Saturday, April 22, 2017

God and His Typewriter

I, He, Being Bearded, smoking cigars, drinking daiquiris, and vodka martinis, typing, oh, to be typing once more—one more time to be typing, to be making the world indeed! For god sat behind the typewriter once he started creating this world! This world, nothing but a typewritten page—after page—but clear, black and white, strike, after strike, letters, what letters, why these and not some others—

painting by Augustus, John

Thursday, January 19, 2017



in the drawer left the manila folder hand. folded, manhandled, there must be a handle at hand, nearby. a handle? a windup handle for a gramaphone? yes, the record collection scattered to the eight winds, lost, abandoned, exiled, murdered. a deft hand. sliding. a glider. the wind in the boughs, high, perhaps a kite is being flown—like the festival of early boyhood? the Koinobori. down the stream of oblivion then, hands, palms up, down the river of no return: on your right, Heraclitus, the dark one, the gloom and doom; on your left? a woman? ethereal. white, too white, pinkish, pinker than your dark pinkness, gliding, her nipples erect above the surface of the flowing water. your nipples visible also. in the distance, the nipple-tops of the nihon-mountain, the snowhite nipple of the Fujisan, all of us flowing down the river, indistinguishable, replaceable, unindividualized, depersonalized, unidentifiable, folded, unfolded, fetus-like, manhandled, left in the long forgotten drawer, with the layers of dust accumulating. the manila folders of our lives: Palimpsest.

boris gregoric C 2017.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

More Poems About Vasya...

More Poems About Vasya and His Daily Adventures

...there goes vasya,
down the vale,
the stars are lighting,
the limitless abode,
a song vasya sings,
the leather jacket
slung over the shoulder,
the words ringing, echoing:
Над Енисеем в дымке синей Гул величавый кедрача...
В сердечной песне у России Душа живого Ильича.


vasya and vasko

in a tavern nameless, small,
in the mid of the Vršac town,
this morn the two
comrade-gents meet
eh, vasya, vasya!
oh, vasko, vasko!
they embrace,
as if they've not seen ea other
there be twenty some
odd years
vodka, orders vasya
travarica says vasko
the words rolls,
the letters spill,
the Slava, the fireworks, the revelry—


a left shoe vasya takes off
lounging in the grassy lea—
everything of interest,
the ants most of all—
the steamer (whiteassnow) down the Yenisee flows
the distances beckon
the heart of a jacktar

the bees and bumblebees brawnm
vasya drops off, nods,
the smiling lips,
dew on the grass

a pink cloud gliding in the sky
the breeze breezing
vasya blinking—
эй, жизнь, жизнь

in dream, he's sighing
his big toe
the air deftly defying


goes there vasya fishes to net
the amur flows
the Fish abundant
the ice cracking
the boots squeaking
nu ladna, ladna
the carp he adresses
while the latter, poor soul,
lets go of it—for even
fish has got a soul
and what thoughtest thou—hath is not?

Bo Gregorson: is a contemporay Icelandic writer and translator (b. 1962, Reykavik).

Friday, December 23, 2016

Laza Kostic: Dreams I Dream

h da napišem.
photo: Bo Gregoric

Laza Kostić


Snove snivam, snujem snove,
snujem snove biserove,
u snu živim, u snu dišem,
al' ne mogu sitne snove,
ne mogu ih da napišem.

Snove snivam, snove snujem,
u slike bih da ih kujem,
al' su sanci poletanci,
ne mogu ih da prikujem
srcu mome laganome.

Al' nasloni na te snove
tvoje grudi biserove,
dve ledene biser kapi:
ta bi studen smrzla snove,
sve te slike sle
al' su sanci poletanci,
ne mogu ih da prikujem
srcu mome laganome.

Al' nasloni na te snove
tvoje grudi biserove,
dvLaza Kostic:

Dreams I dream, dreaming dreams,
dreaming the pearly dreams,
in the dream I live, in the dream I breathe,
yet cannot the little dreams,
I cannot write them down.

Dreams I dream, dreams a-dreamin',
into pictures I would forge them
yet dreams, fancy fliers,
I cannot chain them down
to this lightweight heart.

But lean on to these dreams
your pearly breasts,
two icy pearly drops:
that iciness dreams would freeze,
all the pictures with the frost encrust.

Translated from the Serbian language
by Boris Gregoric

Laza Kostić was a major19th century Serbian Romantic era poet and

Laza Kostic (1841–1910): was a poet e ledene biser kapi:
ta bi studen smrzla snove,
sve te slike sledila bi.e bih da ih kujem,
al' su sanci poletanci,
ne mogu ih da prikujem
srcu mome laganome.

Al' nasloni na te snove
tvoje grudi biserove,
dve ledene biser kapi:
ta bi studen smrzla snove,
sve te slike sledila bi.nove biserove,
u snu živim, u snu dišem,
al' ne mogu sitne snove,
ne mogu ih da napišem.

Snove snivam, snove snujem,
u slike bih da ih kujem,
al' su sanci poletanci,
ne mogu ih da prikujem
srcu mome laganome.

Al' nasloni na te snove
tvoje grudi biserove,
dve ledene biser kapi:
ta bi studen smrzla snove,
sve te slike sledila bi.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Songs of Vasya

pjesme o vasyi

Vasily Shukshin (author of the photo unknown to me)

u vedroj vasioni

sibirskog prostranstva

duh se budi dok

divljač prašumom bludi

sve sluti

sve diže se

nekoj davno prepoznatoj



songs of vasya

in the bright universe
of the siberian expanse
the spirit wakes while
the game wanders in the primal forest
everything intuits
everything rises
toward some agelong

translated into English
by Boris Gregoric

Dusko Radovic: Aphorisms

Duško Radović:


True gifts are unique and don't cost much. Everything else is a bribe.

What is not measured by money? Only greatest, most beautiful, most important things in life.

Those that love are awake. Those that are loved, still sleep.

Could people be better? They could, but nobody wants to be the first to start off. Everyone's got bad experiences. Have we not sworn not infrequently that we shall be better? And some indeed do become better, and they seem guileless. Because those other ones have become even worse.

Nobody's got more than one life. But there are many of those that, beside their own, waste several other lives.

Our 'little' could mean 'a lot' for those that have nothing.

Don't be Selfish. Share some of your wives and husbands with those that have none.

This morning the Sava River run into the Danube. The Danube into the Black Sea. The Black Sea into the Mediterranean. The Mediterranean into Atlantic Ocean and yet you again don't know what to do with yourselves.

Life is passing, and we don't know what to do with it. We don't want to be bothered or we don't know how to live. We'd best like to give to someone else and enjoy observing how beautiful our life is when lived by another.

Get in some fresh air, open the windows, the doors, chase the November smog from the house, the holiday smells of December, the dreariness of January—the heavenly drizzle brings to us the young, fresh air from the snow-covered Carpathian ploughfields.

Yesterday someone found something that he was not looking for. What he was looking for, was found by somebody else.

Before you start out to look for happiness, double check—perhaps you are happy already. Happiness is small, ordinary, hard to notice and many are incapable of seeing it.

You worth is only in the measure others need you.

There's so little love among people. He and She who knows how to love, shouldn't be doing anything else.

Having friends means accepting that there are people more handsome, smarter, better ones than yourself. Those that cannot accept this —have no friends.

Love each other even when you are not together, that is true love. Those that love only when being together, don't care who is there as long as there's someone.

Not much is needed to live. For the unhappy life, life demands much more.

You say, life is tormenting you, yet we think it is you who torment, find fault and demean life.

(S)he who can feel the joy —has something to be joyous about.

Every hardship that connects us is good yet every good that separates us is not good.

Mums, give birth to sisters, for one day sisters become aunts, and aunts are the most beautiful, irreplaceable gift to every Childhood.

Young educators in Belgrade's daycare centers, this morning will surely read the fairy tales to children. These are the melancholy tales of —what always happens to princesses, and yet never to educators.

Children, imagine what you would: for it is said that the best portion of one's life, from the cradle to the grave, is the school age.

There are, among our children, those of great need—for to them, except for the money, their parents could give nothing else.

Love your children even when they are wrong; because life will be punishing them even when they are right.

Start spanking your kids the moment you notice they start resembling you.

Blessed are the grandmas and grandpas with grandchildren. Woe is us with the children.

It's better to be somebody's baba, than just any baba.1

We were better off when we were kids than now that we have them. Kids are ill-mannered and ungrateful.

Yesterday a parent sighed at the parents council meeting: "Give me a good child, and I'll show you what kind of a father I can be!"

Dusko Radovic (1922—1984): was a popular children's author, playwright, poet and radio host in the 1970's Yugoslavia. His daily musings, Good Morning, Belgrade (Dobro jutro, Beograde) broadcast on Radio Belgrade every morning at 7am, with his unmistakable raspy voice, became instantly recognizable and quotable parts of the local cultural lore.
1Serbo-Croatian word 'baba' could mean both: grandma and, pejoratively, old woman.

Saturday, March 26, 2016

Josip Sever: Boreal Horse


Horsefoolery by Boris Gregoric


Borealni konj

Kad klonu moje misli o konju 
Na nebosklonu tad se javi
Taj konj u propnju
Kad tonu potezi njegvi
U širno polje u pijesak

Kad mu griva lebdi
U izmaglici mora
Što se brušeno pjeni
Ko češka čaša
Na tvrdu hrastovu stolu

I kad ga jaši knez
I kad ga jaši biskup
Kada ga jaši rudar
I kad ga jaši Wagner

Tu je njegov norvegijski nerv
Njegov tirkizni mač
I taj pješčani Negev
I ta pusta madžarska
Bez jahača

Kolike li gizde u konja
Kad se propne i stane
I ostane
U bijeloj boji
Bijeli konj

Boreal Horse

When my thoughts of a horse slacken
On the horizon then rises
That rearing horse
When tugs on the reins sink
Into the widening field into Sand

When his mane hovers
In the mist from the Sea
Cut and foaming
Like the Bohemian goblet
On the hard oak table

When a duke rides him
when a bishop rides him
When a miner rides him
when Wagner rides him

Here is his Norwegian nerve
his turquoise blade
Here that sabulous Negev
that desolate Hungary
Without a rider

How much flourish in a horse
when rearing and standing like that
painted white
the White horse.

Translated from the Croatian into  English
Boris Gregoric

 Josip Sever (1938-1989): was an influential Croatian avant-garde poet and translator.