Bog Miroslav Mandić Bog

fog

how is now Nadezhda Tolokonnikova who was sent to the penal colony

in the Mordovia region about five hundred kilometres away from Moscow

how is now Maria Alyokhina who was sent to the penal colony

in the Perm region about eleven hundred kilometres away from Moscow

how is now Julian Assange imprisoned in the embassy of Ecuador in London

how is now anybody who is innocent and imprisoned and nobody even knows of them

when I started writing Miroslav Mandic Nadezhda was fourteen years old

today Nadezhda is the Hymn of Freedom of All Beings

I wouldn’t like to go to prison ever again

even though I don’t know how would I live if I wasn’t in prison

I discovered and experienced freedom in prison

freedom for the other and freedom for all beings

red roses were calmly and freely blossoming in the prison yard

little birds were flying into the prison over the walls

freedom with which I became vegetarian

freedom to renounce the property

workers from municipal park and landscape

maintenance are digging the wholes for new seedlings

if I wasn’t in prison I wouldn’t have discovered that I’m guilty

for everything in this world and that everything in this world depends on me

accepting the guilt and responsibility leads to the freedom which is already within me

through that freedom I started loving the other

through that freedom I love all beings

what terrifies is that almost nothing can be done from outside in this world

what terrifies is that many horrible things were removed by even more horrible violence

that a lot of good things are based on legal violence and indifference

I’m watching the grass and it lights me up

calm surface of the lake lights me up

pebbles light me up

Christ’s resurrection lights me up

it lights me up because it resurrects every being

verified through improvability

never and towards nobody revenge

always and for everybody resurrection

I’m walking peacefully and slowly for the liberation of Nadezhda Maria and Julian

I’m walking peacefully and slowly through

the woods for the liberation of innocently imprisoned ones

for the liberation of animals from people and braking off all the chains they are tied with

for liberation of love in Your heart that will set all beings free

drops of rain are glittering and sparkling in the grass

lizards go away snails come out

there is no solidarity among people

there is no solidarity of a man for other species

man commits huge crimes towards a man but crimes man

commits towards animals plants earth water air… is many times bigger

I believe that man is a species which was created

to stop killing so that with it killing itself disappears as well

human rights are nothingness if there are no rights for all beings

goodness wants to live in each being

beauty wants to live in each being

if I deny that to the goodness goodness won’t live within me

if I deny that to the beauty beauty won’t live within me

all beings live within me and within all beings

everything I do to all beings within me

at the same time I do that to all beings in the world as well

smile through which I’m smiling at the moment to

all beings within me is spreading through all beings in the world

sometimes all beings within me are helping all beings in the world

sometimes all beings in the world are helping all beings within me

if all beings within me are good all beings in the world are good as well

if all beings within me are beautiful all beings in the world are beautiful as well

isn’t it so

god

is

both

poem

and

singing

if I’m singing I’m a poem

if I’m a poem I’m singing

through walking I’m uniting poem and singing

through

poem

and

singing

i’m

god

myself

God is

I am

God love-kisses

I love-kiss

You are affirming. You are joining

isn’t it so

it’s afternoon. fog is gone. sun started to shine. the dusk will soon come

in youth one instinctively lives in now and

that’s why it’s all remembering in the old age

old age means living mentally and that’s why

now is not remembered but immediately turned into eternity

I’m somebody to somebody

I’m coming back. calm. tranquil. I’m somebody I miss to myself

every year in each Miroslav Mandic book on October 26^th in twentieth blessing

I write Robert Walser. this year in the eighth book here is Robert Walser himself

I will finish with myself when I’m done with poetry. good night

I am the loneliest man within

there’s nothing from being an actor… but if God gives I’ll be a great poet

nobody has right to treat me as if they know me

writing was for him some kind of dying, while

writing he had certain feeling of dying

yes, only the travel within oneself is important

I was in the midst of my complete

failure and I had to do it justice

I became ill in certain respect from futile efforts

I think that a poet has to plunge his head from

time to time into the darkness, into the mysterious

one day I realised that going with a pen right away makes

me nervous, so in order to calm myself down I started using the

method of a pencil, which is probably a longer way, additional effort.

since that effort looked in certain way like pleasure, it seemed to me that I

will get well that way. among other things it seemed to me that with a pencil

I could work more dreamily, more peacefully, cleverly, it seemed to me that

such way of working is turning for me into some kind of happiness

you are happy because modesty is happiness on its own

if poets like Robert Walser could be counted among

our foremost intellects, there wouldn’t be any war

Hermann Hesse

as a matter of fact my love, every ineffectiveness is almost like some sort of blessing

a beautiful and interesting book is important to me until it’s

published. each printed book is a grave for a poet, isn’t it so

at that time I undertook several stupid tries to take my

own life. but I wasn’t able even to make a good noose

as a matter of fact I should be completely on my own in this world

from my unblessed littleness

there have always been conspiracies in my surrounding to turn down scums like me

Robert Walser

being withdrawn is the only weapon I have

never even in the times of greatest poverty have I allowed the society to buy me

it’s always better to personally do good, then to receive it

without love man is lost

failure has forced many into the grave too soon

isn’t in some respect a successful writer also a killer

Zurichers didn’t notice my poems. at that time they were all enthusiastically

sighing after Hesse. they allowed me to roll down the slope of his success

all of those warm-hearted people, who believe they can control

and criticise me, are Hesse’s admirers. they don’t trust me. there is only

either-or for them. either you write like Hesse, or you’re a looser. that’s

how extremely they are judging me. they don’t have confidence

in my work. that’s the reason I ended up in a sanatorium

yes, failure is a dangerous, angry snake. it constantly

strives to supress what’s real and original in an artist

laughing and being silent, that’s the best one can do

a man should be able to endure some stench as well

a deceased, who was lying on the pile of snow, was a poet, delighted with

winter and cheerful play of snowflakes – a real poet, who was like a child

searching for the world of peace, purity and love

if these lines didn’t offend You, then it makes Robert Walser happy

soon

when it’s not better it’s worse

that’s wonderful

wonderful and true

two weeks ago on Saturday morning I fell

in the bath tub and hurt my left side ribs a lot

time heals all wounds

the pain is persisting

it’s Saturday again

going. I should get going

with poem poem

with poem truth

with poem freedom

I’m walking and it really hurts

are my ribs broken

until now it wasn’t hurting me during the day and while

walking only during the night and while lying on the side

for the first time today it hurts me while walking

pain

interferes. depresses. dejects

I’m not really a good Saturday stray dog or maybe exactly because

I’m not really a good Saturday stray dog I am a real Saturday stray dog

warm wind is blowing

I’m trying to surrender to the warm wind as much as possible

Saturday stray dog is leaving the streets in the

centre of the city and is going towards the Chukarichka Padina

one stray dog is alone and that’s why I’m joining him around the train station

when I feel that I’m too alone stray dogs within me always join me

now that I see that the stray dog is alone I’m joining him

since I’m talking about my rib pains it’s nice to mention the pains of others

pains of people

hey people in pain

pains of animals

hey animals in pain

pains of plants

hey plants in pain

pains of minerals

hey minerals in pain

pains of minorities

hey minorities in pain

I’m grateful to the blessings because it’s better with

pains and blessings than with pains without blessings

when I saw this good sixteen year old I thought to myself

how I always loved teddy boys but much more good boys

teddy boys are rare but good boys are even more so

while I was thinking about teddies and good boys I saw

a little path and I felt it’s salvific for me that I felt for a little path

little path transforms teddy boys into the good boys and good ones into God

stumbling block

a generation of Gunter Deming’s Stolperstein

bowing to the each name of Stolperstein

Stolperstein and stumbling block are one rock

every day is a stumbling block

my beloved Gypsies

if I look at the face of a Gypsy I see myself

I see the face of God

poem

is

a

gypsy

god’s

name

is

gypsy

I cannot be if I’m not a Gypsy

Gypsy is a stumbling block

a

poem

is

a

stumbling

block

conciseness block

orgasm

only

a

gypsy

only

god

a Gypsy on his motor sidecar has rubbed his hands and handed a box of

cigarettes to a Gypsy woman next to him to light him a cigarette. she did that

green light came on. she is putting the cigarette in his mouth. they are off to work

sometimes a poem is nothing else but admitting

that it’s impossible to sing what should be sung of

sometimes life is nothing else but admitting that it’s impossible to live the very life

after admitting comes singing

after admitting comes living

poem

is

singing

life lives

cold wind on my face

here is the smile through which all my troubles are transformed at this moment into joy

nothing is as dangerous and horrifying as being Gypsy and poem

nothing is as good and salvific as being Gypsy and poem

I’m a Gypsy to You my friend

I’m a Gypsy woman to You my girl friend

road

freedom

love

poem

God

Gypsy

I am a Gypsy woman to a Gypsy man

a Gypsy man does not exist without a Gypsy woman

a Gypsy woman without a Gypsy man

Gypsy man is love

Gypsy woman is love of love

like a consciousness about consciousness

the way after consciousness comes consciousness about consciousness

and after consciousness about consciousness comes consciousness the same way

also after love comes love of love and after love of love comes love

one two one

I You I

that’s what Gypsy woman knows and that’s what Gypsy woman is

living of love

living for love

black-metallic blue raven’s feathers

the way I cannot be if I’m not a Gypsy man

the same way I cannot be a Gypsy man if I’m not a Gypsy woman

pathing to pathing

tambouring to tambouring

surrendering to surrendering

unprotectedness to unprotectedness

like earth surrenders to water

water to air

air to light

light to light

God’s

all words of mine you are my Gypsy woman

all numbers of mine you are my Gypsy woman

all beings of mine you are my Gypsy woman

three Gypsy women existed in my life. an old Gypsy woman in my

childhood in Novi Sad. young Gypsy woman with a small child in her lap

across the Vladicin Dvor in Novi Sad. young Gypsy woman with a small child in

her arms on the corner of the street above Djeram market in Belgrade. all three of them

were beggars

love forever for all three of them

work for oneself and one’s family turns into begging. begging into the work for the other

I’m walking by the lake and thoughts are wandering with a Gypsy woman

Gypsy woman is bathing a Gypsy man within

her. Gypsy woman is bathed with the Gypsy name

I’m thinking of how art has saved me in my youth from human life. how it

took me with itself and like a Gypsy woman lead me into the all-life and life of all beings

a poem is my Gypsy man

art is my Gypsy woman

walking is Gypsy man and Gypsy woman together within me on the road

people without a state

sweetest people

people of the very life

people of winds

heavenly people on the earth

conscious in still unawaken conscious of other people

people of soles and hands

barefooted

people of children

children’s people

ever since I was a kid I was hearing ugliest things about them

nothing of what I’ve been hearing have I experienced

all those ugly stories about them are the stories about those who are telling them

people who have states have army and they produce weapons and death

Gypsies are unarmed

beauty

Gypsies are white flowers of water lilies

goodness

Gypsies are heavenly birds which are circling the shape of rose

Gypsies

not ideas but in things by William Carlos Williams

Gypsies – always when the music bangs

Gypsies – daily bread from being thrown

Gypsies – supernatural bread from being rejected

fuck yourselves fucked and beloved ones

those who fuck don’t kill

Gypsies are miners of life

every day in everybody’s everyday they are mining huge quantities of life for the very life

they are mining huge quantities of life and ore through the very life

Gypsies are green soil blue sky and red wheel

which is constantly moving in the heart of each free being

not a single great empire is worthy of the gypsy empire of the life itself

Gypsies are like God. if they didn’t exist they should be invented

Gypsies are strangers among people and they remind all

other people they are strangers among animals plants and minerals

having is a great passion. not having is even greater

Gypsies

not having anything and being everything