ÿþ<html> <head> <meta http-equiv=content-type content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <title>slope 16</title> <style type="text/css"> p,td { font-family: "georgia", "arial", "helvetica"; text-decoration:none; font-size:11px; color:#000000; margin-top:9px; margin-bottom:9px;} p.poem { font-family: "georgia", "arial", "helvetica"; text-decoration:none; font-size:11px; color:#000000; margin-top:40px; margin-bottom:60px;} a { font-family: "georgia", "arial", "helvetica"; text-decoration:none; font-size:11px; color:#77280a; } a:hover { font-family: "georgia", "arial", "helvetica"; text-decoration:underline; font-size:11px; color:#77280a; } </style> </head> <body bgcolor="#ffffff" background="images/bg.gif" topmargin="0" leftmargin="0" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0"> <table border="0" width="750" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" align="center"> <tr> <td> <object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=4,0,0,0" width="750" height="127" id="topmenu" align=""> <param name=movie value="topmenu.swf"> <param name=quality value=high> <param name=bgcolor value=#ffffff> <embed src="topmenu.swf" quality=high bgcolor=#ffffff width="750" height="127" name="topmenu" align="" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed> </object> </td> </tr> <tr> <td> <img src="images/page_top.gif" /><br /> </td> </tr> <tr> <td background="images/page_bg.gif" style="padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 50px; padding-right: 50px;"> <img src="images/title_new.gif" /> <p><b>Snezana Bukal</b> was born in Belgrade, Yugoslavia in 1957 and lives in Maastricht, Holland. Her books of short stories include <u>Tamna strana</u> (Matica srpska, 1986), which won the Federal Price for best debut book of the year; <u>Cuvarkuca</u> (Manufaktura snova, 1994), which was not published as scheduled due to war; <u>Vliegend hert</u> (De bezige bij, 1995); and her first novel <u>Eerste sneeuw</u> (De bezige bij, 1996). She has translated into the Serbo-Croatian select works of R.L. Stevenson and James Joyce. Her own work has been translated into Slovenian, Macedonian, Hungarian, English, Dutch and French. </p> <p class="poem"> <b>Waiting to Leave</b><br /> <br /> That's me<br /> That woman in black<br /> With the blue purse<br /> Who is squatting<br /> By the edge of the road<br /> Concentrating as if<br /> Putting thread in a needle<br /> <br /> Next to me<br /> There is a red bus<br /> And travellers<br /> Standing along a deserted road<br /> Nervously looking<br /> Toward the curve<br /> Where the road disappears<br /> <br /> All is dust and silence<br /> Till somebody shouts:<br /> There he is!<br /> And points his finger<br /> Toward the man<br /> Who appears<br /> With something red<br /> In his hand.<br /> Everybody feels better<br /> Finally!<br /> <br /> Only I<br /> Can not turn my eyes<br /> From the abyss<br /> Everything that ever happened<br /> And what will happen<br /> Is unrolling<br /> In the depth<br /> Below me<br /> </p> <p class="poem"> <b>Ionian Cabin</b><br /> <br /> On Briar Island we met Ion  <br /> Nighteen years old,<br /> Water polo player, member of the national team<br /> He quit a good career<br /> To be on his Island<br />  I was homesick he said, and smiled<br /> While serving chowder soup<br /> <br /> The guests were just like the hotel,<br /> Cool and distant and quiet above all.<br /> <i>What a temple!</i> I thought when we entered<br /> And only hunger prevented me from turning back.<br /> <br /> Ion was not quiet. He wanted to know everything.<br /> Where are we from? Why we are on the Island?<br /> Why do I wear five rings? Are we backpackers?<br /> But above all Ion wanted to know<br /> The Belgian recipe for mussels he ate day after day<br /> While training in Antwerp.<br /> Andre said: <i>You do this and this and this<br /> And that s all.</i> Old fisherman s knowledge!<br /> <br /> When we paid the bill and were about to leave<br /> Ion took a piece of paper and drew a map.<br />  Something not to be missed  <br /> When you are half way down Long Island Road,<br /> Park the car and walk toward a bush  <br /> You will see an old Chevrolet and not far away<br /> The skeleton of a wooden schooner.<br /> If you find it, after that it is easy.<br /> Just look and follow the Signs. <br /> <br /> The next day I recalled: Ion s map!<br /> We parked the car along the deserted road and indeed<br /> Found the Chevrolet and the schooner eaten by worms<br /> And shortly after, going uphill,<br /> It was clear we found the Signs too<br /> So we walked in silence from Sign to Sign<br /> And it was, I have to say, scary for a while<br /> Til at the top of the hill we met an old wooden plate  Half Way <br /> And saw blue, blue, blue ocean below.<br /> <br /> Ion s cabin was built on rock above the ocean<br /> Like a wooden house from Grimm s stories.<br /> <i>There s no comparison</i><br /> Was the thought I had when I saw it.<br /> Next to the cabin there was a watch tower  <br /> Wooden construction, well-built with three platforms.<br /> Andre climbed to the top<br /> And for several hours he was mostly quiet.<br /> From time to time he would shout<br /> What the whale he just spotted was doing.<br /> <br />  The doors are never closed, <br /> Ion said yesterday.<br />  Everything you need is there:<br /> Jar with water pillows sleeping bags<br /> First aid kit spoons forks knives<br /> Owen on wood flavour salt tea sugar<br /> Wooden table and one chair<br /> View to the ocean<br /> And along all four walls<br /> One shelf with a row of books <br /> <br /> I sat next to the open window<br /> And read <i>Moby Dick</i>,<br /> The edition for children<br /> With great drawings,<br /> Then I saw a notebook<br /> And a pen next to it,<br /> Leafed through the notebook  <br /> Many people were here<br /> In the last three decades.<br /> I figured out Ion s notes.<br /> He was writing love letters<br /> To somebody who sometimes replied<br /> With less enthusiasm<br /> And more irony.<br /> <br /> Went to the rocks<br /> Took jeans off<br /> And sat on the rock<br /> Watching how<br /> A humpback whale was jumping<br /> Out of the water<br /> Again and again.<br /> Felt great:<br /> I knew<br /> I simply knew<br /> I found the End of the Line<br /> All the walking<br /> All seven pair of shoes destroyed<br /> Were not in vain<br /> </p> <p class="poem"> <b>Itinerant</b><br /> <br /> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Maastricht, 2002</i><br /> <br /> <br /> Some time ago I was in Belgrade.<br /> It was in the month of Etanim,<br /> The golden one.<br /> <br /> In the evening<br /> I would lie in bed<br /> Next to an open window,<br /> Gentle wind playing<br /> The poplar leaves,<br /> <i>Sssssss.</i><br /> I thought:<br /> This is not a city<br /> This is a huuuge book<br /> Many times read<br /> And pages are turning<br /> And turning<br /> Only for me.<br /> And fell asleep like a lamb.<br /> <br /> Under the window in the street,<br /> Some children were chatting<br /> About politics black holes in space<br /> And their stupid mathematics teacher  <br /> That's how I learned<br /> That absence of my language<br /> Is the cause of my eternal insomnia.<br /> <br /> Later<br /> I walked through the city<br /> Thinking nothing<br /> Following my own feet<br /> Which did not forget<br /> Even the smallest street<br /> Once I was passing through it.<br /> <br /> The few friends I still had there<br /> Were mostly complaining<br /> About salaries<br /> About hypocrisy<br /> About years passed in vain<br /> And most often<br /> About the ugliness of the city.<br /> <br /> What I could tell them?<br /> Nothing.<br /> I was quiet:<br /> Enjoyed a home cooked meal<br /> And smiled.<br /> It does not happen often to me<br /> To drink wine made<br /> From the same vineyard I picked once<br /> As a child<br /> In a village which is now<br /> My deepest deepest dream.<br /> <br /> A decade ago<br /> The morning I left<br /> The city was blue with early dawn<br /> Cold and distant<br /> And the sharpness<br /> Was out of focus<br /> But for that I blame<br /> My crying eyes.<br /> The streets were passing by<br /> As if the bus was standing<br /> And city was going away.<br /> <br /> That image bothered me for years<br /> That feeling<br /> That frozen<br /> In time<br /> What ever may be me<br /> Stayed there for ever.<br /> <br /> A few months ago<br /> I said: Basta!<br /> And finally went back.<br /> It was St. Michael's summer.<br /> The city was gold gold gold<br /> And my search began.<br /> <br /> At the beginning of<br /> Duke Mihailo street<br /> A farmer was playing pipes<br /> But nobody paid attention to him.<br /> A bit further<br /> Inca Indians were performing  <br /> Same Incas I saw a hundred times<br /> On Leidse plain in Amsterdam.<br /> <br /> I smiled at the farmer.<br /> He asked me<br /> If I knew<br /> Which round dance he just played  <br /> No, I did not know.<br />  Rajko-kukurajko, he said,<br /> And we both laughed and laughed.<br /> Some pilgrim sitting next to us<br /> Missed the beauty of the moment  <br /> He was busy analyzing his bare feet.<br /> <br /> Then I walked along the street,<br /> Met some old man who was selling<br /> Icons drawn on smallest pieces of wood.<br /> There were hundreds of saints there.<br />  Which saint you want? <br /> I took one randomly and said<br /> <i>St. Minas I want.</i><br /> It was St. Minas in my hands.<br /> That's how I learned what I forgot  <br /> That miracles do exist.<br /> <br /> Many other places I passed by alone  <br /> Making photos for my children,<br /> Making stories to fit the photos,<br /> Knowing that all my storytelling<br /> Will miss the gold and warmth and sounds<br /> But I did not care,<br /> Not really.<br /> It was my journey.<br /> I went there<br /> To bring<br /> Her, once left behind,<br /> Back to me.<br /> </p> <p class="poem"> <b>I should</b><br /> <br /> Andre<br /> Did you find<br /> A good place with music<br /> Or you are just wandering<br /> Through the city<br /> Restless<br /> And even your river<br /> Under the bridge<br /> Can not<br /> Change your<br /> Restless thoughts<br /> <br /> It s music here<br /> Kind Hearted Woman<br /> Whom you brought to me<br /> Unhappy as me<br /> And equally serious<br /> Is singing her story<br /> <br /> How come<br /> You love her so much<br /> And fear my pain?<br /> Should I sing more?<br /> </p> <p class="poem"> <b>Too many questions</b><br /> <br /> Yesterday I laughed loudly<br /> And said<br /> <i>The best place for my leg<br /> Is your shoulder</i><br /> <br /> Today I was aging<br /> Sad<br /> As I usually am<br /> And was not clear<br /> Who was laughing yesterday<br /> Me?<br /> Or me?<br /> </p> <p class="poem"> <b>More light</b><sup>1</sup><br /> <br /> Where are the cats?<br /> Are they also gone?<br /> What happened to the lilac trees?<br /> And why is the aspen so wise?<br /> And the moon?<br /> Where is the moon?<br /> I need light.<br /> The moon and all the stars<br /> I can hold with two hands.<br /> A bit more:<br /> Sun<br /> Summer<br /> Huge river<br /> Mountain<br /> Small roads<br /> Early breakfast<br /> Lough<br /> Chestnut trees<br /> Why not<br /> They are said to be<br /> Great rooted blossomers<br /> As you are<br /> My gentle tired friend<br /> <br /> <br /> <i><sup>1</sup> More lights, they say, were Goethe s last words. Do you believe that? I do not.</i><br /> </p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td> <img src="images/page_bottom.gif" /><br /> </td> </tr> </table> </body> </html>