By Nikola Madzirov
Open one eye only —
the horizon is in the closed eye.
Open the seashell —
no solitude will escape.
The stones on the riverbed drink up time,
the dead fish swim towards the sun.
Open one eye only.
The world is a young tree on a building site,
windows are rivers of our uncertainty.
Open the sky.
In my hands I keep a home —
a prayer room in a hospital garden.
Translated by Sasha Dugdale and the author
OKOTO
Отвори го едното око —
хоризонтот е во затвореното.
Отвори ја школката —
осаменоста нема да избега.
Камењата на дното го пијат времето,
мртвите риби пливаат кон сонцето.
Отвори го едното око.
Светот е младо дрво на градилиште,
прозорците се реки на нашата несигурност.
Отвори го небото.
Во дланките чувам дом —
соба за молитви во болнички двор.
The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process
What cannot be told by silence or darkness, is said by words or images. The responsibility of the poet is to answer the “official” histories, whether in a way of emotional reviewing of the history books or constructing a personal history which starts not at the day of the birth, but at the day when the artist starts to remember. The poet has to be strong enough in order to outline a distinctive border between history and remembrance, just as it is necessary for the poet to make a distinction between lie and imagination, or between global and universal, as global is more of a geographical category, while universality is humane and temporal.
What was the inspiration for your creative work?
The light that was silently entering my hospital room like a bird made of paper and of hopes.
Tell us something about the natural world that you love and don’t wish to lose. What are your thoughts on the kind of world we are leaving for the next generation?
The city is our imposed nature, a new forest that does not bear fruit, a polygon of our mythical childhood and a mausoleum of all particular hopes and ambitions. Even today, if I throw down the toys that are still kept in a carton box from a used television set, I could construct a city with all its elements that keep it alive - small "police" cars, traffic lights, train station, a small house with a yard and a dog near the wooden fence. The city of adults is predictable and large — just large enough to trigger the children's urge for reconstruction and harmony.
Therefore, I am not sure whether I belong to my birth city that is a manifestation of some geographical constant or of a cultural variable. When I was a child, by the principle of semiotic reduction, my parents first taught me to pronounce the name of my street and house number so that if I lost myself in the womb of the city I would be able to tell people where I live. At that time the name of my city was not important at all. But then in my first journey outside the city, in my suitcase I placed all local legends and stories that are deeply connected with its presence in the atlases of collective memory. Such a city of the past does not ever sleep. Even in the densest darkness, when there is no harvest moon, when there is no reflection of the snow, it is open for new inhabitants that never carry a key with them. It has always been my notion that new cities are born where streetlights begin. I could imagine each measurable space sink in the dark, even my room, but never the city. Streetlights enabled me to see what was on earth, but never what was in the sky. When all the lights are extinguished at the same time like candles from a birthday cake, then the center and the ghetto become one. At the end of that light, the streets of longing for new paths begin. I have so many birthplaces; I wish I had as many places to die.
