Milica Jeftimijević Lilić

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Milica Jeftimijević Lilić


Milica Jeftimijević Lilić was born at Lovac near Banjska, Kosovo & Metohija, on August 28, 1953. She graduated at the Faculty of Philosophy in Priština, and won a master’s degree in philological sciences at the University of Belgrade. She was a professor at the University of  Priština, and editor on Belgrade TV. She has published the following collections of poems: Dark, Salvation (1955), The Hibernation (1998), The Travelogue of the Skin (2003), and a collection of stories The Subject-matter of the Case (2002). She has also published books of criticism: Poetics of the Premonition (2004), The Epsistomlogical Illuminations (2007), Critical Roots and Ranges (2011),

The Exactness of the Secret (2012)…


She also writes stories for children which have been published in Children’s Papers, Unity and other newspapers.

She is representedin many anthologies and has many literary awards of national importance  as international…Her poems  and pieces of criticism have been translated into Russian, English, Italian, German, French, Hungarian,Macedonian, Turkish, Swedish, Polish, Arabic, Hindu,Slovakian, Albanian…

She  was a vice President of the Association of writers of Serbia, a member of literary society of writers of Kosovo and Metohija and a member of the Association of Journalists of Serbia.

Lives in Belgrade since 1999.



Poems by Milica Jeftimijević Lilić





That touch of the hands,

That sublime giving

Occurred beyond recall.

As if we washed death

From our hands

Everything that used to be

Between us

For centuries.

We were gathered by the Logos.


As if we were born

In that joining of the hands,

In the bliss not felt before.


The water of the essence

Flows through us

Into our palms,

So that God’s face

Reflects in it

And speaks through us.


God unites us

He is here to stay!

He has settled into our palms

And we keep Him to ourselves.





   For B.


All of me got into that look

Unpredictably, casually,

Almost by fate

Like into a cloak enveloping all.

That look embraced me

Cautiously, primordially,

And the warmth flew through my mind.

For a moment the World turned blue

Like a newly discovered cove,

It got an innocent expression

And stopped being evil.


Awaked by that look, my being

Beamed with joy suspecting a sunny waterfall,

The necessity of blending with the Other,

The fulness expressing the meaning,

The readiness to

Scream out the Existence.


Somewhere, due to that flash,

An almond tree, mute of waiting, burst into blossom,

A restless yellow water lily

Calmed down.

Two isles approached each other

Carried by a strange stream

As if they had been one whole

Before the Flood.


The thought longing fro a spark flamed up

Heidegger, Nietzsche, Florensky,

They all happened to be in the game unexpectedly,

And only the hands venturing the touch,

Denying words, knowledge,

Victoriously touched the Universe

Taking down the tattoo of  the mind.






While enveloped by the Moon and grazed by death

You dream about a far-away shore that is not

Conquered in your absence

I have too little of you,

More than he has me

He who suffers from admonishing longing,

From the jealousy that makes him a beast,

He sharpens his sense of being threatened

And feels the danger like a beast and knows:

You have become the center –

You have sheltered all of me,

You have pulled me into yourself.


You have, like Zeus on Mount Olympus,

Assumed all the power and hidden me.

In vain does he give birth to me like to Aphrodite

I am not where he left me

To be waiting for the promised waking.

And you just turned up suddenly

Like a stray bullet and drove into me,

Anchored in my Soul you radiate devastatingly,

And the removing of the bullet woukl be fatal.


The entire system of existence became distrupted,

Everything was changed hit with that shot.

My blood flow, poisoned, is clotting up

Will I am stumbbing toward myself

To come back to the same road…


And you wandering under the old  walls

To reach the new heights

Do not turn round

For the scene of unbearable emptiness

The abysses of my essence

Will appall you.

Filled with the mercy of the moment

Neither you nor I

Wonted it.






You can be seduced by all godesses in succession,

Hellenic, Roman, Slavic ones,

You can be conquered by Vesta,

All your thoughts can be tied in knots

By Ariadne,

Aiming to erase, to cancel me.

Your eyes can be

Blindfolded by Chronos,

Your hearing can be stunned by Circe,

But in the softest murmur of wind

You will hear my heart whispering

A prayer for your calm.


In a sharp shriek of a seagull

You will identify the scream of my soul

Into which you took a peep once.


In an unexpected cloud above you,

When you are filled with joy,

You will see my face full of tears

That, looking for you, hides its longing.


Escaping the most tremendous danger

You will feel the blessing

Obtained by the mutenes of my lips.


In your most secret part

You will know that I am here

And at times you will smile at me



In the deepest doubt in everything

You will meet my eyes which know

That, once broken,

Like us,

Never give themselves to anyone wholly.






Among countless vanishings

I come into being for a while

Shaped by letters, exclamation marks, full stops

Aware of criticism I rose myself

And awkwardly announce my Creed

The Last Will is spelled by money lovers

They cannot tell of me that I did not

Spare others with all my strength

I admit: I used to seize the most from myself

From dreariness, blackness, transreason

The essence hidden behind

Would present itself to me now and then

By means of a flash, a pang

I would catch it like a blind person

For myself, for the sightless

Seers do not need it.

You are not blessed to play a game

No matter how hard you try to compose the dice

The mosaic is designed by the Creator

You are just a tiny part

You must practise, toil

Until you settle into the scheduled position.

SEEING is not a privilege

Despite your feeling and being silent

You will be obliged to speak

To identify others through yourself

By means of ethics, poetics

By means of clay, of the gloom of consciousness

You must tell a story

You are just a thin spread

On the crust of a loaf of bread

Growing from the dark aeons

From the throne a command comes:

See, comment and send back.






In his poem Man Carrying Thing 

Wallace Stevens sees a poem

Like resistance to intelligence.


Yes, it could be like that,

A poet can do whatever in a poem,

Resist to gravitation

(I mostly lived resisting,

Was written by a famous Serbian poet S. R.)

Life is resisting to death,

Silence – resisting to speech,

A poem, scorn to non-being,

Denial of absurdity, of existence

Squeezed between the two points.


No, a poem is not resistance

To intelligence

Although the wise conclusions of W. S. are to be respected.

It is its image, the esence,

For it wants to Be,

To speak through the form,

To explain it, to survive,

To give new life to the author,

To announce the Logos.

To domesticate everything.


Appalling thoughts as well

Which become real for a while,

Transfigured into a poem

They enlighten, become tame

Lined up in the order of the verse

Like water everlasting and still.



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