​Dizajn i knjige, poezija, crteži i putopisi
Druga priča

Tomica Bajsić BIO & Poems in English 

TOMICA BAJSIĆ Poet, prose writer, translator and graphic artist. Studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Zagreb, Croatia. Editor for translated poetry in POEZIJA / Poetry quarterly magazine, Croatia, and founder of Druga priča /Another Story publishing. Worked also in restoration, drawing and design. General secretary of Croatian PEN Center, vice-president (in charge of International collaboration) of Croatian Writers Society and vice-president of Croatian – Hispanic Society. Published in numerous anthologies and literary journals at home and abroad. Poetry and prose pieces translated into German, English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Slovenian, Slovakian, Hungarian, Chinese.

AWARDS: Južni križ / Southern Cross , 1998. awarded with Ivan Goran Kovačić award for younger poets in 1998. Zrak ispod mora / Air beneath the sea, 2009., awarded with Dobriša Cesarić prize.

BOOKS: Južni križ / Southern Cross, poetry ( Goranovo proljeće, 1998.) Pjesme svjetlosti i sjene / Songs of Light and Shadow, poetry (AGM, 2004.) Dva svijeta i još jedan / Two Worlds & One More, travel prose (Naklada Ljevak, 2007.) Ana i vila Velebita / Ana and the Velebit Fairy, drawings and story (National park Velebit 2007.)Pobuna obješenih / Mutiny of the Hanged, poetry (Fraktura 2008.) Zrak ispod mora / Air Beneath the Sea , poetry (Biblioteka nagrade Dobriša Cesarić 2009.) Amazona diše / Amazon breathes, text and photographs, 2015. Nevidljivo more / The Invisible Sea, poetry and drawings, scheduled for publishing 2017.

SOME TRANSLATIONS: Španjolske pjesme ljubavi i progonstva / Spanish Poems of Love and Exile” selection, essays and translation (DHK, Zagreb, 2002) Sve do srca svijeta / To the Heart of the World, poetry of Blaise Cendrars, selection, introduction and translation (MD, Zagreb, 2003) U Patagoniji / In Patagonia , prose travel book by Bruce Chatwin, SysPrint, 2006. Južna pošta / Southern Mail , traveling through the poetry of Southern America, translations and essays, (HDP Croatian Writers Society, 2009.) UREZI Antologija svjetske poezije o ratu, represiji, ropstvu … / Anthology of World Poetry about War, Repression, Slavery … 160 authors, 300 poems from Afganistan to Zimbabwe, from ancient Greece to contemporary days (Druga priča 2010.)



To Mara, on the twenty seventh day of your birth

Light and shadow: separating …

And 27 days ago they were one!

Your dark almond shaped eyes are now looking for contours.

Born into this world with no gear of your own.

You are so little you don’t even know your name.

You want to win us over with that smile

Of a newly-built heaven.

What a smile that is! All the Alpine bees

And all the forest fires of Mongolia

All the 350 Church towers of Salvador

And all the plankton of the Atlantic

Have found recluse in the heaven

Of your smile forged in a secret place

Known only to a few levitating saints.

You look around yourself in wonder, but I have to tell you

That in your 10,000-year-old dark eyes

I can still see the reflection of that calm lake

Whose depth is immeasurable.

For me that lake is like an unknown memory.

Scientists call it the black hole of space.

Some simply call it a sack of coal.

While the religious call it the Spirit.

Your eyes until recently

Were like two Indian canoes

Rowing light-heartedly through the endless universe.


I entered the room and found you asleep, so still

I thought you were dead.

There would still be things we could say to each other

Even if we lived two hundred years.


I see you: opening a double doors to the patio

and sitting into the deck chair

facing the pine trees

the children are building a Lego tower

on a quarter of a blanket

Cling!- you raise your coffee cup

it’s almost night: the stars are out.

our boy runs into your lap saying:

“I’d love to see what’s up there.”

you wait together until his heart calms down.

a gust of wind, you thinking of a sweater

Tick-tick: flies hit the lampshade


Dedicated to children victims of war

I am running through a field of the corn; through the early evening, while the sun turns into the moon. The sky is low and oval, pressing down on the ground. The light emanates from the leaves, transparent and watery. Green becomes yellow. I notice that I am small, the corn is so much taller than me.

The field is endless.

Suddenly I collide with the traces of the passing of the one who is looking for me. I stay motionless. For a moment, I can only hear my own breathing. If I were to lean my ear to the ground I would hear the roar of his footsteps. The corn is broken here in hatred, trampled on. He runs blind, leaving behind him a corridor laden with emptiness. The speed with which he moves is many times greater than mine; the traces of his passing reveal the nature of the demon. I need more and more air. While I could, I breathed through my nose. Now I’m breathing through my mouth, I breath in deeply and breath out every ten steps. Soon it will be every five steps, then two …

It is important to control the rhythm of my breathing.

Running gives me courage. And the way the corn moves in front of me gives me courage. I will backtrack a little to cover my trails. When night falls, I will crawl into the corn to gather my strenght for the morning, for running. I will lock my fear into a room with no windows. I will let hope burn in the darkness, to lighten my dream.

He too will be still at night, but he will not sleep. His rage will keep him awake, blunt his senses. In the morning the sharp air will mist his eyesight. And while the lightness darkens I feel the blood boiling in the veins of my pursuer like a distant whisper in the cornfields. In front of my eyes floats the threat of total destruction which follows his passing, I do not need to see his face to know that the unknown who is pursuing me is the same man whose shadow passed by the walls one night without stars, one night in which I ended up alone.

I will run in the morning like never before in my life. The black house is far behind me already, it should be. Now I have something I have never had before, the freedom of choice. I can turn to the east, or to the south, or continue going west. As long as I run my destiny is in my hands. I just have to carry on.


for Davor Sefić

We drove 2,000 miles all across Europe

in our Golden Boy, Robi’s old Kadett:

the three of us,

smoking, listening to the radio,

long arrows of light

stretched along the wet road. Miles pile behind us

and night emerges; we stop only

to change at the wheel, continuing on, breathlessly.

Drinking, smoking, listening to the radio

that’s how we meet the daylight. The sky expands

and you’re saying,

40 years, that’s just about right. I don’t need more,

that’s long enough for one life.

Shortly afterward a tank grenade near Dubrovnik

will take you up into the atmosphere; you lived 23 years

Seven years ago

we had driven relentlessly all across Europe

up to that Chetnik* roadblock at Plitvice.

It was Easter

and we passed through the Great Gates of War.

In your only photograph taken in uniform

you have a curious look, as if you can see what’s coming ahead.

On the wall above you a flash of white light

coming from the Spirit—its everpresence.


Sometimes it seems as if I’m living on borrowed time

my friends are dead and scattered across graveyards

wiped of the slate just like that, none of them even thirty

those people I used to break bread with

those people I slept in the same bunkers with

those people I walked the same grass with, climbing onto tanks and falling down

hitting my face against the ground showered with bullets and shells

(oh sweet quiet earth you know our prayers)

their ghosts still come back with the last of the echoing voices:

is there more juice? asks one who will die in an attack

take care of my brother, says another who will be killed by tank

the third one is trying to remember who he is and where he’s coming from

while his brain slowly switches off (he’d been hit in the head)

what’s over there? asks the fourth clutching a glass of red watered wine

his gaze fixed over the hill where an ambush has already been set up for him

and a fifth is silent but his eyes are able to pronounce:


sometimes it feels as if I’d broken off the chain

I wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air

hearing the hum of fourteen storeys through the open window

(the smell of burnt flesh rising out of wooden caskets)

Christ the Redeemer is a lasting fresh wound among the black clouds

electric fireflies scurry, curse and celebrate

the time when pigs fed on human flesh

down there is a house that once, a hundred years ago, used to be blue

now it is a roofless ruin with frameless windows like empty eye sockets

the inside is all wrecked but somehow at night it becomes alive

the forgotten balconies fill up with flowers and light

while round black women with turbans lean against

corroded fence and tiny echoes of their conversation

whisper that there are three hundred thousand dead people on those fields

where my boots lost their soles

where my eyes drowned into the mud of the universe

where my heart was like an iron rope cut off from its anchor

whizzing through the air in blind circles:

aimless, aimless.


I wandered around the forest of the enemy kingdom

and stumbled upon a piece of wire hidden in the grass

it was a buried PROM2 tripwire-activated

bounding anti-personnel mine

and in the split second before the explosion

I wanted God to make that cup pass me by

but when the detonation threw me in into the air I saw pieces

of iron, pieces of my uniform, pieces of my flesh whirling

in orbit / sand stars porcelain four winds tartan

razors ice / Joseph Conrad proposing to Freya the girl from

the Seven Islands / my enemies cats stealing the planet oxygen

digging through garbage / all lighthouses ablaze all the way

from the New Hebrides to the Pepper Coast / the President of Zimbabwe

Canaan Banana listening to the German radio / thousands of mumified fish heads

prophesying in alien tongues / Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

making airplanes out of a piece of a newspaper –

I never liked Mozart and that’s what threw me down on the ground

while the Vienna boy’s Choir sang:

“a jug goes to the water until it breaks

a jug goes to the water until it breaks”

God let that cup pass me by I thought there in the ambulance

let me live for a little bit longer at least for another 100 years

I don’t want to die now that our time has come

I wanted my medals to shine like oil platforms

lighting up the night flights over the Atlantic

and my veteran’s charisma to become electric

let my limousine slide through the crowd like Moby Dick

slid before the eyes of helpless captain Ahab

I never said I did not want to sell my soul

I was only negotiating the price

let me be invited at the presidential party

ther are so many dishes I never tasted

there are so many people on this Earth whose destiny

I never took in my hands

I want to rob and preach to the robbed ones

I want to lie and laugh at the deceived ones

I want my place in the Ark so I can

watch the flood with the cocktail glass in my hands

since it is better to set fires than to be burned

it’s better to humiliate than to be humiliated

so let’s lay all the cards on the table – we have but one life

give me a hundred cannibal whores from Borneo

let me recover myself in the purifying fountains of youth

give me power to last forever like the invisible poison

in the veins of all humans

give me parts of their spines hands eyes brains hearts kidneys

my hands are the hands of the sculptor thirsty for a work

– I’ll smile at you, the green pastures of Croatia

with a smile of a harvester

in front of the hospital alley cats rummage through garbage

they have conspired to steal the oxygen of the entire planet

the iron holders on the facade are empty

fifthy years ago three flags hung there

one for the gluttony another one for greed

and the third one for misery

instead of them we hoisted up our tricolor

the red is for the Christ’s mineral blood

the blood of our dead the guardian subterranean blood boiling

the white is for hope that we are fighting for a better civilization

the blue one is for our blazen adventure, for frendship firm as those

overseas telegraph cables that fishermen sometimes find

when their nets get lost somewhere

really deep

but the cats came overnight and did their dirty trick

so the red stands for gluttony once again

the white for greed

and the blue for misery

so, dear friends, one thing is certain:

those very cats are the guardians of that other world as well

these cunning cats that sometimes transform into politicians

the cats that are still rummaging through garbage

conspiring to steal the oxygen

of the entire planet.


It’s Christmas Eve

and a gang of drunks is tasting bottles of Šipon

and Silvanac at the illegal winery at the cemetery

filling plastic and glass flasks of all sizes

Cars rush over the edges of pavements

Tonight when glassy bones of old men are humming

there’s a draft in the church as someone left

the door open

Grannies are protesting angrily and justifiably so

counting who lit up more of those tiny candles

I would be also lighting tiny candles

and playing dumb

if I were old

They say this pre-holiday shopping frenzy

has been imported from the materialistic West

and that gradually every sense has been lost

of that sacred day when the Word became flesh

but if you ask me it is the poultry that fared the worst

having been decapitated

each and every one of them

Six years ago they fed us ox roast

and now they’re staging mass spectacles for us

with free sausages

and cheap pop stars

Tito fed us a pig’s head

that he stole from the attic

and our stomachs ached afterwards

for decades on end

Now it’s starting to snow and I am also drunk

like the other honest


Our path to the future is called


— still life

with a pig’s head

— while the Pharaoh

breathes deeply

tucked inside his winter palace

perhaps contemplating another revenge


while Cardinal Kuharić is at tel: 9872

— just a recorded Christmas message —

giving no answers.



you don’t think about poetry then

or about great deeds

or about politics

you don’t defy God

you are as small as a pea

as you wait for the pain

to go away.

When you are riddled with shrapnel

from a mortar grenade

you don’t think about the impression

you leave upon women

or about the national anthem

you crawl under a rock

and wait for the pain

to go away.

when the door of the remand prison

shuts behind your back

– that’s when you think about freedom.


Tito gnaws a pig’s head in the attic

eyeing the street in fear that his parents might catch him

I don’t give a damn / he thinks / I’ll escape on my bicycle

Tito riding a tram in Vienna under cover

wearing his best grey suit thinking:

why should I be any worse than those students?

Tito riding over Mt Romanija

followed by old Nazor stumbling through the snow

Vladimir Vladimir / thinks Tito benevolently

Tito waving at the rows of kids from his Mercedes

red bandannas are tied around their necks like nooses / the Sun

will once grow dark / ponders Tito philosophically

Tito is elegant even in death

here are the mourners listed alphabetically:

bears rhinos lions / chess players

cineastes / circus acrobats / clerks

corn seller at work station no 7

Cuban cigar industry / employees of the Institute for the History

of the Working Class Movement / the English Queen

Greenpeace activists / heads of the tenant’s councils

historic figures / hippies / honour students

Ilich Ramirez Sanchez a.k.a. “Carlos” / men with moustaches

officers from firemen’s clubs / opera singers

presidents of fishermen’s societies / pretty women

primary school teachers / punks / reserve policemen

retired warrant officers / Sai Baba

soccer players / tailors

Tito showed up again in a balloon above eastern Africa

pointing his binoculars at a herd of zebras

those devils with stripes / thinks Tito to himself / they are all the same

Tito says NO to Stalin and Stalin

responds I don’t care anymore / who gives a fuck

do you know how to calculate?

I have twenty one thousand eight hundred and fifty six of them

ground into the leaves of the Katyn forest / I have three hundred thousand

secretly burried ones

I have ten million of those liquidated in liquidations

I have all of their IDs / the photographs of their children / the letters

filled with unwarranted optimism / their pencils / small change

I’ve got them all neatly placed on file


I’m holding in my hand a 20×26 photograph

of Louis Armstrong playing the trumpet

I place it under the lamp to check

if the signature is an authentic one

Best Wishes, is written in black felt-tip pen,

and in the corner bellow the photograph:

Associated Booking Corp. Joe Glaser,


New York, Chicago, Hollywood

who would have thought?

under the lamp there is a small mirror

casting white shadows all across the room

the winter lights

straigth from the photograph, glaciers glistening

ever so restlessly


part from “Antarctic,” in Poems of Light and Shadow

On the airplane Miss Love sits next to the window so that she can watch

the clouds, white clouds, dense and soft like spun sugar

those foamy clouds that are good only for walking

in sleeveless T-shirt. Late in the afternoon

(the hour when her hair receives that golden hue)

the sun tends to beat hard up there

at these haights.

There is a man sitting next to her

Suspiciously observing her hands

Full of scratches and bruises.

Miss Love sits on the plane with her knees pressed tight against each other

clutching a macrobiotic dinner in her lap while the items

she purchased nestle under her legs. there is a teddy bear-shaped rucksack

on her back where she keeps her wedding dress and the urn

with the ashes of her late husband, the well known singer

whose name she forgot.

He’s been sitting there in that teddy-bear-shaped knapsack for quite some time now

Miss had burried a handful of his ashes

under the willow tree in her garden while she mixed the other two with clay

and made tiny saucers, and a handful of it was unfortunately

inadvertent blown away:

ending up in the ventilation system shaft.

As for the rest: Miss Love always carries it with herself on her journeys

keeping it close to her heart – like a talisman.


Out of tobbaco, coffee, wine,

they appear at the edge of night

like those voices you hear singing

somewhere far down the street,

but you cannot recognize the song.

(Julio Cortazar “Los Amigos”)

it came to me in a a dream that we have all gathered together again

at the long wooden table set up somewhere

in the middle of nowhere in the mountains

at the white wooden table covered with a chequered table-cloth

with red embroideres

we are sitting silent on a plateau surrounded with tall vegetation

focusing on the transparent lemon blossoms

floating around in the dreary May sky and

falling down

into our glasses and sticking onto the mud on our uniforms sliding

down the frozen barrels of our rifles dissapearing in the grass

among it’s shiny sharp blades wrapping around our boots

several thousand years old. some of us

drink pure wine while I drink it mixed

with bubbling water pregnant with minerals

those quartz crystals of roaring waterfalls

some pour ordinary water into wine; there is a jug on the table

that we fill at the well brimming with water as crystal

as the air around us so vacant that through it I can see the cracks

in the snow

melting as the furthest of those glassy blak mountain tops.

from here it is

perfectly clear that the Earth is round. the salty wind

that rose from the sea overnight tiptoes across its flat surface

passing through invisible labyrinths

in an attempt to surprise the German shepherd

asleep in the shadow of the only tree that grows on this plain

(none of us is worried too much about the enemy dogs.)

I light up a cigarette and throw the match into the grass filling my lungs with smoke

so powerful that it blurs my eyesight.

we’re sitting silent sensing the lava of future volcanoes churning

somewhere deep down bellow our feet

– the soil is born again having spent the entire winter locked under the snow

rolling in its sleep and sucking on dead organisms

renewing itself and sprouting roots – hardening and widening,

bearing bitter, coloured sprouts.

we sit there placidly watching the fruits of the mountain lemon tree ripening.

the food on the table is modest as it always has been:

a few loaves of bread, thirty hard boiled eggs. there are the maps

(maps of some other far regions) plus seven

Motorola radios and five to six bandages, three infra red night visors, two regular binoculars for daily observation + seven military compasses who point nowhere safe.


On page 87 of the Oxford Atlas

I found the pencil-drawn line of a long forgotten

journey I once planned. The curved arrow

points to the Amazon estuary then draws a circle around Belém,

Tocatins, running further across Rio Paro to Ilha dos Macacos,

Antônio Lemos;

the line then follows the river upstream:

Paraguara, Santarem, Terra Santa, Ita-

piranga, Sao Jose, Manaus, Arcuipelago de

las Anavilhanas, Taupecacu, Moura.

Finally, circled, with a small arrow

inside the circle – Rio Negro, Rio Negro.


These hills

Black upright

Lungs full of air

Night clouds

Black greyish milky

Like the Baltic inclined to evil

Take these lights

High-rise buildings and trails of man

Let only Christ-the-lighthouse remain

In the circle of the sharp hills

Stuck into the sky like glaciers

The worlds of rainforests – what an adventure!


I went for a haircut

To a barber to whom I’d not yet been

Before I sat in the chair

I said to him looking straight into his eyes:

I don’t want one of those modern hairstyles.

No way,

Said he in a hurt voice, I would never,

I cut hair in a good old way.

While he was cutting my hair it seemed fine —

I looked at myself in the mirror

And it seemed to me that I saw Simon


Turning a bend

Up in the rocky peaks,

Riding into death

(El Liberador)

Wrapped in a blanket, incited by fever.

He has dropped to forty five kilos

But still does not give up.

Behind him seven mules carrying the luggage

With seventy medals of honour,

Next to him ride colonel Wilson and a handful of loyal

Desperados, vagabonds and soldiers of fortune;

Above them the eternal snow of the Andes and yellow bells,

And down in the depths were fields in which

A man could drown.

But when I came out I saw that on

The barber’s shop front sign it said:


And really, looking at my reflection in the glass

I realised that the old mule had tricked me,

Which was most upsetting.


Ivana! I will build you a house from pigmented Brazilian wood

(that’s the wood that does not lose the battle with time)

a house with no sharp angles in one of the old ports from the Gold Fever era

(for everything is allowed in search for gold)

It’s a small colonial harbour with three churches:

one is the church of the black slaves, the other the church of free mulattos

and the third one is the church of white land-owners —

the name of the port is Parati!

the front door will be past-resistant

the walls would be covered in books: only valuable books,

thousands of books

titles by Melville, Conrad, Stevenson and others

notorious adventurers

I’ll build you a house from wood that cannot be eaten away by salt

or hardened by the Sun

it’s going to be a house with long windows to the east

commanding a view onto the hills and forests and steam railway

leading to the old mines

and from the west side you can see through binoculars the French castle

built to defend from pirates

and the passage leading through the islands

We’re going to eat big fish caught in the ocean – one to one.

Life will be easy for you!

So easy that your eyes will turn into clear emeralds

growing underneath the humus of Mato Grosso

instead of forest strawberries

Yes, the windows will always be open and the curtains

will travel down the corridors

white as the dresses of the old Bahian ladies whispering: candomble!

and on the ceiling I’ll build in a skylight

so our children can dream

deep dreams under that Southern Cross


watermelon rinds

atoms of the sun’s energy

piss-soaked “O Globo” newspapers

levitating air

pigments of black colour


compressed caoutchouc remembering

the schooners of unshaved thieves


Crossing the street, I saw a butterfly falling somewhere between myself and a fat black lady with her hands full of plastic bags.

Lemon yellow, blue, and soft black:

I thought how come such colours on a dead butterfly and then I looked up to the tree tops, the granite hills and the clouds, and it came to my knowledge that this is the New World.


In the hills above Petropolis over the rain forests

On the black asphalt road slippery with a thin film of lemon dust

Along the sunny plain on top by the stone marker

At the verge of an abyss descending everywhere around you

Into the mist of oceans

Park your old round sky-coloured truck

With its gaucho decal: “Jesus was a truck driver too”

Wait until the engine dies down, steam disappears

And everything becomes quiet; light a cigarette and take a

Careful drag (for the air is thin)

And think of the dead, think of the dead.


Beyond coral reefs

a deserted sea where a light

breeze and a bird in the sky

announce the longed-for land

of scuba diving harmony.

It is where Vietnamese bamboo rafts

cross the ocean in search of bread

and when they see a butterfly

they remember for ever

each of its pores

breathing in spouting colours

because that means the land is near

and they are not going to drown

or die of thirst.

There beyond the seabed

of petrified lava

lies Australia.


There are poets who write

One and the same book their whole life: the book

About the end of the world – once they are no longer there.

That makes them similar to prophets

Who shake the ground as they kick at it

With their knotty sticks in order to

Block the movement of time.

But unlike prophets, poets know that time

Actually stands still as we travel

Through it.

Conversely, unlike poets, prophets are destined

To write only one book, the book that poets

Write over and over again,

Thinking it’s a new one.


Let someone else explain who Gaspard of the Night was,

That horrible creature of the abyss, the vapor of the brassy

Mold in vine cellars where only artificial light shines. I don’t want to read a poem

Bearing his name nor do I want to know its author

Or the period he belongs to:

It’s France, fine, but I couldn’t care less what came before or after this

Or that, let him just disappear from the library shelves,

If he is still somewhere there collecting dust and being eaten by worms.

He had those extraordinary visions – fine – many a prophet has them.

Baudelaire gave him body and Maurice Ravel

Packed him inside his slippery notes, but that was some hundred years ago.

Don’t pull him out of the storage of forgotten wishes

Or out of the penniless wee-wee hours,

But rather forget him for the sake of future generations.

Unfortunately, I met him by chance,

But not in a book, or in a poem, or through his author,

But personally: the dark Gaspard himself.

However, it is Gaspard of the Night, the disappeared one,

Who interests me here. So don’t mention Gaspard to anyone

For he belongs to those whose IDs are a mere mirage,

A water-soaked unpaid bill whereon blue ink dances

Its mechanic dance on the table in some inn.

Though I didn’t read him, I know that under his light

All glasses and bottles elongate like those maiden faces on Modigliani’s paintings.

The chairs are pilled up like Apollinaire’s calligrams

While salty sardines are being served on turpentine as the folk

Debate endlessly what’s better: a goose’s feather or aqua ink,

As they produce empty canvasses like travel maps of pilgrims.

Understanding Gaspard of the Night means realizing

That all those multidimensional cuts and appearances

In Cubist paintings represent the layers of underskirts

Of those party girls, suspended in drunken flight.

Look at all those half top hats, hats and sticks

Made of ballistic glass climbing at dawn into a carriage

Driven by an old man in a long overcoat or wrapped in a cloak,

Black patch covering his eye.

The parrot he wears on his shoulder once plucked his eye out

But he still refuses to renounce it for sudden injuries

And illnesses are the stamp of true art.

The wheels reinforced with iron rings roll

Or even better – rotate – down the cobbled stones occasionally flickering,

As the stripped chimneys on the horizon carve themselves into the sky:

That’s how the Italian futurism came into being!

Whereas impressionism was created one afternoon

Out of pure leisure accompanied with a glass of a quality wine, made of pollen

That wind receives from birches and linen.

Expressionism, on the other hand, cut a bit deeper into the sawdust

Of bars frequented by Gaspard and his kind.

Surrealism resorted to quarrel to unite stubborn people

While Dadaism entirely ignored the palpable world

Outside of Gaspard’s realm.

Fauvists and their jarring colors stand for the rebellious cry

Of an individual shut behind the doors of an asylum for the disturbed ones

Whereas Malevich’s Ride of the Red Cavalry had been painted in flux

Seemingly pouring out of the barrel of red wine, which is also the trace of Gaspard

Of the Night. Because of him Gauguin left for Tahiti moonlighting in his wooden clogs

Disturbing the sleep of honest folk. Answering to his debtor’s urgent telegrams

In incomprehensible Polynesian language for the first people to whom he now belonged

Did not know of usurious contracts. Marc Chagall went gray from worrying

About Gaspard: figures floating above the canvass

As the vistas of the wide Russian winter merge unexpectedly with violet

And green bottle-like colors, his paintings growing narrower and narrower

With fewer and fewer figures as he himself grew more and more frugal:

Where there used to be three animals, now you could spot only one

While the whole house would fit inside a single window-frame as the church

Is reduced to a belfry. Delaunay’s paintings, replete with light seeping in

Through the shutters, represent the view from inside the rib cage

Of a human body stumbling exhausted from all that burden.

Gaspard of the Night like the life of the art created under his cloak belongs to that daring

And unique part of synchronized time.

All those artists with their different visions…

Who but Gaspard could bring them together?

I don’t even know who wrote it, I never read it

But to me Gaspard of the Night is that what John Barleycorn was

To Jack London, and Apollinaire also called him out

When he named his book of verse – ALCOHOL.

*Aloysius Bertrand, was a writer whose Gaspard de la nuit (“Gaspard of the Night”) introduced the prose poem into French literature and was a source of inspiration to the Symbolist poets and later to the Surrealists.


It is World Poetry Day,

when it is better not to meet the poets,

so I am taking our labrador Luna to the park.

One yellow butterfly

– in the name of the first day of spring –

draws its orbit of freedom from earth to sky.

It looks as if we are all made of sun,

though the source of the poetry

of our world remains invisible.

Like that butterfly’s drawing in the air,

the glimpse you try to catch before

is already gone for good.


(To brother Vladimir, who left Zagreb as a young boy on an oceanliner for Rio de Janeiro, and never returned home again…)

This bitter earth / What fruit it bears / What good is love / That no one shares…*

Shouts and harsh voices disappear in the silence of the ashes of the burnt trees.

There came the rain; but oblivion was nowhere to be found. In swings, like a pendulum, dull light of pain.

Fires came and went.

No doubt they will return, like the sea which cannot forget its shores. Surrounded by pine trees I was daydreaming in a hammock on my balcony. Somewhere a passing truck echoed hoarsely over the street holes. It sounded like souls were battering from the other side.

I open my eyes.

We have buried my older brother in Rio de Janeiro, in Sao Bento cemetery.

After I pushed the casket through the hole in the wall, the assistant cemented the cracks in a few skilfull moves. I asked him the number of this vault. He did not reply. Another employee approached and outlined the number with white chalk.

21, he said.

21, I said to everybody else behind me and looked at the sharp black hills, the Tijuca rainforest and the Organ Mountains where under the concave sky of the megalopolis lie millions of souls, some with neither name nor number to confirm their existence, and felt a sudden weakness in my knees thinking how some trees, when they burn down, become a shade of the earth, disappear in the shadow. But some, after they burn down, stay with us forever, because the love they had in their lives stays as an ember which cannot ever be extinguished.


The lions at Trafalgar Square in London,

in quartier Montparnasse and all over Paris, lions

at the tomb of King Richard in the Rouen Cathedral,

the Tiergarten park and the Museum Island in Berlin.

They guard the Chain Bridge in Budapest, the entrance

to the Royal Palace of Brussels; slumber

at the foot of the Columbus monument in Barcelona,

daydream at the Marquise Pombala square in Lisbon.

Long ago their gaze of stone escorted the grand ships

of East – India Company out of Port of Amsterdam.

We have more of them here than in Africa and India.

The capitals of the former European Empires

are not adorned with dolphins or birds, but lions,

whose strength is in their loneliness.

One harsh winter as a twelve year old

I went ice skating in park near our ZOO.

On the frozen lake no one but me.

Sliding under one of the bridges

I felt the presence of a lion.

Through the snow frosted trees

I could barely see the winter’s den

but the lion’s roar frightened me

and made me return to where I started.

But when it seems that they see you, you’re wrong,

lions are actually looking straight through your bones,

through the walls, bars and trees, across the lake

where I skated and all the way over the Roman Colosseum

towards the wilderness carved deeply into their memory,

their gaze steadfastly rooted to the grasslands of Africa

before the colonies.


Dictators are marching

like figures in mechanical circus.

That Merry-go-round is not inspired by

electric, or some other artificial energy.

It is fueled by our own will, or rather,

The lack of will.

Dictators get dethroned

Because of fatigue of material,

Or they get eaten by

Their own kind,

They even kill themselves sometimes, or

They perish in calm sweetness of old age.

But it is our greed that recycles them,

They are impersonated by the hopes

That we failed to accomplish

In our own youth.


Tomica Bajsić, Poems in English, from Gobshite Quarterly magazine; from “The Consolation of Chaos” Anthology of contemporary Croatian poetry, 1995 – 2005; from “If We Crash into a Cloud, It Won’t Hurt,” Croatian Poetry 1989 – 2009., “The Hundred Years’ War: Modern War Poems” Bloodaxe Books 2014., ed. by Neil Astley. Most poems translated into English by Damir Šodan, some by the author and Gabeba Baderoon.