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
GOD UNITES US
That touch of the hands,
That sublime giving
Occurred beyond recall.
As if we washed death
From our hands
Everything that used to be
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.
THE TOUCH OF THE UNIVERSE
All of me got into that look
Almost by fate
Like into a cloak enveloping all.
That look embraced me
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
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.
A MOMENT OF REALITY
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
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
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,
Never give themselves to anyone wholly.
THE MAGIC OF THE CREATOR
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.
THE INTELLIGENCE OF A POEM
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
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.