from The Eternal River
Poetry by Jozo T. Boskovski
Translated by
Herbert Kuhner,
David Axelrod et al
(Anna Esapora, Cynthia Keeson
and Svetlana Dimic)
Jozo T. Boskovski (1933 - 2008)
My friend Jozo has left us for the Universe.
I first met him when I attended the Struga Evenings Poetry Festival in 1972. I last saw him at that venue in 1982. We kept in touch after that. I didn’t think I’d never see him again. God, how I miss him! He was a character in every sense of the word. At times he was exasperating. He had unlimited energy. David Axelrod wrote, “He seemed unstoppable!” I’m sure that no one who ever met him forgot him. Jozo was pure gold. Goodbye, my dear friend!
Let Jozo speak to those of us who are still here through his poetry!
- Herbert Kuhner
Who’s Jozo?
Jozo T. Boskovski comes from a nation of poets. Macedonians love poetry and live poetry, and sometimes they write as if they discovered it. Macedonia is a new nation with a new literary language. Macedonian poetry is retrospective of the past: the conquest and centuries- long occupation of the nation, but it looks to the future with unbounded exuberance and enthusiasm.
Jozo Boskovski’s poems are warm and mellow. The Macedonian sun shines on them. His lines flow in the eternal river of poetry. But he doesn’t let himself be carried by the current. He writes with an ease that comes from an innate sense of rhythm and form. Boskovski has a deep, powerful voice that carries beautifully. His poems are imbued with the resonance of his speech organ. They not only read well on the page, but they are effective when recited.
- Herbert Kuhner
Comments by friends:
“The poems are terrific!”
- Anthony Rudolf, the Menard Press, London
“Hi Harry, Good of you to forward all the Jozo things.
I’d forgotten what a good poet he is.
I already knew what a great translator you are!”
- David B. Axelrod, The Poetry Doctor, USA
Addendum to “Who’s Jozo”:
Hills and Mountains
I leave this comment in the present. It should be stated that Jozo, with his bald pate and long beard and that resonant voice, is the Black Sheep of Skopje and the Enfant Terrible of Macedonia. He is a bad boy who is often exasperating. I think there are people in insane asylums due to Jozo. However, although he has a mule-like quality as a man, he does the right thing as a poet.
Years ago, when I attended the Struga Poetry Evenings Festival, we hung out together, and there were plenty of laughs. My last time in Struga, I got left on a mountain by the official bus for poets. Organization is not one of the Macedonian strong points. And who showed up in his battered Skoda to bring me down? That’s right Jozo!
A while back, my friend David Axelrod got him to the United States on a three month visa, sponsored by the USIA, but when his time was up, he didn’t go home. No, he took off for the Jersey Hills, where some of his Macedonian countrymen had settled. David had to explain the poet’s disappearance to the skeptical USIA-men, and three months later, when all had given up hope, Jozo turned up, ready to return to Macedonia.
Here’s what David wrote: “Jozo who is not someone who will ever listen when you talk to him.” And he added: “After you explain something in detail that he doesn’t want to hear, you might get a skeptical, ‘Maybe,’ softly uttered.” And here’s a poem by David:
The Man Who Said “Maybe”
He said a European flight
from Macedonia
took more time going
than returning
because the earth turned favorably.
Try to explain the world a single entity - earth
sky and sea - he’d
listen patiently.
Next time he’d mention
travel, his theory
of anti gravity
was there again
more steadfast than
Foucault’s pendulum.
If a helicopter
hovered over a city,
would the next city
come along eventually?”
“Maybe.”
Jozo is determination personified, and he knows no modesty. You name it! He’s been there and done it. Once I asked him if he had invented fire, and he answered in the affirmative. When I tried to explain about modesty to him, he said that there is no such word in the Macedonian language. I told him that there must be such a word. I lost my cool and repeated the word loudly. “Modesty! Modesty!”
“Yes,” he said, “That means male member!”
Hills or mountains, what would life be like without having known Jozo! Pretty dull, I guess.
Here are some of poems by Jozo Boskovski:
Translations by Herbert Kuhner
The Eternal River
There is a river that flows in circles
The flowing of the river in circles
causes the watercourse to be greater than usual
(Poetry scrupulously performs its duty)
Poetry is the trademark of nations
There is an eternal river
that drenches all mountains
It is the river of poetry
It is the soul of the poet
The eternal river flows in circles
in its eternal course
The eternal river flows unconditionally
and causes the watercourse to be increased
Poetry is the trademark of nations
The waters imitate the eternal river of poetry
The eternal river flows in its eternal course
The eternal river flows in the eternal emptiness
of thoughts
(The concepts of the poem become color-soaked)
That’s what the soul of color is like
The eternal river of poetry flows and resounds with power
The flow unrolls naturally
(I only use rhymes that are natural)
The world of water imitates my poems in their eternal course
There is a river that is called by the same name all over the world
It increases the watercourse
Poetry is the trademark of nations
The eternal river flows in the world
The eternal river flows in its eternal course
Poetry knows its business
The Crocus
The crocus is nature’s first flower
(The crocus is white or yellow)
The crocus grows with a flame
at its tip
and warms the year
The winter snows
and the dilemma of time
take flight from this flower
The game begins with the bud
The earth inhales
and with one breath
everything is fertilized
and birth begins
and there is joy
The crocus hails the year
The game always repeats itself
The Call
O my doves
black
white
grey
tame
marvelous
Don’t remain at the edge of darkness
with broken hope in your wings
I’m still here
like an elm on a mountain
Black from dampness
White from rain in space
Children’s Spring Games
The child is the turbulence of the new day
that rushes through the depths of spring Green field
Green tide
Green sound
Green foam
The child beats the horse with a twig and a flower
The horse swings its mane and spreads the sun over joy
Green field
Green tide
Green sound
Green foam
The youth rides the horse
so that he can find his dream
on high mountains
in the breeding-place of the moon
Brigitte
The goddess of beauty
came to life
in the waves of the sea
but Brigitte
is the Venus of our time
BB wears a garland of sunshine and flowers
BB appears in the dreams of markets and fairs
BB is a great idea
At night she illuminates the moon
In the morning she is brightness itself
The whole human race knows her name and her smile
BB was born for fame
BB moves in the pupil of every eye
BB can be seen in every teenager
BB is what every woman should be
She’s the Venus of our time
BB is extraordinary
and ordinary
That’s why 1 glorify her
BB can be more tender
than any other women
BB doesn’t use force
BB is force
BB is in every breast
BB is the Mount of Venus
BB is a shooting star
that flashes in the universe
Brigitte cannot be captured
in a poem
Loneliness
The sycamore is pensive
as if mourning on his bare hill
People pass nearby but no one notices
I pass
and pause beneath his branches
which have shed their bark
in their struggle
with the times
I cup my hands
and call to him
not to grieve
that he lived his life
in a place exposed to winds
that he, too
did not suit society
and had no thicket
to which he belonged
Translated by David B. Axelrod
