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Bratislav Radulovic (1948)
Belgrade, Serbia
Occupation: Dramatist
The Word was with God and the Word was God.
Mother Land.
***
Slobodanka Vukosavic (1966)
Belgrade, Serbia
Occupation: Associate Professor of biology, the Belgrade University, scholar
There were two windows on the same floor of one building. They looked out onto the same side of the street and they were waked up by the sun and splashed with the rain at the same time. They were growing old together, next to each other. And there was nothing else between them.
My coffee was served. Hot. The morning was dragging lazily along the empty cafe at the railway station. And then a girl entered the cafe and sat down turning her back on me. I saw nothing but her tender white forearm peering out from the outsized sleeve of the woolen sweater. I had been staring at it for hours, and my whole youth ran before my eyes, from the first kisses behind the school and the first smoke of a cigarette to the first suicidal attempt at the symbolical and fatal age of 27. And then she rose and left, taking away her arm. I sipped the coffee and burned my tongue. It was still hot.
A white poplar tree was growing at the end of the backyard in which I used to play as a child. I used to hide behind the poplar tree and nobody had ever found me. In fact, no one had really looked for me. Then the poplar was cut to the ground and an ugly building erected in its place. And no one has found me yet.
***
Mike Lubich (Our man in Canada)
Have you ever been in a situation to think about the value of a single chicken egg? I was, and I still do as write these lines.
This happened some years ago, while I was living with my family in Liberia, West Africa... the country ravaged and torn apart by the civil war since 1980. From 1975, until the end of 1978, we resided in Monrovia, the capital city of Liberia, situated on the Atlantic shore. So, after four years, in January 1979, we moved to Tchien, a small town deep inside Zwedru County, approximately 600 kilometres southeast of the capital Monrovia and quite close to the border with the neighbouring country of Ivory Coast.
In Liberia, it was a usual custom for a white family to employ local people for housekeeping, driving, cooking, gardening, security, baby-sitting and other jobs. So, among the six of my new employees, Philip was the youngest... sixteen year old, very smart, and good-natured African boy. Even though he was quite busy as a grade nine student at the local Pentecostal Bible School, he would come to our house every evening to assist us with whatever chores needed to be done.
On weekends, Philip and I used to go hunting or fishing, and he would always get to keep the catch. Very often, I assisted him with his math, social and writing assignments. He was obviously progressing well, because his school marks improved markedly as compared to the year ago. My mother spent that 1979-year with us. She used to prepare some of our famous Serbian dishes, cheese pita or cake for Philip and his family. They lived some seven kilometres north east of Tchien in a small bush village. The village had no running water or electricity. They all lived in a palm leaf covered huts, with dirt floors and open fire pits. Philip was the only one who had a paid job; therefore he was supporting his entire family of twelve. Occasionally, my mother would check through our clothing... those that we didn't wear for a while she would alter wash and iron. Then, she would give them to Philip.
It was shortly after 9:00 a.m. on our last day in Tchien, January 10th, 1980. We were all packed up; the car was loaded and running. We were ready to say good-bye and be on our 12-hour trip to Monrovia. Suddenly, someone knocked on the door. My mother opened the door and there was an older woman standing, supporting herself on a walking cane, face beaten by the sun and the elements. My mom didn't speak English but was able to understand the words as the woman repeated them several times, while pointing at herself, ..."Philip's mother, Philip's mother". My mother nodded, as she understood that Phillip's mother is standing in front of her. Then the woman asked: "Mike's mother?" while pointing a finger at my mom. My mother nodded again in confirmation. The woman nodded back and smiled. At once, she started searching for something with her left hand deep inside her apron. The hand finally came out. Then she set the cane against the wall and took both of my mother's hands into hers. Next, she placed a tiny chicken egg into my mother's hands. After some thirty seconds or so, she smiled again at my mother, saying "Thank you, thank you". Then, she picked up her cane and slowly walked away, down the road.
The chicken egg given to my mom was probably the most valuable thing she had at a time. And she had to walk for at least three hours from her village to our house in order to deliver it. I didn't sense that the egg itself was of any important value to her but I understood so very well that the gift was actually a symbol of her gratitude, the gratitude expressed to my mom for the kindness shown toward her son Philip.
Nowadays, almost every time I break an egg for breakfast, I see a picture of Philip's mother standing in the door with a smile on her face. And... all of a sudden, an egg on my plate tastes better than ever, regardless of the way it was prepared.
***
Dejan Bogojevic (1971)
Valjevo, Yugoslavia
Occupation: Writer, literary and art critic, publisher, editor of literary magazines, painter
That laughter was echoing through the woods. The bridge over the dried river isn't the safest. On the other side - tall trees. Up to them in a couple of steps, and on my hands across the surface. In the distance echoes of ringing steps. I keep quiet for a moment and the sound disappears. I keep on walking through the woods. The wind and the leaves are playing wildly. I try to catch an unusual leaflet. I've managed and I am happy. I put it into my pocket and go on...
I'll stick the leaf on the wall above my bed. The smell of woods will fill my room. And as I think about that, the raindrops over my face, worm. Suddenly darkness fell all over the woods. I made a few steps more and found myself in front of a cave. I stayed for a while in its inner damp bowel.
Since then I've been wandering through the woods, not trying to find the way out.
TRANSPARENT EYELIDS OF OPEN SHELLS
Many things happen to the dead bodies while the day's crimson, tender, carries the jugs greeting the misty stars. Ashes can reveal so many things; being without live coals. Listen also to the bones, having survived burnings and dull bows. Everything that happened before will happen again in the desert dream awaiting for the coffin and the decision of a strong hand to kill and disappear after all other destroyed words of transparent eyelids of open shells.
The door was open and I saw a white chest and a beg in the corner, among fingers a creased leaf of an oak tree, gray, old. The day has come when the voices announced victory of a ship floating loaded by a secret freight. The sea as a drunkard follows groups of people moving slowly as they abandon the ship.
The port surrounded by the bushes, dried with no sun and the glances of hermits breathing deeply keeping service to the sky, water and earth, glorifying the ferns by the small paths. Insecure steps, strong body, a figure of a boy.
At the beginning the day stopped, humbling can be heard; they hide their heads from the light, a neck with no birthmarks. Nothing but the graves and the choir.
Blooming again.
Ilija Bratic (1930)
Zemun, Serbia
Occupation: Retired Ph. D.
- Good afternoon, Mr. Lucifer!
- Good afternoon, good afternoon. You seem to be an Earthman, don't you?
- Yes, Mr. Lucifer, I've come...
- I see, I see. You Earthmen don't even let me lift my head up. And the Universe is so peaceful, lucky other Lucifers. Ah, yeah, the worst Planet has fallen on me. Although, I must confess, it's an honor for me and, naturally, a pleasure, but what is too much, is too much. It comes to my mind to emigrate from this planet or just to take a long, long vacation. Yeah, yeah, to relax, to get to know the real evils, not these vile and hypocritical, a dirty game called the fraud.
- No more good old times, my Mister. When evil was pure, so to speak, honest and quite human. Today, all these are...phew.
- Not even God is what he used to be, my Mister, even he neglected himself in a way, grew old, minds his own business which is not quite clear to me. But, that's his problem, fortunately.
- My personnel, as you call them "the devils", all are ill, people are completely exhausted from their jobs. Once they rushed after jobs, yeah, yeah, and nowadays they must reject clients. So, you see what times have come.
- There is another problem. We've accepted an excessive number of people, we are short of room, and everything is overcrowded. Two at a time in one caldron, several of them on one fire, so you see how it is now. Disastrous. Yeah, yeah.
- But, I've got a good idea. Really good! I am going to move Hell to the Earth and the Earth is but Hell.
- So that is the order of things, my dear Earthman. And today I'm in a good mood and will give you quite an advice: don't you ever return, in the name of the Satan, down to the Earth. Here you'll be much better off, trust the word of the Supreme God of the Underworld.
***
Nada Zekovic (1980)
Novi Sad, Serbia
Occupation: Student of literature
A line of children has been moving down the street as magma. A small change from my pocket rattled on asphalt. At that moment only one thought existed - to collect those valuable things.
"Careful, you lost big money!" - salty shouted a child's voice.
I was ashamed of my squatting position, quickly stood up and ran to catch up others. The coins from my sweaty hand screamed on the street again.
Today, the whole century later, I still take that meeting of money and street almost as pain. And I am never sure would it hurt less if I had left it lying there.
It is a cold October day.
The wind is peeling the leaves from the trees. Stretching the wool from the clouds. Making a mesh out of the Danube. Squealing, striking, humming. Creating changes.
People are moving away from the wind.
The vacuum cleaner and coffee grinder are changing the air and sounds in my flat. The pigeons at my window. The sound of their wings - like tiny strokes of the wind against sails.
An old lady was long fighting to close her umbrella. Finally she made it. She is entering the house with a face of a winner.
Well, at least she's managed to keep her old umbrella in her hands.
Not that I deliberately give any importance to it, but my ear always notices extraordinary sounds in conversations. Especially accents. It seems that through that one "strangely" pronounced word I hear their mother, friends, teachers. As if they unwillingly left an opened the door to their life.
I do not like remainders of the dialect in my speech. As if I guard all that are dear to me from the curious eyes with the sound of the proper words.
***
Dragan J. Ristic
Nis, Serbia
Occupation: Professor of German, translator, publisher, editor
Mr. Boza Patrnogic, a retired person from our town, was making his way to the next shop on an early winter evening when two bullies met him.
This is, naturally, the beginning of the story, but perhaps, God forbid, its end as well.
HOW THE PLANNIG OF A HOLIDAY IN GREECE HAS FAILED
My best friend suggested spending together our holiday in Greece. I only smiled sadly.
A: "His courage confuses us!?"
B: "He has only pierced the blown balloons with a needle.
***
Zlata Volaric (1930)
Kranj, Slovenia
Occupation: Retired teacher of Slovenian, Russian and Serbo-Croatian
I fell in love. It happens. I thought my wife wouldn't find out.
It was Wednesday. She was sitting in front of the mirror putting the make-up on. Out of a common housewife, she has transformed herself into a beautiful cosmopolitan.
- I did not know I had such a beautiful wife! - I was trying to suck up to her.
She gave me a strange glance.
I really mean it! I got myself even more tangled up. She is getting ready to go somewhere.
- Where are you going? - I got worried. Does she also have a secret?
- To see Silvijana. I'll let her know the truth about you.
I turned pale.
- Aaabout me? -I stuttered.
- Yes. What a wonderful husband you are, polite, gentle, an excellent lover, a good steward, educated, handsome, talented.
I stopped her.
- Just a second! Wait a minute. Why are you going to tell her all this stuff? What is the purpose?
- Well, I want her to come and get you today. She can have you. I wish her luck. She is young and beautiful and deserves a good husband. But I am not sure how her husband will react. Did you
know she is married?
- No, I didn't.
I was getting nauseated, I was passing out. But I still heard her words.
- Yes, yes. Silvijana is married.
I am sitting in front of my canvas. Painting. Flowers, birds and ocean. The usual. Have just finished. I like the painting.
What will my grandson think about it?
My first art critic arrives. He growls: "I do not like flowers. Why don't you erase them!
I am erasing them. What should I do? He is an art critic.
The next one comes. Looks. Wonders: "Birds everywhere. Why birds? I don't like so many
birds. You need to do a bit of erasing".
I do what I am told.
The third critic arrives. The waves of my ocean are gorgeously blue. He'll love that.
He gets upset. "The deep ocean always swallows up so many ships. With sailors. Just remember the Titanic?
Certainly. He has a point. I have left only a spot.
My grandchild comes running. "What is that? Has a fly pooped on your painting? Grandma, don't you know how to paint something nice as flowers, birds, ocean with seagulls and ships?"
I don't say anything. And what has happened with my painting with the fly dropping? The black mark?
Nothing unusual. Some rich art collector has bought the painting.
***
Joze Volaric (1932)
Kranj, Slovenia
Occupation: Retired mechanical engineer and professor of industrial pedagogy
RECOLLECTION OF A NINETY YEAR OLD MAN AND MY PONDERING
Although two decades stood between us, we used to be colleagues and remained friends. From time to time we visited each other. Last time when I visited him he was sitting under an apple tree in the garden, apparently cheerful and talkative; he began to speak immediately:
"You know, Joze, now that I have experienced so many things in my life, I'm recollecting my memories of some events. A moment in the world's scene has induced me to fall into thinking. In fact, I don't like the past, it most often cheated me, but what could I do, it's mine, and they say - at least respect what is yours. The future gives me nothing but tomorrow and every morning I get up cheerful and I thank it every night.
At the beginning of the World War I, I was already successful in driving, usually quite naked, all that there was in the stable and defied my neighbors. In my early childhood that war left me without my father. Mother used to say he had rotten somewhere in Galicia. You can stand many things in childhood. Then good two decades of life playing in the labyrinth rushed by and again the world war broke out - the second in my life. That one drew different images for me and left painful memories, but I respect the popular proverb: all is well that ends well!
There were no world wars for five decades and a half, really for too long. Those SMALL wars taking place all over that unstable planet, those were nothing but mere game of the humankind. Again, according to the popular proverb: what happened happened! At that time I experienced all sorts of things in my life, worked a lot and existed barely. There was everything and nothing, a bit of the Socialism, then the Communism, a bit of embracing and a bit of biting, a bit of marking time and a bit of kicking, as if we were building the Babylon Tower - but it made our life charming.
Now, quite of a sudden the World War III! Why are you looking at me so inquiring? That what began in Afghanistan a month ago looks to me like the world war. They report on how many and what all countries take their place in it, and that's more than in first two wars. Although they say it won't last long, I don't think so. I believe it will last a hundred year at least. It will turn out to be a religious one, trust me!"
There was a silence. We looked at each other. I wished him all the best and we separated.
The words he said are now pecking at my brain dung heap - upsetting my conscience. Inadvertently a thought creeps in, that his story is not far from the truth, first of all when I start to think about all that has been happening in Ireland and elsewhere. When that happens, I immediately push a thought into my brain GOD FORBID!
My neighbors like dogs. Although the settlement is compact, there is at least one dog in front of every second house which they take for a walk every day.
A dog and a man -
friends -
in short leash.
My neighbor on the left has recently bought a shaggy puppy for his granddaughter, and it roamed about all day long. It played with anything it came across to.
A young puppy
- anything pleases it
for its joyful play.
Once it came up to my threshold. We played. It nibbled my fingers. I accidentally pushed my finger into its throat. It began to whine and ran away with its tail between its legs.
Joyful play.
Carelessness caused
an end.
Since then it has not trusted me. It just followed me from the safe distance.
The dog remembers
- when close to me
it most often growls.
It's no more a lovable puppy; it became dangerous for passers-by, so it was tied.
The tied dog
likes its tongue released
all day long.
It has never forgotten the event from its youth; it likes to bark at me most.
A dog does not forbid
the one who doesn't
feed it.
I'd been heading for (been pushed into!) THE BRIGHT FUTURE, but I had forgotten to bring CANDLES, and on my way (Mo' fo'!) the light went out, so I'd got lost.
***
Debra Woolard Bender (1950)
Orlando, USA
Occupation: Poet/Artist
For a Daughter
a sijo-haibun (sijo and haiku multi-genre haibun)
Your form and face grow in beauty, close to that thirtieth year old boys sneak glances from corners while younger men openly gawk when you call me "mother," they are fascinated with the floor
be still
my daughter
is holy
Transformations
a sijo-haibun (sijo and haiku multi-genre haibun)
Ocean conforms to the sandy beach while land dissolves in tides husbands and wives become each other...slowly they merge and change.
I search our children's faces for traces of lost names
skywriter
a scalloped trail
of seashell bits
Patchwork Quilt
a sijo-haibun (sijo and haiku multi-genre haibun)
you call me now to our bed --
what has changed in three times ten years?
a ring rims the spring split-moon
and I am cut in half this night;
though we were wed as two-in-one
my side of the sheets turns cold
cedar hope chest
how distant the stars
in winter
***
Zoran Nikolic Mali
Nis, Serbia
I am walking through the city counting: "...31, 32, 33..."
"How many?" asks a passer-by.
"How many what?" I ask.
Gale and Zoki are greeting holidays to each other:
"Happy New Year!"
"I wish you a good health!"
"But without money, there's no health, so you must pay me back the loan I gave you last year."
My workmate shouted at me in the street:"Hey man, do you know what time it is? We are late!"
"Never mind, my salary is late, too," I replied calmly.
***
Svetomir Djurbabic
Nis, Serbia
"There were two Luisas in my life. A woman and a mare. I don't know whom I regretted more for."
An old woman enters the pharmacy:
"Oh, dear, have you got any headache medicine?"
"Malophenum only."
"How much?"
"55 Dinars."
"Leave my pain to me then," the old woman turns her back and leaves.
***
Zoran Raonic (1956)
Pljevlja, Montenegro
She was shouting at the top of her voice and as a town crier, a drummer - a messenger, a woman was walking, better to say running along the roads and alongside the roads, streets, country roads, between houses and around them and it was not clear whether she was chasing something or someone was running after her, whether she was declaring something or just warning about danger.
- It's fallen down, fallen down, oh - it's fallen, the Sun's fallen from the Sky, the Sun's fallen - the Sun's fallen, ah....!
The Sun' fallen from the Sky, repeated the Woman, and no one could make it clear whether it was still up there just as a warning or as a menace!
After her there remained the summer heat, after her a chill was spreading, after her, her thick hair was shedding and as sunbeams it was giving off a kind of unbearable reflection. Some believed that her hair was burning, that something was glowing off it. From the neighboring hills an intensive echo resounded making a strange apocalyptic image in the glowing zenith of the July day.
Right at midday as if shot dead, she fell down, too. Then everyone was watching the Sun and not the Woman. Then everyone was flying around the Sun. Afterwards many were turning around themselves, turning and turning. Turning.
I know. She died. Long ago. Hat is off to her and to all the dead. But if I meet her somewhere tonight - I'll sock her with something!
With the change of the government and with the coming of Austro-Hungarian, the job of hangmen became easier because the Turkish gallows had been removed from Gradine to Glavica, which facilitated expedition of the beheaded, some into the nearby pits, some into the smooth and clayey ground where they were buried shallow.