Dino Porović (25. 5. 1963. Brčko – 8. 8. 2019. Sarajevo) bosanski književnik, pjesnik, crtač i kantautor. Objavio je knjige kratkih priča s pjesmama: Požutjelim listovima bijele starke hode (2011), Ili smrt fašizmu ili sloboda narodu (2012) i Neurohirurgija bez anestezije (2014), te zbirke poezije Homorominjanja (2015) i Pred vigvamom bijeli čovjek crven pod kožom (2018).
S Tamarom Čapelj je koautor i izvođač muzičko-poetskog performansa Lica iz svemira (iz kategorije poetskog teatra), te koscenarist dva dječja festivala Lino-Fest u Sarajevu (XIV. 2016. i XV. 2017). Bivši je član Pedagoško-glazbene skupine Pravo lice (koja je objavila CD Tvoje pjesme, 2017).Na književnoj sceni počeo se značajnije angažirati 2010. godine, no puni pjesnički procvat doživljava u okviru nezavisnog Udruženja umjetnika Planet Poezija, čiji je idejni osnivač, a koje organizira projekte kao što su: Poetski doček Nove godine, Admiralska poetska gerila, Um na drum, Dnevna doza lirike, Planet Poezija LIVE, Pjesničkom riječju: Stop nasilju nad ženama u Sarajevu, te suorganizira: Međunarodni festival Četiri godišnja doba književnosti (Sarajevo), Neretvanske vedrine, Bal-Kantfest i sl. Bio je urednikgodišnjaka Almanah Planet Poezije, te član Udruženja pisaca u BiH i Udruženja novinara BiH. Dobitnik je libanonske književne nagrade za kreativnost Naji Naaman 2016.
Živio je i stvarao unutar svemira Sarajevo i bosanskohercegovačkog evropskog kosmosa omeđenog od Triglava do Vardara. Snažno se zalagao za nezavisnost umjetnosti od dnevnopolitičkih zbivanja i oživljavanje poetske scene, potisnute u drugi plan književne umjetnosti pod udarom uređivačkih politika veliki izdavačkih kuća.Za sobom je ostavio dvije završene zbirke poezije Damar crvenog korova i Sekstant za otiske porculanskog neba, koje će posthumno objaviti Planet Poezija u okviru budućih poetskih manifestacija Dinovanje, koje će biti održavane svake godine na dan rođenja ovog umjetnika, 25. maj.
Izbor iz poezije Dine Porovića
Dijak
Na uzglavlju
mramorje,
K
kam’.
Za tabanima
nišan
prav.
U svemir
bacam
prah…
Sam.
Inicijali u duhovnoj nejednini
Duh
hodajući jodla dva velika slova
previše je začina.
Ne, nisu to tvoji inicijali,
Duh
iz odraza lika u nabujaloj vodi
umire uspravno
ispijajući mjesečinu,
Duh
vječno uspokojen mir u tišini
bijeli je kamen.
Da, više nisam pjesnik.
Zeleno
Imamo mi
puno toga jedno drugom reći,
ali nemamo vremena.
Kad pratim nogomet,
ona bi se smilovala bez glavobolje.
U vrijeme svršetka El Clasica
protežu se reprize španskih sapunica.
Imamo mi
puno toga jedno drugom reći,
no se nekako mimoilazimo.
Zato smo otvorili profile na
Facebooku, Twitteru,
Skypeu, MSN-u… jer,
Imamo mi
Puno toga jedno drugom reći
Kad pozelenimo.
Rođendan Indijanca
Hej, tata,
deset dana pijem antibiotike i
lektira je, neću stići do biblioteke.
(Iznova zavirujem u SMS poruke.)
***
O, Manitua mi
Tijelo je hapsanska samica osuđenika po imenu Smrt
Doživotni sam robijaš u ovoj samici
U meni Srce ruča
U mene Duša stigla
U meni Misao kuca
Na pisaćoj mašini Olimpija pomilovanje:
U ime naroda… koji se vole poput braće
Za sto eura, za tisuću Ka-eM-ova
O, Manitua mi
Dužnici smo majci i ocu, bubnju što ljubi vrelo prašine
U nama Ples stenje
U nama Riječ dahće
U nama Plač stane
Ne ljubite nasilje
U predanjima o kaubojima, dah Indijanke je u vigvamu
Pred kojim sjedi Bijeli čovjek Crven pod kožom
U luli mira dim
U vulkanu zapis
U svemiru treptaj
Filmske vrpce Kodak u bunkerima snivaju
Imenima nestalih naroda što se još vole poput braće
Za sto dijamanata, za hiljadu unci zlata.
Oprostite nam. Oprostite!
Porobiću
Porobiću usnuli grad
neusiljenim smijehom i šapatom dobročinstva,
kiflama i perecima
da se čude mirotvorci
generalskih očiju zagledanih u tok bosanske rijeke,
tišinu bukovih šuma.
Porobiću carstvo bajki
ledenicama s krova mašte osvojenog misterijima,
dječijim kikotom što
topi bjeline sladoleda
kremastim vrhom iz dubina hrskavog korneta
zaboravljenog Eskima.
Porobiću cijeli svijet
s više hiljada poljubaca u ovim čvrstim zagrljajima,
zrelim trešnjama
blagodaru nestašna koraka
u pokretu celuloidnih vragova te vizuelne projekcije
ere nijemog filma.
Porobiću paralelni svemir
protkan ljudskim pogledom i promuklim glasom,
uklesanim stihom
u pristaništu violinskih ključeva,
piti phar današnje prošlosti i protkanu budućnost
sfere nemirnog dna.
Porobiću, a niko zaplakati neće.
Cipelice za rijetke prilike
Možda sam te mogao
sniježno opčiniti
kristalnim zvukom
svirale od ptičije kosti.
Možda sam te ukrao
bez briljantnih riječi
u svjetlucavom bljesku
priča od riblje krljušti.
Ne, samo sam odbacio
đavolski lik i zmijsku kožu
postavši tvoje cipelice
za sve svečane prilike.
…………………………………………………..
Dino Porović (May 25, 1963, Brčko – August 8, 2019, Sarajevo) Bosnian writer, poet, cartoonist and singer-songwriter. He has published books of short stories with poems: Yellowed leaves of a white old woman walking (2011), Either death to fascism or freedom to the people (2012) and Neurosurgery without anesthesia (2014), and poetry collections Homorominjanja (2015) and Pred vigvamom bijeli čovjek crven pod kožom ( 2018).
With Tamara Čapelj, he is the co-author and performer of the musical-poetic performance Faces from Space (from the category of poetic theater), and co-writer of two children’s festivals Lino-Fest in Sarajevo (XIV. 2016 and XV. 2017). He is a former member of the Pedagogical-Music Group Pravo lice (which released the CD Tvoje pjesme, 2017). He began his significant involvement in the literary scene in 2010, but experienced a full poetic flourishing within the independent Association of Artists Planet Poezija, whose founder he founded. which organizes projects such as: Poetic New Year’s Eve, Admiral’s Poetic Guerrilla, Mind on the Road, Daily Dose of Lyrics, Planet Poetry LIVE, Poetic Word: Stop Violence Against Women in Sarajevo, and co-organizes: International Festival Four Seasons of Literature (Sarajevo) , Neretva serenity, Bal-Kantfest, etc. He was the editor of the annual Almanac Planet Poetry, and a member of the Association of Writers in BiH and the Association of Journalists of BiH. He is the winner of the Lebanese Literary Award for Creativity Naji Naaman 2016.
He lived and created within the universe of Sarajevo and the European space of Bosnia and Herzegovina, bordered by Triglav to Vardar. He strongly advocated the independence of art from daily political events and the revival of the poetic scene, pushed into the background of literary art under the impact of editorial policies of large publishing houses. He left behind two completed collections of poetry Planet Poetry within the future poetic manifestations Dinovanje, which will be held every year on the birthday of this artist, May 25.
A selection from the poetry of Dino Porović
Student
On the headboard
marble,
K
where ‘.
Behind the soles
nišan
right.
Into space
I throw
dust …
Sam.
Initials in spiritual disunity
Spirit
walking yodel two capital letters
there are too many spices.
No, it’s not your initials,
Spirit
from the reflection of the figure in the swollen water
dies upright
drinking the moonlight,
Spirit
eternally reassured peace in silence
it is a white stone.
Yes, I am no longer a poet.
Green
We have
a lot to say to each other,
but we have no time.
When I follow football,
she would take pity without a headache.
At the time of the end of El Clasico
there are reruns of Spanish soap operas.
We have
a lot to say to each other,
but somehow we pass each other.
That’s why we opened profiles on
Facebook, Twitter,
Skype, MSN … because,
We have
Lots to say to each other
When we turn green.
An Indian’s birthday
Hey, Dad,
I take antibiotics for ten days and
reading it, I won’t get to the library.
(I peek at the text messages again.)
***
Oh, Manitua mi
The body is a convict’s solitary confinement called Death
I am a life sentence in this solitary confinement
The heart of lunch is in me
The Soul has reached me
Thought beats in me
On the typewriter Olympia pardon:
In the name of the people … who love each other like brothers
For a hundred euros, for a thousand Ka-eMs
Oh, Manitua mi
We owe it to our mother and father, the drum that loves the spring of dust
In us the Dance groans
In us the Word breathes
Crying stops in us
Don’t love violence
In the cowboy legends, the Indian woman’s breath is in the wigwam
In front of which sits a White Man Red under his skin
Smoke in the pipe of peace
In the volcano record
Blink in space
Kodak film tapes in bunkers are dreaming
The names of missing peoples who are still loved like brothers
For a hundred diamonds, for a thousand ounces of gold.
Forgive us. Sorry!
I will enslave
I will enslave the sleeping city
unforced laughter and whispers of charity,
muffins and peppers
to marvel at peacemakers
general’s eyes staring at the course of the Bosnian river,
the silence of beech forests.
I will enslave the kingdom of fairy tales
icicles from the roof of the imagination conquered by mysteries,
with a childish giggle of what
melts the whites of the ice cream
with a creamy tip from the depths of the crunchy cornet
of the forgotten Eskimo.
I will enslave the whole world
with thousands of kisses in these tight hugs,
ripe cherries
thanks to the naughty steps
in the movement of celluloid devils and visual projection
era of silent film.
I will enslave a parallel universe
interwoven with a human gaze and a hoarse voice,
engraved verse
at the violin keys dock,
to drink the phar of the present past and the interwoven future
spheres of restless bottom.
I will enslave, and no one will cry.
Shoes for rare occasions
Maybe I could have you
snow enchant
crystal sound
played from a bird’s bone.
Maybe I stole you
without brilliant words
in a shimmering flash
a story of fish scales.
No, I just rejected
the devil’s figure and the serpent’s skin
putting on your shoes
for all festive occasions.
