Poetry by Marina Aristo Marković
A cycle of poems about distance, unrest, art, and love.
Written in restless times.
Offered without apology.
In the beginning, there was breath.
And the breath trembled.
It trembled above cities of glass and smoke,
above markets louder than prayer,
above hands that built monuments
and forgot how to touch.
We live in a time of noise
when everyone speaks
and no one hears.
A time when distance feels safer than closeness,
when wars are watched from afar,
when suffering is measured, priced, and archived.
In such a time, poetry is not ornament.
It is witness.
It is resistance.
It is the refusal to become numb.
These poems were not written to decorate silence.
They were written because silence was broken.
They rise from crowded streets and narrow rooms,
from sleepless nights and restless thought,
from the space between revolt and tenderness,
between isolation and longing,
between the world as it stands
and the world as it might yet be.
There is a season when justice removes her blindfold
and finds no one willing to see.
A season when power mocks wisdom,
when the cruel gather applause,
when the air itself grows heavy
with the breath of the dehumanized.
This is that season.
And yet
Even in the deaf time,
a pulse remains.
Even in the burning field,
a seed survives.
Even in the cage,
love remembers the sky.
There are cries in these pages
but also defiance.
There is solitude
but also union.
There is ruin
but also light that refuses extinction.
If these words disturb you, let them.
If they console you, let them.
If they compel you to look more closely
at the world
and at yourself,
then they have done their work.
For though the world may lean toward hell,
the human heart still carries
the memory of light.
And as long as breath trembles,
it also endures.
I. The World on Fire (Social & Political Vision)
This section includes:
- Serenity
- The Distance
- The Deaf Time
- A Human Being Cries at the Moment of Birth
- I'm Saving My Punches for Rainy Days
- Before the World Turns Into Hell
***
Serenity
let it stitch the northern and southern hemispheres with absorbable thread,
bring the birds back to the cities so they may veil concrete with wings,
and turn the financial districts into sanatoriums
let it pass the Goddess of Justice without a blindfold,
cast off military uniforms and construct palaces of books, page by page,
grind to dust the rocks where the barbarians hide,
and send those barbarians to cemeteries to plant flowers each spring
let it immunize the people with a truth serum,
fill the cups with dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin, feed them into the bloodstream, drop by drop.
let it untie the nooses and dismantle the electric chairs,
and keep sunny days away from the stock market so they won't be sold for nothing
let the wild animals of mountain and forest roam free to tame the people,
and turn every cemetery into an Alley of the Great.
if all else fails,
stop the heartbeat,
and return us to our natural serenity.
***
THE DISTANCE...
distance, detachment, remoteness, space,
they say the Distance between the eyebrows and the eyes reveals how friendly someone is.
but don’t pay too much attention to people’s eyebrows and hands,
look people in the eyes if you want to see what they carry within
it is especially important today,
in a time of universal Detachment,
people don’t talk to each other anymore;
they have perfected every model of conflict,
and they seem to feel safe at a distance, where wars are fought.
and each of them has its price,
because the mindless masses raise idiots to the rank of heroes,
until the sun can no longer be seen,
so everyone lives in darkness, remote from one another,
the satiated kept apart from the hungry, and the malnourished tucked away, out of sight,
but there is a Space between two burial places filled with living earth,
which is filled with people who fill it with remains,
and with remains
of their remains,
and all of that, people watch from afar;
from afar they kill,
from afar they hunt,
and yet
there are still enough wild and crazy souls
who love each other from a distance.
***
The Deaf Time
It's hard to breathe in the deaf time,
while they watch us from afar,
burning cities to warm their souls,
turning turtles on their backs,
performing autopsies on passersby.
From ships spilling oil over the water,
they escape through rat canals,
mocking people who jump from bridges.
They turn parks into wastelands,
investing in damaged body parts,
investing millions
in decay and ruin.
They cover peace with poisonous cobwebs
and try to justify themselves by the color of their blood.
Their devilish minions approach from behind,
coating angel's wings with tar,
cursing the Creator for failing to recognize them.
In the deaf time, it's hard to breathe—
children scream,
women scream,
men scream,
everyone screams,
to expel the accumulated fatigue,
rage,
dissatisfaction,
sadness.
In the deaf time,
everyone is screaming for attention.
In the deaf time,
no one hears anyone.
***
A human being cries at the moment of birth.
I look at the walking crosses
and marvel that the world still exists.
It is truly strange that the world still exists
after each hell into which we are thrown
by the depraved
those who collect works of art yet spit when they speak,
who sneer at a pregnant woman,
who buy people and remain indebted for years,
who agonize over piles of dirty papers,
who wear masks with drawn smiles,
and cannot understand the one who suffers
when their manuscripts are lost on public transport.
It is truly strange that the world still exists
after the explosions that gave birth to the dehumanized,
making the air heavy,
heavy enough to press upon the lungs,
from which come those who give no peace,
making countless small cuts,
scratching your silence with their nails,
because they do not understand it,
then leaving you alone until you bleed.
It is truly strange that the world still exists
after so many centuries,
which give rise to those whose evils fill hospitals, asylums, and cemeteries,
those who kill trees and pollute rivers,
those trapped in meaningless lives,
who only wait for and count the deaths of others.
Above all,
it is a wonder that the world still exists,
so it is no wonder
that a human being cries at the moment of birth.
***
I'm Saving My Punches for Rainy Days
Nowadays, peace is hard to find,
and when you do find it,
your life is in danger, because of the moving attractions that fight like rats,
because of those eternally hungry for strength,
spirit,
fire, and courage,
because of those who, today unfortunately,
hold greater sway over the audience than Tesla, Dostoyevsky, Michelangelo…
and help us understand that the only thing left of this reality
is the cemetery.
I start to think something slips from my hands,
so I misjudge situations and people,
although it seems to me I am not wrong if I say
that, if we add up the human mind and the potentials of humanity,
the end of the world is a logical sum
the end of the world that slowly eats away at the bowels of existence,
sending us directly to hell.
I don't know what my role is in all of this,
except to remain determined, even when I think of leaving my field,
though I admit that entering a new circle makes me squirm.
I don't know what my role is in all of this,
except to save my punches for rainy days,
because there is much to know,
but it is crucial to be able to strike back at life.
I don't know what my role is in everything,
except to preserve strength,
spirit,
fire,
and courage
in the important things, and at the intersections of events.
Because I have always wanted
the same thing,
I have always wanted…
***
Before the World Turns Into Hell
I wanted to be found by someone
who would jump over walls
and turn uncertainty into moments where the senses are at their peak
while soldiers practice on mock battlefields.
I wanted to be found by someone
who would win time with stories
of what he did during the storm
and show me that creativity has no limits
while devils poison our food and air
and play with our blood.
I wanted to be found by someone
who would seize problems by the throat
and turn everything into a party
that requires a world made of only two people
while children are carefully raised to be murderers.
I wanted to be found by someone
who would take me to the place
where clarity of mind is found,
and where, in the end, everything turns out as it should
until everything becomes nothing
in the absence of wise elders.
I wanted to be found by you,
before the world turns into hell.
II. The Interior Inferno (Isolation, Self, Art)
This section includes:
- Art
- self-isolation
- Devil’s Triangle
- Journey
- An Ordinary Day
***
Art
Art is awakening.
Art is waking in the middle of the night, running away from sleep.
Art is jumping out of bed.
Art is going to the toilet.
Art is making the bed.
Art is the arrangement of thoughts,
the placement of clouds.
Art is deceiving the hunger that grows from longing.
Art is using cutlery
without cutting yourself on the knife’s edge.
Art is punishing yourself with loneliness
while someone’s whole being spills over you
and refuses to leave you alone.
Art is joking with reality
and finding extra time for yourself
just to survive the joke.
Art is to sit, to wait,
to sit and wait
to wait and to wait again
for life to pass without life,
until you rise and rebel against yourself.
Art is to start over, and over,
and over again.
Art is to be silent
when your soul screams like a madman in a fit of madness.
Art is to believe in yourself,
to believe in others,
and to trust no one.
Art is to end the thought,
to move on without words,
without movement,
without farewell.
Art is to feel every minute,
every hour,
every day and every night
because of one single revived,
experienced,
lived,
survived moment.
Art is to burn in your own hell,
the one you built for yourself.
Art is to stifle feeling,
to kill desire,
to curse imagination
and in the end,
art is to
fall asleep.
Art is everything.
Everything can be art.
But not everyone is an artist.
***
self-isolation
If you can read, read something.
If you want to read.
If you don’t want to
yawn, take a nap, sleep all day.
Don’t even get out of bed.
Stink like garbage.
Get up when you’re hungry.
Eat. Overeat. Throw up.
When you recover, find yourself a pastime.
Do something. Do anything.
Clean. Wash. Cook.
Cook something.
Boil water and spill it.
If you can’t cook anything else, don’t eat. Starve.
If you’re bored
if you’re so bored it makes you sick
go to the toilet.
Stay there until it passes,
until you are rid of the excess,
until you are empty.
Then flush,
and watch it carry away
the essential part of you.
If you don’t know what to do with yourself,
lock yourself in a room and think.
Think of those you love, if you love.
Think of those you loved, if you loved.
If you don’t love, if you never loved,
bang your head against the wall
until your brain hurts,
or scream until the windows break.
If you know how to write,
write a letter to yourself.
Write a letter to someone.
Write a song for someone you care about.
Write something for anyone.
Write something if you know how to write —
even if you have nothing to write,
and no one to write to.
And if you still don’t know
what to do with yourself,
cut off your fingers with an axe
and cry until you bleed.
If you can talk, talk to someone.
Talk to yourself, or stay silent.
Stay silent until you forget how to speak.
If you still don’t know what to do with yourself,
go up to the attic
and hang yourself
when you’re already
so boring even to yourself
***
Devil's Triangle
Someone said, “Happy people don’t write poems,”
and maybe that someone is right.
But fortunately, I don’t write poems.
I’m just noting that it’s a bit strange to be happy
in these unhappy times,
but I’m weird,
so one day I jumped into the devil’s triangle
with a smile from ear to ear,
rolled the dice,
turned the roulette wheel,
drew the cards,
and then, at the wrong time, waited for the right moment
to show the devil himself the light
that had caught my eyes with desire
and spread all over me.
Someone said, “Happy people don’t write poems,”
and maybe that someone is right.
But fortunately, I don’t write poems.
I’m just noting that I once traveled all the way to
another continent
just to see a flock of seagulls carrying the sky on their wings.
And I thought, if I laughed loudly enough in advance because of happiness,
I might manage to remind myself
that one day it would backfire in the long run
that I’m laughing in advance.
Someone said, “Happy people don’t write poems,”
but fortunately, I don’t write poems.
I’m just noting that once, in a small apartment,
at the head of the bed,
I found a symbol of a perfect beginning
and a symbol of everything in one.
It was the right moment but the wrong time
to look a wasted destiny in the eyes.
Then the perfect beginning reached an imperfect end,
and everything became nothing.
But that’s how it is with wasted destinies.
Someone said, “Happy people don’t write poems.
I don’t know, maybe that someone is right.
But fortunately, I don’t write poems.
***
Journey
I traveled from early morning to late evening,
through the hardest days of all,
immersed in crowds of people, holding my breath,
and I emerged among rebels and writers.
I traveled for months and years,
through difficult times,
alongside various rulers and s
ervants,
watching powers clash—one against the other,
and it seemed I was alone against all.
I traveled to the edge of reason,
raising barricades between solitude and isolation.
From those barricades, I watched the eruptions of passion and madness,
and then slowly returned to myself,
to be reborn.
There, on the road to perfect thoughts,
on the road to a perfect g
aze,
on the road to a perfect smile,
there I met you.
And now I walk on fire as best I can,
and I am doing well.
***
An Ordinary Day
It's the same day, only the date is different.
Even in the public city transport, I felt that something smelled of the past,
and then I saw that someone had forgotten today's newspaper on the seat in front of me.
I got off at the next stop,
not far from the old shop that sells anything and everything.
That old woman is still alive, I thought,
although she had burned several times,
and the Alexandria Library was consumed by a single fire, I thought.
I walked further down the street,
slowly,
so that I could hear the intuition and stimuli of the universe.
Slowly,
as if I were trying to piece together a world, step by step:
a world of people who do not hate,
people connected by a single feeling,
people connected by freedom as a form of artistic expression of life,
without turning it into a circus.
And right now, and today, at a time when even the air is no longer free
it has long been sold in soup bags.
III. Love Beyond Ruin (Dante & Transcendence)
- The Journey Through Three Parts of the Afterlife (both versions)
- Two
The Journey Through Three Parts of the Afterlife
I carefully arrange verses about the love that moves the world
I, Dante
from the precipice of the sky,
from where it is clearly seen that the only thing left to do
is to avoid words where there is silence,
to avoid the lights coming from the center
where no one has kissed anyone for years.
I sense disintegration, and the ruin of everything;
I sense disintegration and the ruin of the world,
and I don’t dare to fall asleep there,
where false lovers of hidden weaknesses,
adulterers and gluttons alternate one after another,
misers and spendthrifts, hypocrites, infidels,
and those who cannot be trusted,
bullies and traitors angry with the sun,
and those who frighten children, birds, and cats.
Unfortunately,
the picture of the earthly world and its corruption
was already painted long ago,
and there would be nothing special in this cage of mine,
if you were not here, my Beatrice,
if you were not in my tranquility.
No one has touched me so deeply,
no one has touched me like you, like your scent,
beautiful sleepy woman, like you in my thoughts,
the woman I love in my cage
from which death is the only way out.
You are my light,
you, beautiful sleepy woman I love,
you are my symbol of mercy and of God’s love,
before whom I have no secrets.
Here we are, at last,
in harmony of motion,
as our souls journey together through the heavens,
in the company of the souls of good and learned people,
and of righteous rulers.
***
TWO
Even in the midst of these dark times,
times of loneliness,
unloved,
forgotten,
left behind...
Even if there is one who would dare,
yet there is no one who would succeed
in forbidding the meeting, to meet the two of them,
to forbid touching, to touch the two of them,
to forbid beauty, to be admired by the two,
to forbid love, to be lived by the two who belong to each other.
Even if there is one who would dare,
yet there is no one who would succeed
in forbidding the two who belong to each other to be one.
***
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