NjEŽNI POLJUBAC

koji je dug kao zalasci sunca nad Strossmayerovom avenijom pod kopitima sunca u hladu tvoje haljine

nježni poljubac koji bi umirio šarenu telad

prije nego što budu zaklana za našu večeru

nježni poljubac koji bi poljuljao moral frontovnog vojnika

nakon gubitka identiteta, doma i dva litra votke, kada je Bačmut izbrisan iz istorije

nježni poljubac je prolazan i tako krhak da bi ga glasna riječ ili naglo kretanje polnih organa

mogli definitivno izbrisati iz osjećaja ili još gore, izbrisati iz pamćenja

o tvom poljupcu mogu govoriti samo u tišini dok se ljetnji grad tiho kotrlja Janovskom ulicom

i vjetar mi golica sljepoočnice vrhovima kose, oslobođenim iz tvoje pletenice

tvoj nježni poljubac nije stvaran ljudski događaj

on je tako surov, beskompromisan i iskren

mogu o njemu pred sobom artikulisati bez zvuka

NE SMIJEM GA IZGOVORITI!

da se ne bi rasplinuo

i da bih ga sačuvao, moja draga, sa kikicama…

tvoj nježni poljubac mi je rasturio dušu i zaliječio srce

i zato uživam u tišini usana

šumi kiša po krovovima ljetnjih stanica za ljubavnike

i danas rano ujutro

ispred crkve sv. Antuna Padovanskog

moje odlučne usne počinju da plešu pod nježnim poljupcem

moja draga Sarice sa kikicama

ponovo me poljubi

i otkrij

kakvi su osmijesi devojčica koje umiru od sušice

Translated to Montenegrin by Anđela Turukalo Dabetić

…………………………………………….

NĚŽNEJ POLIBEK

kterej je dlouhej jako západy štrossmayeráku pod kopyty slunce ve stínu tvých šatů

něžnej polibek kterej by ukonejšil před porážkou strakatý telata pro naši večeři

nežnej polibek kterej by podlomil morálku frontovýho vojáka

po ztrátě identity, domova a dvou litrů vodky, když Bachmut byl vymazán z dějin

něžnej polibek je pomíjivej a tak moc křehkej že by ho hlasitý slovo nebo prudkej pohyb pohlaví

mohl definitivně vymazat z citu anebo hůř, vymazat z paměti

o tvým polibku mohu hovořit pouze po Tichu když se potichu vlní letní krupobití v Janovského ulici

a vítr mě šimrá po spáncích konečky vlasů, který se vysmekly z tvýho copu

tvůj nežnej polibek není skutečnou lidskou událostí

je tak krutej, nekompromisní a upřímnej

mohu o něm před sebou bezzvučně artikulovat

NESMÍM HO VYSLOVIT!

aby se nerozplynul

a abych ho uchoval, má milá copatá…

tvůj něžnej polibek mi rozsekal držku a zacelil srdce

a tak si užívám neslyšnost rtů

šumění dešťů na refýžích letenských zastávek milenců

a dnes časně z rána

pod kostelem sv. Antonína Paduánského

mý urputný rty už začínaj jihnout pod něžným polibkem

má milá copatá Sasanko

znovu mě polib

a prozraď

jaké jsou úsměvy děvčátek umírajících na souchotiny

Im musician, artist, junkie and alcoholic.

Poverty and stupidity. No solutions.

The rain which hasnt been 2015 a novel
Yellow king 2017 short stories collection
The Black Two 2019 poetry collection
Like a Ráma 2021 poetry collection

YES

INTER ARMA

Spavaj slatko, vojniče, kad puk da pogineš veli,
dok sveštenik mitraljez sve krsti olovom.
Buka topova je orkestar u izvođenju molskom;
koji je, za slavu zla, komponovao veliki Makijaveli.

Je li metak sjeme što u tlu mesa niče,
pa crveni pupoljci iz grudi izbiju tada?
Sa prijestolja palih tijela nad nama vladaš, Juda!
Dok krv se žanje, “Deus vult” truba kliče.

U ratnom ruletu se oštar naboj vrti.
Čiji će broj biti prozvan? Ko će biti sledeći Jov?
Samo truli kosturi o miru mogu sanjati.

Marš Radeckog svira u svojoj razvratnoj plemenitosti.
Kako su blizu kolijevka i masovni grob…
Ovdje roda donosi djecu, a lešinar ih odnosi!

Translated to Montenegrin by Anđela Turukalo Dabetić
……………………………………………..
INTER ARMA (Czech)

Spi sladce, vojáku, když pluk ti zemřít velí
a páter kulomet křtí všechny olovem.
Hluk děl je orchestr při sólu mollovém,
co složil k slávě zla sám velký Machiavelli.

Je kulka semínkem, jež vzklíčí v půdě masa
a rudá poupata pak z hrudi vyraší?
Na trůnu z padlých těl nám vládneš, Jidáši!
Řev polnic „Deus vult“ při sklizni krve hlásá.

Ve války ruletě se točí náboj ostrý.
Čí číslo padne teď? Kdo bude dalším z Jobů?
O míru mohou snít jen v zemi tlící kostry.

Zní Radeckého marš v své zvrhlé noblese.
Jak blízko z kolébky je k masovému hrobu…
Čáp děti přináší a sup je odnese!
……………………………………………..
INTER ARMA (English)

Sleep well, soldier, when the regiment orders you to die
and the parson machine gun baptizes everyone with lead.
The noise of cannons is an orchestra during a minor scale solo,
which the great Machiavelli himself composed for the glory of evil.

Is bullet a seed that sprouts in the soil of flesh
and red buds will then sprout from the chest?
On a throne of fallen bodies you reign over us, Judas!
The roar of trumpets proclaims “Deus vult” when the blood is harvested.

In the roulette of war a projectile spins.
Whose number will be called now? Who will be the next Job?
Only rotting skeletons in the ground can dream of peace.

Radetzky March plays in its depraved nobility.
How close it is from a cradle to a mass grave…
The stork brings children here, and the vulture takes them away!

I work as a Sales Engineer at a laboratory testing high power equipment, such as switchgear panels, disconnectors, circuit breakers, etc. I am an editor in the Czech Newspaper of the Writers’ Community and a founder of the art magazine “Smrtisyn” for the current Czech neo-decadence movement. I also work as curator of various visual art exhibitions and I write art critics and philosophy essays, mostly focused on the present neo-decadent art influenced by the old “fin de siècle ideas” of Ch. Baudelaire, J. K. Huysmans, A. Schopenhauer, F. Nietzsche and the early works of P. Verlaine (Poemes saturniens). I am a co-founder of the electronic-metal music band “Maldorör Disco” inspired by the aesthetics of Comte de Lautréamont and his book “Les Chants de Maldoror”. I am engaged in translation work of the English, German and French poetry. In my free time I study philosophy and psychology, including the non-conventional topics such as hypnosis and the phenomenon of near-death experience (NDE).

My country of origin, the Czech Republic, is rather peaceful. We are a small and modest state that experienced many wars and oppressions in the past, so I hope the warfare never returns to our nation again. In my opinion, the peace could be contributed by nourishing the peoples’ passion and love to art in general – not just in poems. The human soul experiencing the magnificence and variety of creative work in musical, visual, literary, and performative forms in all its freedom and diversity can find its inner reconciliation, even though the outside world is often cruel, unfair, and painful. I believe the intellect and the beauty of art in various forms is the antidote to the arrogance and ignorance of the mankind.

1. Sonata for a rusty harp, poetry collection (2011)
2. Using a knife I teach a fish how to scream, poetry collection (2019)
3. Echo of a fish’s yell, poetry collection (2023)

NO

BJEGUNAC

Uvijek sam bila bjegunac
Cijeli svoj život
Bježeći od svoje prošlosti
Ne imajući čak ni hrabrosti
Da razmišljam o svojoj budućnosti
Nahranjena samo sa nekoliko gutljaja
Sadašnjosti koju imam.

Uvijek sam bila bjegunac
Željela sam da izbrišem uspomene koje sam imala
Da zaboravim najljepše pjesme
Koje me sada bole
Da oslobodim sve ljude
Od veze koju su imali sa mnom
Da presječem vrpcu između nas.

Za njih sam samo bjegunac
Zašto bi to bilo važno?
Kažu da nemam zemlju
Ali nebo nije njihovo
Tamo, na nebu, bjegunci
Imaju dozvolu da dođu
Bjegunci su tamo legalni.

Kažu da nemam dom
Ni ne treba mi
Hodajući bosa po šumi
Oslobađam se i slušam
Duhove prirode
Koji su, takođe, bjegunci
Jer ljudi više ne vjeruju u legende.

Kažu da sam previše bučna
Ali ta dolina me je pozvala
Da iz sveg glasa viknem svoju tugu
I svoju pobjedu
Poput balade onih
Koji nisu imali petlju
Da se zalažu za sebe.

Možda sam bjegunac za njih
Ali ne za moje novine
Ne za moju suhu i hemijsku olovku.
Pravim tim sa ovim predmetima
Jer me društvo odbacilo
A samo pisanje nema granicu
I može me natjerati da se ponovo vratim.

Bila sam u bjekstvu
Ne znajući ni ko sam bila
Sad, napisala sam svoju knjigu
I oni su postali bjegunci
Plašeći se da razotkriju svoja prava osećanja.
Nikada neće ni prestati trčati
Sve dok su kopije, a ne originali.

Ne stidim se
Trčala sam… i sad… odmaram se.

Translated to Bosnian by Nermin Delić

The fugitive

I have always been a fugitive
My entire life
Running away from my past
Not even having the courage
To think at my own future
Just nourishing with few sips
From the present I have.

I have always been a fugitive
Wanting to delete the memories that I had
To forget the most beautiful songs
That now are hurting me
To release all the people
From the connection they had with me
To cut the bond between us.

For them, I am just a fugitive
Why should that matter?
They say I have no ground
But the sky is not theirs
There, in the sky, the fugitives
Have permission to come
The fugitives are legal.

They say I have no home
I don’t need it
Walking barefoot in the forest
Makes me free and makes me hear
The spirits of the nature
Who are also fugitives
Because people don’t believe in legends anymore.

They say I am too noisy
But that valley invited me
To shout outloud my grief
And my victory
As a ballad of the ones
Who did not have the gut
To stand for themselves.

I may be a fugitive for them
But not for my paper
Not for my pen or pencil.
I make a team with these instruments
Because I was expelled by the society
And only writing has no borders
And can make me bring myself back again.

I was a fugitive
Not knowing who I was
Now, I wrote a book
And they have become fugitives
Being afraid to expose their true feelings.
They will never stop running
As long as they are copies and not originals.

I am not ashamed
I ran…and now…I rest.

Bogdana Găgeanu

I like to work with children
I am passionate about photography, theater, writing
I created a script for a short Romanian movie called ‘GPS ‘ , which was presented at a movie festival in France in 2021
I was part of the technical team of a Romanian theater project called ‘King Lear” that participated at International Shakespeare Festival in Craiova, Romania in 2019.

The problem with peace in my country is that now, we are near the border of Ukraine, a country that is in war conflict.The risk of extension of war is big.
The poetry has the mission to awake the humanity in all people, no matter the country.
Through poetry, I can connect with different people from the globe, trying to convince them that the political leadership is wrong and brings nothing but destruction. The war is killing lives, the art is not killing anybody.

1.’My soul pyramid” – poetry in English (2022)
2. ‘The soul from the ink pot – poetry in Romanian (2023)

When you’re not here
Cristina Serghiescu
RomaniaWhen you’re not here, I wander among grays,
I weave illusions from a ball of desolation,
I ambush words in life’s thickets,
I dress a desire in veils of mist.

When you’re not here, I mold new hopes,
In the forest of feelings, I hunt resonances,
I exile the chills in an eternal balance,
I whistle with the wind, through valleys of suspense.

When you’re not here, I grind smoke of pains,
I search for the blue of yesterday,
I cloak myself with snows of late dreams,
I grow a frost flower on empty hours.

When you’re not here, I walk on confusion,
The fist crushes fragments of illusions,
Snowfalls bury me in bitter white,
Questions bite me with embers’ bite.

When you’re not here, I am the broken scream,
The dull tear from earth’s eyes it seems,
Grass crushed under feet of silence,
A road with one direction, leading to nowhere’s essence.

Când nu ești aici
Cristina Serghiescu
România

Când nu eşti aici, rătăcesc printre griuri,
țes amăgiri dintr-un ghem de pustiuri,
pândesc cuvinte în desişuri de viaţă,
îmbrac o dorinţă cu pânze de ceaţă.

Când nu eşti aici, modelez noi speranţe,
în pădurea simţirii, vânez rezonanţe,
exilez fiorii într-un veşnic balans,
șuier cu vântul, prin văi de suspans.

Când nu eşti aici, macin fum de dureri,
caut albastrul din ziua de ieri,
mă-nvelesc cu zăpezi de vise târzii,
cresc floare de brumă pe ore pustii.

Când nu eşti aici, păşesc pe confuzii,
pumnul zdrobeşte frânturi de iluzii,
ninsori mă îngroapă în albul amar,
mă muşcă-ntrebări cu colţii de jar.

Când nu eşti aici, sunt ţipătul frânt,
lacrima sură din ochi de pământ,
iarba zdrobită sub tălpi de tăceri,
drum cu un sens, spre nicăieri.

Versuri din volumul
“Pe lutul inimii e vară”

Mă numesc Cristina Serghiescu, locuiesc în România, sunt profesoară pentru învățământul primar de 34 de ani și poetă.
Sunt căsătorită și am două fiice adulte, una economist/ analist financiar, cealaltă inginer autovehicule rutiere.
Am publicat 11 volume de versuri, al doisprezecelea este în curs de publicare, mai am finalizate 3 volume pe care le voi publica în curând și lucrez la al șaisprezecelea volum.
Am publicat în numeroase antologii românești și internaționale ( 42) și reviste literare.
Am obținut numeroase premii valoroase în cadrul unor competiții importante internaționale.

În țara noastră nu este război, dar la granița de nord, suntem vecini cu Ucraina. Sper să nu avem surprize neplăcute, noi suntem un popor pașnic, am luptat doar pentru a ne apăra țara, întotdeauna.
Prin poezie, încerc să promovez ideea conviețuirii pașnice între popoare, importanța păstrării valorilor culturale naționale, a empatiei și iubirii de semeni, a credinței și bunătății.Ca poet și ambasador al păcii ( titlu obținut de la World Literary Forum for Peace and Human Rights și World Peace Federation) promovez prin intermediul poeziei valorile esențiale ale unei conviețuiri pașnice, fiind convinsă că soluționarea conflictelor se poate face pe cale amiabilă, evitându-se pierderea de vieți omenești.

1.Lacrimile iubirii, Cristina Serghiescu & Baki Ymeri, 2020;
2.Jarul amintirilor, Cristina Serghiescu,2020;
3.Cântă în seve visarea, Cristina Serghiescu,2021;
4.Ecouri în lan de secară, Cristina Serghiescu, 2021;
5.Tăcerea din noi, Cristina Serghiescu,2021,
6.Esențe, Cristina Serghiescu, 2022;
7.Sunt o lacrimă târzie, Cristina Serghiescu, 2022;
8.Rouă de trăiri, Cristina Serghiescu,2022;
9.Muguri de simțire, Cristina Serghiescu, 2023;
10.Atingeri, Cristina Serghiescu, 2023;
11.Conexiuni, Cristina Serghiescu, 2023