Irena Babamova Stojcheva New Poetry|Macedonian poetry |Macedonian Popular poet

Dear readers, today we will read ten new poems by modern Macedonian poet Irena Babamova Stojcheva.

Irena Babamova Stojcheva

Curriculum Vitae
Oh, I’m good at this,
cooking, sewing, fixing up
sleepy dreams and ducks à l'orange on a whim,
easing quarrels between barbarians and Acquis communautaire,
playing tunes in Excel, riding Corel Draw,
entertaining virtual pages and thirsty strangers.
 
Fluently I speak in broken sounds,
lend wings to speakers, for free,
some things exist here, and things that don’t,
and clearly, not much gets done.
 
I hang diplomas and dresses on clouds,
solemn tears, untidy thoughts.
The one thing I can’t stitch together:
the vital and the trivial.
When sunlight strikes at a right angle,
 
the longer the water stays still,
the stronger the break.
 
A heart defect, you say.
Shoot for the stars,
or at least that shivering streetlight.
 
I’ll fend off enemies,
rabid worms.
I am not a robot

Lullaby

I loved the evenings with Nietzsche.
When everyone else had fallen asleep,
I’d call to him by name,
and we’d start carving the little über-being;
like cheese that must be squeezed and pressed
to fill its mold,
to endure pain to infinity,
again and again.
We dressed that rascal up,
lifting him from slave to master,
grinding him into desires
and provocations to live more fully than the rest.
Finally, exhausted
from the grand moment of creation,
we’d fall asleep on separate pillows:
he always chose the higher one,
and my neck ached from the height.
Now, I rarely look up into the darkness,
for fear that some masterful mustache
might leer at me from a crack in the ceiling.

Collective Requiem
 
At times, when villains fall asleep,
clatter of all kinds gathers me—
Fire, flesh, and motion pictures,
Muffled marching on the edges
by rustling phones,
And eyes closing in Gaza.
The distant rhythm of music escaping from headphones,
Urgency: hot dog and pretzel, please!
Everything moves swiftly—opportunities, people, trends—
Keep up! Keep up! Pay the tax! Dig the grave!
Above the earth,
streets pulse;
Ungrounded, floating through glass facades,
Coats sway, bags sway,
Feet cross like threads in a sacred ritual.
Neon signs on faces,
Weariness and focus,
And the anticipation of democracy’s smoke,
In thickening air, the atmosphere tightens,
Passersby converge, their paths merge,
Screeching brakes,
Breaths and sweat slide on
street vendors’ voices,
The crowd surges like a wave,
Filling every space, on the grand screen.
Which fascism is greater—
The one that permits or the one that forbids?
In underground stations, it’s crowded,
Buzzing with the sound of trains,
In the background, a primal revelation hums.
Each person caught in their own trap—
Fire, flesh, and motion pictures,
A lullaby for liberals and nationalists.
And  Freud, Schaden:
“Your carcass stinks terribly.”
Amidst the noise of my dead head.
Children’s graves. Silence.
Collective energy.
Trinity. And jouissance:
One who kills, one who is killed, and one who looks on—
Fire, flesh, and motion pictures:
 And a heart left on the victorious side.

 Grounding (On Hands, In Sky)
 
I lift the hands up high
Can you hear that fire
breathing deeply through my bones?
It will lead me home.
Between the hands, I rub the universe,
Stakes falling over me,
I won’t close my eyes.
You say, this century is set on weightless wheels
running ahead toward wonders.
Shall I tear apart that dream?
I’ve bound fear to the hands,
I want to look it straight in the eyes.
I broke free from the wings,
In my hands, I hold you now
there’s a scent of mold -
Are you my fellow man?
From the hands, I release a homeless wind.
Should I believe that we are what we are?
(The winds have a way of turning on you
when they feel unappreciated.)
With the hands, I dig the air.
There I will fall asleep.
I wouldn’t  know how to love this world,
I’d shatter it into pieces,
to carry only the brightest shard.
There is no earth here.
There is no me, too.
Without hands, I melt with an unknown breath.
I’m learning grounding
In the sky.

Eye for an Eye

Under the vault
the evening unravels into Erinyes
they are not as courteous as you would wish
their tongues have been loosed
and now they scatter into thousands of dishonored verbs
it was not possible
(or maybe it was?)
to climb to the summit
while you argue with them 
The sky throws out flames
 
I still do not grow snakes on my head,
but they will haunt you all your life like a bad conscience
the ringing and undiluted tremors
because they have been turned to ashes
while I learned to forgive
 
I returned to myself
I will fall upon you like a thunderbolt from a clear sky
Belonging
 
All the children are mine, by events,
by flame, yours
but set me there too
For I have emerged from your fire before them
That’s why I am but a smirk in your pocket
you dwell on another level
beyond the mountain
I wouldn’t  know how they would measure
whose pain hurts more
when all others did it as they do it
(Quando tutte così fecero)
my heart leaped beautifully
away from them
and for the first time I heard you
as my own self
 
Mama
 
Between your words and mine, outstretched,
the wet clothes flutter.
All of our tale
is spread across the thin wires of a rusty woman’s harp,
from which May flowers spill, grown from a child’s cry and wine stains.
 
Sometimes, the lowered sky wakes me, draped over the table
where the hoe and politics clattered, staining all that is pure.
 
I am no longer afraid
of the shadows hanging on the eyelashes of darkness. In gentleness before me,
almost human,
they humbly stand guard before my fire, so they won’t burn again,
for they grew amid the blossomed decay of the boulevard,
above which shirts washed from the last century dance.
 
I fold them in two layers,
to more easily iron out the bitterness trapped between my lips. How else can I tie up that dowry?

Waiting Room
 
These ceilings no longer recognize us,
they fall upon us because we failed to hang them on the sky.
 
We were never good craftsmen to build a house for more than one;
the whirlpool the spoon creates in the bowl pulls with it the clinking of chains:
 
we’ve just taken them off,
unable to lock them away forever, at least until the demolition is done.
 
Now they’re scattered all over the edge of reason, we invented a table,
it giggles like a victor.
 
From the hollow walls and trembling doors, riddles sprout that I hear for the first time, echoing among the pots that roll,
unsure which path to take.
 
We placed all the arguments in one place, the poor things have no cover,
they’ll soon smoke out.
 
Through the chimneys of this waiting room,
we’ll release the wingless ascension toward the gray sky; perhaps others will catch it
and draw new wings for it.

Kiss It Better
 
In the cradle of our stony heat, an alien particle sleeps,
binding together ant hills, the carpenter's hammer, and all the world's unrest,
scattered in theories and theorems.
 
Who has a heart so wide? Who has eyes so wide?

Beneath the dried-up springs of the open pit, we unfurled a young tree,
let it ride toward the East.
 
Until then, to the end and beyond the sky, I’ll sing you a lullaby,
you kiss it better, to heal this (human wound).
We are to each other: sun and shadow,
a mother's lap and a lullaby.

Mist's Lament (Transfiguration)
 
White, golden, and blue
(the color of that sweet voice defies human name)
toward all we do not know,
and once again, as if for the first time,
we learn anew.
The robes are raised, mysteriously,
revealing what lies beneath—
both offering and fruit
(a taste of borrowed promise)
can only dwell here
if you open the window,
ready for flight,
and for dying,
to the beginning,
to the first,
and the last.
Then again, leaving behind
all that was gifted
before the mountain,
behind the ambo,
holy, holy,
the cloud that longs to be heard.