Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Three short ones on Love

you,  sense of humor, you're so high on my
shopping list, right up there with the best of them,
the avocadoes and green zucchini, wild conjectures,
and girls waking in the morning.


for Henry

all his life he wanted nothing but
to be loved and —yet—
no love was to be found,
even after six or seven of his
marriages—like a butterfly
he hovered in superifice,
one drop of honeyed dew to the next—
each successive one more bitter,
after the spell wore off—
and once more, Henry loved
was not, least by his
stone-hearted mother.


o, let's touch and say nothing, for words are such a waste, like a water of ducky's back. and heads, such a heady affair, but nothing to get a hold of really. for hands know everything. for hands know more than heads can ever know. and hearts even mean so little, are a pale second fiddle. no, let's have the hands touching, vibrating the only truth accessible to us. 

Sunday, December 17, 2017

Vladislav Petkovic Dis Tamnica Dungeon

Vladislav Petković Dis


Poetry in Motion, digital art by Boris Gregoric

To je onaj život gde sam pao i ja
s nevinih daljina, sa očima zvezda
i sa suzom mojom što nesvesno sija
i žali, ko ptica oborena gnezda.
To je onaj život gde sam pao i ja

Sa nimalo znanja i bez moje volje,
nepoznat govoru i nevolji ružnoj
i ja plakah tada. Ne beše mi bolje.
I ostadoh tako u kolevci tužnoj
sa nimalo znanja i bez moje volje.

I ne znadoh da mi krv struji i teče,
i da nosim oblik što se mirno menja;
i da nosim oblik, san lepote, veče
i tišinu blagu ko dah otkrovenja.
I ne znadoh da mi krv struji i teče,

I da beže zvezde iz mojih očiju,
da se stvara nebo i svod ovaj sada
i prostor, trajanje za red stvari sviju,
i da moja glava rađa sav svet jada,
i da beže zvezde iz mojih očiju,

Al' begaju zvezde; ostavljaju boje
mesta i daljine i vezuju jave;
i sad tako žive kao biće moje,
nevino vezane za san moje glave.
Al' begaju zvezde; ostavljaju boje.

Pri beganju zvezda zemlja je ostala
za hod mojih nogu i za život reči;
i tako je snaga u meni postala
snaga koja boli, snaga koja leči.
Pri beganju zvezda zemlja je ostala.

I tu zemlju danas poznao sam i ja
sa nevinim srcem, al' bez mojih zvezda.
I sa suzom mojom, što mi i sad sija
i žali k'o tica oborena gnezda.
I tu zemlju danas poznao sam i ja.

Kao stara tajna ja počeh da živim.
zakovan na zemlju što životu služi,
da okrećem oči daljinama sivim,
dok mi venac snova moju glavu kruži.
Kao stara tajna ja počeh da živim.

Da osećam sebe u pogledu trava.
I noći, i voda i da slušam biće
i duh moj u svemu kako moćno spava.
ko jedina pesma, jedino otkriće;
Da osećam sebe u pogledu trava

I očiju, što ih vidi moja snaga,
očiju što zovu kao glas tišina,
kao govor šuma, kao divna draga
izgubljenih snova, zaspalih visina,
I očiju, što ih vidi moja snaga.


That is the life into which I also fell
from distances innocent, starry-eyed
with a tear of mine that glistens unknowning
and mourns, like a bird from the knocked-off nest.
That is the life into which I also fell

With no knowledge and against my will,
unknown to speech and ugly misfortune
I also wept then. Nor have I felt better.
And thus I remained in a sad cradle
without any knowledge, against my will.

And I have not known that my blood flows and runs,
and that semblance I bear that calmly changes;
and that the semblance I bear, the dream of beauty, an eve
and silence tender like the breath of revelation.
And I have not known that my blood flows and runs,

And that stars are fleeing my eyes,
that the sky is being made, this here firmament
and the space, the lasting for the order of all things,
and that my head gives birth to the world of woe,
and stars are fleeing my eyes,

Thus flee the stars; leaving the colors
places and distances and connected realities;
and thus now they live like my being,
innocenty tied to the dream of my head.
Thus flee the stars; leaving the colors.

With the flight of the stars the earth remained
for the ambulance of my feet and the existence of words;
thus then the power within me became
the power that aches, the power that heals.
With the flight of the stars the earth remained.

And this earth today I've known myself
with innocent heart, yet without my stars.
And with a tear of mine, that even now glistens
and mourns like a bird from the knocked-off nest.
And this earth today I've known myself.

Like an ancient secret I've began to live.
riveted to the ground that serves the living,
to turn my eyes to gray distances,
whilst the wreath of dreams my head surrounds.
Like an ancient secret I've began to live.

To feel myself in the graze of the grass.
And nights, and waters, and to hark to the being
the spirit of mine that mightily sleeps in everything.
like a singular poem, a singular discovery;
To feel myself in the graze of the grass

And the eyes that my power sees
the eyes that cry out to the voice of the hushed things,
like the forest's speech, like a wondrous lover
of dreams lost, of heights aslept,
And the eyes that my power sees.

Translated from the Serbo-Croatian
by Boris Gregoric


Vladislav Petković nicknamed Dis was a brilliant Serbian modernist poet who died in 1917 at the age of 37 on a cargo boat sunk by German U-boat. 

His form of a beautifully simplified sonnet, with recurring themes of world weariness and foreboding, is still highly regarded in the South Slavic literary canon. Its ababa rhyming pattern cannot be aptly translated, however the diction and the voice of this unique poète maudit hopefully resonate with the reader.

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Gulag Light and Others


loved by thousands, yet actually by no one, dear Morrisey, bemoaning the fact, but keenly aware of the grand paradox. still, better than so many millions loved by no one, neither thousands, not one single soul—all those loveless, shameless, millioness sprawling harlots, all those loveless, lonely, unloveable monkey-men in their lonely monkey-men beds. then some, the lucky ones, now and there, loved by one, but usually loving some other, unfulfilled one. no, almost always, loving some one else while being loved by somebody who, in their turn, are often unloved. so, what is better—these 'stars' loved by thousands and millions, but in fact loved by no one, except for their status or money of course, or the sad millioness hydra-headed loveless? for in the day of human life, lovelessness is far worse than lawlessness. thus, even if your mom loves, you win. and your dad, which is much rarer, even better. and, yet, your gazillione'd kitts&pups do not really count, sorry to say. love yourself first, some shout from the rooftops—yes, great, but not quite, close, but no cigar frankly. you can do better. still, you say, what about the dead, wet ashes of yesteryear loves? so much time wasted, so few moments of brightness and laughs that shook those low, overcast skies. much ado about nothing.

Big Lonely, Utter Melancholy seeps into you, through the dense, low, overcast, late October skies, this acoustic magic, the sweet, brooding voice, the utter melancholy, the big lonely, the moorlands and the wind—is it Denmark again, o, Denmark thou sweet hopelessness seeping deeply, dripping in with the sugary memories of cinammon, of tumeric, of ginger roots —hidden too deep.

things were talking out of his ass...

it sounded as if things suddenly started talking out of the friend's ass as he hastily took leave to one or another of his daily stops, it sounded very much like the NPR broadcast, it made you both laugh, the phone with its automated, nonsensical rigmarole—its frightufl bullying insistence not much different from the so-called pundits, the politicians, the professors that keep telling and explaining us what is what and who is who and why why every single minute of our lives in chains invisible.


Gulag Light

you can see the Gulag light system in a workplace, in the way the system is being set, the way the various hand-picked obamas and clintons will climb over the dead bodies to the supposed top of the gulag pyramid. you can see always the mediocre, often the very worst, get the promotions, the pay raises, the position in which they can bully and manipulate their work minions, you can see the blatant militant stupidity of it, reflected on every level, every corporate dungeon much like the other, with the top incompetents firmly perched up there somewhere off-shore—the higher up the invisible hierarchy the more clueless, the less aptitude surely—and yet you have these top mountaineers shoved up your ass every single day, these gates, these buffetts, these creepy, nonentity youth zuckerbergs shoved up your ass as the paragons of everything, the determiners and bright lights of a dollared universe —or else, or else, here comes the bombs and here the bucketfuls of democracy, the uranium deplete galore. 

Monday, November 27, 2017

Ti si sav moj bol

From 'L'Atalante' by Jean Vigo

Ti si sav moj bol 

Razmičeš zavese,
gledaš obećani grad
Svetla se pale
i tinja želja u tebi
Još uvek ti đavoli vire
iz rukava
I svaki nokat krije
otrov ljubavi
Ti si sav moj bol
Ti si sav moj bol
Ti si sav moj bol
Ti si sav moj bol
Ti si sav moj bol
Ti si sav moj bol


You are all the pain of mine 

Pulling the curtains,
you look at the city promised
Its lights turning on
a wish burning within

Still the demons peek
from your sleeves
Every fingernail a-hiding
the venom of Love

you are all the pain of mine
you are all the pain of mine


Translated from the Serbo-Croatian
by Bo Gregoric 

was a legendary 1980's Yugoslavian rock outfit.  

Friday, November 17, 2017

The Bug

now, no obstacles for your little morning walk across the table top. up the glass did not succeed, you slid down, repeatedly tried to clamber up again, a tiny red-hulled Sisyphus, moribund in the wintry sun: the meagrier the merrier, the calm and calmier. we all must have some purpose in life. go, a den, seamstress, scissors, the stitching of the hem. we all must wear the corduroys this morning on our little walk to the hillocks. we must abandon all hope, as we slide down the glass panel, repeatedly. how we climb the cordilleras, how we descend, it us alone that we know the weight of every step taken, the size of the shoe, the make, the faded colors, worn undersoles, the skis leaning against the back of the ski cabin. no, we rather sail, bounce off the alligators' backs, snowbound others, stuck in the gondola cabins, the Alpine yodelers, the inbred climbers, up and down, up and down, into the forest lake—skidmarks on the mountain road, anderen, swanderen, hillfart, baumgarten, hochstofffulendorf, the four wheels wheeling emptily. 


Thursday, June 22, 2017

One for the Sharks

How do you feel about sharks? The great white. No known natural predators other than the humans, which reduces its conservation status to Vulnerable. Or, the oceanic whitetip: marvelous specimen, this beautiful, gentle, slow-moving fish experiences occasional feeding frenzies, and will present a joyful sidekick to shipwreck or air crash survivors. Alas, its hefty fins are highly valued as the gourmet ingredient for the shark fin soup, and, as with other shark species, the whitetip faces extinction. 


Sunday, June 11, 2017



Through the dappled light, low brow, violence prone stupidity, no matter where one looks. How much this Earth has suffered thus far—unimaginable. Every tear of the Dostoevskian child, multiplied unimaginably. Through the golden morning, low brow, uniformed prone stupidity, their feudal masters controlling the one-eyed monster, blaring incessantly its call to more death and mayhem, wars to no end.

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).