Ana's Home - Translation

A B R I D G I N G

Gordana Stojkovska

My grandfather, Vlaiko Petar Jovic, an eternal dreamer, a bohemian and certainly one of the best experts on wine-making, my grandfather who had been teaching me from the earliest age to devote plenty of my time to the Romanies because they were the pearls of the world, who loved Grdelica as his own child, my grandfather who threw away his Communist Party membership-card in 1952 considering that it was not what he had been fighting for, my grandfather the atheist who was gladly friends with our priest, his namesake, who looked at his soldiering days with a gloomy look, who never, literally never wanted to satisfy my fantasy telling me heroic stories of how they had pursued the Germans with the 16th. Mayevacka Brigade, my grandfather who even in the moment of death's arrival was faced with the eyes of a man for whom his death was his first killing, some man called Hans, a Bavarian, of whom he claimed had become closer to him during his life than any of his born kin, who said that instead of mythologizing war one should be building, raising bridges among people, to forgive and to forget, otherwise there would be no future, only history would reoccur. I don't want to build, I used to say stubbornly. So build inside yourself, create a bridge between faith and nonfaith, between black and white. Inner bridges are art.

The bridge in Grdelica, we called it Sarajevian because of the Youth Brigade that had worked on it, was inspiration to my childhood, today wrecked by the murderous force of the Beast awoken, it stands now as a monument of inhumanity, monstrosity, pseudo-democracy, a monument to the most innocent victims of quasi-civilization, to the train-travelers who somewhere someone waited for. The bridge in my soul is slowly falling under the pressure of the frightful emotions breaking us: both it and me. What america* and the submissive rabble of their wooers are doing (trying to do) to my country, to my Balkan, to my peoples, is unforgivable. I know, oh I know very well, that I am losing the warm soul of the unchangeable dreamer in case that bridge sinks. Only prayers to God remain, because man has lost his eyes, shut his ears. We are not giving up bridges for they have souls, for they are guardians of love, of the scents of memories.

* In the name of my personal protest against the aggression crumbling down humanity and representing a prophetic apocalypse in the beginning of the 3rd millenium, I write the name of the aggressors with small letters.

instead of a dream

I am abridging a stone bridge
my evil
no-one's good
in blue wraps
of unwoken dawns
I dis-bridge

the arid building
entwined with harshness
out of the eye's deep
suffocating in flash.
Someone is preparing plots
or for a long time already
since timeless times
curses have been killing us
or some power is
breastfeeding unknown people
in eviled stupor (from evil)
even before its first breath
so that it is rocking our sky
this sky of ours
and none other.

Everything has been inscribed
into the stench of the volcanic mouth
procreating
black seed with warmth
raising progeny
in children's wailing
in death's ash-remnants.

I am abridging the lost
with unclear conversations
with lost words
of forgotten origin
in the benumbed light
of posthumous messages
naively
I am looking for a sign of reason
before the final hour.

I pray to time
I swear with the unknown
I trust the unfaithful.
In steel fetters
I feel a thread
of insubmission and salvation
for the last soul
will it be able
will it know how
to cover the light of the dawn
with its thread-bareness
to hide the light of the dawn
approaching quietly
my creation
which I had been building in secret
with a filigree gift
with the vehement skill
of this droughty soul
of insatiable look
and hand of debauchery.

And rots the look
decays and smolders
beneath curses of light-waves
the eyes wander, empty,
above the crossing
whereto
even time, deserted, rushes
to enwing the dove
to undress the night
to give itself to dawn.

Does a storm strike
breast-fed with north
do the mountains rumble
from the depth of the world
or a water burrow
baptized with sky?
Neither a storm
goaded strikes
nor mountains rumble
with the holiness of the depths
nor waters
baptized with sky
burrow my land
wings shot-down
suffering
tear asunder
the silence on the shooting-ground.

deluge

Dreams lurk out for me,
swollen with the cold
of their brother nondreamer.
Soldiers are coming
with claws stretched out
scratching the quotidian
of the thickened (condensed) time
wherein memories
guard the scents
of dry fruit
from the mothers' cupboards.

They dig in me
a serpent-like pit
miners of affliction
out of crevices
immature dreams screech
fed up with a crumble
a lover of the morning
who no-one wants.
The thoughts are escaping
everything mine
on the shooting-ground
in insubmission
foggily it pales
lonely by the pain
of the rotten wings
I dig up myself
and in there
within the warmth of the blood
I was giving birth to the building
and carrying stone
and taming time
and stealing love.

The dream-bearer sleeps
soft is his bed
bloody his pillow.
He has been ticking away for a long time
he is detouring quickly
as if he were judging justly
some debauchee ruler
with spider-web
powerfully
he is fastening the bands
and with his look biting
with hand rejecting
the doom of our time.

My dove is asleep
the bloody betrayal
is singing a lullaby.
The wing does not tremble
so in my hands
liveliness maledicts shallowly
the distances remain
in withered skin
of unborn birds
for them this morning
does not know motherhood.

Let's fly!
Your body
and my thought
one without the other
wanderers of solitude
curse the creation.
Let's shamelessly surrender
let's bow deeply
with the frozen breath
of our insubmission
following us
with limpid dreamvigil.

Let's fly!
In deserted yards
the steps of frostbitten feet
sob
calling their companions
to share the grass
with song to summon
the sleeping flier.
Let's leave to oblivion
the unbloomed field
for not everything born
gives a birth
for not everything bridge-like
abridges.

Let's surmount the heights
because the sky is tempting us
with wondrous passion
of unloved nights.
Sadly roam
in lone anguish
the dishonored lamps
of the sincere leader
of ancient inspirations.

What are wings to death for
each greeting
one ending
each ending
one stone
perhaps the one
tackled in the bridge
of my dream - apparitions.
Let's fly!
Staying quiet compels us
to return
to the unrecognizable one
that used to be ours.

Let's not turn in
on the worn-out divan
beside the aged body
of the eternal mistress
entangled in thorns
of the mane grown gray
by which she timelessly
devours
forlorn dreamers
and their incapacity
with goodness to sense
the value of their births.

We are shivering
the dark waters are crying
scattering the longing
of the dead wings
onto the hungry banks
winds sigh
drops frozen
not to carry dew
to the shooters from the dark.
Landscapes of horrors
shoot forth ashes
death of human hand
sows leaflets of hatred
expects love
threatens smiling.
It demands ransom
for the time
when daybreak
adorns itself for us
when yesterday
sings of joy
for us, unschooled,
for us, weak,
obsessed with pride.

The summer rains
left to themselves
dig up the foundations
with kisses of death
our allies hypocrites
with their own fear
nourish our roots
which do not dry up.

I condemn the fogs
to remain with us
by their clarity
lies not to dawn on us
for we are those
who die life
for we are those
with whom even death
lives dazzled.

Let's fly!
Outgrow the bridges.
Let's leave
the foundations of my
bridged sin
to turbid waters
in fruitless abundance
to gnaw its arches
satiated, to be fed
on their entrails
with the poison of ignorance.
Before the blindness
of the bloody eyes
some see arms
binding banks.
Cousins of misfortune
to peck my mind
because I have been guarding
jealously
in secret
because I have loved
the bridge where it is written
fire
a shot
not the birds flown-by.

Let's fly
my dove!

I have loved
thirsty and craving
every arch
stoned by the thought
which had been a bridging
to the new expanses
to the old encounters.
With a naked body
stone upon stone
only the eyes empty
with the forgotten
habit of sight
I dedicated to the daybreaks
as a welcome
the lighthouse to the forlorn
who are fearing
unknown waters.

Set me as a seal upon your heart,
as a seal upon your arm;
for love is strong as death
jealousy is cruel as the grave.
Love's ardor is like the fiery ardor
and Jehovah's flame.
Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can floods drown it!*

*from the Song of Solomon (8,7)

Down
under the torn-asunder wings
I recognize the old man
who counts the days
with fingers

one forward
two backwards
forward and backwards
nothing aside.

We know each other
everything mine is in him
and he believes
like a pagan profoundly
he believes
with an old man's persistence
he has turned into faith
he swears on faith
justly to judge.
Open your wings
fly up dove!

Marriageable girls cast aside
heal their pain
with sips of hot coffee.
A bit of black
as of truth
buy me oh buy
you old fortune-teller
buy me oh buy
a pack of lies
here is a dinar
buy me some faith

Fly dove!
Wing over the crumbling roofs
Under which yesterday still
farewell kisses
were promising the blue
of the new day
to boys in love.

Battling is a story
for unwoken birds
open your wings
and fly
the heights are your home
while the bridge is my fate.

Fly
lest they would snare us
the turbulent waters
in that timelessness
of others' dreams
when even the night
is not for over-nighting
when even the day
does not want to be-day us.

drought

The old man is counting
with stiff fingers
turning words over
forward one
backwards two
maybe even three
white beard
entangled in the rosary.
Where is the truth?
Patiently he awaits
forward or backwards
from aside
a deceit is lurking
out of time
the hour-glass is empty.

Fly
the numbers are tying
a foe's slip-knot
to still down the power
of the flyer's heart.
Fly
above clouds
heated fingers
are spreading their net
while the voracious Beast is awaiting.

Fly up!
Take my craving
as a quiescent memory
on the wings take
my flight
your way.

The bridge is waiting for me
calling and cursing
its arches are whining
insecurity aches!
Unstone the teeth
and open the eyes
let the silenced heart go
to the flying.
In sorrow I will sink
all your beauty
in deceased water.
I loved you
With a cursed love
I thought you up
in lost thoughts
I tamed you
with bare palms
and I don't want you
fall down!

With the foreboding
of the bloody entrails
I raised you up
though born prematurely
I hid you
from the closest kin
I defied the mourners
and I do not want you
I do not want you to be mine
nor want I to be yours
and I do not want to call you of my own
if I can recognize
footsteps of death on your body
I renounce you
I am liberating you
from my love
fall down.

Down
disenchant
unstone
fall
for my abridging
is not
a polygon for evildoers
who cannot recognize
the expanse of the sky-like eyes.

My bridge
will never be
a dry sepulchre
wherein unwoken dreamers'
dreams agonize
stone upon stone
I will unbridge you
worm-eaten rocks
will remain behind us
fall down
the death of my wants
to be the joy
to little birds unflown
let the unwoken dreamers
spread their wings.
With my pain
I will rock your soul
crush you to dust
suffocate you, poor,
with birds' blood
with unforgiven love
I will bury you
neither alive enough
nor quite dead
so that you may never shoot forth.

Steel birds
with bloody claws
are tearing the sky apart
before its death-rattle.
Their wings are limpid
faces eyeless
and body heartless
The sky is screaming
appalled by scars
the blue is crying
fruitless is their tomorrow.

Fly up you dreamer
your kingdom is up!
Fly
I will not name you
a name is
designating
each sign
has long been sounded
made known
separated of its core
and everything separated
can name itself
with another name as well
Fly
your flight
is my fate.

Before the cracked
walls of my home
powerless and silent
I halt the days
my dream is not
a dreamed legend
about the end of time
named tomorrow
my dream is
a magical word
high
deep
connecting distances
my dream is
a miraculous alphabet
for native souls
who wake up faithfully
to be allayed by a word
to be joined by an utterance.
The obelisk to hoping
a shriek after the end
a sigh before beginning
in the dove's wing
my remembrance crashes down.

Fly
Only spread up
The wing-like fingers
Give yourself up to the sky
glide high
soar above the crossroads
wing over the roaring.

Fly
I am just a shadow
waiting
for the wind of your wings
for the whispering waters
are ripping my breath
twitching from my bosom
progeny awakening
while a drought burns them.

Fly up
my dove!
Hide me
in the shadow
of thy wings!*

* From the Psalms (17, 8)

My waters
will dry up
in the blind look
and what flows
is a dry dryness
long ago I disjointed
the benevolent days
with dryness to dry up.
Thirst is deceit
fly up
before
this morning
unravels the intent
of the wounded soul.

Fly
I am just a key-keeper
without
a lock.
I will spend the night
with a rain of memories
this bridge is
merely a dream
of starving apparitions
a seed
for the warmest fruit
in barren dryland
with fruitless odor.

Flu up
with my own hands
I will lay a bed for you
the palm will
smooth down
with fingers
I will recreate
the nest of your waiting.
The whit dove
will not go astray
in the labyrinth
of inscribed paths
and your devotion.

Let us jump over
this unfamiliar morning
so that others' fears
will not hound us
a dirge is not pain
for the unknown
it is a habit
to sing of what
should ache
the scar is
a home of silence
a roof for the eclipse.

Fly up above
oblivion
above the burnt-out houses
the ash-sites of joy
for one more tomorrow
for the dying day
and fly
beyond every end
a beginning shoots forth.

Dreams are calling me
derisively the sing low
out of the daylight they hop
adjusting their step.
Buy me oh buy me
you old fortune-teller
here is a dime
only buy me
a new lie.

In the glued-up feathers
in the rotting blackness
a crumble of the last bite
is wasting down
the shut beak
depicts the faith
of the dying gleam.
My dove is asleep.
The stony lips
of my bridging
repenting pray
the arches glide by
the darkness is deep
deeper is the silence
of the dying body.

My accursed children
are praying
are offering a ransom
with the dead wings
looking for
a word of repentance
for deliverance
should I believe it
tell me
you who wisely remain quiet
Fly
bloody feathers
sediments on the paths
whose signposts
we knew once
fly
in the rushing water
sprinkle dew on the gazes
and fly
I am just a dried up reed
drifting on the current.
Fly up
my body
is your grounding
echoing ruins
are not home for birds
these cursing arches
are my skeleton
while I am their hinge.
Run away
my dove.

instead of betrayal

frostbitten palms
court
the debauchee skin
shrieking defeated.
The naked senses
recognize the glowing ember
volcanic locks
want to steal away
the touch that awakes
their flaming bodies.
Fly dove
this wild passion
has been predestined to a day
before the hour of birth.
I do not recognize myself
run away
you poor bird
they are hunting bridges
the beast is on the move again
preparing humiliation.
Pure poison and bitterness
the rot of your wings
the pulse of its own passion
danger from the dark
treason is my name
they call me human.

Fly
do not bend down you wings
do not open your eyes
the last instant
is fatally ticking away
escape the ringing
fly up
lie is a word
which they offer love with
the shooting-ground is expanding
food for the evil-doers
blackness for the birds.

Buy me oh buy me
you old fortune-teller
buy me oh buy me
fire for the soul
here is a dinar
buy me good fortune.

instead of love

I paint
the speechless nights
with the solitude
of transient voids.
Trampling my vigil
upon the sacrificial throne
dark instead of death and
it is preparing an offer
an altar-thought
to fertilize the silences
with void.

When you are gone
your wings spread in the wind-bringer
of my sight
I am all love
for abyss is in me
shamelessly loving you
with the power of roiled waters.

And I wait for you to spring
in the whiteness
of sunk heights
in whose transparency
terrified, I am hunting you
like a dying animal
that senses misfortune
and I think I love
when the soft body
dreams of the distance of the untouch
and I think
that I do not love you
while crowned with purity
you envelop my body
with a dreamy look
that is looking for the door
of the forbidden field.

For your seed is
fruitless silence
in the native sounding
of the thought separating us
perhaps I even love you
like a little thief
rejected in days
before this present
when
for love they make him a present
of bombs.

I do not know
if it is love
the boiling liquid
making me conveyant
in your eyes
while virginally unreal
I await for ghastly muteness
where I will courageously
repeat forever
that I do not love the dreams
my building site.

Fly up
my closest one
in a beyond-mind germ
primeval gods
have left an inscription
upon the lake of fortune
so that you raise your home
so that truth would fly
on powerful wings

for the one who comprehends
has wings!*

*From Brahmana

instead of nondream

Open your wings
bridge Shinvat!*
the blade is thin
to the fearless-of-God.
Now I know
after it all
the bridge remains
as a root
to us
to protect us
from unbelief
and oblivion
as a light
to the unfinished utterance
to the ungrasped image
like fire and ice
for thus everything starts
we only recognize
the roots of eternity.

* a legend from Iran: the bridge Shinvat, thin and sharp as a knife-blade, divides the worlds and can be passed only by the faithful and the just.

Fly
truth has always been late
the magical writing
on snowy wings
offers a prophecy
in an accursed age.

Fly
I am an unwilling body
a weary heart.
Undress the gates
in the heights of the world
let the forgotten lock
squeal
because of your chastity.
Fly
on the crossroad
with a prayer
greet us all
who guard bridges
from fire-birds.

Do not look at me
you carry a speck of my kinsmen
in your eyes
I am just a mower
of others' fields
a stiff body
learning about love
by its abridging
my name is a human being
others sully it
but the shame burns
for we are the same race.

Fly up
you bird peacemaker
carry within you
the sparkle of my sight
and high up there
write down my dreams
I love this bridge
other people were the ones who fired.

And ask
up there
somebody there
patiently wait
seek an answer
only he knows
where the naive die
only he knows
to discern
souls turned to stone.
Ask and beg
snowy messenger
how many bridges
does the evildoer need?

The weakened foundation
licks me with derision
around my body
rises up its root.
And on the other side
through the fog of memories
the frostbitten old man
is remodeling our time.
His acquiescent thought
a visible obstacle
uncovering the fog.
I offer him warmth
my sigh is fire
to pull a word out from him
to enrage the eyes.
Who should
judge justly
who would bid fortune
by counting?

Is he my dream
or I am his
unfaithful prayer?

Northern
extinguished leaves
a balm for sunk eyes.
His grievous soul
calms down the innocent swearings
in ice Balkan-like harsh
in fire Slavic-like icy.

Let's separate
my dove
you fly
I will bury my love
in the ruined
I will raise again arches
the softness of the skin
is a stone chain
of my freedom.

Fly
by godfathering
the old man has
marked my home
and I have not any other
for what they are offering me
is a cheap writing
of ill-minded books
of the forthcoming century.
I do not want a new century
if torn apart wings
serve its merriment
I will be abridging this old age
I will be abridging this painful memory
so let them assault.

Fly
leave all behind
there is no she-dove
her wings have been cut
by shots from the sky
this is the end
the last instant
for you to escape
by flying.
Fly up
my hope
the old man guards me
he persistently counts
freezes his blood
turns forward into backwards
dis-days the day with numbers
chases away illusions.
Perhaps he is my prayer
and I am his nightmare dream.

instead of a prayer

O that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest!*
My dove is asleep
is the undream the strength
keeping it there
the heights are shaking
as if they were
never ours.
How can I beg you
say the name of the word
chosen for flight
a farewell greeting.
Wake up
my dove
the shooting ground is not a home
death is not the last flight
beyond the heights call up
beyond treasons die
all the evil gone.

* From the Psalms (55, 6)

Get up my dove
the bridge is my destiny
terror is my bread
your flight is thirst
fly up
escape this morning
because it carries a bloody threat
the lethal birds will begin roaring
the wounded heights will begin crying
run away you peacemaker.
Forget the waters
baptized with peace
in the reflection love
drawn by the beak
for the white she-dove
sworn on the age.
Oh, if I had wings
I would tame down
the roiling waters
with the blueness from the bottom
I would sprinkle your eyes
so that you come back to life
rise aloft from the bridge
leave me defiant
to guard my abridging
with beauty.

You are asleep
a strange dream
has laid on your eyes
I prepare a prayer
or that wailing
resembles a prayer
all mine
is abridged
and I am not letting anyone
ruin my dreams
all mine
in this bridge lives
and I do not let anyone
sully my children.

Buy me oh buy me
you old fortune-teller
buy me oh buy me
one tiny little lie
here is a dinar
buy yourself good fortune.

My dove is asleep
shady is its bed
my arm unfaithful.

The old one counts
gently measures
the thickness of the water
where his eyes are flowing.
Perhaps this exhausted soul
old
would reach the truth
by your flight
only get up
just turn toward the sky
perhaps the counting would cease
a sign of equivalence
between the past days
and the ones not counted up
carried only by birds
in the flight of life.

The evil-mouthed fly over
the stone bridge
they boast with beauty
and bring us death.
My arms turned into
empty embraces
the disobedient eyes
wanderers beggars
not begging for joy
but cursing people
for they afflict birds
for they hate bridges
who knows
perhaps they are my penance
and I am their final day.

Gordana Stojkovska was born in Grdelica, Yugoslavia, in 1961. Lacking any other ideas, while with a Slavic-Balkan tendency toward opposing political options, blurs, limitations and perfidies, she has dedicated her life to art, one of the rare activities where one can remain a human being, altering the rule of Homo homini lupus est into the rule Homo homini homo est.

Gordana Stojkovska is the author of the following books:

1. Noctambulissmus-Northern Wandering: poetical writings, 1989.
2. In-Between: poetical writings, 1990.
3. Dreamiad: a collection of short stories. 1991.
4. "...": a novel, 1994.
5. The Color of the Timeless: a novel, 1996
6. Abridging: a long poem, 1999.

Gordana Stojkovska has also written several children's TV plays and series filmed for the Macedonian Radio-Television; she is a translator and a literary critic as well. Her interest in the realm of scientific activities is directed toward Slavic-Balkan mythologies. The novel The Color of the Timeless has been translated into Russian and Serbian, while fragments of her work have been published in Belarussian, Bulgarian, Polish, Italian, French and English.

Gordana Stojkovksa is the President of Literary Youth of Macedonia.

I N S T E A D

I had the chance to write this afterward before. Namely, I held this book in my hands last summer, when we were travelling with Gordana Stojkovska on route from Struga to Skopje returning together from the Struga Poetry Evenings. Even though we were not regular participants, we popped in for the day, just to see what was going on there. During our return, as if offering me a glass of juice, she offered me her writing; certainly it was difficult to read her long poem on a crowded coach; yet I knew that it was important to do exactly so. It is easy to do easy things; one has to try to do what is impossible, because it is exactly what defines the human being as a being in longing. I think that that is one of the most precise definitions of man. The longing had been, let us remember, Konstantin Miladinov's basic motive when he was writing his anthological poem to the South. Or, the nostalgia for the absolute had been the only longing of Camus' characters.

Certainly I could not have predicted then that destiny would play with exactly that this book and that soon it would pronounce it reality; that it would allow it to become a sad monument to our historical context. When reading this poem I didn't have the context, I had the text. Now, unfortunately, I have a context, so that the text has become just a sad witness to the context which is emitted each day in the mode of semiotic exclusivities: a mass of ruins and a mass of human bodies on the TV screens. When I was reading this long poem about the bridge and the abridging, I couldn't have supposed that one day I would have to sit down and write an afterward about the reality. I usually had to write afterwards for books and that is not a God-knows-how difficult task; the books are, as narratologists like Philip Amon say, populated with paper beings, or people with paper entrails. However, already for more than a month, as a Macedonian writer, I have been seeing blood from the entrails of the living people, and I cannot say if the characters of Gordana Stojkovska's poem have jumped into our Balkan reality, or our reality has populated their entrails. Today I am not capable, despite all the qualifications I hold as a historian and theorist of literature, as a docent at the Philological Faculty, with my only profession - literature, as a writer who is not quite anonymous in Macedonian literature (which Gordana Stojkovska contributed to with her short stories and poetry) - I am not capable of approaching her work theoretically. Because theory becomes irony when reality is in question. To be a theorist in conditions where someone bombs in order to provide peace (about this classical philosophical contradiction Nikola Milosevic has written excellent tractates: to strive toward the sublime goal by inconceivable, violent means), that means to interpret with cold medical vocabulary the clinical picture of death and its symptoms while upon your hands a Man is dying.

I want to say that Gordana Stojkovska wrote the poem about the bridge before the Westerners, with the aid of their poor young myths (about hamburger, Coca-Cola and John Wayne), started ruining the bridges of the ones who long before them had had the mythology of Perun, Leda, Svatovid, and who were writing and painting icons even in the 9th. and 10th. centuries. We all know when America was discovered. We all know that we are older. Yet that is the reality: it does not admit rights and justice.

For the first time in my career I refuse to speak with the language of literary theory, with the language of exegesis, with the language of an expert of literature. For the first time I am writing a late afterward. For the first time I comprehend that reality wrote the afterward, since it avoided me, since I, as many other intellectuals in the Balkans, overslept it. Reality said what it had to say, this book is truth. It is truth because it concluded:

Everything has been inscribed
into the stench of the volcanic mouth
procreating
black seed with warmth
raising progeny
in children's wailing
in death's ash-remnants.

It is true because the author wishes a Deluge, the beautiful second part of the poem, where again in accord to the parameters of reality, literature, our dark pessimistic fiction turns into a frightful reality:

Battling is a story
for unwoken birds
open your wings
and fly
the heights are your home
while the bridge is my fate.

In the third part Stojkovksa desires the Draught. In this gloomy poem (in the bus, while reading the text and missing the context, I knew about the word gloomy, although I had read Michel Foucault and I knew that objects differ from words) Stojkovska desired her bridge crashed down! And then, after damnation, she built up the verses with maternal love:

Instead of a Nightmare is the following part of this poem. It is a poem about buying luck, good fortune, happiness. An infantilized condition gains the status of a refrain in the whole long poem: it is a childish wish to have impact on reality by the means of magical formulae

Buy me oh buy me
you old fortune-teller
buy me oh buy me
fire for the soul
here is a dinar
bye me good fortune.

Until the end of the poem, when a chain of apocalyptic semema0symbols is created (deluge-draught-treason), in the style of the postmodern simulacra, Stojkovska sings out two more crescendos: Instead of Love and Instead of a Prayer. That instead of is a clear marker of the simulacrum. The identity, in Postmodern style, is dead: we are instead of, we are signs (for even in the most productive and the least totalitarian semiotics of Pierce's kind the sign stands instead of the referent). We are perhaps also the sign that Yugoslavian citizens carry upon their hearts or heads, we are instead of a mark. We are instead of a target. In the same manner this text stands instead of an afterward.

With its intertextual references (the Iran legend about a bridge, the figure of the dove out of the Bible, a signal obviously gaining at present the reality of the referent in shape of a badge-target: Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death), the poem should have been another of the shining paper miracles of the Postmodern and the quotation-theory. But something strange happened: literature came to life. The Postmodernism became realism.

I will rush forward, in the style of a Postmodern intellectual, to state: it is not my responsibility! I have no words of my own. I am a quotation. I am the Other.

And whose responsibility is it then?

That is why I am finishing this text now. I wrote an afterward to reality. That reality whose precognition was Gordana Stojkovska's literary work. Obviously, we were not reading it carefully. We did not understand her precognition. Who knows if the author knew that she had written something that would follow. The future: here and now.

I remain in debt to you and to this book. I owe you an afterward to this book. I will write it when the Balkan war ends.

I wish someone would knock on my door tomorrow. To ask for a real afterward.

Venko Andonovski

07/06/1999
Translation: Ana Pejcinova