Igor Pop Trajkov

 

Igor Pop Trajkov

 

 

Moon

 

... is reflected in the sinkhole near

my home located. In the old

house I live in, next to the city park;

all the moisture from the city in this

place gathered. How am I to e-

nounce about this weird place,

my habitat, or destiny,

or expression of my spirituality

unstable. Covered in the bed

(which is actually sofa) I lie,

I hear the rain from the window

how it hits and drips; tired

I am opening my soul in front myself,

because I have nobody else. Clearly

I am still aware that

like this it will last until the end, this life

of mine sterilized, tied to

this bed improvised. I have

no one, and as so it should have

been. I have myself, nobody I

liked. In vain I speak ascended,

I have (when I have) only bodily pleasure.

This contagious ascension heartlessly

has been transmitted to me. You are like that too

like me, aware that I have you,

because you have me too. Otherwise

constantly I do not have. I live since I cannot

quit myself. I'm starving also

while feeding myself, because I know I al-

ways do not have. So and now I'm thinking

of you, right, even though you are dead, but

for me always so alive. One thing

is to have nothing, other nobody.

And you are like me,

I know I have you though

I have nothing. I had you when you were

alive and now when you are dead.

While raining you were coming to me

always, to be my victim.

Never to my karma,

but to my curse - misfortune

immeasurable. She was very cautious

with the crystal in the furniture, as well as important

as a teenager danced not enough on

midnight party. I now know that not

the same to you is about everything, as it was not

the same to me. You are getting clos-

er to me while sitting on the sofa

and some reproductions of paintings

we were looking. I know you loved

those moments my dear, as well

I loved you and your closeness.

We had mutual respect, exactly

because it was not all the same to us. We wanted

the rain never to stop and we looked at each other

ascended. We wanted to continue

with our dull existence,

since to both of us is not the same.

Now too I know it's not the same to you, so in the past

tense I do not speak. As if you are still

alive, for me. Close to the window I am ap-

proaching. I feel like flying over,

not getting out of bed. Towards the day

gray and beautiful I am looking. Every woe

by the rain is suffocated. I feel

a muffled cry in my soul. As it

was yesterday when you called me that

you are sick and that soon you'll

leave me. But exactly from that

I knew you would never leave,

because you called only me.

You were my only soul, as

I was for you. And you are of my

kind, I know I have you, and now when

I have you dead. You are unique, you

are not anything; I know I'm the same

for you. As now, we were standing by the window

and we could watch the gray lake in the park.

I was everything to you and you were my only one,

we had that sight - reduced beauty.

I know there was never for us

anyone to say something, but so

we wanted. We hated the creepy world

together, that surrounds us. Each of us

deserved more, but not here!

I feel we are connected even now,

although from different worlds: male

and female equal to death and life.

You are lying now in the park lake; too heavy

nightly thoughts in it are gathered. And you are

shining in the underwater night, because you are

moon. I can really see

that your dead body is soaking in those waters

so cold of that lake. Moon- your

skin immersed in its whiteness.

 

 

 

Forever Free

 

The cold wave carried me away,

as if on the aspiration side

wanted to transfer me.

I swam in that cold water

only darkness around me,

but also the reflection of the stars and all

nebulas and space creatures

are in the density of the inky

gamut of the night, sticky and tender.

On the other side I wanted to be

conveyed, from the millennial war

to exit, and enter into that

in which the bay is protected by a bell

of crystal, celestial reflection of

our being before all beings

protection, of our dear God suite.

The bay here aside us, in the har-

bor of our arrivals - as well

of our comrades` knightly comings -

was waiting for us naively, that drunken baby,

for our secular feasting ...

The childless awakening, the barren existence,

dirty smoke created and the existence of

the bay hid; instead heroes

vultures were attracted... But here I am

I immersed in the waters of salvation while

no one from the vulture guard was watching me

and I swam to the side of no-deception.

The cold water on my shoulders,

of the good-bad exchange game, slips

on my forehead, on my temples now stiffed

escaping from the abyss of from the swearing future.

My hair is mixed with the density of the clear

spring in the filling of the well; so that

I can arrive on the other side and I believe

that I will be there forever because I am not slave.

 

 

 

Liquidation

Dedicated To The Memory Of The Journalist Nikola Mladenov

 

In some present times how much you are worth

is as human important.

In some past but present times 

what membership card you have...

 

When he went to work he did not think,

and he even couldn't be thinking

nor guessing

that it will be his last day here.

He was taken away with a kind of bigger

limousine to the viewpoint above the city

around midnight

where they told him they would release him immediately

if he takes a slimy, mushy cream...

Under the effect of this substance

these 2 seemed even stranger to him

they both brought him in leather jackets

with the car in which they smoked while driving.

And so the day here became distant,

he had not received a salary for years

even though he went to work every day.

And then after 2-3 years those same 2

appeared at his workplace, took him-

as they did not lose him out of sight all that time, not for a moment.

Quite kindly driving, they stopped at the viewpoint,

all 3 got out of the car

and they both killed the 1.

 

TRANSLATED & VERSIFIED FROM MACEDONIAN INTO ENGLISH BY THE AUTHOR

 

IGOR POP TRAJKOV

 

IGOR POP TRAJKOV is one of the most productive authors in the region of South-East Europe, not just in North Macedonia. His literary works include all kinds of texts, like theater works, prose, poetry, essays, columns, journalism and reviews. He wrote a lot of theory which he published at the prestigious foreign universities and institutes. The works of this author were translated on many languages. He is currently working on his PhD in Cultural Studies at the Institute of Macedonian Literature. Igor Pop Trajkov is also renowned visual artist, designer and film director.