Ne mislim ja da sam pesnik. Niti mislim da umem da napišem nešto i da to bude

Pesma

Znam da znam sta osećam, kad šetam obalom reke - obično mi tad i proradi sevdah. Kad osetim miris vode.

Moraću jedared da naučim i da plivam... Pa da Vam i otplivam nešto...

U vremenu Velikog Ludila, u kome vladaju jahači Kurta i Murta, i u kome mi svi znamo svoja Prava i svako od nas ima svoje Mišljenje, a ne znamo ko stanuje ispod nas i telefonom čestitamo slavu jedni drugima, mislim da nije neki greh pisati loše pesme.

Na kraju krajeva, što bih se mučio da pišem dobre... Jer i da su dobre, ne znam da li bih znao kad su dobre. Kao mudrost - kad pomisliš za sebe da si pametan il' mudar, to je kao kad malo jače stisneš sapun. Isklizne ti iz ruke - sve ima svoju granicu.

Kao i Vaše strpljenje, predpostavljam...

Odkud

- mom prijatelju i gospodinu Slobodanu Amanoviću, slikaru iz Knina -

odkud tako malo
mira u tišini
istine u rečima
razloga u pravdi

igram se rečima
kao ljudima

a ima raznih

nedostaje smeha u šali
nedostaje razgovora u pričanju

i sve je manje
vazduha u vetru
sto je više prašine u grlu

i oni koji znaju
valjda neće da kažu
da li su to ostale samo kuće
ili su samo otišli ljudi

ne bi se trebalo igrati rečima
kao ljudima

(i ne ljutiš se za ono)
šesta lička preko okučana?
šta ćeš
- volimo da jedemo meso
(a ne volimo da vidimo krv)

mada mora da je teško kad stigneš
na cilj
i vidiš da si na pola puta
moj druže Kameni
peče jezik plameni...

dok padaju planine
i uzdah je kao pesma
a plač kao rima

Nepoljubljenoj dragoj

- polovna pesma -

ne može se biti slobodan
i biti srećan
i svaki cilj
čeka
nekog ko traži
cilj

a lutaju
opijeni
razbuktanom željom
i iscrpljeni od strasti
beže
od svog prvog ja

ne može se biti
slobodan
i biti ja

I don't think I am a poet. Nor do I think that I can write anything like a

Poem

But I do know what I feel when I walk by the river - that's when I get emotional. When I feel the smell of water.

I really ought to learn to swim some day... then I might swim something for you...

In this TimeOfMadness, when Mr. BadAndVicious and Mr. ViciousAndBad are making the world go around, when everyone knows their Rights and has an Opinion of their own, but has no idea who lives next door, and wish 'manny happy returns of the day' by phone, I don't think it's a sin to write poor poems.

Besides, why should I bother to write good poems... Would I know if they were good?

Like wisdom - when you think to yourself how clever and wise you are, it's like squeezing the soap a little stronger. It slips from your fingers - everything has its limits

Like your patience, I suppose...

Whence

- to my friend, Mr. Slobodan Amanovic,a painter from Knin -

whence so little
peace in silence
truth in words
reasons in justice

I toy with words
as with people

and there's all sorts

laughter is missing from the joke
talk falls short of communication

and there's less and less air
in the wind
as the dust chokes the throat

and those who know
don't seem to want to say
have the houses been forsaken
or it's just that people have left

shouldn't toy with words
as with people

humanitarian aid?
welcome to the real world
my friend
we like to eat meat
(but we don't like to see the blood)

although it must be hard to reach
the end
and find you're only half way through

my friend MadeOfStones
flaming tongues crash the bones

while the mountains fall
sigh like a poem
cry like a rhyme

To my unkissed darling...

- second hand poem -

cannot be free and be happy
there's a meaning
if you're looking
for a meaning

and they wander
intoxicated
by blazing desire
and spent with passion
they fly
from their primal ego

cannot be free
and be Me