Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to write anything on you or your poetry, although we were working together in Blesok, we shared the literary events, most often organized by you, and we came across each other on the streets and cafés of our Skopje so often… I thought, there is time!
Time has defeated me, for who know which time. “I alone hold the key to this wild procession” – this verse by Arthur Rimbaud is fitting for that cruel master of our lives – time. Yet, for the sake of your so recognizable critical spirit, I dare to defy it! With your help, of course, with your books that you have left us as a gift: original, translated or edited, no matter, all of these books are – Your life.
“On the whole, books are indeed less finite than ourselves” – says Joseph Brodsky. Ezra Pound said something similar: “The persona of a poet cannot be identified with the text. It means that Horace’s multa pars of the poet, the part that defeats death, is the text. To resurrect means to be read.“ I know that your poems were read and will be read; I know that even now you are lying on verses which although as gentle butterflies as golden dust / run away from the touch as a school of mute fish / in the pond of the sky which shines gold / gold as silence (“Lying on Verses”), you still dangle your feet from the clouds (“A Warm Quit Place”), because you have remained – A Poet.
Poetry is not only the most summarized, but also the most condense way of transmitting human experience. You were aware of your poetic dwelling in this world which is far from being pink. It is not by chance that you said in one of your last interviews: “Not only does it keep me fit, but it also keeps me normal. If somebody lives to write, then he is a fulfilled man. That is how I feel”. (Dnevnik, March 2104)
If there is a comfort dear Igor, then it is in the knowledge that you must have been fulfilled; it is truly rare to leave as a fulfilled man. You have even announced your departure poetically, in the visionary verses: If I ever leave… it will be quietly, painlessly, as if I were never there (“If I Ever Leave You, Us, Myself”). Incredibly, you were always right: you really did leave quietly and painlessly. But you were wrong in one thing! Although your words as if I were never there are a metaphor of the cruel truth and fragility of human existence, I know that it does not apply to poets who leave inerasable traces. Your name will remain forever, written in the Golden Book of Macedonian Poetic Pantheon…