WHILE WAITED FOR LOVE
From the willows a snort
A wild duck in the sky
Oh, how it breaks the silence of the night
Her snort and the hunter’s bullet
Biography:
Slavica Blagojević (artistic name Anisija Crepović),
lives in Mala Sveta Gora Leštijanska – the village of Lešje in Serbia.
He has been writing and publishing poetry since he was seven years old. And he publishes in the newspaper “Novi Popovac” of the cement factory from the first grade of primary school, then in the children’s magazines Kekec and Politikin Zabavnik, where he receives awards and poetry and art works and fashion creations. He is a member of the Association of Journalists of Serbia, The Association of Journalists of The Daily Global Nation Dhaka, Bangladesh . Association of Writers of Serbia. Association of Serbian Poets of Slovenia, member of the Cultural Center “Ćirilica”, Haiđina of Serbia and Montenegro”. President – Literary community – Artist’s settlement “Leštijanska pustinja”, Lesje and director of the event “Petrus – artists’ residence since 2004”, Lesje.
Association of Writers of Serbia. Association of Serbian Poets of Slovenia, member of the Cultural Center Editor-in-chief and publisher of the international electronic magazine for language, literature and culture “petruška-nastamba”. Editor of Prodigy magazine in Arizona. Contributor to “Nevskaya formula” magazine, St. Petersburg, Russia. In 2004, in the center of Serbian medieval culture and spirituality at the “Pokrov Presveta Bogorodica” monastery, she founded the monastery library with monks and Serbian writers “Venedikt and Anisija Crepović”.
He is the winner of the “Golden Feather of Russia”, Moscow 2022. And other first and significant awards in Serbia, Yugoslavia and the world. In 2021, she was named the most influential woman in the world by the world’s largest literary organization, Writers Capital Foundation, India. Ambassador of Peace and Culture; Honorary Doctorate Degree dr Anisija Crepović granted by Prodigy life Akademy US for extraordinary achievements in literature as an AMBASSADOR for Serbia&Russia, Union Mondial de escritores E Artistas Word Union of Writers and Artist Ambasador – Portugalia. EuroWoman “Efimija”, Belgrade. Ambassador of IFCH in Morocco, for Serbia.
Academician of the International Academy of Ethics – India.
MY NEST IS STONY GROUND
The Prophet Bird’s fledgling in Jerusalem
Lying on the breast of the Mlekopitateljnica
I’m untying my spilt hunger
moving around the area of evil times
flying with the Kobj bird.
I watched the Saints weeping.
Your Motherhood
poured out from a branch of your blood
– from your milk, your youth awakened.
One by one, the pebbles slip out of hands
and in your belly, the sin breathes.
Crossroads and roads became monks
put out of the children’s sight
his face so mild; the facial features came together
and became mislaid a bit
Mlekopitateljnica, unaware that she is
being watched,
staring at her
suddenly old face, all the centuries
limited by the human kind.
Between buttercup flower and stone
over there, perhaps I could call that home,
I will bury my senses in the smell of milk tears and I will scatter
the yellow light over the land.
Full of hope, the eyes are seeking for Christ
among the warriors.
Bending the knee; I grasp that chanting of prayers, that
soothing breath of the wounded,
homeless in their own country
that image of the voice, of the voice that reflects, in the soil, the source in the soil.
Soon, both the dead and the living will awake before the Almighty:
home, who would not like to return there, a door to open
suddenly
the wick covered in oil, and twisted like a weasel’s tail
in the dark, so that a drop of tallow runs down from the foot
and confirm that there is the floor there –
the red lamp to shine, and the upper bread crust
the nest, built on rocky ground, started to glow atop the hill.
The skin of her breast like a silken cocoon, removes my tongue
and plants it in the rose garden, where she goes and sings at night, in the Aspalad bushes.
The bloody wars are fought, there are pastures and rusted gates that, cracked, open with a squeak
to the lands of the New Days and the ominous call of the bird,
they lie in the middle of the meadows
in the dark roots of the World, kissing
the Christ’s firefly upon His foot.
Poem translated by: A.Hejcman
FOREST NOISE
In carts of yellow cherries
looking for you;
in cards a gypsy nomadic with a piece of warm
bread taken from the extinguished coals.
I throw it into her black palm that smells like soap and day ripe yellow cherries and a full month in present.
At the edge of the forest;
a silk shawl and a smoky tent are spread,
in the wildflowers a gypsy oath in your basket.
With a shooting star under the bangs on my forehead
tousled hair
full voice;
I sing to you in full voice in the mountain alleys
from my gatehouse to the edge of the forest;
from afar the wind will whistle through
broken windows;
– let the devil carry the gatehouse and two stone steps, where, probably, it is buried
with dirt under the nails, smeared with clay
knee-deep…
I walk through the dark red fire of spreading branches
yellow cherries,behind a curse to give birth to you; the smell of a new forest,
wet dusty road … on a silk shawl,
horses in the shade
whip on fire, wagon from the bark of a tree,
under the whistle of a toothy koshava
Oh look at me in the woods in the midnight
when the yellow cherry in me wakes the woman up!
Find my black eyes at midnight.
Swollen above the breast like a white mare,
pull the bow of my thigh and sell the best horse.
Happy are we to gather in smoky tents
the dusty way of a falling star.
Widows – let’s go crazy, let’s fight
with bloody knives:
in the summer night wind
in the smell of fire and forest
under the howling of a toothy koshava
take off my earrings … throw me naked into the fire
to give birth to a violin song and explode wildly
for the gypsy oath.
With the tenderness of my hands I will turn into a tree,
black, like the black woman drawn in charcoal at the intersection.
Even the leaf does not tremble
big white birches stood shyly by the waves
concrete dam.
A hedgehog will slip along the river bank with his goods.
The escaped horse carries the noise of the forest
on its hooves.
FOREST NOISE
In carts of yellow cherries
looking for you;
in cards a gypsy nomadic with a piece of warm
bread taken from the extinguished coals.
I throw it into her black palm that smells like soap and day ripe yellow cherries and a full month in present.
At the edge of the forest;
a silk shawl and a smoky tent are spread,
in the wildflowers a gypsy oath in your basket.
With a shooting star under the bangs on my forehead
tousled hair
full voice;
I sing to you in full voice in the mountain alleys
from my gatehouse to the edge of the forest;
from afar the wind will whistle through
broken windows;
– let the devil carry the gatehouse and two stone steps, where, probably, it is buried
with dirt under the nails, smeared with clay
knee-deep…
I walk through the dark red fire of spreading branches
yellow cherries,behind a curse to give birth to you; the smell of a new forest,
wet dusty road … on a silk shawl,
horses in the shade
whip on fire, wagon from the bark of a tree,
under the whistle of a toothy koshava
Oh look at me in the woods in the midnight
when the yellow cherry in me wakes the woman up!
Find my black eyes at midnight.
Swollen above the breast like a white mare,
pull the bow of my thigh and sell the best horse.
Happy are we to gather in smoky tents
the dusty way of a falling star.
Widows – let’s go crazy, let’s fight
with bloody knives:
in the summer night wind
in the smell of fire and forest
under the howling of a toothy koshava
take off my earrings … throw me naked into the fire
to give birth to a violin song and explode wildly
for the gypsy oath.
With the tenderness of my hands I will turn into a tree,
black, like the black woman drawn in charcoal at the ntersection.
Even the leaf does not tremble
big white birches stood shyly by the waves
concrete dam.
A hedgehog will slip along the river bank with his goods.
The escaped horse carries the noise of the forest
on its hooves.