MATEJA MATEVSKI
b. 1929

Studied French theatre and literature at Paris in 1962-63. He delivers lectures on world drama and theatre as an Associate Professor at the Faculty of Music and Drama at Skopje. At present, he is Chairman of the Republic Commission for Cultural Relationship Abroad. Rains, Circle, Holiday's Romance, and Sundown are some of his published poetry collections. His writings have been translated into Slovenian, Albanian and Italian languages.

THE BULLET

This bullet so carefully manufactured
from a lump of heavy ore
into a cruel grain
in some country
in some place
this bullet this wild beast
this dark messenger of death
which memorizes every letter
of my name
traces my ancestors
hounds my shadow
this bullet which seeks me
in the universe
which penetrates my sleep
which buries itself in my fear
without reason without asking without
by-your-leave
a grain merely on its way
to its target
from the muzzle-flash
to the shattered skull
This bullet from an unknown hand
from an unperceived breath
that wants to take the breath
from my body
when it discovers me and hides under
my forehead
it will kill no more

CRIMSON, CRIMSON CRIMSON

Like a song carried off
into the blue sea
of mountains
the sunset
drowns...

From grass to shepherd's pipe
from flock to cloud
all luxuriant
inflamed

From breasts to song
from step to fountain
all phenomenal
and pampered

A flock enamoured of the shepherd's
pipe
a bell lost in a song
an eye crazed over a peony

Crimson, crimson, crimson.

THE LAKE

After many a year and many a dream
I again returned
to the lake
with the sweet waters
hidden in the hill's loins

The sun's diamond's
still cutting it

Not a stone in its depths
nor grass to obscure its throat
under the waves
nor the bird with its prey

I'm only an eye the eye of the sun
that ruffles its ancient
waters

Oh leave me by this lake
leave me there
by the bitter lake
dead

RETURN

You're coming to me and I sing
of your non-return

From azure heights
from deep shadows
with years
with suffering

Why are you hastening
with your dying
through slow living

The earth has long absorbed
my song
my curses

Deaf time is not awakened
even by love's howling

The heart has forgotten you
only the wrinkles on my face
remember you

On my face
on your rock-face