Today we will read poems of popular Montenegrin poet. So read with patience.
The Gallery of Robert Fraser
Sulphurous springtime
London,
Nineteen
Sixty-nine
The gallery of
Robert Fraser
In Duke Street
Where
Men-machines
Mixed in mono
Sit and enjoy
Artworks
By Richard Hamilton
Andy Warhol
And Balthus,
Eating
Radioactive plums
And listening to
Blue notes
in the blues scale
But there on the same
site today –
only a shoe shop
The Archetypal Dream
In my dream I’m floating
Up above a black ocean
And I hear the waves
Splashing below
and calling out to me.
And I hear myself breathing
In the air,
Suddenly falling down
Through a purple haze
Which takes me
all the way to Seattle,
And carries me into
The red house of Jimi Hendrix,
Where he himself tells me
That he was an Indian,
From the Hopi tribe,
Investigating
Cosmic secrets
And kissing the sky.
And that red house
Gradually turns yellow,
Welcoming more
and more guests,
Mingling and crowding,
And inside which
we are all, together, playing
And singing
“Riders on the Storm”,
And from which
an annoyed sheriff
Forcibly ejects
the gathered throng,
Saying that
we’ve got things mixed up,
And that rock and roll ceased
To exist on the eighth of
December, nineteen eighty,
When John Lennon
Was killed.
Time and again
I dream this same dream.
A non-aligned choir
sang in the park
A song about
the moon in the seventh house
And Jupiter aligning with Mars,
And the dawning of
the Age of Aquarius –
Which all reminded me of
Emerson’s lecture
On the cosmic over-soul
And of words spoken by his
Transcendentalist group
Gathered at Harvard.
While I listen to that,
I swallow a small pink pill
And sleep on the earth
Which is no longer black or red,
As I become homeless
In a city cramped
with people and houses,
Selling in
a marketplace flowers
Brought from
San Francisco’s streets,
And telling others
How I used to put
them in my hair,
walking around
the streets of
Haight-Ashbury
in nineteen sixty-seven.
I’ve no idea why.
Marianne Faithfull told me
I should do so.
A Clockwork Orange
Your sensory mind,
Like a laser beam,
Draws black rings
Upon my breasts
I’m a clockwork orange
I wake up at dawn
And watch
through my window
White butterflies
from Hyde Park
I’m a hyacinth-girl,
Your 3D lover,
In the desert-land
Of harpsichord and dandelions
Space Oddity
Mickey Mouse
And protein pills
Faces resembling those
From photos
By Gered Mankowitz
As he looks at them,
He feels like an
Astronaut leaving
His capsule,
Entering the vacuum
And drawing a portrait of
David Bowie
Tanja Bakić holds a Phd in British literature from the
University of Montenegro. She is a published poet, translator and music writer.
She is the author of
five highly-praised poetry collections, her debut being published when she was
only 15, and the last one, Intertext in 2022. Her poems have been
translated into many foreign languages, presented at international festivals
abroad, published in international magazines and anthologies. She has been
awarded writing fellowship several times.
London,
Nineteen
Sixty-nine
Robert Fraser
In Duke Street
Where
Men-machines
Mixed in mono
Sit and enjoy
Artworks
By Richard Hamilton
Andy Warhol
And Balthus,
Eating
Radioactive plums
And listening to
Blue notes
in the blues scale
site today –
only a shoe shop
Up above a black ocean
And I hear the waves
Splashing below
and calling out to me.
And I hear myself breathing
In the air,
Suddenly falling down
Through a purple haze
Which takes me
all the way to Seattle,
And carries me into
The red house of Jimi Hendrix,
Where he himself tells me
That he was an Indian,
From the Hopi tribe,
Investigating
Cosmic secrets
And kissing the sky.
Gradually turns yellow,
Welcoming more
and more guests,
Mingling and crowding,
And inside which
we are all, together, playing
And singing
“Riders on the Storm”,
And from which
an annoyed sheriff
Forcibly ejects
the gathered throng,
Saying that
we’ve got things mixed up,
And that rock and roll ceased
To exist on the eighth of
December, nineteen eighty,
When John Lennon
Was killed.
I dream this same dream.
sang in the park
A song about
the moon in the seventh house
And Jupiter aligning with Mars,
And the dawning of
the Age of Aquarius –
Emerson’s lecture
On the cosmic over-soul
And of words spoken by his
Transcendentalist group
Gathered at Harvard.
I swallow a small pink pill
And sleep on the earth
Which is no longer black or red,
As I become homeless
In a city cramped
with people and houses,
Selling in
a marketplace flowers
Brought from
San Francisco’s streets,
And telling others
How I used to put
them in my hair,
walking around
the streets of
Haight-Ashbury
in nineteen sixty-seven.
Marianne Faithfull told me
I should do so.
Like a laser beam,
Draws black rings
Upon my breasts
And watch
through my window
White butterflies
from Hyde Park
Your 3D lover,
In the desert-land
Of harpsichord and dandelions
And protein pills
Faces resembling those
From photos
By Gered Mankowitz
He feels like an
Astronaut leaving
His capsule,
And drawing a portrait of
David Bowie
