Точно на време

дојдов порано

на закажаниот состанок

со еден пријател

таа седеше на соседната маса

и додека го чекав

погледите ни се сретнаа

па така,

се запознавме

се бакнавме

се засакавме

ни беше супер,

но Ирена не беше подготвена

за долга врска,

за големото вкотвување,

сакаше да види

што има после мене

раскинавме,

за два месеца

ја видов со друг,

па со трет

ама дојде момент

и таа осети потреба

да застане крај некого,

а тој некој
се погоди да биде

оној мој пријател

го познавам добро

и навистина,

не се разликуваме многу

не е ништо полош од мене

не е ништо подобар

само што јас подранив

а тој пристигна

на закажаниот состанок

точно на време

о, Љубов

се чувствувам излажан

дури и Ти

носиш часовник.

Марко Петрушевски
Чашка
кога пијам
не пијам
само за себе

пијам и за сите
напуштени мажи,
за сите празни сиви животи,
за сите промашени луѓе
на светот

затоа ме фаќа
од една чашка

Марко Петрушевски
Сакам да ме боли како порано

кога ќе ме остават,

не ме боли како порано

се сеќавам се будев уплакан

слабеев по десет кила

месеци ми требаа

да се соземам

сега - тапа празнина

само тапа празнина

сто пати

поодвратна

од здрава црна болка

земам камен

и силно се удирам

по глава

ама, тоа не е тоа

моето крваво чело

не може

да го врати

времето назад

Марко Петрушевски
Хедонист
почнав да пушам
не за да изгледам повозрасен
не за да се правам
фраер пред женските
ни зашто моите дома беа пушачи
ни зашто цело друштво пушеше

почнав да пушам
за да се откажам од цигари,
па по многу години
повторно да запалам една
и неизмерно повеќе
да уживам во неа

Марко Петрушевски
Отворање цигари

Кога Сузан ги купува

нејзините долги тенки цигари
што мирисаат на тутун, миродии, билки -
за мене тоа е скоро исто -
кога ги купува,
таа веднаш ги отвора
како дете
што ја кине
шарената хартија
во која е залепен подарокот
што го чекало триста шеесет и четири дена -
период
во кое пораснало година,
пораснало педа
или за тупаница поблиску до прекинувачот,
до скриените списанија на татко му,
ете така Сузан ги отвора цигарите,
го кине најлонот,
го отфрла настрана,
го крева врвот од кутијата,
хартијата,
ѓубрето,
а потоа една долга бела цигара
исправена како школска креда,
школка,
таа ја става во уста,
ја пали
и потегнува.
 
Човек може тогаш да помине
цел час,
цел еден живот гледајќи ја
Сузан,
додека ја врти, разгледува, пуши
цигарата
исправена како школска креда,
и таа ја врти, разгледува и, веројатно, пуши,
како школка,
без мерак,
без страст, без емоции,
коњ што треба да се трка за пари,
таа го прави тоа само за мене
зашто знае
дека обожавам да ја гледам
неа
додека отвора цигари.

Џеси Блејз
ŠOLJICA KAFE

Mnogo puta u životu ogrešio sam se o čoveka koga sam voleo. Takav greh je kao greh protiv
Svetog Duha: ne prašta se ni na ovom ni na onom svetu. Neizbrisiv je, nezaboravan. Kadkad
miruje duge godine, kao da se ugasio u srcu, izgubio, utopio u nemirnom životu. Iznenada usred
veselja ili noću, kad se uplašen probudiš iz ružnog sna, padne na dušu teško sećanje, zaboli i
zapeče tolikom snagom kao da je greh učinjen u tom istom trenutku. Svako drugo secanje lako je
izbrisati kajanjem i blagom mišlju-ali ovo nije moguće izbrisati. Crna mrlja je na srcu i ostaće tu
večito.
Čovek bi rado slagao sam sebe: ''Ta nije bilo tako! Samo je tvoja nemirna misao od prozračne
senke napravila noć! To je bila sitnica, svakidašnja stvar, kakvih se na stotine i hiljade dešava od
jutra do mraka!'' Uteha je lažna. Greh je greh, pa bio on učinjen jedanput ili hiljadu puta, bio
svakidašnji ili nepoznat. Srce nije krivični zakonik da pravi razliku između greške i zločina,
između ubistva i umorstva. Srce zna da ''podlac ubija pogledom a junak mačem'', i pre bi
oprostilo maču nego pogledu. Srce nije ni katihizis da pravi razliku između malih i velikih
grehova, da ih razlikuje po reči i spoljašnjim znacima. Srce je pravedan i nepogrešivi sudija. Ono
sudi grešniku i osudi ga po skrivenom, jedva svesnom pokretu, po trenutnom pogledu koji niko
nije primetio, po neizgovorenoj jedva na čelu zapisanoj misli, čak i po koraku, po kucanju, po
srkanju čaja. U katihizisu zabeležen je samo mali broj grehova, pa ni ti nisu glavni. Kad bi srce
bilo ispovednik-ispovest bi bila duga i strašna!
Oprostiv je onaj greh koji se može rečima iskazati, ispaštanjem izbrisati. Ali težak je i pretežak i
krvari do poslednjeg časa onaj greh koji je ostao samo u srcu kao uspomena bez rečii bez oblika.
Čovek ga ispoveda jedino samom sebi kad zuri u noć i kad mu je pokrivač na grudima teži od
kamena.
''Nisam ni krao, ni ubijao, nisam ni blud provodio; moja duša je čista!'' Lažljivče! Zar nisi ljuštio
jabuku idući pored gladnoga i pogledao ga bez stida! To je gore nego da si krao, ubijao i blud
provodio. Srce, pravedni sudija pre će oprostiti ubici koji je idući na vešala pomilovao dete što
plače, nego tebi bezgrešnom! Јer srce ne zna za sitnice ni paragrafe.
Pre petnaest godina došao sam kući i ostao kod kuće tri nedelje. Za sve to vreme bio sam utučen
i zlovoljan. Stan nam je bio turoban, u svima nama je bilo čini mi se, nešto teško, odvratno, kao
vlažna senka. Prve noći spavao sam u sobi; s vremena na vreme bih se probudio i video u mraku
da je mati ustala iz postelje i sedi za stolom. Sasvim mirno, kao da spava; dlanove je pritiskivala
na čelo, belo lice joj se sijalo, iako je prozor bio zastrt i napolu nije bilo ni meseca ni zvezda.
Pažljivo sam oslušnuo i razaznao da to nije disanje u snu, nego mukom prigušeno jecanje. Pokrio
sam se preko glave; ali kroz pokrivač pa čak i u snu ,čuo sam njeno jecanje.
Preselio sam se pod krov, na seno.U to svoje prebivalište peo sam se strmim, polomljenim
stepenicama, koje su ličile na lestvice. Namestio sam sebi postelju u senu, a pored vrata stavio
sam sto. Vidik mi je bio siv, razriven zid. Zlovoljan, utučen pun crnih briga pisao sam tada prve
svoje ljubavne priče. Silom sam svoje misli odvodio na bele drumove, na cvetne livade i mirisna
polja, samo da ne bih video sebe i svoj život.
Jednom sam poželeo crnu kafu. Ne znam kako mi je to palo na pamet, poželeo sam je. Možda
samo zato što sam znao da u kući nemamo ni hleba, a kamoli kafe. Čovek je u svojoj uobrazilji
zao i nemilosrdan. Mati me je pogledala velikim, uplašenim pogledom i nije ništa odgovorila.
Pust i zlovoljan, bez reči i pozdrava vratio sam se pod krov da bih pisao o tome kako su se voleli
Milan i Breda i kako su oboje bili plemeniti, srećni i veseli. ''Ruku pod ruku, oboje mladi,
jutarnjim suncem obasjani,rosom umiveni...'' Čuo sam tihe korake na stepenicama. Došla je mati;
pela se polalko i pažljivo, u ruci je nosila šoljicu kafe. Sad se sećam da jož nikad nije bila tako
lepa kao u tom trenutku. Kroz vrata je koso sjao zrak podnevnog sunca, pravo majci u oči; bile
su krupnije i bistrije, sva nebeska svetlost sjala je iz njih, sva nebeska blagost i ljubav. Usne su se
osmehivale kao u deteta koje donosi radostan dar. Ja sam se osvrnuo i rekao zlobnim glasom:
''Ostavite me na miru!...Sad mi ne treba!'' Još nije bila na vrhu stepenica; video sam je samo do
pojasa. Kada je čula moje reči, nije se ni pomakla; samo je ruka, koja je držala šoljicu zadrhtala.
Gledala me je uplašeno, svetlost u  očima je umirala. Od stida mi krv udari u obraze, pođoh
prema njoj brzim korakom. ''Dajte,majko!'' Bilo je dockan; svetlosti više nije bilo u njenim
očima, niti osmeha na njenim usnama. Popio sam kafu i tešio sam se:''Večeras ću joj reći onu reč,
onu dobru reč koju je očekivala njena ljubav...''
Nisam joj rekao ni uveče, ni drugog dana, pa ni na rastanku. Tri ili četiri godine docnije u tuđini, tuđa
žena donela mi je kafu u sobu. Pretrnuo sam tada, zabolelo me u srcu tako silno da mi je došlo da
vrisnem od bola. Jer srce je pravedan sudija I ne zna za sitnice.

Ivan Cankar

Љубовта умира…

Љубовта умира
како човек што умира
се разболува, лежи, боледува
бара лек, се надева
се поткрева и пак снеможува
може да се разболи нагло
или болеста полека да напредува
и пред самиот крај, обично
се исправа на нозе и застанува
да засвети со сета сила
од своите убави времиња
изгледа како да оцелела
за потоа да умре, да ја снема
конечно и сосема
најпосле,
човекот кој ја носел
ја погребува во себе
и оплакува
Скоро секој од нас
носи во утробата
едни такви гробишта

Тихомир Јанчовски

БОЛЕСТА НА ДЕНИЦИЈА

Кај што боледуваше таа

таму беше и најгусто населен градот.
Театрите ја расположуваа со претстави
во кои се умираше безболно.
Но таа и’ се доближуваше на смртта
и гласаше за пламенот во мртвите предмети.
Дрвјата започнаа да се клеветат во ветровите,
а животните да се сакаат додека им трае омразата.
Јас им завидував на сите љубовници
во бакнежот што го криеја својот отров
и броев: еднаш, двапати, четирипати –
ќе оздрави, ќе умре, ќе оздрави, ќе умре.
Ја пронаоѓав во дождот, ја губев во маглите –
не се враќа, ќе се врати, не се враќа.
Мојата птица губеше рамнотежа
додека го отклучуваше воздухот над мене.
Веќе не бев за никаде, оти сите знаеја што не знам,
а не знаев дали нејзината глава
во мојата глава размислува
или од нејзината болест и јас почнувам да умирам.
Една ланска вода фатена во стапица
дење – ноќе се мачеше на небото,
леле колкав мрак подврзан во мракот,
се плашев тогаш да се видам в огледало
од тоа да не заборави да се буди и зборува.
Ја палев свеќата во лимонот што го јадеше
и ја споредував
со свиленото кокиче одвиткано од воздухот.
Убивајќи го моето срце можев да го убијам светот,
но јас веќе немав време за ништо,
оти таа ми влегуваше во мислата
и кога мислата ја напуштав,
а секој што не знаеше да мисли на неа
можеше да остане без револуционерно минато.

Петре М. Андреевски

„Таа беше време на моето време, а јас само сведок на нејзиното столетие“

Петре М. Андреевски
Твоите пет минути

Постојат пет минути во некој час

што не можеш да ги издржиш, а мораш –
би излегол надвор, би врескал, би се смеел
но не смееш поради другите или поради себе

место тоа седиш в училница грицкајќи нокти

чекаш на ред, маршираш во строј спиејќи
се возиш во автобус како во вселенска кабина
палиш уште една цигара на некој состанок

а тој се одолжува зад таа цигара и другата

и петте минути стануваат цел час
часот ден, денот месец, година итн.
дур не ти се убие желбата да врескаш и плачеш

а кога конечно ти успева да излезеш незабележано

во тебе сепак сите одеднаш се вртат
како да си излегол од нивните животи
а не само од својот.

Богомил Ѓузел
I Met a Genius

I met a genius on the train

today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd

realized
that.

Charles Bukowski
An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny

blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
because we' never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame - not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn' sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, " her, print her, she' mad but she'
magic. there' no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn' help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

Charles Bukowski
A Smile to Remember

we had goldfish and they circled around and around

in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,

wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?'

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,

they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

Charles Bukowski
Poem for barbara, poem for jane, poem for
frances, poem for all or any of them

the fish ate the flower

and the tombs whistled
Dixie
as you told me you didn’t care
anymore
old men in the pawnshops of the world
looked around and killed themselves in my mind
when you said you
didn’t care
anymore
the day I saw you with your new
lover
you and your new lover
walking down my boulevards
past the butcher shop
past the liquor store
past the real estate
agency
ha ha
suddenly I didn’t care
anymore
I went into the store and I bought
a figurine of a fawn
a small cactus
a box of shrimp
a pair of green gloves
a paring knife
some incense
pepper milk eggs
a fifth of
whiskey
and a roadmap of lower
Texas
the clerk put it all in a bag
it bulged and was heavy and
at last I knew that I had
something.

Charles Bukowski
 numb your ass and your brain and your heart—

I was coming off an affair that had gone badly.

frankly, I was sliding down into a pit
really feeling shitty and low
when I lucked into this lady with a large bed
covered with a jeweled canopy
plus
wine, champagne, smokes, pills and
color tv.
we stayed in bed and 
drank wine, champagne, smoked, popped pills
by the dozens
as I (feeling shitty and low)
tried to get over this affair that had gone
bad. 
I watched the tv trying to dull my senses, 
but the thing that really helped 
was this very long
(specially written for tv) drama about 
spies—
American spies and Russian spies, and
they were all so clever and
cool—
even their children didn’t know 
their wives didn’t know, and 
in a way
they hardly knew—
and I found out about counter-spies, double spies :
guys who worked both sides, and
then this one who was a double-spy turned
into a triple-spy, it
got nicely confusing—
I don’t even think the guy who wrote the script 
knew what was happening—
it went on for hours!
seaplanes rammed into icebergs, 
a priest in Madison, Wisc. murdered his brother, 
a block of ice was shipped in a casket to Peru
in lieu of the world’s largest diamond, and
blondes walked in and out of rooms eating
creampuffs and walnuts ;
the triple-spy turned into a 
quadruple-spy and everybody loved
everybody
and it went on and on
and the hours passed and
it all finally vanished like a paperclip in a 
bag of trash and I
reached over and flicked off the set and
slept well for the first time
in a week and a half. 

Charles Bukowski
The Shoelace

a woman, a
tire that’s flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard…
it’s not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse…
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left …
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can kill quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver’s license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink’s stopped-up, the landlord’s drunk,
the president doesn’t care and the governor’s
crazy.
light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill’s up and the market’s
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it’s
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there’s always crabs and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they’re
your friends;
there’s always that and worse;
leaky faucet, christ and christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.

or making it
as a waitress at norm’s on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a carwash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady’s purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.

suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and china and russia and america, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
pot, except maybe one to piss in
and the other one around your
gut.

with each broken shoelace

out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.

so be careful
when you
bend over.  

Charles Bukowski

“I'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.”

Fernando Pessoa, “The Book of Disquiet”

man in the sun

she reads to me from the New Yorker

which I don't buy, don't know
how they get in here, but it's
something about the Mafia
one of the heads of the Mafia
who ate too much and had it too easy
too many fine women patting his
walnuts, and he got fat sucking at good
cigars and young breasts and he
has these heart attacks - and so
one day somebody is driving him
in his big car along the road
and he doesn't feel so good
and he asks the boy to stop and let
him out and the boy lays him out
along the road in the fine sunshine
and before he dies he says:
how beautiful life can be, and
then he's gone.

sometimes you've got to kill 4 or 5

thousand men before you somehow
get to believe that the sparrow
is immortal, money is piss and
that you have been wasting
your time.

Charles Bukowski

Small Talk
All right, while we are gently celebrating tonight
and while crazy classical music leaps at me from
my small radio, I light a fresh cigar
and realize that I am still very much alive and that
the 21st century is almost upon me!
I walk softly now toward 5 a.m. this dark night.
my 5 cats have been in and out, looking after
me, I have petted them, spoken to them, they
are full of their own private fears wrought by previous
centuries of cruelty and abuse
but I think that they love me as much as they
can, anyhow, what I am trying to say here
is that writing is just as exciting and mad and
just as big a gamble for me as it ever was, because Death
after all these years
walks around in the room with me now and speaks softly,
asking, do you still think that you are a genuine
writer? are you pleased with what you’ve done?
listen, let me have one of those
cigars.
help yourself, motherfucker, I say.
Death lights up and we sit quietly for a time.
I can feel him here with me.
don’t you long for the ferocity
of youth? He finally asks.
not so much, I say.
but don’t you regret those things
that have been lost?
not at all, I say.
don’t you miss, He asks slyly, the young girls
climbing through your window?
all they brought was bad news, I tell him.
but the illusion, He says, don’t you miss the
illusion?
hell yes, don’t you? I ask.
I have no illusions, He says sadly.
sorry, I forgot about that, I say, then walk
to the window
unafraid and strangely satisifed
to watch the warm dawn
unfold.

Charles Bukowski

“Illusion is the first of all pleasures.”

Oscar Wilde

“Illusionists are the most honest people in the world. They say
that they will lie to you and they do.”
Lost

they say that hell is crowded, yet,

when you’re in hell,
you always seem to be alone.
& you can’t tell anyone when you’re in hell
or they’ll think you’re crazy
& being crazy is being in hell
& being sane is hellish too.

those who escape hell, however,

never talk about it
& nothing much bothers them after that.
I mean, things like missing a meal,
going to jail, wrecking your car,
or even the idea of death itself.

when you ask them,

“how are things?”
they’ll always answer, “fine, just fine…”

once you’ve been to hell and back,

that’s enough
it’s the greatest satisfaction known to man.

once you’ve been to hell and back,

you don’t look behind you when the floor creaks
and the sun is always up at midnight
and things like the eyes of mice
or an abandoned tire in a vancant lot
can make you smile
once you’ve been to hell and back.

Charles Bukowski

“Hell is other people.”

Sartre
Hell

burning in hell
this piece of me fits in nowhere
as other people find things
to do
with their time
places to go
with one another
things to say
to each other.
 
I am
burning in hell
some place north of Mexico.
flowers don't grow here.
 
I am not like
other people
other people are like
other people.
 
they are all alike:
joining
grouping
huddling
they are both
gleeful and content
and I am
burning in hell.
 
my heart is a thousand years old
I am not like
other people.
I'd die on their picnic grounds
smothered by their flags
slugged by their songs
unloved by their soldiers
gored by their humor
murdered by their concern.
 
I am not like
other people.
I am
burning in hell.
 
the hell of
myself.

Charles Bukowski

Excerpt from the poem:

"I am
burning in hell
some place north of Mexico.
flowers don't grow here."

The asphodel is the flower of Hades.  It blooms throughout the winter in Mediterranean
regions.  Milton names asphodel beside nectar and ambrosia as having the power to
confer immortality. Pope invokes ‘‘those happy souls who dwell / In yellow meads of
Asphodel’’ W. C. Williams takes ‘‘asphodel, that greeny flower,’’ as a symbol, or
recurring occasion, of memory, poetry, and love in a bleak world. ‘‘I was cheered,’’ he
says near the opening, ‘‘when I came first to know / that there were flowers also / in
hell’’; he ends: ‘‘Asphodel / has no odor / save to the imagination / but it too / celebrates
the light. / It is late / but an odor / as from our wedding / has revived for me / and begun
again to penetrate / into all crevices / of my world’
Young in New Orleans

starving there, sitting around the bars,

and at night walking the streets for
hours,
the moonlight always seemed fake
to me, maybe it was,
and in the French Quarter I watched
the horses and buggies going by,
everybody sitting high in the open
carriages, the black driver, and in
back the man and the woman,
usually young and always white.
and I was always white.
and hardly charmed by the 
world.
New Orleans was a place to
hide.
I could piss away my life,
unmolested.
except for the rats.
the rats in my dark small room
very much resented sharing it
with me.
they were large and fearless
and stared at me with eyes
that spoke 
an unblinking
death.

women were beyond me.

they saw something
depraved.
there was one waitress
a little older than
I, she rather smiled,
lingered when she
brought my
coffee.

that was plenty for 

me, that was
enough.

there was something about

that city, though
it didn't let me feel guilty
that I had no feeling for the
things so many others
needed.
it let me alone.

sitting up in my bed
the llights out,
hearing the outside
sounds,
lifting my cheap
bottle of wine,
letting the warmth of
the grape
enter
me
as I heard the rats 
moving about the
room,
I preferred them
to
humans.

being lost,
being crazy maybe
is not so bad
if you can be
that way
undisturbed.

New Orleans gave me

that.
nobody ever called
my name.

no telephone,
no car,
no job,
no
anything.

me and the 
rats
and my youth,
one time,
that time
I knew
even through the
nothingness,
it was a 
celebration
of something not to
do
but only
know.

Charles Bukowski
No help for that

There is a place in the heart that

will never be filled

and even during the

best moments
and
the greatest times
times

we will know it

we will know it
more than
ever

there is a place in the heart that

will never be filled
and

we will wait
and
wait

in that space. 
 Charles Bukowski

In the Desert

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”

Stephen Crane
Одземање на силата

Преправен на питач, Господ го пречека Марка Кралета крај патот. Во една торба
беше ја збрал
тежината на сета земја. „Синко, стар сум, поткрени ми ја торбава на рамо“.
Марко ја подзеде со
врвот на копјето и земјата се затресе. „Што сум сторил јас?“ си рече Господ во
себе. И му ја
остави само третината од силата.

Народна легенда

Ти што му даде неизмоверна сила,

Да растам мускулесто како даб, на глуждови,
Да се израдувам, млад, од своето чаталење и листење,
Да шалавам наивен,
Ти што ми даде да сетам дека и земјата можам да ја поместам
Како орач што истава камен пред лемешот,
Мој Боже,
Зошто се уплаши од мене,
Зошто во непромислен страв ја измени својата првобитна намера,
Зошто ми ја одзеде силата?
Јас ти приоѓав во мислите како на родител што му се приоѓа,
Идев вол твојата дома со проста верба на дете
Што затрчано се враќа од играње да земе краешник од ноќвите,
Јас те знаев свој закрепник, усмевнат на мене,
Задоволен од бистриот вир на мојата душа,
Добродушно грижен,
И не можев да теэ замислам инаков —
А ти семоќен,
Ти се престори на — питач,
Ти се облече во партали брашносани од просјачка торба,
Ти си испиша на лицето мака на постанат старец,
Слеп се направи
Да не ја забележам лукавоста скриена во твоите очи, —
Само подобро да ме подбидеш,
Да ме купиш, да ме премериш на кантар,
И после да ја покажеш сурово својата власт над мене.

Мој Боже,
Зошто до толку се понижи
За да ме поништиш мене?
Не мислеше ли дека еден човек
Ќе сведочи за миг на твоја подла слабост,
Ќе го гледа со горка потсмешливост дури и величието на небото
Во пролетна полноќ кога се ѕвездите јадри
И обнадежени во тиха молитва.
Безмилосен
Ти немаше мерка за моето унижување.
Ти ме преполови
А ми го остави чувството за мојата сила,
Да бидам како пресушена подземна река
Во која темницата уште не е успокоена од татнежот на брановите.
Потсмешлив
Ти ме направи прв во царштина што пропаѓа,
На лаѓа што тоне со товар на маки и гревови,
Да крепам, да спасувам,
А матната вода поелопува.
О сити се ти горе,
Ти што ме роди бележан меѓу сите
И што ме дари после ваков дар.

Мој Боже,
Чади во твоите раце гламната со која ми ги подгоре крилата,
Целата моја сушност се накрева против тебе,
Моето срце те проколнува,
Не чекам одговор од тебе,
Унижен
Сеќавам сепак во мене нешто што те надминува,
Што си го имал, можеби, но си го отуѓил
Кога нѐ создаде да откинеш од маката,
Сам
Низ думани треба да го барам патот на мојот живот.

Блаже Конески
Болен Дојчин

Кога бев преполн сила

што придојдува како матна речна глава,
кога се сетив вреден за мојот подвиг,
достоен за слава,
кога ми закрепна гласот за најдлабок збор,
раката за најтежок меч,
ногата за најверен од –
тогаш се сломив.
Паднав како црешово дрво од премногу род.

Една потсмешлива сенка ми ја издемна трагата,

како змија во гробно камарче се вовлече во свеста,
смеата ми ја урочи, ми ја зацрни тагата –
да се обѕирам подозриво, да думам да шестам.
Тогаш се сетив ситен и смешен и долен -
се стопи снагата,
капнаа раце,
падна мечот,
паднав болен.

Болен лежам до девет години,

што искинав до девет постели.

Не ги чувствувам веќе своите зглобови,

јас сум расфрлан на тврда ледина
на пеколен пладневен присој,
јас сум раскостен коска од коска,
низ моите коски трева проникнало,
низ таа трева змии се ведат.

Јас копнеам гроб темен и студен –

нема крај без мојот подвиг суден.

Непозната жено, единствена на светот,

сестро и мајко моја, ти што си страдала многу,
ти што си сетила мака до вбигорување,
дојди, сестро златно,
збери ги моите мувлосани коски, не грози се,
состави ме,
повиј ме со триста лакти платно,
речи ми тих реч,
исправи ме,
научи ме пак да одам, мајко,
дај ми в рака меч –
да убијам Црна Арапина.

Да умрам.

Блаже Конески
G L U M I C A 

- Sledeci! 
Usla je u sumornu ucionicu koja je zauarala na neuspeh sto su ga pretrpeli oni pre nje, gledajuci pravo
u oci komisiji za prijemni – petorici vec izmozdenih profesora. Oni su tog trenutka drzaili u rukama
kljuceve pozorisne umetnosti, slave i bogatstva. 
- Jeste li vec igrali negde? 
- Nisam. 
- Koliko imate godina? 
- Dvadeset i sedam. 
Znala je i sama da je prestara za prvu godinu studija, a premlada da se pomiri sa ostalim stvarima.
Stajala je tako na sredini ucionice, posmatrajuci vrhove vec dotrajalih mokasina, i osecala kako je
sazaljivo gledaju. Nije imala nikakvih sansi.Kroz prozor na prvom spratu pozorisne akademije videla je
deo trotoara ispred izloga robne kuce i coveka koji se setkao paleci ko zna koju cigaretu. 
- Jeste li vec nesto studirali? 
- Ne. 
- Zasto? 
- Nisam imala uslova… 
Jedan clan komisije je kunjao, drugi je nesto zapisivao, treci zurio u prazno; ostala dvojica su je
gledala sa ociglednom dosadom. Vec treci dan kako ispred njihovog zastrtog stola defiluju talenti i
obozavaoci. Prvih dana jos im je i bilo zao tih mladica i devojaka stiglih ko zna odakle, njihovog
glumackog zanosa i nicim potvrdjene ljubavi prema pozoristu, ali od jutros su vec duboko zaronili u
otupelost. Na usnama osecaju posledice popusenih cigareta, a u dnu stomaka talog kofeina. Uostalom,
sta se tu moze? Na ispit se prijavilo preko trista kandidata, a glumacka klasa moze da primi samo
sedamnaes tnovih stdenata. 
- Pa, sta ste nam lepo spremili? – pita umorno predsednik. 
- Monolog Julije…- rekla je tiho, gutajuci knedlu. 
- Je li neko udarao recke? – upita predsednik. 
- Trideset i sesta Julija…- odgovara ridja kozja bradica. – Dvadeset i jedna Ofelija! Petnaest poena
prednosti za Julije! 
- Molim? – upita mlada zena. 
- Nista, nista…- kaze predsednik. – Samo vi pocnite! Izvolite… 
-
…Ne kuni mi se. Ma koliko da se 
radujem tebi ne veseli me 
nocasnji ovaj dogovor: I odvec 
nagao je on, brz, nepromisljen: 
I odvec nalik munji koja zgasne 
Pre no sto reces : seva… 

Prenuli su se iz popodnevnog dremeza. 

O, gle cuda! Pet olinjalih, ustajalih intelektualaca pretvorise se pred ovom ne vise tako mladom zenom
u pet Romea : suzise im se strukovi i isceze nekud kiselina u trbuhu i ova ucionica plesnivih zidova, a
neko slatko- gorko ocajanje od lepote ispuni im grlo suzama i srecom. 

Mili moj, laku ti noc! Do naseg ponovnog 

Susreta ovaj pupolj ljubavi 
Razvice mozda zreli leta dah 
U divan cvet… 

Svaka nova izgovorena rec pretvarala je ovu skromnu, minut ranije utucenu mladu zenu u jeftinoj
haljini u bestelesni prizor savrsene srece, sencila joj sanjivoscu makaste zenice, cinila kosu teskom
poput zlatnog slapa, pretvarala je u znak za davno izgubljenu, pa ponovo pronadjenu ljubav iz
prelaznih dana mladosti, pa im se blaziranost topila kap po kap, a strah da ce ovaj cudesni monolog
uskoro prestati ispunjavao ih neizrecivom tugom. 

O, laku, laku noc! 

Nek mir i pokoj steknu se u tebi 
Onakvi kakve nosim ja u sebi… 

Iza poslednje reci ostade tisina u kojoj je jos dugo brujao njen zlatni glas. A onda pet iskusnih
pozorisnih intelektualaca koji su gledali najpoznatije Julije na svetu, pet uvazenih profesora koji su
zevali na najcuvenijim Sekspirovim predstavama u Stratfordu, podigose ruke i nesto cudno, nesto
potpuno neobjasnjivo naredi njihovim dlanovima da tapsu. 

- Bravo! – uzviknu predsednik. – Vi ste rodjena glumica! Zaista, izuzetno… 

- Znate, ovako sta se ovde retko desava…- objasni kozja bradica. 
- Jesam li primljena? – upita mlada zena. 
- Da li ste primljeni? – rece predsednik pruzajuci joj ruke. 
- Mogu li da dobijem potvrdu da sam primljena? 
- Potvrdu? Sta ce vam potvrda?Vec sutra cete se upisati i dobiti indeks! 
- Ja bih ipak vise volela potvrdu…- bila je uporna. – Naravno, ako je moguce… 
- Napisali su joj potvrdu. 
- Recite- upita predsednik- sta ce vam, kog djavola, to parce hartije? 
- Znate – kazala je na izlazu iz ucionice- ja, u stvari, uopste ne zelim da postanem glumica! 
- Pogledali su je zapanjeno. 
- Imam dve kceri i muza i…pa dobro, recimo, srecan brak! Uopste nisam ambiciozna, znate. I ne bih
volela da zauzimam mesto nekom mladjem. 
- Ali, sta ce vam onda potvrda? – promuca kozja bradica. 
- Vidite, mada je to srecan brak, ponekad dolazi do svadja. To je normalno u svakom braku, je l da? I
onda…Pa, ja cesto, znate, izgubim zivce i pocnem da vicem da bih postala glumica i tako slicno! I onda
moj muz pocinje da se smeje kao lud: ” Ti da postanes glumica? Ti? Ma nemoj, molim te!” E, pa , sada
najzad imam potvrdu da bih mogla! I pokazacu mu je u takvim prilikama, da znate da hocu! 
- Steta, velika steta…- kazao je predsednik. – Ali, ako se predomislite… 
- Necu se predomisliti – rece izlazeci. 
- Gde si toliko dugo? – upita je covek ispred robne kuce. 
- Lekar je imao dva pacijenta pre mene – kazala je.- Rekao je da cemo dobiti bebu…- nasmesila se na
onaj svoj sanjivi nacin. 

Momo Kapor
Last year on Spanish television I heard a story about this gentleman who knocks
on his son's door. "Jaime," he says, "wake up!" Jaime answers, "I don't want to
get up, Papa." The father shouts, "Get up, you have to go to school." Jaime says,
"I don't want to go to school." "Why not?" asks the father. "Three reasons," says
Jaime. "First, because it's so dull; second, the kids tease me; and third, I hate
school." And the father says, "Well, I am going to give you three reasons why you
must go to school. First, because it is your duty; second, because you are forty-
five years old, and third, because you are the headmaster."

Anthony de Mello

"The Appointment in Samarra" (as retold by W. Somerset Maugham [1933])

The speaker is Death

There was a merchant in Bagdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while
the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, “ Master, just now when I was in the marketplace
I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that had jostled me. She
looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this
city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.” The merchant lent him his
horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop
he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and
he came to me and said “Why did you make a threating gesture to my servant when you saw him this
morning?” “That was not a threatening gesture”, I said, “it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished
to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”
 The Disciple

When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of
sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping
through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.
And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet
waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their
hair and cried to the pool and said, 'We do not wonder that you should
mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.'
'But was Narcissus beautiful?' said the pool.
'Who should know that better than you?' answered the Oreads. 'Us
did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks
and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror
his own beauty.'
And the pool answered, 'But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on
my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my
own beauty mirrored.'

Oscar Wilde
 THE SPHINX WITHOUT A SECRET
One afternoon I was sitting outside the Cafe de la Paix, watching the
splendour and shabbiness of Parisian life, and wondering over my vermouth
at the strange panorama of pride and poverty that was passing before me,
when I heard some one call my name. I turned round, and saw Lord
Murchison. We had not met since we had been at college together, nearly ten
years before, so I was delighted to come across him again, and we shook hands
warmly. At Oxford we had been great friends. I had liked him immensely, he
was so handsome, so high-spirited, and so honourable. We used to say of him
that he would be the best of fellows, if he did not always speak the truth, but I
think we really admired him all the more for his frankness. I found him a good
deal changed. He looked anxious and puzzled, and seemed to be in doubt
about something. I felt it could not be modern scepticism, for Murchison was
the stoutest of Tories, and believed in the Pentateuch as firmly as he believed
in the House of Peers; so I concluded that it was a woman, and asked him if he
was married yet.
‘I don’t understand women well enough,’ he answered.
‘My dear Gerald,’ I said, ‘women are meant to be loved, not to be
understood.’
‘I cannot love where I cannot trust,’ he replied.
‘I believe you have a mystery in your life, Gerald,’ I exclaimed; ‘tell me
about it.’
‘Let us go for a drive,’ he answered, ‘it is too crowded here. No, not a
yellow carriage, any other colour—there, that dark green one will do’; and in a
few moments we were trotting down the boulevard in the direction of the
Madeleine.
‘Where shall we go to?’ I said.
‘Oh, anywhere you like!’ he answered —‘to the restaurant in the Bois; we
will dine there, and you shall tell me all about yourself.’
‘I want to hear about you first,’ I said. ‘Tell me your mystery.’
He took from his pocket a little silver-clasped morocco case, and handed it
to me. I opened it. Inside there was the photograph of a woman. She was tall
and slight, and strangely picturesque with her large vague eyes and loosened
hair. She looked like a clairvoyante, and was wrapped in rich furs.
‘What do you think of that face?’ he said; ‘is it truthful?’
I examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of some one who had a
secret, but whether that secret was good or evil I could not say. Its beauty was
a beauty moulded out of many mysteries—the beauty, in fact, which is
psychological, not plastic—and the faint smile that just played across the lips
was far too subtle to be really sweet.
‘Well,’ he cried impatiently, ‘what do you say?’
‘She is the Gioconda in sables,’ I answered. ‘Let me know all about her.’
‘Not now,’ he said; ‘after dinner,’ and began to talk of other things.
When the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes I reminded Gerald of
his promise. He rose from his seat, walked two or three times up and down the
room, and, sinking into an armchair, told me the following story:—
‘One evening,’ he said, ‘I was walking down Bond Street about five o’clock.
There was a terrific crush of carriages, and the traffic was almost stopped.
Close to the pavement was standing a little yellow brougham, which, for some
reason or other, attracted my attention. As I passed by there looked out from it
the face I showed you this afternoon. It fascinated me immediately. All that
night I kept thinking of it, and all the next day. I wandered up and down that
wretched Row, peering into every carriage, and waiting for the yellow
brougham; but I could not find ma belle inconnue, and at last I began to think
she was merely a dream. About a week afterwards I was dining with Madame
de Rastail. Dinner was for eight o’clock; but at half-past eight we were still
waiting in the drawing-room. Finally the servant threw open the door, and
announced Lady Alroy. It was the woman I had been looking for. She came in
very slowly, looking like a moonbeam in grey lace, and, to my intense delight, I
was asked to take her in to dinner. After we had sat down, I remarked quite
innocently, “I think I caught sight of you in Bond Street some time ago, Lady
Alroy.” She grew very pale, and said to me in a low voice, “Pray do not talk so
loud; you may be overheard.” I felt miserable at having made such a bad
beginning, and plunged recklessly into the subject of the French plays. She
spoke very little, always in the same low musical voice, and seemed as if she
was afraid of some one listening. I fell passionately, stupidly in love, and the
indefinable atmosphere of mystery that surrounded her excited my most
ardent curiosity. When she was going away, which she did very soon after
dinner, I asked her if I might call and see her. She hesitated for a moment,
glanced round to see if any one was near us, and then said, “Yes; tomorrow at
a quarter to five.” I begged Madame de Rastail to tell me about her; but all that
I could learn was that she was a widow with a beautiful house in Park Lane,
and as some scientific bore began a dissertation on widows, as exemplifying
the survival of the matrimonially fittest, I left and went home.
‘The next day I arrived at Park Lane punctual to the moment, but was told
by the butler that Lady Alroy had just gone out. I went down to the club quite
unhappy and very much puzzled, and after long consideration wrote her a
letter, asking if I might be allowed to try my chance some other afternoon. I
had no answer for several days, but at last I got a little note saying she would
be at home on Sunday at four and with this extraordinary postscript: “Please
do not write to me here again; I will explain when I see you.” On Sunday she
received me, and was perfectly charming; but when I was going away she
begged of me, if I ever had occasion to write to her again, to address my letter
to “Mrs. Knox, care of Whittaker’s Library, Green Street.” “There are reasons,”
she said, “why I cannot receive letters in my own house.”
‘All through the season I saw a great deal of her, and the atmosphere of
mystery never left her. Sometimes I thought that she was in the power of some
man, but she looked so unapproachable, that I could not believe it. It was
really very difficult for me to come to any conclusion, for she was like one of
those strange crystals that one sees in museums, which are at one moment
clear, and at another clouded. At last I determined to ask her to be my wife: I
was sick and tired of the incessant secrecy that she imposed on all my visits,
and on the few letters I sent her. I wrote to her at the library to ask her if she
could see me the following Monday at six. She answered yes, and I was in the
seventh heaven of delight. I was infatuated with her: in spite of the mystery, I
thought then—in consequence of it, I see now. No; it was the woman herself I
loved. The mystery troubled me, maddened me. Why did chance put me in its
track?’
‘You discovered it, then?’ I cried.
‘I fear so,’ he answered. ‘You can judge for yourself.’
‘When Monday came round I went to lunch with my uncle, and about four
o’clock found myself in the Marylebone Road. My uncle, you know, lives in
Regent’s Park. I wanted to get to Piccadilly, and took a short cut through a lot
of shabby little streets. Suddenly I saw in front of me Lady Alroy, deeply veiled
and walking very fast. On coming to the last house in the street, she went up
the steps, took out a latch-key, and let herself in. “Here is the mystery,” I said
to myself; and I hurried on and examined the house. It seemed a sort of place
for letting lodgings. On the doorstep lay her handkerchief, which she had
dropped. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Then I began to consider what
I should do. I came to the conclusion that I had no right to spy on her, and I
drove down to the club. At six I called to see her. She was lying on a sofa, in a
tea-gown of silver tissue looped up by some strange moonstones that she
always wore. She was looking quite lovely. “I am so glad to see you,” she said;
“I have not been out all day.” I stared at her in amazement, and pulling the
handkerchief out of my pocket, handed it to her. “You dropped this in Cumnor
Street this afternoon, Lady Alroy,” I said very calmly. She looked at me in
terror but made no attempt to take the handkerchief. “What were you doing
there?” I asked. “What right have you to question me?” she answered. “The
right of a man who loves you,” I replied; “I came here to ask you to be my
wife.” She hid her face in her hands, and burst into floods of tears. “You must
tell me,” I continued. She stood up, and, looking me straight in the face, said,
“Lord Murchison, there is nothing to tell you.”—“You went to meet some one,”
I cried; “this is your mystery.” She grew dreadfully white, and said, “I went to
meet no one.”—“Can’t you tell the truth?” I exclaimed. “I have told it,” she
replied. I was mad, frantic; I don’t know what I said, but I said terrible things
to her. Finally I rushed out of the house. She wrote me a letter the next day; I
sent it back unopened, and started for Norway with Alan Colville. After a
month I came back, and the first thing I saw in the Morning Post was the
death of Lady Alroy. She had caught a chill at the Opera, and had died in five
days of congestion of the lungs. I shut myself up and saw no one. I had loved
her so much, I had loved her so madly. Good God! how I had loved that
woman!’
‘You went to the street, to the house in it?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it; I was tortured with
doubt. I knocked at the door, and a respectable-looking woman opened it to
me. I asked her if she had any rooms to let. “Well, sir,” she replied, “the
drawing-rooms are supposed to be let; but I have not seen the lady for three
months, and as rent is owing on them, you can have them.”—“Is this the lady?”
I said, showing the photograph. “That’s her, sure enough,” she exclaimed;
“and when is she coming back, sir?”—“The lady is dead,” I replied. “Oh sir, I
hope not!” said the woman; “she was my best lodger. She paid me three
guineas a week merely to sit in my drawing-rooms now and then.” “She met
some one here?” I said; but the woman assured me that it was not so, that she
always came alone, and saw no one. “What on earth did she do here?” I cried.
“She simply sat in the drawing-room, sir, reading books, and sometimes had
tea,” the woman answered. I did not know what to say, so I gave her a
sovereign and went away. Now, what do you think it all meant? You don’t
believe the woman was telling the truth?’
‘I do.’
‘Then why did Lady Alroy go there?’
‘My dear Gerald,’ I answered, ‘Lady Alroy was simply a woman with a
mania for mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of going there with
her veil down, and imagining she was a heroine. She had a passion for secrecy,
but she herself was merely a Sphinx without a secret.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I am sure of it,’ I replied.
He took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at the photograph. ‘I
wonder?’ he said at last.

Oscar Wilde
Иако не ви е неопходна таа книга која продавачките одбија да ви ја
причуваат, а која пред малку ќе ја купевте да имавте доволно пари, иако е,
можеби, веќе продадена, иако книжарницата набргу се затвора, па е малку
веројатно дека ќе стигнете на време, вие неутешно трчате низ вечерната
толпа и не се осмелувате да помислите што ќе се случи ако останете без
неа.

Горан Стефановски, „Конзервирани импресии“

Знам дека никогаш не е доцна, но зошто на други се’ им доаѓа на време, а мене кога
не е доцна?!

Горан Стефановски, „Кавга со Кафка и други есеи“