poems by Ana Nikvul

বাংলা English
Ana Nikvul
    Ana Nikvul was born in Kosovska Mitrovica .She currently lives and works in Mladenovac ,teaching Serbian language.
 She published in many literature magazines ( „Bagsadla“, „Aspirations“, „Literary records (Mne),“A torch“,Meetings“, „The scroll“, „Steps“, „Balkanian literary herold“, and many others.
 She is present in many poetic anthologies.She has many rewords for poetry,such as reword for the most original poem on Polarison’s international competition.For her book of poetry „ How I should cry“she has a reword of „ Poetic handles“ ,for the best poetry collection in 2o14 .
 Poem „ My dear calls me darling“2016 she was shortlisted for „Lenka’s ring“ reword.
 She published collection of poems „I will learn you about me“2013,2014 ,“How should I cry?“2015 ,“Four pepperonies for goodbye“,and many others.She also is a member of the „Comunity educators for children poetry which general title is „Pupils forever“2016. 
 In her manuscripts there are about 2000 poems ,drama books for children,story books.She also directed dramas for children and many of her dramas were addopted for the scene across the Balkan .
 Drama „ My name is Dragutin“ is published 2021.
 She is preparing a book of drama texts for children „Big break“. Her books have been translated on Spanish,Slovakian,English,Hungarian......
 Her poetry entered into Serbian anthology of contemporary poets ( on Russian )and anthology „All roads lead to the South“ on Slovakian language which have been published in Kopar 
  The afternoon angel
 I COULD HAVE WORN EUCLID’S TOGA
  
 I haven’t deserved mercy,
  
 I was alive,
 quiet & focused, captivated by sketches
 which I multiply without an inevitable need,
 not a bit closer to myself, not a bit closer to home.
  
 I listen to schlagers from the last century,
 played on the strangler’s string,
 over the rhubarb liqueur,
 in the rainy town
 stifled by the three-month drought,
  
 The encyclopedia didn’t say anything about this,
 it was old,
 the letters were falling off and smelled
 of a solvent, of nail polish,
  
 the noise of trains is rolling through the desert,
 I have never seen one,
  
 I could have worn Euclid’s toga,
 been an interpreter of runic signs,
 an SS colonel: there was no mercy. 
 MY ROOM RESEMBLES AN INVESTIGATION SITE
                                   
  
  
 My room resembles an investigation site:
 only a three-coloured police tape
 & an official Cerberus to limit the access
 are missing: everything else is there.
  
 A dent in the bed –
 with an outline of the body,
 the smell fled from the deposited sarcophagus,
 overthrown objects
 within whose phosphorous shimmering
 the synopsis for a crime film is being developed.
  
 It is a success to attach oneself to a rigid image –
 outside of which everything is merely 
 questionable,
 in a sort of numbed pensiveness,
  
 I am pondering while creeping into my room,
 cautiously, on tiptoes,
 still searching for the slipped loops of details,
 for fingerprints left on the table, on the crystal glass,
 on the bed where,
 unconscious of myself, I will indifferently wait
 for the afternoon angel, my smiling murderer.
  
  
  A POEM THAT WALKS
 
Today I was sitting by the water
 I saw two of them kissing
 and I  cried
 they caused such happiness
 which  I haven’t felt very long time
 that is proof that I am alive
 I don’t have to pinch my cheeks
 I felt happiness of the human being
 who is on the other side of the coast
 at the same moment 
 he wrote the most beautiful  poem
 alive
 little poem that walks 
 VOICELESS  SPEECH
 
 He didn’t ask me how it’s look like
 to live in city between hills and the railway
 which  conects the worlds in a knot
 inserted into the boiler
 he didn’t ask me even when I have been
 on a seaside for the first time
 did I swallowed salt
 when did I learn to sweem on the rocks
 not even when I first kissed
 nor who killed me for the first time
 so it was very hard to grow myself 
 and step on the wheel  of province all alone 
 he didn’t ask  me which books shaped me with the giant strength
 he didn’t ask me for what did I  long for
 nor because of what I stop talking
 and I started to write 
 not even when that moment was born in me
 like boy or girl at the same time
 for all the characters I will give birth to
 wrestling with them
 he didn’t ask me did I get beaten up when I read it 
 and when something that is my mother left to take care of
  burns down
 he didn’t ask me if I dreamed of exam questions
 during my studies 
 and did I predict a vortex of South 
 which I accidentally fell into
 he didn’t ask me which kind of music I listened and on which concerts
 ran away from school for a few days in Belgrade
 he didn’t ask me did I lie 
 that he existed somewhere 
 for real
 he didn’t ask me how I knew 
 when there was no phone 
 to go on the railway station
 to wait my great love
 never unfinished and completely imperfect but bold
 he didn’t ask me if I could walk on my hands
 and  to stand on deep on my head
 when I am the happiest  
 not even when I had measels 
 not even when I survived the ear infection
 nor when I broke my knees
 not even when I buried the first  dog
 nor when I cuddled with poems
 which produced life from death created
 he didn’t ask me  
 he didn’t ask me if I loved anyone now
 I simply answered
 you love me 
 that is all. 

© All rights reserved by Torkito Tarjoni

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