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. 

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Rainforest Sketches by 'Bo' The Grocery Godzilla



Balthasar is an idiot. To be crashing into objects like that! It is not that objects opposed him. If they objected, would not have been objects. We are safe to assume that, in that instance, they'd become subjects. When objects became subjects there would be no more distinctions between Balthasar and the objects he’s  bumping into. Everything would fit  this scheme of blind crashing. Doing it over and over, we'd bump against ourselves, into others like ourselves,  everyone of a non-dual world— surely this must be tiresome. To bump relentlessly into everything. What headache! A migraine even. Imagine that. I do not like to think about it. It is too early in the day to mull over.  Atrocious reversal of the basic physics, it should not be : we must stop Balthasar. 


That little quiet street, that little calle. With a mutt seated every evening, exactly on the same spot, in front of the sliding iron gate to an apartment building. Calm like a small copper statue, staring, waiting, turning its head. Who is she waiting for? A hand that will feed her and give her soft caress. A stray's yearning not to be understood by words? Every evening, the crepuscule descends slowly, like some soft golden and pink snow on one of Santiago’s best neighborhoods. Maybe one is born here in some previous life. Maybe one spent one’s days in the golden sunny street just like this might have been one of the innumerable strays, expecting, expecting, for each of the passers by, each occasional car making a turn down the street, one block, two blocks, past the spot where you sit and wait, with the night approaching, the passerby turning the next corner, against the false hope quashed, the flea biting, the uncertainty and fear rising in its Heart.



Overwhelmed by Lush, Viridian Forest snares, I paddle into the impenetrable thicket. Through many labyrinths of aqua, the canoe fleeing one tribe of man-eater, getting closer to another. How tasty, this little Frenchman! But, no, not tonight, sires, as Night devours Selva Amazonica. Not tonight. Even better: never.  You'll never catch me, you dastardly punks . For I always have lived by the light of my own candle, and I shall once perish by such. As God is my shepherd. Let the vultures, the birds of this flawed paradise feed on flesh and bones if they must, but not now, not tonight, with the endless star-night, the water softly dripping off the paddle, those silver guides, the prayer of Hope.  Death never was never —



one of the renegade angels, falls down to the parched island surrounded by the brilliantly turquoise sea. the night pullulates and shimmers, the lush jungle threat is everywhere.   as luck would have it, there's one narrow path,  and on this patch of dirt,  hodgepodge truck is puttering, leaving behind it a swirl of dust; the driver is quiet, he does best not to ask too many questions. with the horizon catching Fire, the evening star lights the world, the angel forgets where he comes from. other events are possibly reported: a scribe writing with the ink extracted from cuttlefish. a cross-eyed shaman examining the bones of dead animals. the feathers and scalps of prisoners decorating walls of the stilted hut.  on the island, aeons before, the extinct species congregate in great numbers. one minute all life pulsates and vibrates, multiplies and congregates, the next, all is gone.  all that universal labor, the work of generations, the millenia and millions of years of devolutions, evolutions, revolts, revolutions, now the truck gets mired in mud, the tribesman painted in war colors surround it, what a threat! this reversal to the stone age, so much sadness in their expression, no Tesla among them for sure...only, oddly enough, hear the sound of the bouzouki from afar, from some remote place, possibly on another island even... 


Already the sun was battling the dismal gray sky when Frum got up intent on breaking away with his humdrum existence. His life was to change abruptly, the message crumpled there, in the guts. Also, the palm of his right hand itched like crazy. Letters were exchanged. Universities were hiring again. Now, before such an important journey, he soaked the blue jeans in a round basin. To hand wash clothes ordinarily meant a dull chore. On another level, it was a good exercise in mindfulness. The signs of life on that eventful Wednesday include a garbage truck doing its rounds. It does it around the clock: Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Frum thought he could recognize the driver and two jovial garbage collectors shouting to each other, back and forth. Everything else was rather on the sad side. Doom, but not your average Doom. As a native Ostdeutscher, Frum knew all about Doom, and he could recognize the endless shades and nuances of Gray and Doom. A lesser writing Hamlet-machine could have spun several tomes on the topic. Not Frum though. Frum was in a hurry to leave. Universities were calling; ministries were funding the student productions again. Tempus Fugit Frum cogitates and here —we too must leave. It's a good time to say Goodbye, Frum, and Good Luck.


el día cuando papá compró una papelera rosa, mi hermano y yo pensé que algo grande se está cocinando. era un basurero enjuto, de un color de electric Pink. un buen pie profundo y un ancho de medio pie sólido. ¿Qué está pasando con nuestro papá? dijo mi hermano felipe gregoriano, y es exactamente lo que quería saber. Sabíamos que se estaba ocupado trabajando duro. Sabíamos que aún tenía grandes planes por el futuro. Sabíamos que era el afortunado. Aunque nunca le gustó hablar de ello pero vi una de sus entradas de diario donde cita a Camus. dice algo como, Gilbert Jonas (el personaje?), dibujante y pintor, creía en su estrella. y ahora lo sé, esto también fue lema de mi padre. Todos querían al compañero por esa razón de su fe absoluta. Todos lo querían para ese regalo el más grande, el más raro entre nos seres humanos — vivir y dejar que los demás viven. No quería interferir, no quiso tomar partido, el querido papá. y ahora que se fue arriba con los amigos celelestes, o dondequiera que lo que podrían llamarse — tenemos solo esta papelera Rosa para recordarnos a su estrella.


Tetsuro is a phenomenon of iron will, strength, tenacity. There is nobody that matches Tetsuro. Tetsuro brings out the best and the worst in people. For Tetsuro can go through fire and brimstone. From Tetsuro, there's no hiding, provided such safe abode was even contemplatable. He drives out our subconscious fears (innumerable), at their utmost, Tetsuro does. Our unstoppable Tetsuro. A golem to look up to, a role model to many of us Japanese soldiers. An ideal father we've dreamed of. Long live the masked avenger Tetsuro!


The Law of Attraction

the girl in a mini dress sits in a cafe, minding her own business, reading a book perhaps. without better things to do, a badge pig passes by. and because the thick annoying thing has the power to harass and intimidate if it so elects, the girl feels uncomfortable. and so do we, the rest of the coffeehouse eaters enjoying early afternoon in the sun. go away you fucker, we think, and true enough, by the inscrutable laws of attraction, the fucker moves along, staring at the girl. the girl scratches her exposed knee, flips the page, and when the pig is gone —lifts her head, sighs a relief, the tension all gone, the day still good and full of promise.



Once I lived my entire life in a room.  This was still the Stone Age yet was not allowed to keep stones.  Keeping stones in the room was strictly forbidden. Stones are not to be kept here, the landlady barked. Sometimes they made me wonder.  How would it be: to have stone for a headrest? Like the mountain ruffians and cavemen of legend. no, I take it back. I must trim my beard. In the mirror anybody could reflect back. Whose is this unshaven mug? If only it were Confucius, if it had anything vital to say. Confusing. These words like days of wine and roses are. Go back where you came from. Stay here.  Multiply.  Go West, young man. Take your stones with you.  A small Danish river pebble. And the Carnelian, the smooth, lovely to touch Carnelian.  But, here some sad news: a tiny black body on the window sill, the spider and the fly, the scene of a horrendous crime. must you repent, you spider.  Your God must still be a cold-blooded monster. Every day so much killing. Even today. The Easter Sunday. Or maybe Monday. It is what they tell us that it is. It doesn't know what it is. It is like a hapless fly killed by a spider or by a folded newspaper by unknown bipedal monster. Confusing, these words, these days of wine and roses. We do not
know who we are.  At night, we go out through the roof of our head. We climb up and up. We want to get up, to get out of here, out of this room. To be liberated and free in a well-hidden Cave.  Even wave at the other self who stays down, while we climb, the top of his uncombed head seen from above, seated, thinking, not thinking, watching the events inside its head.   I must be forgetting things too. That was yesterday. This is today. Once, some other time, but still in the room, always in the room, I was able to hear birds.  I dwelt on the canticles they were producing. some birds' throats work fast; others are slower; some trill, others call. mock. cry. whine. there are bird sonatas. toccatas. solos. arpeggios. there are bird choirs and orchestras.  one sumises a dizzying orgy of song, sometimes, in one's head. one can hear people shouting and laughing. listening to the radio.  arguing. then all becomes quiet. the room so still, the stones falling.  

Artwork by Gelsy Verna

un alpinista ávido

Además de ser un escritor famoso, Sr. Kawabata también era un alpinista ávido . A menudo estos combinó dos raros o, últimamente, no es tan raros, habilidades. A veces escribía primero (por la mañana). Me encanta escribir en la mañana, él haría murmurar a sí mismo, es mi mejor tiempo (creativamente hablando). Entonces él estaría fuera de casa, preparándose por ascender otro pico de la montaña. Todo ordenado, listo para él en la antesala esperaban sus amigos fieles: sus botas, la muletilla, su mochila; támbien su amigo viejo, un artiodáctilo ungulado llamado Yagi-san, cargado con las provisiones.

Vamos entonces, Yagi-san, el famoso escritor trino, y ya que se marcharon de hecho. A través de las colinas y valles, por las callejuelas solitarias, lejos del hedor de la ciudad, de los peligros de la carretera, de los tocadores y guaridas de ladrones, el maestro Kawabata y su viejo fiel. Hoy en día todavía escribiremos, murmuraba bajo su aliento, quando llegamos a tal y tal por tan y tan. Otras veces, el Sr. Kawabata no se sentía para escribir, así que de inmediato que sería escabullirse a los miembros del hogar alineados por edad y por orden de senioridad — ansiosos de saludarlo y desearle éxito en sus incursiones de montaña. Sin embargo, aún así, el Sr. Kawabata escribió. Escribió todos los días. Escribió por sesenta años. ó todas las madrugadas, ó desde cinque hasta once de la mañana, el grande Sr. Kawabata, ó alimentado solamente con el té y sus poderosas facultades imaginarias.

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