Our website is made possible by displaying online advertisements to our visitors. Please consider supporting us by whitelisting our website.

ZERINA KULOVIĆ

ZERINA KULOVIĆ, SARAJEVO, R BOSNA I HERCEGOVINA

 

Zerina Kulović rođena je 1996. godine u Sarajevu. Studij Komparativne književnosti i Arheologije na Filozofskom fakultetu Univerziteta u Sarajevu upisala je 2014. godine, a sada je peta, završna, godina. Svoje književnoumjetničke radove, književnu i filmsku kritiku, te eseje i prikaze objavljivala je u časopisima ŽivotBehar, u online časopisu KULTAvlija, na portalima StraneBundoloPoezijaonline, itd. Njena poezija će biti dio narednog Almanaha udruženja Planet poezija, a u okviru aktivnosti ovog udruženja svoju poeziju je čitala na pjesničkoj večeri naslovljenoj Ptice od papira.

 

 

NEŠTO

 

nešto u mojim grudima
podmuklo i gorko je
grebe i davi me
ne da mi da dišem,
pričam,
plačem
i živim
ogromni ugrušak,
smrdljivo klupko posljednjeg pozdrava

neizgovorenog zbogom
kojeg je oteo aparat za reanimaciju,
pa se ugušilo u sobi za prosekturu,
otšetalo do mrtvačnice,
našlo utočište među mojim rebrima
i postalo Nešto u mojim grudima.

 

MIHOLJE LJETO

 

jučer sam mislila na tebe
dok me pržilo smeđe sunce,
natapao užegli nektar
i prekrivao gorki polen hrizantema
dok sam pričala sa obogaljenim gušterom,
krezubom hijenom
i pacovom, bratom
dok su munje parale nebo
dok je sijalo smeđe sunce
ja sam mislila na tebe

 

VODA

 

Miris vode prelijeva se preko
hladnih vrhova njenih prstiju i
omčom ukrašenog bila.

Pomislio bi da je već mrtva, ali ne,
ona spava,
naslonjena na jorgovan orošenih grana.

Djevojka tužnih, suznih očiju,
koja u svojoj mjesečarskoj duši
nosi modru priču o nestanku.

 

LJEPOTA

 

Uz krike narikača koje
umjesto očiju
imaju po dva glogova cvijeta,
iz te djevičje krvi,
rodit će se pijavice,
umorna djeca puna
ljepljive pohote što se,
kao vosak crnih svijeća
prilijepi uz
nezdravu ljepotu,
kapiju vlastite grobnice.

 

 

TELEGRAM

 

Jutros sam obukla tvoj crveni džemper.
Jedan od onih ispod kojih si uvijek nosio pamučnu rolku,
jer je vuna previše gruba.
Ja ga oblačim na golu kožu,
kao krvavi ogrtač od hiljadu sitnih žileta.

(Rascvjetana, vrišteća sam rana.)

Miriše na rođendansku čestitku čovjeku kojeg više nema,
na bolest,
tišinu i nestanak.

…………………………………………………….

ZERINA KULOVIC, SARAJEVO, R BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

 

Zerina Kulovic was born in 1996 in Sarajevo. She enrolled in Comparative Literature and Archeology at the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Sarajevo in 2014, and now is the fifth, final, year. She published her literary works, literary and film criticism, as well as essays and reviews in the magazines Život, Behar, in the online magazine KULT, Avlija, on the portals Stran, Bundolo, Poezijaonline, etc. Her poetry will be part of the next Almanac of the Planet Poetry Association, and as part of the association’s activities, she read her poetry at a poetry dinner entitled Birds of Paper.

 

 

SOMETHING

 

something in my chest

it’s insidious and it’s bitter

scratch and strangle me

not to breathe,

I’m talking,

I’m crying

and I live

a huge clot,

the stinking ball of the last salute

 

an unspoken goodbye

kidnapped by a resuscitation machine,

so it suffocated in the proscription room,

walked to the morgue,

found refuge among my ribs

and it became Something in my chest.

 

A SUMMER SUMMER

 

I thought of you yesterday

while the brown sun was roasting me,

soaked up the nectar

and covered with bitter pollen of chrysanthemum

while I was talking to the enriched lizard,

with a hyena hyacinth

and a rat, a brother

while lightning ripped through the sky

while the brown sun shone

I thought of you

 

WATER

 

The smell of water pours over

the cold tips of her fingers and

the noose of the decorated was.

 

You would think she was already dead, but no,

She is sleeping,

leaning on lilac dewed branches.

 

Sad, teary-eyed girl,

which in its lunar soul

carries the blue tale of disappearance.

 

BEAUTY

 

With the shouts of the arms that

instead of eyes

have two hawthorn flowers each,

from this virgin blood,

leeches will be born,

tired children full

sticky lusts that are,

like wax of black candles

stick with

unhealthy beauty,

the gate of his own tomb.

 

 

TELEGRAM

 

This morning I put on your red sweater.

One of those under which you always wore a cotton skate,

because the wool is too coarse.

I put it on my bare skin,

like a bloody robe of thousands of tiny veins.

 

(Illuminated, I’m a screaming wound.)

 

It smells like a birthday card to a man who is gone,

to illness,

silence and disappearance.

 

Laisser un commentaire

Votre adresse e-mail ne sera pas publiée. Les champs obligatoires sont indiqués avec *