Valentina Novković

His home

In front of the church of Saint Nicholas, 

the crows show their superiority

over a wounded dove. 

I approach armed with a sense of justice and

I’m chasing crows.

The dove, although frightened,

approaches on its own, 

barely waddling, 

he rests his beak on my palm

and I become aware: 

the Holy Spirit never knocks, 

his home is in hearts full of love.

Trick of the times

She enters abruptly,

she does not recognize

peace and a glass of wine

on the table, 

she is not bothered by pencils

and chocolate paper

on which I wrote that the wind

no longer loves me.

She is sitting on a wool carpet

with drawn laughter on the 

third fringe, 

she doesn’t care what the angry crows

will say because the sun

is setting earlier.

They won’t know that I learned

the laughter of owls and the anger

of squirrels when they quarrel over

the same hollow in the tree.

All that I am, 

is waiting to be written

on the bark of a hundred-year-old tree

for the memory of those

who live from the present, 

just as I live from our love.

Which enters everywhere

without knowing

the tricks of the times.

While God listens

There is something devastating in

the smile of a day 

that carries hunger 

and prayer on the same shoulder.

In it, an old woman with daisies

and a primrose prays for

a lump of survival,

folds of grace in the palm

of your hand.

The world has the claws

of the wounded

swan and the smell of joy

in the eyes of children

that no one was able to pamper.

He has us with invisible ink

we spell new ways

agreements between

willows and water lilies.

While the Lord listens.

Gloves

(To B, my mother)

Mother, 

you’ve been planting violets

and wild strawberries for too long, 

but I can’t smell them

from spring to spring. 

You promised me that

one sunny summer we would go

on a journey to dreams, 

we would laugh at the foxes

and wolves who forgot about

the primal hungers.

We will take birch sticks

and use them to make houses

for birds that will not fly south

this year.

Mother, the clouds resemble the donuts

you made for me on those evenings

when the wind would bypass our home, 

the clouds also resemble the frequent moments

of happiness that you were able

to weave into my braids, 

saying how warriors hide weaknesses

in their dreams. 

When I stare at the stars long enough,

mother, 

I see a ball of wool

with which you will knit me gloves

for every winter that

separates me from you.

Short Biography

Valentina Novković, (Serbia) graduate philologist, literary translator, poet and prose writer. Editor at the publishing house Liberland Art and Vračar, translator of works by Russian- and English-speaking authors. Her verses have been translated into 22 languages, she is the winner of many prizes for poetry and prose, she is represented in more than 20 world anthologies. Editor and presenter of the Literary Conversations program. 

She translated into Serbian 15 books by authors from all over the world: Leo Butnaru, Arslan Bajir, Hosiat Rustamova, Kuchkor Narkabil, Mai Van Fan, Eduard Harents, Rahim Karimov, Ali Aliyev and many others… She interviewed more than 200 authors from of the rural world and they were published in relevant periodicals in Serbia. More than 300 poems and stories by authors from all over the world have been published in Serbian literary magazines, and an anthology in which these authors will be represented is being prepared.

Published books: 

Timeless, 2014, poems, 

Drop on dry land, 2018. Parthenon, 

Riddles of tenderness Liberland Art, 2021, 

Heavenly songs, Ace publishing house, 2022, 

Unrest, peace, 2023,

Two hours of real life, 2020, stories

Memories, 2024, a novel dedicated to her deceased father.