Seven Poems

Seven Poems

The night before taking to the woods
Spilled out
Berlin Solitude
The New Testament
Mrs Robinson On an Open Road

Chet Baker Is Finding His Way Towards Me



Don’t expect anything from me.

Let’s just greet and part right away

each going his own way.

If you are here for some daily political dross,

you are in the wrong place.

Long time ago I moved to this house on the top the hill and I don’t socialise.

More and more I’m oblivious to the rules of good manners

unaware of the trembling details

of the world around me.

I’m not going to come up with any smart comments regarding that.

I have nothing to say.

I’m occupied by silence.

My capitulations are final.

I return my mind to the childhood and the naivete of youthfulness.

I refuse to let politics rule a single minute of my life.

Don’t expect my opinion, my mind has melted

and it belongs to no one anymore.

There is no movement I’m about to join,

or a flag that I’m going to notice.

Owned by no one, I’m giving up on people.

I’m tired of that cat trailing after me like a dog.

She has an identity problem,

while I peel indentities off of myself.

They are like lying little snake skins

unable to teach us anything.

I’m evolving into something unpredictable.

Don’t expect anything on an account of the old days.

That’s not something that continues from there where it once stopped.

That’s something that must be doused with petrol and set on fire

but ashes are not made of memories but facts

that the future doesn’t want to bother with.

Don’t expect anything at all from me.

We better say our goodbyes right away.

For the record, please note that this warning has been issued

in timely fashion.

AuthorMehmed Begić
Translated byDamir Šodan
2021-04-03T19:29:27+00:00 March 31st, 2021|Categories: Poetry, Literature, Blesok no. 136|0 Comments