Vladimir Stojnić

 

 

 

(SERBIA)

 

 

A Proustian Feeling

 

The smell of roasted peppers
in the city’s dusty passages
Time that does not pass
and the sun crawls across the glass
leaving the sweaty trace behind
The same mouthful of air
never wholly swallowed

 

 

 

 

A Boy in Claude Monet’s Picture Un Coin d’appartement, 1875.

 

You stand as if you were
on the boundary between the birth of words
and the dying of objects.

You stand silent as a picture
through which you look
which links you with the world
and at the same time separates you from it.

You stand in a dusky room
on the parquet which creaks
and you look at the blooming garden
through the open door.

You do not know that in the same way
the bones creak
as well as the rusty iron
down there, deep in the peat.

You collect the silence
from an old table
gaudy chandelier
grey curtains and draperies.

The branches and leaves slant through the room.
Green enters grey.

And you, you have locked the silence
deep-down.
You will keep it there
until it sprouts wings.

 

 

Translate : Ivana Maksić

 

 

 

 

Photo no. 4

 

The August night. Marek is a boy who
sleeps on creaking bed in a warm room.
Second floor of a house in the suburb of
Prague. In the evening people crouch

around the radio or TV and await news
of the Russians. And Marek sleeps. In
his dream he woke up, got out of the
bed and approached the window. And

there, instead of dark roofs of surrounding
houses, covered by the moonlight, there
is a gaping whiteness. A complete
and endless. Without the depth and

boundaries. Edged with cracked wood
of the window panes. And in this whiteness,
far away, there’s a purple dot. That approaches
and pulses. It soon becomes large and smooth

purple apple. Marek does not see,but he can
feel a purple worms in it. And he can hear the
way they are sucking purple blood of the apple.
Knowing that nobody will believe him, Marek took

his father’s camera that lied on the table, and
snapped. Calmed, he returned to bed. Marek
does not know that there is no photo
in the camera, a photo which he made

in a dream as an evidence. But photo
from his dream exists somewhere.
And you can see everything on it.
For the boy snapped. It exists and

it’s more real than dark roofs, Prague’s
squares and the Russians which will enter
Czechoslovakia following morning. When
Marek wakes up. And runs to photographer.

 

 

 

 

Vladimir Stojnić was born in 1980 in Belgrade. He graduated from the Law Faculty in Belgrade in 2005. His poetry, short stories and literary reviews were published in numerous literary journals, newspapers, anthologies and collections. His poems were translated into Polish, French and English. He was awarded Mladi Dis for the best unpublished poetry manuscript in 2008 in Serbia. He published four poetry books: Vreme se završilo (The Time Has Come To An End, 2008), Fotoalbum (Photoalbum, 2010), Poziv na saučesništvo (Invitation to complicity, 2011) and Czas się zakończył (second edition of The Time has come to An End in polish, Krakow, 2011). He translate from English and is co-founder and co-editor of the Internet magazine for contemporary poetry Agon (www.agoncasopis.com) and poetry blog Jurodivi. He lives in Zemun.

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