remains on earth is love I met Mexhid Mehmeti in Sarajevo at the foot of the Alps. He offered me one of his books; we exchanged opinions about poetry, about our countries and about his wish to publish a book in Romanian. And his wish came true. 189

This book contains both long poems and short ones. And yet this concision does not exclude the use of metaphors. Some of them consist in a stanza of three-four lines, others border on aphorisms, others contain expressions that (with interesting, personal figures of speech) seem to illustrate a feeling, an idea, an episode of life or a thing of the past in an ephemeral battle of the soul’s eyelid: ”History will be written/ through the living dead”; ”The line finds its nest in the seashells/ Becoming an ever lasting ode”; ”The falling rain/ awakes the sleeping zinc plate of the roof”; ”If we ever go beyond oblivion/ don’t think that the geography of the memories is modified so rapidly”. At other times, the author seems to have written shorter poems into a single one – Only Road and Words, Inheritance, How Can Someone Die etc. The conclusion is that there is neither formal or thematic monotony and, judging from another perspective, nor a stylistic one. Mexhid Mehmeti has the gift ”to travel” among words, arranging them in original metaphors. There are certain texts that make reference to an ”image” poetry; there are other poems in which a world parallel to reality is smiling at us, even unreality or the fabulous or the Dali-like atmosphere confer the feeling of being ”at home” (the most appropriate example could be The Weird Garden: „The female poet N.N from Canada/ produced weird things in poetry/ she planted her palms in the Garden/ The flower bed seemed really strange/ With two palms and dozens of fingers/ Day and night the Branches of the fingers/ with the buds of the nails/ Were waiting for the migratory birds/ to fall asleep in the Antipalms.” There are poems that make reference to the previously specified ideas but also, to some koan1-like paradoxes, among which we can mention The Weird Garden, Frozen Beauty, When the Rainbow Came up („The Earth’s Beauty/ Wanted to become a man”) and so on and so forth. And yet I think that the core of these expressions is not necessarily related to this search but it is related to the agreement between the reflection of the world and the self. In other poems the feeling is conferred by an image or by a way through which the poet sees the world, although what matters is the manner in which it is rendered in the amber drop of the line. The author also focuses on love and the beloved woman (whose name he mentions twice – Miranda). But, according to Mehmeti, love seems to be (although powerful, sometimes shiny, at other times overwhelming – that is to say hope, desire, dream and...) somewhere beyond the region of the slow combustion of the feelings. Sometimes, the author seems to adopt, in an attempt to counterpoise the tension between the exterior and the interior, an attitude of serenity that menaces and even dissipates pathos, sensuality. Finally, the author admits that „the dream is secretly burning/ hope is growing up in my infinite line” – Nonsense Romance. Sorrow is another ”abode” of Mexhid 1

A story, a dialogue, a question about the past or about zen wisdom. Sometimes nonsense can occur or even some paradoxes. Informally, the term koan can be used with reference to a previous experience.

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Mehmeti’s poetry. And ”when sorrow pervades/ my soul/ insomnia takes wings,/ unleashes my tongue,/ word after word,/ unceasingly” and, in those moments, ”one can write poetry” or ”with the rope around the neck,/ solitude can be hanged”. Furthermore, above all this, an eraser, the author says, ”can not do away with sorrow”. Through his eyes, the world is both beautiful and sad at the same time or full of joy and cruelty. That is why, maybe, he writes that, ”in the pupil of the eye” he ”erected castles/without stones”. And, it is worth remembering, pour la bonne bouche, that there are also poems about the past, about the history of his native places (plundered by generations of conquerors over the centuries), in which ”blood is flowing into the rivers”, whereas for the natives history could be illustrated as follows: ”the memories in black,/ the pains in red” – Karadaku. Or poems about the recent conflicts in the regions – Sons at War, about the destiny of Kosovo – Prosaic Curse. We are living, therefore, according to Mehmeti, in a troublesome world, in which people are in a continual search. We are still fumbling in the labyrinth from which how could we escape? The author is wondering, if ”even our shadow has gone away”? But „love is on the earth –/ the humankind is throwing its seed”. Mexhid Mehmeti, The Long Night, Romanian version: Baki Ymeri, foreword by: Marius Chelaru, a volume published in collaboration with The Cultural Union of the Albanians from Romania and the editorial staff of ”The Albanian”, Bucharest, 2012.

Draw hunger, draw hope… Diti Ronen’s grandmother (coming from a family that experienced, during the centuries, other persecutions) had a house in Oradea before the deportation of the Jews from Transylvania occupied by Horty’s troups towards the Nazi extermination camps. Things were really nice; people would get on well with each other, then the madness started… they packed all their belongings and they confidently entrusted them to the woman who had served as their maid. It was there that they should have found them. And things would have happened this way, if the brother of Diti’s mother, who somehow managed to avoid death, hadn’t turned up and told the woman that all his family members had died, taking all the belongings with him and leaving, according to the author’s opinion, for America. Her mother was the only one who escaped from Auschwitz. She was terribly skinny, weighing less than 30 kg. A little bird in the breath of wind, being at everybody’s disposal. The Nazis raped her and so did the Russians. She had no hope for life. She didn’t believe she would survive. She fell down on one of the railway platforms from Austria, among so many different bodies in which the light of the soul was still twinkling, and then she closed her eyes. 191

At that very moment somebody called her by her name! Somebody called her. Everything changed in an instant. She wanted to live and she did it… Over the years, Diti Ronen discusses in the interview published in this book about how it is to be part of the family of a holocaust survivor, about how it is to be the child of a ”survivor”. The strong relationship with those who had been killed in the extermination camps became even stronger when her mother gave her the name of the grandmother, Judith, who had been sentenced to death in the camp. Her mother, just like all the ”survivors”, endured everything in extreme circumstances ”not only in Auschwitz but also in other labour camps”, which resulted in the emergence of some deep wounds both on her body and in her soul. Among all this, the most unbearable one, and this followed her all her life, was the ”guilt” that she had survived the second world war, arriving in Israel, Diti Ronen writes, whereas her family hadn’t, remaining over there, in Europe. Ever since she was a little girl, she felt responsible for her mother, who used to tell her that she stood for ”her only reason to exist”. Being asked to characterize the survivors’ children, after she has outlined the fact that there are numerous themes one can talk about, she confesses that the most important thing for her was the strict identification with her mother, her grandmother, her great-grandmother, therefore with people she did not meet. For many times she had the feeling that she was transported by train, thrown away and forced to wait for her death ”in the shanty number 33 from Auschwitz”. The other side of her personality consisted in the fact that all these feelings merged with the idea that she belonged to the first generation of „sabra1” Jewish people. The 20th century, especially the period of the second world war with all that happened at that time, the Nazism, the Communism, one worse than the other, meant the foundation of the concentration and extermination camps, the holocaust, Hitler’s regime (when S.S. Obersturmbannfürher Karl Adolf Eichmann stated: „One hundred corpses is the equivalent of a catastrophe, five million is a mere statistic”). The poem written by Diti Ronen has its roots in a camp story that her mother told her about a little bird killed by a SS guardian, that turned into a meal for her and her friends when they were starving. A story like many others that her mother had told her, ”full of beauty, hope and cruelty”. The story goes that a guardian, out of sheer boredom, was having fun while trying to shoot a little bird that was flying ( ”on such a bright, open, huge and white sky”) over the shanties in which so many people were waiting to leave this world. A woman – the author’s mother- young and beautiful in spite of the starvation regime that she had to endure, goes out of her shanty in search of something. The guardian looks alternately at the little bird and at the woman, for whom each step is agonizingly slow, as if she tore it from her soul, from the earth and from the sky at the same time: „He begins with the tenth 1

A jew born in Israel. The immigrants in Israel began to use it, Rubik Rozental writes in The Dictionary of Slang (Hebrew), after 1930.

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shanty./ Here she is, a good looking woman is coming out of it right now./ She is waking in a haughty manner”. Everything looks as if it were a drawing – somebody seems to be drawing all this, not really knowing how to begin –out of separate reality fragments, that seem so far away, so detailed and strange – ”where are the other birds?/ Could someone hear a twitter?/ Yes, of course he could”. And at the top of the branches, over which God was watching. ”Was the sun really shining?”. A gunshot gathers all these separate elements in a cruel but highly veridical image. Who had died? Had anybody been killed in the shanty? Was there any corpse? And yet there was somebody... Fear becomes as real as any other reality fragment around. Then inside of it, all the things belong to another world. An isolated world, devastated by starvation, fear, by the outside darkness and by the light that was still twinkling in her heart. As real as hunger. Hunger. The ones inside the shanty eat the little bird as a result of a tacit agreement. Beauty and hope come out of questions such as (Diti Ronen says): „where did the little bird have the power to inspire, to strengthen, to give hope?” Then she adds: „Quite obviously, the little creature gave my mother and her friends something to satisfy their vital needs for the time being – food to alleviate hunger – but the nature that lasted due to the mouthful of meat was the one that gave them the mental and spiritual power many days after the event”. I witnessed this story, the author says, while being a child, over the years, with multiple meanings, with a profound philosophy of life. When she grew up, she again asked her mother about that happening in which there is a fragment (p. 32-33), recounted as her mother did, in ”a mixture of Hebrew, Hungarian and English”, about the guardian who shot the little bird and about the way in which they prepared a stew with a sauce that had some smell and taste… Diti Ronen, a Jewish woman belonging to the second generation of the holocaust1 survivors, has already published another two volumes: With the Slip Showing, 1999, and Inner Moon, 2002. Through littlebird, she offers students, children, and all people who want to read it a part of her memories and thoughts, but also a poem that combines events from her mother’s life in the concentration camp with myth and other meanings, a poem written in remembrance of ”those who did not survive the extermination camp for children as well as of the parents who were killed and in remembrance of those who survived thanks to their true friendship and who are no longer alive.” 1

A term (probably used by Elie Wiesel for the first time), derived from the Greek version of the Bible, that might signify „immolation burnt on the shrine in honor of God”, imposed at the international level after the’ 60s, with a generic meaning, the extermination of the Jews. There are discussions related to this term and its frequency. As a result, other terms have been used such as: „şoah” (catastrophe), derived from the biblical Hebrew, Dritter Hurban (”the third destruction”, after the other two of the Temple from Jerusalem) and so on and so forth.

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Diti Ronen, littlebird, poem, introduction: Hanna Yoz, interview with the author: Hanna Yaoz, bilingual edition English (the version of the poem Lynn Dion, the other texts: Elazar Tal Ronen) and Hebrew, illustrations and covers: Michal Lewit, Sal Van-Gelder Institute for Holocaust Instruction and Reseatch, Bar-Ilan University School of Education, Tel Aviv, Israel, 2010, 64 p.

The Dream from the Unicorn’s Eye Born in 1954 in Husimovci village near Sanski Most, Samira Begman Karabeg, with a diploma in finance, trade and management, is a graduate from the university of Zurich where she has lived since 1977, writing and translating into and from Bosniac and German. She has published several volumes, she translated Tianxin Cai’s poetry book from English (Song of the Quiet Life) into German. She is currently translating one of Paul Celan’s books into Bosnian. In Switzerland she founded „Dhira Publishing/ Dhira Verlag”, under the motto ”authors for authors”. She donated hundreds of the books she had published to several libraries and humanitarian associations from Bosnia and Herzegovina. She is a member of the editorial staff of an online and printed satirical magazine, „MaxiMinus”, assistant chief editor of the „Diogen pro kultura”, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and a member of the „Eastern Swiss Writer’s Association”. Before analysing the lines from The Unicorn, I must say that Posljednji princ/ The Last Prince, is a book both for kids and grownups, about a world in which life and fairy tale are living together. Besides this, to a certain degree, there are aspects that can be identified in poems as well that are touched by reality’s wing, although, according to the author, ”the desire has an immense power/ can absorb the ocean/ can dissipate the darkness of the abyss”. The desire can be related to love, to the unicorn’s eye or simply to the rediscovery of the self. Maybe this is because for Samira Begman Karabeg the world comes in the colour of reality pervaded by the shine in the unicorn’s eye that can revive from a dream that, in its turn, can dream of her. To make the story a shorter one, Samira Begman Karabeg is in search for the appropriate form for her dreams and desires. At the beginning of 2012 Samira published a volume dedicated to the unicorn of her dreams, U bionjači Jednoroga, which will be the topic of a future review. Samira Begman Karabeg, Jednorog/ Einhorn/ Unicorn/ Licorne, poetry, edition in Bosniac, English, French and German, publisher Sabahudin Hadžialić, English version: Anya Reich, French version: Athanase Vantchev de Tracy, Dhira Verlag, Küsnacht, Elveţia, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2011, 54 p., Posljednji princ, bajka/ fairy tales, Dhira Verlag, Switzerland, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2011, 40 p.

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On the present in yesterday’s mirror and tomorrow’s hope Sabahudin Hadžialić, born in 1960, September 9th in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina, is a member of the Association of the Writers from Bosnia and Herzegovina, of the Association of the Croatian Writers in his country, of the Association of the Writers from Serbia, Belgrade and so on and so forth. He argues that his option was to be a writer in order to demonstrate that, in addition to his membership in an ethnic community, he is mainly a creator and a human being, that belonging to a nation has its particular importance. His choice was to be an independent creator; he writes prose, poetry, aphorisms, essays, reviews; he is a publisher; he publishes in the majority of the magazines from Macedonia, Croatia, Slovenia, Serbia and his country as well as in Spain, Italy, USA etc. He is the chief editor of an online and printed satirical magazine, „MaxiMinus, chief editor of „Diogen pro kultura” magazine, Sarajevo, co-owner of the first private newspaper, „Potez”, in Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina. I have recently published some of his poems in „Cronica” magazine. He has published several volumes of poetry, prose, aphorisms, some of them abroad or in foreign languages and he has been awarded a few prizes for his works. The poems selected in this volume (that draws on the life in his country before 2000, when ”all went smoothly”, thanks to ”the believers”), are relevant for his tendency, in most cases, for writing limpid, concise lines bordering on aphorism. For him what really matters is lucidity. Furthermore, the author is focusing on his ability to see the present in yesterday’s mirror but also the hope of a coming tomorrow. I will put an end to this review with a poem of Sabahudin Hadžialić, Traces: ”Confused/ by today’s reality/ I take refuge in the past/ Wasn’t life better in those days?/… In remembrance of the past… / Clouds are scattering/ under the ray of hope./Below our skies/ waking up/ is always bloodstained”. Sabahudin Hadžialić, Poems, selected lines, edition in Bosniac, French (French version.: Athanase Vantchev de Tracy, Fatima Pirić, Christiane Dupont, Edouard d’Aoust, Faris Rujanac), Spanish (Siméon Barosso, Inma Gomila), Italian (Giuseppe Napolitano), Albanian (Silke Liria Blumbach), English – the author’s version, ilustrations Esma Smailović – Bosnia and Herzegovina, Annie, Jean-Paul Minot, Pat, Zav – France, Dhira Verlag, Küsnacht, Switzerland, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2011, 60 p. Marius Chelaru

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Notes about contributors Mirsad Denjo - Mačak (1952-1993) (Bosnia and Herzegovina) Mirsad Denjo – the Tom-cat, was born on October 20th, 1952 in Mostar. He became a civilian victim of war on June 30th, 1993. During his lifetime he was a haiku poet and painter; he was interested in medicinal herbs and pottery. He published poetry and haiku in literary magazines since 1983. He gave many recitals and participated in many radio programs. (haiku reprinted from haiku collection Vjetar bez sna / Wind with no dream; Hrvatsko haiku društvo, Samobor, 1995.) Ljubomir Dragović (Bosnia and Herzegovina) He was born in Sonković, Dalmatia, and lives in Banja Luka (Bosnia & Herzegovina). Poetry books: Dah zemlje/ A Breath of Earth, 1983, Pjesme iz starog kraja/ Poems from My Homeland, 1997, U starom kraju/ In My Homeland, 2000, Izabrane haiku pjesme/ Selected Haiku Poems, 2000, Dugo svitanje/ A Long Dawning, 2006, Uska staza/ A Narrow Road, 2011. His haiku have been published in many magazines and he has won a number of awards at domestic and international haiku contests. He appeared in the film of NHK TV “Haiku Beyond the Balkan War” directed by Kiyoshi Nanasawa in 2000. Smajil Durmišević (Bosnia and Herzegovina) was born in 1956 in Vratar, Žepa, county of Rogatica. He graduated from the Faculty of Medicine in Sarajevo in 1982. In 1990 he completed his specialisation at the School of Medicine; in 2000 he did a specialisation in Health Ecology. He obtained an M.A. degree at the Faculty of Medicine in Sarajevo, 2001, his Doctor’s degree in 2006. He is a senior lecturer of the topics of religion and health, hygiene, health ecology at the Health Faculty, University of Zenica, and health education in the Islam pedagogical faculty, University of Zenica. He has been the head of the department of the Office for Hygiene and Health Ecology of the County Institute for Public Health in Zenica since 1997. He has published scientifically professional works, popular essays on health. He has especially been engaged in health education and the promotion of health and healthy lifestyles. Sabahudin Hadžialić (Bosnia and Herzegovina). He was born in 1960 in Mostar. He is a member of the Bosnia and Herzegovina Association of Writers, Croatian Writers Association Herzeg Bosnia, Association of Writers Serbia, Academy “Ivo Andrić” (Belgrade), Journalists Association of BiH, and Ambassador of Poetas del Mundo in his country. He is Editor in Chief of the electronic & print magazine „Diogen” pro-culture, Editor in Chief of E–magazine “MaxMinus”, Sarajevo. He writes poetry and prose along with editing and reviewing books of other authors. He is freelance editor in the publishing house Dhira, Küsnacht, Switzerland. He has published poems, articles, essays, aphorisms, plays, and short stories in almost all major newspapers & magazines in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Macedonia, in journals from England, Ireland, Spain, Italy, and in the USA. He was the co-owner of the first private newspaper in SR BiH „POTEZ”, Bugojno, BiH – 1990. So far, he has published ten books of poetry and prose (four abroad). His art work has been included in anthologies of poetry in France, Canada, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and in the Anthology of satire of Bosnia and Herzegovina and of the Balkans. He has won several awards.

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Nemanja Hodžaj (Bosnia and Herzegovina). He was born in Belgrade, in 1992. He has lived in Sarajevo since 1997. He finished medical high school in Catholic School Centre St. Joseph, Sarajevo. Now, he is studying Literature of the people of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the Bosnian, Croatian, Serbian languages in the Faculty of Philosophy, Sarajevo. He started to write poems, prose in elementary school. He writes lyrics for rock and roll music, poetry and more serious topics. Besides studying, he likes to read/ write. His leisure activities are music-oriented. His biggest inspiration in writing is the Russian poet Serghei Esenin. When he was 19 years he became a member of a poets' Society Diogenes, from Sarajevo. He gave ten songs that he wrote to Diogenes poets’ group and they gave a positive review of them in DIOGEN pro-culture magazine. Jagoda Iličić (Bosnia and Herzegovina) She was born on September 23.9.1972 in Breze near Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina, graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy in Tuzla. She writes poetry and prose. Her book for kids The Ketchup Moustaches was nominated for the regional award in the territory of BiH, Serbia, Montenegro and Croatia. She is the autor of the project „The kids' literary club“ which gathers many children for workshops, book promotions, and meetings with writers...She is the author for DIOGEN pro-culture magazine. Some of the her stories and poems have been translated in German, English (Dreams of a pearl shell, The Only Son of the Dragon). Irena Marić (Bosnia and Herzegovina) She was born in 1984 in Sarajevo where she lives. She graduated from the Philosophy faculty, University of Sarajevo, department of Comparative Literature and Librarianship. She writes poetry, prose. Her poetry is published in Croatian National Yearbook 2009, No. 56; Poets for World Peace (An anthology of poems) Vol 3, 2012.; Bundolo offline 03, and in the electronic and printed "DIOGEN" pro-culture magazine. She's a member of Diogenes Poetes troup – Sarajevo; she is member of poetry meetings including 50 Sarajevo days of poetry. Nihad Mešić (Bosnia and Herzegovina) was born in Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina, in 1965. He has published articles related to human rights and conflict resolution. In 2007 he co-authored the book „Globalising Hope/ Globalizzare Speranza”, published by IUPIP in Italy. He worked as translator from English and French and is involved in peace and human rights activism. As „River”, he published poetry from 2002 at the Cyberbulevar Forum, „Tuzlarije”, „Diogen pro-culture”, „Maxminus”, „Jesenjin”, „Zadarska smotra”, „Buka”. He co-authored the book of poetry Pod istim nebom, 2008, and authored Dovoljno lud, 2009, Kroćenje straha, 2010, Iza oklopa, 2011 published by DHIRA verlag, Switzerland. In 2012, in BiH, he published Ne moramo o politici, a selection of chosen and new writings. He is represented among the poets from Bosnia in “Poetas del Mundo” and the anthology, “Poets for World Peace”. His poem “Andric, Travnik and I” was rewarded in 2011 at the Competition of the Croatian Cultural Society “Napredak”, while his poem “Ne moramo o politici” was among the five most read poems at the website Primijenjena poezija for months. His writings were translated to English, German and French and presented in media. He lives and works in Tuzla. Aida Šečić Nezirević (Bosnia and Herzegovina) She was born in 1978. She graduated with specializations in Literature of the Peoples of Bosnia and Herzegovina and South Slavic languages. In her free time she writes, reads and translates, travels and studies French. Her work has been published in a number of joint collections of prose and

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poetry in the region. For her creations she received a number of prizes in her country and abroad. Gordana Radovanović (Bosnia and Herzegovina) She was born on 23 August 1963 in Maribor, Slovenia. She has finished Grammar school and graduated from the Faculty of Mechanical Engineering in Banja Luka. She is also a Bachelor of Computer Science and professor of English. She writes short stories, haiku, poetry. She published five books (three of poetry, one book of haiku, one of short stories). Her haiku book, Lile u noći/ Torch-Lights in the Night, which contains 177 haiku poems in Serbian, on 70 pages, was published in Serbia in 2008. She lives and works in Banja Luka. Ružica Soldo (Bosnia and Herzegovina) She was born in Široki Brijeg, Bosnia and Herzegovina, on February 27, 1956. In 1979 she graduated from the Philosophical Faculty of Sarajevo Univeristy, English and Croatian Language and Literature. 19901991 Scholarship holder-financed by Bishop of Imola, studying and improving in Italian Language, 1991-1992, Studying and improving in English Language in Liverpool. 2001-2002 she studied at Mostar University – Journalism. 2002: Further training: Erfurt, Germany, Environmental Management. She worked as an English teacher at different Secondary and high schools and the University in Mostar and Široki Brijeg. She is the chief editor in the publishing house «Idem», for young poets, a free-lance journalist, poet and writer, with seven published books. She is a member of Writers´ Association, a member of Journalists´ Association. She worked in the Ministry of Culture, Education and Sport. Since 2002 she has been a Prime Minister Advisor for the Government of Westherzegovina Region. She is the President of the humanitarian (NGO) organisation «Dodir ljubavi» (Touch of Love), Vice-president of the Ecological Organisation, a member of UNESCO´s organisation: «With Culture for Peace», and a member of UNESCO´s organisation for folks culture. Ibrahim Spahić (Bosnia and Herzegovina). He was born on May 10, 1952 in Sarajevo. University degree in Comparative Literature and Theatre Studies. Editor, publisher and producer. President of the International Center for Peace and Director of the International Sarajevo Festival “Sarajevo Winter”. Co-Publisher of the magazine “Dijalog”. President of the Publishers' and Booksellers' Guild of Bosnia-Herzegovina. President of the European Committee “Link Diversity”. President of the International Association of Young Artists of the Mediterranean and Europe. President of GDS (Citizens' Democratic Party), Bosnia-Herzegovina. Member of the Executive Committee of the European Cultural Forum in Brussels and the Executive Committee of the European Committee of Directors for Culture of the European Council. Honorary member of the Bosnia-Herzegovina PEN Center and the Sarajevo Association of Architects. He was the president of the Management Committee of the National Theatre in Sarajevo, founder of the Student Cultural Centre at the Sarajevo University and the editor-in-chief of the magazine for human rights “WHY”. He has received many awards in the country and abroad for his efforts to establish intercultural dialogue. Author of the book “The Parliamentary Assembly of Bosnia-Herzegovina”. Amir Šulić (Bosnia and Herzegovina). He was born in 1983, in Zagreb. He gained a degree in psychology at the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Banja Luka. His book of poetry, Principles of reality, won the first place in the contest of the Association for Culture New Sarajevo (2010), in the category of emerging poets who have not

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previously published independent collections of poetry. Also, the song titled „Cyprus” was released in a joint collection of poetic competition in the international „Nosside”. His poems were included in the joint collection named „Gates of the East and the West” in the publishing of the Association for Culture Novo Sarajevo. He writes philosophical works. He lives in Banja Luka. He publishes in „DIOGEN” pro-culture magazine. Džejlana Šutković (Bosnia and Herzegovina) Being benevolent and human are characteristics of my heart; being an English language and literature professor is my last name. My hometown is where my heart is; it is Travnik and I currently live and work in Sarajevo. My words are my personal mantra which I use daily in order to achieve my goals, these being the pursuit of happiness whatever it may be. I am a teacher, a spokesman of truth and a writer. My essays and poetry have been published in several newspapers and magazines including Diogen pro-culture, Mirovne novosti and European centre SN7-NGO magazine. I can only add that I hope my words will find their way towards those who need them the most. Goran Vrhunc (Bosnia and Herzegovina) He was born in 1982 in Sarajevo. He graduated in Comparative Literature and Library Science at Sarajevo University. His poetry was published in several collections in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and in the anthology „Poets for World Peace”, Vol. 3, 2011. He is Deputy Editor in Chief in the electronic and print magazine „Diogen pro Cultura”. He was one of the editors of the poetry and prose collection „Bundolo offline 02” (Serbia, Belgrade) and „Bundolo offline 03” (Serbia, Kragujevac). He founded the „Diogenes Poetes trupa”, group of young poets. He contributes to the Urban Guide for Culture „Crna Ovca mag Banja Luka”. He worked as a journalist for the youth magazine „Karike”. Roman Kissiov (Bulgaria) was born in 1962 in the town of Kazanlak, Bulgaria. He studied at the Secondary School of Art in his hometown and graduated in painting from the National Academy of Fine Arts in Sofia. Roman Kissiov lives and works in Sofia. He works in two areas – poetry and art. He has done one-man shows in Sofia (Bulgaria), Vienna (Austria) and Berlin (Germany), and has participated in general art exhibitions in Bulgaria, Italy, Macedonia and the USA. He has done illustrations for many books by world-known poets. Poems by Roman Kissiov have been published in almost all Bulgarian literary editions; they have been broadcast over the Bulgarian National Television, the Bulgarian National Radio and the National Radio of Romania. His works have been included in poetry anthologies in Bulgaria, Romania, Serbia, Macedonia, India, and in the international anthology in English Poets for World Peace, Vol. 3 (Switzerland, Canada, 2011). His poems have been translated and published in English, Italian, Russian, Romanian, Dutch, Danish, Greek, Serbian, Croatian, Macedonian, Albanian, Armenian, Arabian, Hindi, and Bengali. Poetry books: The Doors of Heaven (1995) – National Poetry Prize awarded by Hristo G. Danov State Publishing House, Plovdiv; The Shadow of the Flight (2000); Pilgrim of the Light (2003); Cryptus (2004, 2007); Voices (2009); Hodočasnik svjetla (Pilgrim of the Light, 2008) – in Croatian; Slovoto Pastir (The Word Shepherd, 2010) – in Macedonian. Đurđa Vukelić-Rožić (Croatia) was born on April 6, 1956. She has been writing haiku since 1990, in Croatian, the Kajkavian dialect, and in English. She is a translator and was the editor of magazines: HAIKU (Zagreb), IRIS (Ivanić Grad), the annual Kloštar Ivanić Joint Collection since 2003, all in Croatian and English. She is the founder and

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secretary of the haiku association 'Three rivers' Ivanić Grad, Croatia and a member of World Haiku Association. Her haiku have been published in the bilingual haiku collection Seven Windows, Ivanic Grad (2002) and in her collection of haiku, Chasing the Clouds. She also writes poetry, stories and humorous pieces and has published four books so far. Klety Sotiriadou (Greece) She was born in Thessaloniki, Greece. She lives in Athens. She has a B.A. diploma in English Literature and an M.A. degree in Comparative Literature, Theory and Practice of Literary Translation. She is a member of the Board of the Hellenic Authors’ Society which she also represents in CEATL (European Council of Associations of Literary Translators) and the Board of EKEBI (Greek National Center of Book). She has taught Literature and Composition at the American College of Greece and translation workshops at ΕΚΕΜΕL, the Greek National Center for Literary Translation. She has also taught the M.A. program (Spanish language) of Literary Translation at the University of Athens. He published books of poetry, essays, short stories, studies, novel. Her creations were translated in Spanish. She has translated into Greek poems of a number of poets and almost all of the novels and short stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, thirteen novels and short stories by Isabel Allende etc. Marilena Lică-Maşala (France) was born in October 23, 1955, in Teiu, Romania. She is a publicist, essayist, and translator. She has been living in France since 2007. She is the Paris correspondent of the Romanian magazines “Literary Mirror” in Focşani and “The Poetry” in Iassy. She sometimes writes poetry under the pseudonym “Luli”. Cofounder and Director of the bilingual French-Romanian magazine Doina, Paris, 2010. She is also the Founder-Director of the ARC collection (Africa-Romania-Caribbean) at Dagan Publishing Company, Paris, 2011. Aleksandar Prokopiev (Macedonia) was born in 1953 in Skopje, Macedonia. He is working as a university professor in the Institute of Macedonian Literature at the St. Cyril and Methodius University of Skopje, the Republic of Macedonia. Prokopiev is an author of several books including two with haikus Image which rolls (1998) and Bird on the top. He also worked in several domestic and foreign magazines, for example as a member of the editorial board of Orient Express (Oxford, UK) and World Haiku (Kyoto, Japan). His haikus were translated in English, Japanese, Serbian, Slovenian, Croatian, Romenian, Albanian, Polish, Slovak and other languages. Güner Akmolla (Romania) Poet, translator, novelist; she was born on 15th of January 1941, Albeşti village, Constanta district. She graduated in Philology, the University of Bucharest. Her debut was in 1959, in a local newspaper from Braila. Since 1991 she has published poems/ articles about the Tatar minority in different journals/ magazines in Constanta, Iasi, in Romania, and in Turkey. Her debut in published volumes was Vatan/ The Homeland/ Patria, poems, Tatar language, 1999. Since 2004 she has been the Director of the bilingual cultural magazine „Emel/Ideal”, founded in 1930, in Dobrogea. He published over 20 books of poetry, translations and prose. Mihaela Albu (Romania) teaches Romanian literature at the University Spiru Haret in Bucharest. She studied philology at the University of Bucharest. Between 1999 and 2004 she was visiting professor at Columbia University in New York. She is a member of the Union of Romanian Writers, of the Union of Professional Journalists in Romania, and of the Romanian-American Academy. She is also the editor-in chief of the literary

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magazine Lumina lina. Gracious Light (USA), and a member in the editorial board of several newspapers and magazines. She published essays (literary criticism) and poems both in Romanian and foreign magazines (from the United States, Germany, Italy, Israel, Moldova, Canada) and is the author of three volumes of poetry (Intre doua porti, Ca o dragoste tarzie, Catharsis) and of several books about the Romanian literary exile Presa literară din exil. Recuperare şi valorificare critică I (2009), Revistele literare ale exilului românesc. Luceafărul. Paris – o restituiré,2009 (co-authored), Memoria exilului românesc: ziarul Lumea liberă din New York, 2008, Cultură şi identitate, 2008. George Bădărău (Romania) He was born in 1952, in Piciorul Lupului (Wolf Leg), Iaşi district. He graduated from the Faculty of Philology, “Al.I. Cuza” University, Iaşi; in 1979, he became doctor in philology. He teaches Romanian languages in different schools. Literary debut: in 1974, in “Luceafărul” magazine, Bucharest: His debut book: “Insomnia ceasornicului” (The sleeplessness of the clock), poems, 1982. His creations are in prose, poetry, haiku, epigram etc., in anthologies published in Romania and abroad. He published articles and poetry in different magazine in Romania. He published around 15 books of poetry, theory and literary criticism. Eusebiu Camilar (Romania) (1910–1965) He was born in Udeşti, a village from Suceava district. Studies: High Scholl “Ştefan cel Mare/ Stephen the Great”, Suceava. Debut: in 1929, with poems, published in „Moldova literară/ Literary Moldavia”, a magazine of a Literary Society in Mihăileni. He wrote poems, prose, theater, and translations. He collaborated with numerous literary publications from Romania. His creations were translated in some Western and Asian languages. He published many books, and translated from: Gogol, Nikolai V., Puşkin, A.S., Tolstoi, Alexei, Gorki, Maxim, Aristofan, Classic Chinese poetry, Arabian Nights, vol. I-IV, Publius Ovidius Naso, Eschil, Li-Tai-Pe, Kalidassa, „Sakuntala” etc. Marius Chelaru (Romania) (name: Marius Chelariu, Pen Name: Marius Chelaru). He was born in Negreşti, Vaslui county, Romania, on August 30, 1961; he graduated from the Faculty of Economics and he has been and is editor, editor in chief, director/ executive director of several cultural magazines (such as Timpul/ Time, Cronica/ Chronicle, Convorbiri Literare/ Literary Conversations, Poezia/ Poetry, Carmina Balcanica etc.) and of publishing houses (Junimea, Sakura, Parnas, Time, Sympoesium etc.). Chelaru has contributed articles, poems, essays, literary criticism, prose, translations, interviews, book-reviews to various international anthologies, magazines/ journals in Romania, France, USA, England, Canada, Sweden, Republic of Moldavia, Paraguay, Japan, Lebanon, Macedonia, Kosovo, Serbia, Bosnia and Hertzegovina, Croatia, Albania etc. He is a member of the Romanian Writers’ Society, of the famous club Junimea (The Youth) in Iassy, the Constanta Haiku Society, the Haiku Romanian Society, the World Haiku Association, Japan, an honorary member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture, Beirut, Lebanon; of the Romanian Language Writers’Association, Québec, Canada. He has published over thirty books (novels, poems – included haiku and tanka –, literary critique, essays, translations etc.). He has personal books in Albanian, Aromanian, Arabic, Bulgarian, English, Hungarian, Macedonian, Tatar, Turkish, Spanish etc. He was awarded some international and national prizes (including the Romanian Union Writers’ Prize for essay in 2005, the Award of Critics of the prestigious Romanian Literary Magazine „Literary Conversations” in 2008 etc.). He is deputy director of Romanian Cultural Institute, Moldova Branch, Iaşi.

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Elisabeta Isanos (Romania) She was born on the 8th of July in 1941 in Bucharest. Her parents were Magda Isanos-Camilar and Eusebiu Camilar. After her debut in the magazine „Iaşul literar” („The Literary Iasi”) in 1964, she adopted the pseudonym Elisabeta Isanos, in memory of her mother who died at the age of 28. She graduated from the University of Bucharest in 1965, the Faculty of Philology with a diploma in French language and literature and a second specialization in Romanian language and literature. Her editorial debut: the book of poetry Nostalgic Cities, 1969. She published books of prose, poetry, translation. Vasile Moldovan (Romania) He was born in Bistrita-Nasaud county in 1949. He Graduated from law school (1971) and journalism (1979), having also a master in psychology and the science of communication. He published poems and essays in Romanian literary magazines. He has been involved in the Romanian school of haiku and now he is vice-president of the Romanian Society of Haiku. He attended many international meetings of haiku. So far he has published over 1000 haiku poems in twelve languages in different international anthologies or online. Starting with 2001, Moldovan has been awarded many prizes at the international competitions in Japan, U.S.A., Australia, Canada, India and Croatia. His most representative books are: Via dolorosa, 1998, The moon’s unseen face, 2001, Noah’a Ark, 2003, Ikebana, 2005. Valentin Nicoliţov (Romania) He was born in Bucharest on February 12, 1945. He attended the Polytechnical Institute in Cluj-Napoca and graduated with an engineering diploma in 1972. He began his literary career in 1965. He is a member of the Romanian Writers Society, Military Writers Society, Romanian Haiku Society Bucharest (since 2010 its president) and secretary general for the editing of the Romanian-Japanese cultural magazine HAIKU. Books: Spread loves, prose, 2011, Love season, poetrz, 2003, Only the moment…, poetry, 2005, One single love, novel, 2005, From One Poem to Another, poetry, 2008, Breath exercises, novel, 2009. In 2007 he published the international haiku anthology titled Crickets and Chrysanthemums. In 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 he published haiku poems in the anthologies of the World Haiku Association in Tokyo. In 2006 he published in A history of the Romanian literature since its origins to present time, at the DACOROMANA publishing house. Iulia Ralia (Romania) is professor of French in Iasi, Romania. Her creations are posted in online anthologies of the Romanian Haiku site, 2010, 2011 and 2012. In the Romanian Kukai monthly competitions she has won awards, honorable mentions, and rankings. She won the first prize in the contest Romanian kukai 2010, January. She had a book online (Moment of shade), and two books printed: “Moment of shade”, 2011, Pim Publishing, “Shadow to the inside”, 2013, Zona literara Publishing. Rafila Radu (Romania) is a familiar name for Romanian and foreign haijins. She has a constant participation with creations of the Japanese type either in the “Albatross” magazines or in international anthologies. She is a member of the Haiku Society of Constanţa, Romania. She became known beginning with 2003, when she won the prize for her debut book, “Running in haiku”, at The National Poetry (haiku) Colloquium – September, Constanţa. She has a special interest for this type of creation. Books: “My life with the Moon”, poems, 1997, “Running into haiku”, 2003, “Wedding on the rain thread”, haiku, 2006, “Letters on leaves”, 2008, “The wormwood altar”, 2009.

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Cristina Rusu (Romania) Born in 17th of May 1972, in Iasi. She graduated in the Philology Faculty (University „Al.I. Cuza”, 1994) in Iasi. She is a therapist. Literary debut: haiku and tanrenga, in “Dor de Dor” magazine, Calarasi, 2007. She has published haiku in varies anthologies, like: Crickets and Chrysanthemums, Orion Publishing House, Bucharest, 2007, haibun in Shadows in the Light, Constanta, 2008. She has published poems and essays in “Poezia” magazine. Books: The colour of the silence, haibun, Cultural Foundation Poezia, Iaşi, 2008, together with Marius Chelaru, Love. shape on borders of white, poems, Iubirea. desen pe margini de alb, poems, Cultural Foundation Poezia, Iaşi, 2008, Love, poems, Timpul Publishing House, Iasi, 2008. She is the assistant editor-in-chief of “Kadō” magazine. Eduard Ţară (Romania) was born in Iasi, Romania on February 10th, 1969. He studied mathematics in Iasi. Curently he is a teacher at a high school in Iaşi. His poems (haiku, tanka and renga) have been published in literary magazines such as Orion, Poezia, Convorbiri Literare (Romania), Kō (Japonia), Letni Časi (Slovenia) and in several anthologies in Romania, Japan, Croatia, USA, Germany, Italy, Belgium, and France. He is a member of the Haiku Romanian Society and was awarded at different national and international haiku and tanga competitions. Laura Văceanu (Romania) (Real name: Aurica Văceanu) Born in Bucu, Ialomita. She graduated the Philology Faculty in the Bucharest, the Popular Art School, in the Canto Section. She was a teacher. She has won some some prizes of honorary recognitions in Romania and abroad. She has organized many projects for children’s theatre and cultural micro-monographies. She is the President of the Haiku Society in Constanta and co-organized the World Haiku Festival, in 2005, under the leadership of the World Haiku Club, 2007, 2009. She is the editor of Albatross Magazine (2002-2009) and international anthologies; she organized the annual Haiku Colloquims in Constantza (2001-2009). She was a member of the Tanka and Renku School, Slobozia, Ialomiţa. She published The Memory of the While, 1999, 2003: haiku, tanka, haibun, Late Poems. Samira Bergman Karabeg (Switzerland) She was born in 1954 in the village of Husimovci not far away from Sanski Most. She graduated in finance trade and management at the university of Zurich, where she has lived since 1977. Samira writes poetry and prose in Bosnian and German languages, and translates to both languages. Her works have appeared in five anthologies published in Switzerland and Germany. She has published four independent poetry books in Bosnian and three in German. Her current translating project is the translation of Sabahudin Hadžialić's poems to German. Samira is the founder of Dhira publishing house whose vision is ‘Authors for Authors’. Through the publishing house she donated several hundreds of books to a number of city libraries and humanitarian associations operating in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Samira is a member of the editorial board of MaxiMinus, the web-based satirical magazine and an assistant editor-in-chief of Diogen, a pro-culture magazine. She is a member of the Writer’s association of Eastern Switzerland and Poetas del Mundo. Metin Cengiz (Turkey). He is a poet and writer (b. 3 May 1953, Göle). He graduated from Erzurum Atatürk University, Faculty of Basic Sciences and Foreign Languages, Department of French (1977). During his years at the university, he worked as a civil officer at the Turkish Statistical Institute for a short time (1973). Meanwhile, he completed his studies at Marmara University, Department of French. After working as a

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teacher in Muş, he resigned from his duty, returned back to İstanbul and began to work as a proofreader, editor and translator at publishing houses. He wrote particularly on the problems of poetry in the reviews Hurriyet Gösteri, Varlık and in various newspapers. He established the Digraf Publishing House in 2005, in collaboration with his friends, to publish poems and essays concerning poetry theory. He won prestigious prizes in Turkey and abroad. He is a member of Writers Syndicate of Turkey, the Association of Turkish PEN Writers and the Turkish Authors Association. His poems are translated into several languages such as French, English, German, Spanish, Italian, Bosnian, Russian, Romanian, Arabic, Hebrew, Azerbaijani, Serbian, and Kurdish. He published books of poetry, essays/ criticism studies. Erkut Tokman (Turkey) He was born in İstanbul in 1971. He graduated from İstanbul Technical University as an engineer. He studied poetry and acting as well as dance in London; participated in the International Workshop Festival in London, where he studied with theater directors from the Royal Shakespeare Company (U.K), Theatre de movement (FRA), L’ecole de mime (CAN) as well as Marie Rambert Dance Co. and Merge Cunningham Dance Co; he studied acting & singing in Bucharest with theater director Teodora Campineanu, lyric artist Lia Sloci, soprano Amelia Antoniu in “Studıoul de arte scenice”, and at “Ion Creangă” Theater. He has published original poetry, translations, articles, and stories in Turkey’s leading literature magazines since 1996. He is a well-known poetry translator, mainly from Romanian, sometimes from English, Italian, and French. Books: Giden ve Kalan, poems, 1999, Bilinmezi Dolaşan Ses, poems, 2007, as well as some anthologies, domestic and abroad. He is a member of P.E.N/ Writers in Prison Comities, Intercultural Translation Academy, Ç.N translation magazine Romanian literature representative, and he used to work in the organization commitees of the “International İstanbul Beyoğlu Poetry Festival”. He is a member of “Poets of London” and “Poetas Del Mondo”. His poems have been translated to English, French, Italian, Spanish, Romanian, Arabic, Azerian. David G. Lanoue (USA) Born in Omaha, Nebraska in 1954, he earned his B.A. at Creighton University in Omaha, Nebraska (1976), then went on to complete the M.A. & Ph.D. in English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln (1977, 1981). Since 1981, he has been teaching English at Xavier University of Louisiana in New Orleans, where he holds the rank of professor. He is a translator of Japanese haiku, a teacher of English and world literature, and a writer of haiku and "haiku novels." He is a co-founder of the New Orleans Haiku Society and an associate member of the Haiku Foundation. His books include a translation (Cup-of-Tea Poems: Selected Haiku of Kobayashi Issa), criticism (Pure Land Haiku: The Art of Priest Issa) and a series of haiku novels: Haiku Guy (2000), Laughing Buddha (2004), Haiku Wars (2009) and Frog Poet (2012). Some of these books have appeared in French, German, Spanish, Bulgarian, Serbian and Japanese editions. In addition, he has published The Distant Mountain: The Life and Haiku of Kobayashi Issa in English with Hindi translations by Angelee Deodhar. Over the past 27 years he has published haiku and haiku criticism in Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Bottle Rockets, Mayfly, Moonset, Periplum (the Haiku Foundation Blog), Ginyu (Tokyo), Jointure (Paris), Poesia (Milan), Literaturen Vestnik (Bulgaria), FreeXpresSion (Australia), Presence (England) and other places. He maintains The Haiku of Kobayashi Issa website, for which he translated 10,000 of Issa’s haiku.

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