Ljubivoje Ršumovic

JESUS CHRIST FOR ME

Jesus Christ for me Is not a rival
That girl
Who loves us both
Knows how to distribute her gifts
What belongs to God
She gives to me
While what is left goes to Jesus
For that he will not
Slap her face
Or punish her
With icy detachment
Sometimes in the evening
Saint John visits her
And advises her
Not to make new wounds
Upon Jesus' sopl
Saying to her
THAT POET OF YOURS
MAY BE DEPRIVED OF SOUL
I listen to all that Arrogantly forgiving

THE END OF THE CENTURY

The end of the century
Like the end of a winter scarf
Around my neck
For forty years
I've been inventing life
Writing epitaphs to forgetfulness
Now I'm reciting my problem To a wagon-lit waitress She seems confused Wearing my optimism Instead of socks
Fascinated I think While there is that warmth Between her legs No trouble for Serbs
Otherwise I lie whenever I utter a word And I know I will get suffocated On an April day With dewy poetry Written by South Slavs With lime in the moonlight.

MORE AND MORE OFTEN

More and more often Walking down the streets I meet my friends Dead since long ago
Their faces
On other people's heads
Their voices
From other people's mouths
Their ideas
As projections of future
In the hands of utter
Strangers
I flee from my friends
Dead since long ago
In fear
That they might call me by name
That they might invite me
To a drink and chatter
Although I somehow feel
That they still do not recognize me
That I still cannot cope with them
Either for a game
Or for a serious
Literary co-operation

ON A WHITE LEAF

On a white leaf
Of a young birch
I am writing an oath
That I will never again
With my naked soul
Wage war
With windmills
And that I will never be
A guest book
In a senseless meadow
With bullets flying overhead
If I am a madman Let me be a madman With my own people
Serbs are coming out of their homes
Without shutting the doors
And I shut my eyes
In the name of some future
Exits
The future has escaped from us Through carelessly opened Wound upon the heart

ON A CHILDISH QUESTION

On a childish question
When I wrote
My first poem
I respond
I STILL HAVEN'T
BUT I WILL
RIGT NOW I AM WRITING
MY LAST POEMS
THE FIRST ONE WILL BE WRITTEN
IN THE END
The North Star will fall Into my room To light the way To my pen And to melt My self-respect
I will write in a standing position
Like Hemingway
Not because of lumbar
Troubles
But out of sheer
Politeness

Translated by Zoran Paunovic