Oh Queen of Macedonia

Oh Queen of Macedonia we are the symptoms of a molecular joke, so will you dance me the mad dance again with the rage in your flaming hair, the dance you danced that night in the heartened dark behind the market? Will you trace the wild measures until they glow stiff, trapped in the teem of your world because my love there is no dance without words, only movement.

There is no without a beginning; we happen beyond the spell of our primate metaphysics, oh Queen of Macedonia, we are mistral ventures rippling across the hottening sand. We sheath each other in the world like this, setting suns over its asphaltic veins and smelting a farewell to the reckoning who enjoyced this, who is not mad for lack of lack, who is not afraid to reinvent everything for the mild embedded illness that we are.

Reality is repetition, the cavernous gesture we make at each other when we are not sleeping. There is a mild curiosity in its echo mustaching the promise of endless spacing, the glimpsing of a fish world to inhabit. In defiance we hew cobblestone streets helixing the tower of Babel, to the disoxygenated heights where memories lie dying, where we abet the master’s language lest she stales our thoughts away. We Rorschach the paladins in stony rows and plot the consciousness of the king who absented himself in premature nocturia. We offer Him prayment with the folding of our hands.

Oh mather now your night has fallen, you once nocturned me and weaned me curious. I derelish the womby presense you had of me, so let the old skippers bid their good-byes to you in their evening rags, and let me not speak out the palimpsest that I carry on my aching palate. Whence it winnows in my dreams, I am drawing a plow over barren land and sow, and sow

our storyness grows, like layers of ice upon ice assailed by dancing feet. Ten years ago I was squirreling, raincoated for the thaw of your forgotten smiles, I was a curfewed Thales sandaling away the starry evenings. Oh Queen of Macedonia, do you feel the weight of Dionysos underneath the breadth of your orgasm? You compassed all of my world in me so I implore you, Sistercian, my sweet sorella, speak to me.

Oh Queen of Macedonia was originally published on Meandering home

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Reading: After Us by Nikola Madzirov

Nikola Madzirov (b. 1973) is a Macedonian poet, probably the most famous one alive, who also writes essays and translations. I was looking for a younger Eastern European poet today and I found him. The cool thing with younger poets is that you can talk with them on Facebook (uhm, not really). I read a poem about the Afterlife, that is life After us, from the collection Remnants from Another Age:

After Us
One day someone will fold our blankets
and send them to the cleaners
to scrub the last grain of salt from them,
will open our letters and sort them out by date
instead of by how often they’ve been read.

One day someone will rearrange the room’s furniture
like chessmen at the start of a new game,
will open the old shoebox
where we hoard pyjama-buttons,
not-quite-dead batteries and hunger.

One day the ache will return to our backs
from the weight of hotel room keys
and the receptionist’s suspicion
as he hands over the TV remote control.

Others’ pity will set out after us
like the moon after some wandering child.

Salt is life. The image of the blankets is familiar, I wrote about the stowing away of your bed after you die.  It also reminded me of Pesach, where they get rid not of the salt but of the yeast and clean the sheets for that purpose.  The metaphor of a mechanical, objective order (by date) versus a live order by importance (do we actually live like that? This poem is an imperative to do so!) is powerful.

The image of a new chessgame I like too; I can’t really relate to the contents of the shoebox though, having been born into a generation that didn’t know hunger and a middle class milieu that didn’t know hoarding.

There is an allusion that is a little bit too cryptic for my taste, to loneliness in a hotel room. Doe the weight of the keys stand for the shame of the lonely hotel guest or am I reading stuff into these lines that are not there at all? Is he watching porn on his hotel TV or not?

These last lines, which I’m sure sound much better in the original language, they stick with me. I’ll remember them because I want to quote them some time.

Here is an interesting article on Madzirov.

And here is the original poem. You can listen to the sound in Macedonian too, of those last lines. Yes, they sound pretty:

Туѓите сожалувања ќе тргнат по нас
како месечина по заталкано дете.

Reading: After Us by Nikola Madzirov was originally published on Meandering home