Skopje ili Beograd
Skopje ili Beograd,
It plays through the stereo
_
The bus driver gets up at
the stoplight to put on shoes
_
Karta? Tickets out and ready.
I hum with the radio.
_
Skopje ili Beograd,
eventually I’ll choose
Abandoned Buildings
Abandoned buildings,
shells of homes,
skeletons of yesterday.
_
Stone walls, chipped
and crumbled.
Wooden beams lay
decaying.
_
Abandoned buildings,
what was your heyday like?
_
And tell me please,
are we all
abandoned buildings in the making?
How to Hate a Stranger
How to hate a stranger?
I’ll tell you how.
_
Stare into a photo
and see only conniving eyes.
_
Stalk the internet
searching for a reason.
_
Let the dark into your heart
and let your demons cry.
_
For to hate a stranger,
you must first hate
the self.
Sometimes
Sometimes you’re on a bus,
between here and there.
_
Sometimes it’s drizzling,
or maybe raining.
_
Sometimes you’re surrounded by mountains,
dark and overwhelming.
_
Sometimes you’re in Bosnia,
or Serbia,
or somewhere in the middle.
_
Or sometimes you’re in Serbia…
In Bosnia…
Kurwa.
Artsy Fartsy
She told me once,
Do something useful,
practical and sane.
_
Make yourself some money,
study hard and use your brain.
_
Don’t dally with the fairytales,
don’t trouble with make believe.
_
But whatever you do,
no matter what
Don’t be artsy fartsy.
_
So to my dismay,
and I’m sure hers too,
_
I spend most my time,
futzing with poetry n’ glue.
Balkan Mountains
Floods breaking
from the backs of my eyeballs
held back only by will
made strong by a born stubbornness
_
A heart destroyed,
but still loving.
A brain twisted,
but still thinking.
_
Balkan mountains,
scary and noble,
flashing past…going, gone..
Is my soul within them?
Peninsula of Haemus
Lighting here is crazy,
Flashing through the sky.
_
It doesn’t have to be raining,
It could be totally dry.
_
Balkan weather,
I’m just saying,
Is a little bit insane.
_
I just pray,
whilst on this bus,
that lightning doesn’t strike us.
_
But if it should,
a more dramatic death
I could not imagine…
_
than a sudden, freakish death
by crazy Balkan lightning.
The Poetry of Stone
The poetry of stone
is a somber one at best.
_
Hard and majestic
indelicate, not glass.
_
A river undisturbed
flowing through the mountains.
_
Quietly ignoring,
the poetry of stone.
When the Sky Clears
When the sky clears
and lightning strikes no more,
_
when the rain stops
and thunder disappears,
_
then the bridge is standing
noble between the hills.
_
Then I kiss the floor
as I embarrassingly admit
_
I was frightened of the storm,
lightning unveiling all my fears.
The Shop Boy
“What’s your ethnicity?”- the dreaded question.
“Guess,” I say.
He smiles shyly from behind the metals
and says “Somewhere in Asia.”
_
I smile broad and then I chuckle,
he reddens but laughs along.
_
My mother is from Iran.
My father from Mexico.
I speak Assyrian-
a language from long ago.
_
He asks, “So are you a Muslim?”
and boy’ve I got a story to tell.
_
“My mother is a Catholic,
My father of Jehovah.
I’ve got a long lost grandmother,
a Muslim I was told.
Great Grandma celebrated
the Armenian traditions.
_
Great Grandpa, was a Communist
of the Orthodox religion.
So between the Catholic and the Muslim,
I’m sure that somewhere there’s a Jew.”
_
“There always is,” the shop boy says.
Then sobers n’ says real slow
“So in a way,
with your mix,
your just like Sarajevo.”
_
Thank you to the shop boy
who engraved my metalwares,
because now I know
I’ve got in me
a likeness to Sarajevo.
To Remove the River from the City
They told me to forget,
that’s something I could never do.
They told me to move on,
to the memories I hold tighter.
_
They say all good things come to an end,
I rebuild old structures with ashy stones.
They say I must forgive,
and I have with all my heart.
_
To forget so great a love,
would be like removing the river from the city.
To move on without a passing glance,
would be to step on graves and monuments.
_
So I rebuild the haven of yesterday,
so one day when I look down,
the streets are laden with stones of memory,
and the walls with slabs of strength.
_
The roofs won’t cave,
for they’re held up by hearts that remember,
but are not weighed down with grief.
_
The steeple and the minarets,
and the temples too,
will house the shadows of the battles,
but will soothe the living through.
_
The city of yesterday, battle scars and all,
will stand up tall and stronger for its wounds.
_
So next time you tell me to forget,
to move on, to shed the memories and faults,
just know I won’t- I never will,
I’m building a glittering city in my heart.
_____
Summer 2014
The Liberated Polyglot
