Dragan Dragojlović (Serbia)

Dragan Dragojlović (Serbia)

Dragan Dragojlović was born in Serbia. He graduated and obtained his master’s degree in Economy at Belgrade University. He published 21 poetry books in Serbian language, such as: The House on the Selestial Clock, Failed Encounters, Abodes, The Tree of the Invisible Year, The Other Side of Heaven, A Calendar of Dreams, The Book of Love (four edition), Death’s Homeland, Invoking God (six edition), At the Astral Gates, Oral History of Oblivion, The Voices of Distance, Traces of our Lives, On the Square of Babilon, etc and four books of selected poems.

Novels: Under the Southern Cross, four edition, Doctor’s Love, three edition, Don’t Forget your Home and If you go on this Road.

Short stories: The Stories from Australia, American and other stories and Selected Stories.

Book for Children and youth: The Squriel Groom, stories; Novels: A Great, Small School; The Little Novel about Kangaroos and In the Country of Koalas.

His poetry books has been published in Australia, USA, Italy, Romania, Germany, Switzerland, Greece, FRJ Macedonia, Turkey, China, Russia, India (Bengali and Hindy language), Monte Negro and Poland. His first book in foreign language was published in Albanian, in Pristina, Kosovo, 1983. Celected Poems was published in Melbourn, Australia, 2001; China 2006; Russia, 2015; Monte Negro, 2016 and Poland, 2016. His poems have been published in the literature newspapers and magazines in many countries. His books can be found in hundreds of libraries around the world.

He is a recipient of many literary awards in his oun country and two from abroad. In 2009. he spent nearly three months as a foloweres of the Massachussets University in Boston, USA, when he visited a few American Cities and Universities and read his poems. He is a member of Academy of American Poets. Also, hi is a member of the Serbian PEN. Dragojlovic translates poetry from English language. He lives in Belgrade



Walking the city all evening
I realize that every city
is in some way strange,
even when we have the key
to some of its doors.

Light rain starts tapping.
Spring sounds fade away,
but I keep walking,
and buy an umbrella at Marshalls.
It is raining in Belgrade, too.

Walking through this city-
I tour all the cities of the world.
The same indifference everywhere.
The same humming of the rain.
Spring arrives earlier or later.
The same blues and solitude.

This is my city,
thousands of miles
away from me.



If I succeed in producing a poem
then I will not rue missing out the exhibition
of inanimate objects in sfumato technique
that brings our inner and painful side
closer to the light.

A poem need not be
similar to some paintings,
a limitless geometry of inexpressible beauty
born out of a marriage
of mutually remote words,
like the blending of colours on the canvas,
or like distant stars
that engender the sky
disclosing fragments of the principle
controlled by God.

Despite his faltering pen,
despite his self-consuming thoughts,
a poet touches upon the intangible
contained in each endless moment
as occasionally happens
on a painter’s canvas.

Essentially, the painting and the poem
are two forms of the same language
that can at times convey Perfection.

Humility forbids us to wonder
what God’s judgment of that would be.



In between yesterday and today
there is nothing,
there is no connecting road,
no tunnel, no corridor,
no pathway,
no sea,
there is nothing in between
yesterday and today.

Not even a hedge
where the birds could sing,

where we could
hang up pictures of
a perishing world.



Your shadow
has learned to fly
without you.

Your words
have mingled with silence
in which even the stars
can go astray.

Night paces
in your shoes,
stumbling on the wind
and the moonlight.

Does the celestial clock tell you
that each hour is now
but a fragment of eternity
in which you drift away
from started to unfinished?



In Australia,
in this distance,
on the other side of the earth,
under the strange and unfamiliar
I thought I would
forgetr you,

forget bot you
and myself
here in the arms of despair,
in the bitter void of the desert
through which pictures fly
which I can not stop

through whose silence
the South Pacific
strokes pearls and the light
of fading day.

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