{"id":444,"date":"2015-05-28T08:00:32","date_gmt":"2015-05-28T06:00:32","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/?p=444"},"modified":"2018-10-11T19:54:57","modified_gmt":"2018-10-11T17:54:57","slug":"poems-by-miljan-micakovic","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/2015\/05\/poems-by-miljan-micakovic\/","title":{"rendered":"Poems by Miljan Micakovic"},"content":{"rendered":"

Image<\/strong>: The Red Horseman, \u00a9 Carlo Carr\u00e0. Image available here<\/a>.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

Author: <\/strong>Miljan Micakovic<\/p>\n

Poems<\/strong><\/p>\n

Under the Olive Tree<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 (After Babel\u2019s rabbi Osii)<\/p>\n

My life earned treasure offered to my sons,
\nHopes and fears invade my weary mind,
\nWill I see their success while turning blind?
\nBetrayed, shunned, and burnt solely by my suns?<\/p>\n

A passionate heart to my woman I gave.
\nNot only wife, nor life-long living friend,
\nShe pumped, for I survived until the end.
\nHow I could be the man I am so brave?<\/p>\n

To you my Faith, my Hopes, Oh, all have gone.
\nAlthough I called; Although I\u2019d almost lost\u2026
\nI wrongly wondered God, you wouldn\u2019t spawn.<\/p>\n

The soil that raised, the state that brought me up,
\nI served, I paid for rights and liberty.
\nI own myself and drink in my own cup.<\/p>\n

All of this, All around; I won\u2019t be free.
\nI\u2019ve just a place under an olive tree.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Red Blacks<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Taken, broken, chased, beaten
\nSold, bought, traded, whipped,
\nRaped, killed, bred, shipped,<\/p>\n

Betrayed, burnt, shut, stolen,
\nJudged, used, kept, crushed,
\nShot, locked, hit, robbed,<\/p>\n

Lynched, arrested, sent, shaken
\nStripped, accused, mocked, mobbed,
\nBent, corrupted, tricked, fucked,<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And lived.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

The English Professor<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (For Digby Thomas)<\/p>\n

Neat and clean, a handsome bear.
\nArrived on time, and set his mind.
\nPlain and strong was his speech,
\nwhile standing fierce and bound
\nto the ground, to the stage of sounds.<\/p>\n

Not a word too fast, not a sign too loose,
\nHe could whisper, yet all was bold.
\nEven silence made us change our thought.<\/p>\n

And yet, the awful end had to come,
\nShrill ringing made him stop;
\nHis eyes fixed, and ready to leave,
\nWhile we always longed for more.<\/p>\n

\n

Rhetoric<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Nothing has to do with being right;
\nNeither you nor I decide it.
\nWhat then does set the light?
\nAsking questions, watching not to spit?<\/p>\n

Damn those Greeks, giving their ????,
\nDrinking wine; inventors of the lounge
\nWhere the laziest and cruellest drinks vodka,
\nTasteless, hollow fluid, making you scrounge.<\/p>\n

Then fights, so proud of his moves,
\nleaving the victim, living the dream,
\nMarching like a needle in the grooves,
\nAs sweet as taking a child\u2019s ice-cream.<\/p>\n

The birth, the child, the parents behind them,
\nAll know there\u2019s something out of rhetoric\u2019s stem.<\/p>\n

\n

The Student at the Window<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

She had a pale face, blond hair;
\nSitting, she looked at the bad weather,
\nDespite the rain, she offered a glare.<\/p>\n

It was as strong as her will,
\n\u2018Cause she wanted a day without rain,
\nMovement without sound, light in her heart.<\/p>\n

Then, slowly, the dark clouds disappeared,
\nAnd her face became warm,
\nAnd like the dawn her hair was shining.<\/p>\n

\n

A Humiliation<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Let him beat the shit out of me,
\nPut me in his mould of depravation
\nAnd I, barely breathing under his fists,
\nwill only passively face my injury.<\/p>\n

Let him command and rule all the space,
\nPour concrete on my bare skin,
\nA raging glare writing his strength,
\nwhile I offer my face, a white page.<\/p>\n

Let him set dawn, dusk, light, and darkness,
\nCrease my skin with his red eraser,
\nDecide my wakening, the last beam of light,
\nI\u2019ll wander, yet with no feet under my head.<\/p>\n

For I do not abide by time and space,
\nMy only kin is the metal of a Calder.<\/p>\n

\n

Eye Contact<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

How interestingly walking down the streets
\nBrings nothing but a constant breeze,
\nPeople, wind, pass by looking away,
\nYet near and firm around your gaze.<\/p>\n

All the sudden, as your eye beams
\nA darker shade, a black hollow ring
\nAround its frame, All the sudden,
\nStraight as thunder does everyone glare.<\/p>\n

There true faces, such glimmering balls,
\nBouncing from side to side, Breaking
\nThe shimmering glass of indifference,
\nThe distance that makes us individuals.<\/p>\n

No longer every move blows its air,
\nBut all is centred on our share.<\/p>\n

\n

Computer Writing (more or less)<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Typing, typing down the screen,
\nFingers push not an inch of ink.
\nWords are formed, regular and bold,
\nBut who\u2019ll give them a soul?<\/p>\n

I see, you sit, proud of your bright,
\nShining fruit, proud of nothing else,
\nBut sharing a common, colourless tool.
\nAre you only a shape in the mist?<\/p>\n

When at school, your small lines desired,
\nRound and straight, folded with your art,
\nSuch unique were these tiny scribbles,
\nWere you ashamed, or else betrayed?<\/p>\n

No led, no screen will belong to you,
\nWhile you vanish under the computer writing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Image: The Red Horseman, \u00a9 Carlo Carr\u00e0. Image available here. Author: Miljan Micakovic Poems Under the Olive Tree \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 (After Babel\u2019s rabbi Osii) My life earned treasure offered to my sons, Hopes and fears invade my weary mind, Will I see their success while turning blind? Betrayed, shunned, and burnt solely by my suns? […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1001006,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_seopress_robots_primary_cat":"","_seopress_titles_title":"","_seopress_titles_desc":"","_seopress_robots_index":"","footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[50],"tags":[36],"class_list":{"0":"post-444","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-summer15","7":"tag-poetry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/444","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1001006"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=444"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/444\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=444"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=444"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=444"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}