Poems by Jovanka Stojčinović Nikolić

Poems by Jovanka Stojčinović Nikolić
 
 
MOUNTAINS IN MY BODY
 
All night long I have been flattening mountains
In my body
 
Behind a mountain top (which I cannot reach)
The Sun is falling down a cliff
 
Levelling its rays against jagged stones
Simply
As if covering by running its shine in a flash
 
We are two wholes separate from the outside
Each one in its own body
With a thousand windows through which various places
Can be seen
 
The brighter ones are similar to me
The darker ones are as deep as gorges
And I have difficulty to see the living people in them
 
While I am flattening mountains
The darkness between the lights is swaying my skin
And I feel as if it had always been
An unforgettable encounter with the world
And my only possibility
To reach the Sun on the cliff
 
 
 
THE REAL STATE
 
I am sorting out my old clothes in the wardrobe
Of my bedroom
The clothes that keep making
Confusion in my head blurring the vision
About the real state of my clothing immobility
 
In the middle of the room there can settle the largest white cloud
Through it everything in the wardrobe can be seen
 
All dreams in the sleeves of the nightgown
The night hours of my insomnia and words
That by some miracke have remained in the inner pocket
Of the light blue outfit from my youth
 
In fact I wonder whether it is just the room
And wardrobes that all life long
Have been watching over old and new things
Saving the mother tongue
(which I can never lose or buy)
Or it is the mirror of the same age facing them
The mirror that in any case may be replaced
 
But how can I fix its crack on the oval side
Which has existed for years due to a tiny part of the mirror
That dropped into my hand two decades ago
While I was polishing it to shine like the soul of the bedroom
 
I conclude that nothing can be finished
Until the things are replaced
 
 
 
SERIOUS MATTERS
 
Sipping black coffee from porcelain cups
We are talking about serious matters
Disclosing new things to each other
 
She is showing me her fingers pricked by the needle
Of her old Singer sewing machine
Which she must repair as soon as possible
In order to patch all seasons of the year into the apron
And to stitch in all secrets outside and inside
 
Thousands of farewell letters and important talks
Of streets with no soul on them
And of corners beyond the reach of a hand
 
Looking closely at the blue needle-like punctures
On her finger cushions she utters in a low voice
I suffer when I see that the world is falling apart
And so far we have lived on this
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