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Majo Danilovic
Nacionalidad:
Serbia
E-mail:
majodanilovic@gmail.com
Biografia

Majo Danilovic 

  • Graphic Designer and Writer; born in 1955 in Yugoslavia; graduated at the Faculty of Political Science-University of Belgrade
  • Member of the Association of Writers of Serbia and member of The World Poetry Accademy /Verona, Italy/
  • Publish  literary works from 2008; Published works in over 200 anthologies, almanacs, and periodicals; Literary works translated and published in several countries;
  • Editor of the poetic project Literary Salon "Poezija Stenka" Belgrade;
  • His poems and stories have been rewarded with many prizes and awards;
  • Published seven of his poetry books, and two joint books of poetry;

e-mail: majodanilovic@gmail.com

______________

 

LEISURE DAY

 

I do not write poems on Thursdays.

The day - without the words.

My handwriting has a day off.

Anxiety is suffering.

 

I do not make verses on Thursdays

‘cause of the religious and other reasons.

Cynicism of mine is within the sharpening!

I do not fall in love on Thursdays.

Out of my own superstitions -

The day - of the unsuccessful courtship.

On Thursday night

they would, usually, leave me.

Although - on other days as well.

 

On Thursdays I participate within life.

I cut nails, pay the bills,

I am roaming around the markets -

Who would say - a poet!

Afraid of death, of life,

I humbly bow to it.

I am going to the church, ignites the candles -

for dead and alive ones - just in case.

 

I do not create poems on Thursdays,

‘cause intimate reasons.

Poor reviews about the poems

has handed to me on Thursdays.

I admit – on other days as well.

Thursday, what a day without verses!

 

 

TO THE VANITY

 

If you did not know,

Poem above the poems is my poem.

And Sappho also wrote my poem

and Petrarch, after all, all of them before me!

Not to mention my coevals.

 

Do not bother!

I'm the only poet, there is nobody but me!

I am living monument of poetry.

You are in procession aside mine literary robes -

fans of creative genius.

 

My poem is eternal, will live after me -

although, they are talking that I'm immortal!

And that I came from ancient times!

 

One day,

everyone will write a poem - mine!

And no one will have to read it.

Not surprisingly that I, exactly me,

wrote the Poem above the poem..

The bearer of the God’s gift!

And the Lord himself was impressed with my poem.

 

Yes - even Majo Danilović writes for me.

 

 

EN PASSANT

 

En passant through Italy, Padua, Croatia...

Through time. Expanse. Dimension. Through sort.

Through the infinity. Thought. Life, death.

Through a dream. No-dream. Through peace, anxiety.

Through rains. The snows. Water, soil.

Through myself. Alongside to myself. Through sanity.

Alongside the stars, by destiny.

Through the essence. Sound. Through the darkness. Remembrance.

En passant, through metaphor, imagination.

Illusion, Rubicon.

Philosophy, ideology. Crime and Punishment.

Through the records, notebooks. Through the borders, walls.

In flight, in the run, in the procession.

In levitation, the equilibration.

Through the red, the numbers, through the machines.

The dome, the rings, the codes.

Tired, bowed. Up, down.

Waiting, I am passing through. With sigh - expiration.

 

 

WHAT IS THE NAME OF MY HOUSE

 

My house is on the middle of the road.

I live between the one

that did not happen and incertitude.

My house is without doors and windows.

It is rounded and there was not smoky chimney on.

It is uninhabited.

I am sub tenant of my own unsteadiness.

During the day I am seen in the oblivion tree tops.

My house is on the landslide,

and pouring into the abyss of understated.

It is not on earth. It is on the other side of the sun.

My house is on my back.

I do not drop it down while I am relaxing.

even when I sleep.

I am basement of my house.

I've never seen my house.

I do not know to draw it.

Either I know how to describe it.

I do not know how to dream about it.

Not to sing of about it.

Where, in fact, is my house?

Do I have a house?

And what is the name of my house?

 

 

SECOND HAND ILLUSIONS

 

Hi, the Poet, you would like to have a life out of balmy clouds

and colorful dreams?

The human that is dignified,

injustice to justice, in the era-non-era?

Would like the love in the people around them,

countries without shocks – land of utopia?

 

On the other side of life, you trample over the splints of illusion.

While the Sphere is alive and spinning around,

you're dead and decadent -

just nobody told you that explicitly.

 

You would like that people should say what they think!

To look up in the eyes, and to call matters with their name.

Different customs are here, my dear poet!

You are arriving from strange planet,

through flying made of cheap dreams.

 

Do not rile the water, do not raise the dust, it is not forgiven.

There you have a love – a wide field in front of you,

In sacred things do not touch.

Write without symbolism, transparently, archaically,

Do not evoke the Devil!

And thereby nobody reads you,

nor you are of the name and authority,

it would be a shame, to keep it that way.

 

Bent at the knees walk, with bowed head

and will be something out of you.

There will be books, there will be poetry! Poetic sleeper,

perhaps some publisher will, of course, on your own expense.

It has to be sold with tobacco at every corner,

and maybe even on the cemeteries, flea markets and boulevards,

together with other second hand illusions.

 

Translate: Sabahudin Hadzialic

 

 

 

Desarrollado por: Asesorias Web
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