Bog Miroslav Mandić Bog

I started walking towards the Danube. always the same anxiety

 

poem is gratitude to the singing

 

there is eight or nine kilometres to Danube. it’s hot outside. I will walk slowly

 

a trumpet and a timpani players are starting off with a sad melody on the market

 

the market is full of different destinies. in hundred years

there won’t be anybody who lives now on the planet. there

will be some other people. which will in hundred years also…

 

life celebrates life

 

poem celebrates poem in life’s glory

 

poem is celebration through which any word of the poem becomes

 

meek before You the heart of my love elevates towards the only female one

 

I’m walking by the church wall by which I always

feel how the sense struggles to live in each thought

 

enjoy in my words since I live with words because I am the word

 

enjoy with my words on Your nipples

 

the only thing that You can do is to liberate Yourself from Your power

 

the grammar of my language springs from the mathematics of my steps

 

the beauty of the poem is in doing good

 

an

act

of

goodness

sings

the

beauty

of

the

poem

 

everything is wonderful – but God

 

while the workers who are working on the access road of the new bridge are eating their

warm breakfast their manager is telling them who has free and who has working days

 

workers sanctity

 

poem is timeless infinite fruit tree with the

smell of grass. taste of bread and sweetness of grapes

 

poem caresses Your nerves while You are surrendering with hope to its armful

 

poem is Dostoevsky’s insight

we are all guilty on behalf of all and for all, and I am even more than others

 

my tongue is tingling. my throat is suffering. my heart is trembling in my chest

 

poem is just born God’s baby that not a single human being can resist

 

accidentally – through God’s plan – in the last moment I saw

Mirjana while she was buying cigarettes water and ice-cream on the kiosk

 

I just saw Danube. it’s green. I felt profound peace

 

I swam across the Danube from here two-three times. that feeling protects me

 

I love You a lot Danube

 

on the Danube staircases I’m packing in plastic bags all my

walking things. camera. mobile phone. pedometer. dictaphone. spare

batteries. drawings. pencils. identity card. spectacles. clothes. sandals

I’m tying them to one five litre plastic bottle that I found on the ground

 

seagulls. swallows. cold and warm water currencies. tugboats. marvellous

tranquillity. unnoticeable strength of water that is carrying me and to which I surrender

the water and the sky. lapping of the waves over my face. silence. singing to God. body

that enjoys in the water. danger that is nowhere and yet it lurks from the side-lines

 

I swam across the Danube. there and back. I was one hour in the water

all things remained dry. I am happy. thankful. even more meek

 

a guardian of existence – lover to all beings

 

poem particle and vibration

 

for it was not an enemy that reproached me;

then I could have borne it. neither was it he that hated me that

did magnify himself against me; then I would have hid myself from him 

Psalm 55:12

but it was thou, a man mine equal, my guide and mine acquaintance

Psalm 55:13

the words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war

was in his heart; his words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords

Psalm 55: 21

 

hour and a half of last night’s conversation with You over the

phone was a great consolation for me especially after the pain that

I feel these days because of the person who used to be very close to me

 

today is forty years of the Red Notebook

 

the large notebook with red covers and eighty nine leafs

I probably torn out eleven leafs

 

on 25^th August 1971 at 11 pm I wrote with

blood the inscription through which it’s life begun

 

it was a mystical night. between despair and being radiant

closed mouth are singing God

 

without any chance in life but before all the freedom of this world

which was waiting for me on the hundred of the Red Notebook’s pages

 

Red Notebook is my Penelope

 

whenever I open it I feel great excitement

 

as if I’m opening a life

 

I feel the excitement of the beginning

 

all pages have something written on them even though there is still space to write in it

 

it’s all colourful. I mottled it with felt pens and crayons

 

over those colourful surfaces I used to write and I’m

still writing with a fountain pen or stiletto pen and black ink

 

everything in it is sexual

 

full of loneliness and hope

 

I was always writing only about You and me

 

have a look now how in one empty square I will write down

today on 25^th August 2011 on the forty year anniversary of the

Red Notebook I’m writing down that there are 1875 poems in it

 

enjoying even more in black ink that is leaking over the paper I’m adding

therefore I’m writing down today that there is a space for another 274 poems

 

forty years of futility from which there is no greater sanctity

 

forty years of handwriting that is changing and witnesses that the

handwriting is a trace of blood which transforms into vibrations of immortality

 

I’d love if all beings would enjoy the Red Notebook which is now in Your hands

while You are leafing through it and stopping from time to time to read something

 

You say that it looks like scattered petals and shorn flowers to You

 

flowery notebook – an oath to the flowers

one and only conscience during all these forty years

 

I have always yearned for uncreated poem

 

a poem through which orgasming labia are dying for the uncreated lips

 

a poem which is nothing else but all that is always now and forever

 

a poem through which I begun to live that night

which was hot like this one everything that has often been

so far away from poem that it was becoming a poem on its own

 

air

I

love-kiss

you

I

will

never

betray

you

 

You haven’t even been born when the Red Notebook was born

fucking around is always only in God’s glory

 

Kant and Spinoza are lying on my bed

 

boys are present – girls are supple

 

a

bud

of

the

red

notebook

is

budding

that’s great – I have said almost nothing about the Red Notebook

 

Sava Sumanovic – big kid. innocence of painting

 

Mangelos – unnoticeable out of which great art is becoming

 

Tom Gotovac – nakedness through which loved ones adore each other

 

Aleksandar Tisma – companionship with Aleksandar

was rejoicing and exciting me more than any woman

 

Slobodan Tisma – even though I am alone

everything I’m writing is in glory of friendship my beloved friend

 

Srdjan Valjarevic – great progeny comes through loneliness my beloved friend

 

Zvonko Bogdan – tears that I’ve shed because of the plain within my heart

 

Lazar Stojanovic – admiration for all of those

who have been in prison because of their believes

 

Elderly Tadej – speed of love is million light years faster than the speed of light

 

Jean Seberg – each early deceased beautiful woman lives within me

 

Lee Marvin – anyone who is the father to all sons in my father too

 

Charlie Chaplin – anyone who discovered the warmth and comedy in poverty

 

Antonin Artaud – anyone who bares the unbearable

 

John Cassavetes – anyone whose eyes are sparkling and

lips are pouting from the belief that only impossible is possible

 

Jean Luc Godard – this flaring within my heart is the same as the one in my youth

 

Billie Holiday – vibrating voice celebrates with easiness everything including painful loves

 

Erik Satie – when out of silence of the night steps beautiful music is created

 

Fats Domino – I caress with my nostrils air of all beings’ childhood

 

Charles Mingus – my Petar Miloradovic just phoned

me while I was thinking what to write about Charles Mingus

 

John Cage – anyone who recognises John Cage in these words

 

Johnny Cash – prisoner’s song in which there is more freedom than anywhere else

 

John Lee Hooker – a dove starts flying and flies in at the right moment

 

Andre Williams – pussy is a poem to cock. cock is singing to pussy

 

Gertrude Stein – art is who. art is

Gertrude Stein. anyone who loves Gertrude Stein

 

Velimir Khlebnikov – transreason of our daily bread. transreason of supernatural bread

 

Helderlin – anyone who dwells poetically in this world

 

Novalis – blue flower

 

Walt Whitman – anyone who is Walt Whitman to Walt Whitman

 

Arthur Rimbaud – beauty of braveness through

which the eighteen year old one leaves this world

 

Fernando Pessoa – a shepherd of the ocean

 

Jack Kerouac – anyone who is on the only path – being on the road

 

Robert Walser – anyone whose soul is whiter than snow and who died in snow

 

William Carlos Williams – anyone who sees poetry

in everything and gives birth to the poem from everything

wow I’ll write about you adored ones tomorrow as well

 

Knowing harmony is acknowledging the oneness of Infinity

Lao Tzu in 55^th Chapter

 

They will not confuse each other and

the oneness in each will harmonize both. 

Lao Tzu in 60^th Chapter

 

Jean Genet – poem is a holly woman

 

Charles Bukowski – poem is the balls of the poem

 

William Blake – poem is endless innocence

 

Jalaluddin Rumi – poem is circling

 

Jean Jacques Rousseau – poem is Jean Jacques Rousseau

 

Ludwig Wittgenstein – poem is brother to the wonderful life of Ludwig Wittgenstein

 

David Henry Thoreau – I is poem. You is prose

 

Nietzsche – poem I love You more and more

 

Nikolai Fyodorov – poem is meekness that rules the Universe

 

Berdyaev – poem is freedom of singing and singing of freedom

 

Simone Weil – poem is the voice over the speakers that echoes the

street we are gathering recyclable materials. we are cleaning the yards…

 

Plotinus – poem is emanation of the one

 

Pythagoras – poem is number

 

Sophie Scholl and the White Rose – poem is the conscience of immortality

 

Chinese students in front of the tanks – poem is admiration of the bare breasts

 

Ulrike Meinchof – poem is a hind

 

Isaac the child – poem is the lamb in anybody’s chest

 

Rabia – poem is constant fascination with God

 

Meister Eckhart – poem is Godmouth

 

Meher Baba – poem is God’s glowing through smile

 

Ad Reinhardt – poem is everything that poem is to poem

 

Van Gogh – poem is painting through God’s nerves

 

Claude Monnet – poem is the water lilies water lilies water lilies…

 

Marcel Duchamp – poem is a disruption

 

Yves Klein – poem is the bravery of immaterial blueness

 

Richard Long – poem is walker

 

Joseph Kosuth – poem is – poem alone – a notion of poem – a definition of poem

 

Tehching Hsieh – poem is closeness with poem

 

Konstantin Tsiolkovsky – poem is the vibrating of Cosmos through all particles

 

Allan Turing – poem is sisterly love for artificial intelligence

 

Nameless One Who’s Winking At Me – poem is winking

 

I love poems and poets

 

I love what poets are saying about poem and writing

 

beautiful is always bizarre 

Charles Baudelaire

 

the poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire 

Arthur Rimbaud

 

I despise and hate arrogance and dirty pleasures of irony,

that white crow that distorts the preciseness of thought 

Lautreamont

 

of all writings I love only that which is written with blood. write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit

Friedrich Nietzsche

 

poem is first day of creation: first day of the world of art

Andrei Bely

 

whoever created something, he or she is a poet

Jovan Ducic

 

poets futurists! I have taught you to hate libraries and museums in order to

prepare you for hating reason and waking up godly intuition within yourselves

Filippo Marinetti

 

poem is a cousin to running, a word should cross in the least

possible time greatest possible number of kilometres pictures and thoughts

Velimir Khlebnikov

 

poetry and creation are the same thing

Guillaume Apollinaire

 

art doesn’t strive towards anything; it strives only to be art

Antun Branko Shimic

 

one should know a little – it’s the principle of a true, poet-master

or to be more precise: one should know only what should be known

Vladimir Sersenjevic

 

there should be only one means. concentrate on your deeper self. find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write

R. M. Rilke

 

great poetry is praise

Paul Claudel

 

we want the poetry of the globe and cosmos

Tin Ujevic

 

one is the art as well as one is God, as well as one is the life

Momcilo Nastasijevic

 

poetry is the record of my individual struggle from darkness toward some measure of light

Dylan Thomas

 

poetry is: constant loneliness

Tadeusz Borowski

 

a poem should no mean, but be

Archibald McLeish

 

dada is a quantity of life in transparent, effortless and gyratory transformation

Tristan Tzara

 

therefore don’t ask in new art a form, but a man

and art in that case won’t be a pleasure but consolation

Srecko Kosovel

 

the purest surrealist act is walking into a crowd with a loaded gun and firing into it randomly

Andre Breton

 

great songs write themselves. you’re just being led by the nose or the ears. the skill is not to interfere with it too much. Ignore intelligence, ignore everything; just follow it where it takes you

Keith Richards

 

in writing you have to slide ahead. words can be lame and crippled, but if they slide ahead, then certain thrill livens everything up. careful writing is dead writing

Charles Bukowski

 

here is a problem worthy of a poet:

how not to write a poem

how not to write

just another poem

Tadeusz Rozewicz

 

god of poetry is unknowable god, distant god

Yves Bonnefoy

 

unexplainable beauty is more precious than the beauty which can be measured

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

perfectness is a synthesis of eternity and transiency

Novalis

 

all most precious things are useless

quotation that I found while reading the poets texts

 

wanting what god wants is the only science that brings us peace

quotation that I found while reading the poets texts

 

poet’s words are his work

quotation that I found while reading the poets texts

 

my writing is ingenious. therefore an idea about superficial

writing. there is no power in it. there is no meaning

Slobodan Tisma

 

 

there

is

no

poem

yet

in

these

words

but

they

are

nothing

else

but

the

poem

itself

 

the process of writing is a belief that each following word is a poem

 

writing

a

poem

sings

each

following

word

 

little branch in the woods has touched my neck

 

a bee is flying over the dead worm

 

poem is everything that I got through my body through which I was born

 

poem is the soul in which I was born

 

poem is the mind through which I am love all beings and God

 

autumn has came

David Berge professional tourist who I walked with yesterday pointed to the fallen leaves

 

poem is the process of tranquillity

 

poem is the process from tranquillity to ecstasy

 

poem is the process of ecstasy

 

poem is the process from ecstasy to tranquillity

 

my love for Kant’s a priori thinking is poem

 

all poems are the process of writing one and only poem

 

poem is the work of loneliness and the process of

loneliness through which loneliness transforms into all-love

 

poem is the process of singing through which poem is becoming

 

poem is the seven years old Gypsy boy who takes out and

goes through the trash from the trash bins with great pleasure

 

a man has carefully approached the kittens in the grass

and started to caress them for his and their pleasure sake

 

poem

is

the

path

of

rose

 

poem

is

a

rose

to

the

path

 

poem is easiness or heaviness through which poem

becomes. working on it. accepting the poem. enjoying with it

 

Miroslav Mandic book is the process of writing one and only poem

 

constant singing

 

writing the poem is like washing your hands or tying a belt

 

process of writing a poem is unknown and it’s never ending

 

process

of writing

a poem

out of

the poem

makes

whiteness

whiter

than

the snow

 

softness softer than cotton

 

quietness quieter than the Universe

 

live livelier than alive

 

process of writing a poem is mixing until

a whipped cream of indescribable pleasure is made

 

pleasure in which admiration and gratitude are hugging and kissing

 

poem

is

constant

budding

of

the

poem

sunny morning. opened window and the

balcony doors. tender voice of Madeleine Peyroux

 

I’m squeezing out the linden mucus out of the tea bag. I’m reading David’s Psalms

 

my flesh and my heart faileth, but God is

the strength of my heart and my portion for ever

Psalm 73:26

 

being blessed means meeting God

 

blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.

blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.

blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness' sake,

for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

blessed are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you,

and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely for My sake

Matthew, 5.3-11

 

I adore blessed ones

 

two homeless people are sitting in the park

up on the bench a homeless woman is sitting on her own

 

strong smells of women that were passing by me

 

the end of summer can be felt in everything

 

two flowers of the moss-rose that I love a lot have started growing out of the asphalt

 

poem is blessing – blessing is being

 

poem is blessing – blessing is writing a poem

 

blessing is when I don’t feel anything when I just am

 

blessing is when I’m  noteven aware that I am

 

I enjoy when I feel that people I’m passing by are in blessed states

 

I’m watching the trees and I get a thought that the trees are constantly in blessings

 

a gaze with love always brings blessing

 

two young women are walking slowly. they are

coming back from the graveyard. they are talking quietly

 

I lifted up two queens from the ground for tomorrow’s tea

 

beggar woman that I love has sent towards me two year old girl and

one year old boy who are just approaching me with their hands stretched out

 

blessing is the wholeness that heals

 

tree branches are slightly swinging making the poem out of the swinging

 

I love – I love to love

 

I write – I write in order to write

 

I walk – I walk in order to walk

 

blessing is not guarding of life but giving one’s life

 

look at my shoulder and you’ll see Your leaned face on it

 

look at my face and You’ll see God

 

look

at

this

poem

and

you’ll

feel

the

blessing

within

it

 

blessing is mildness within horse’s eyes. mildness in granny’s

hands. mildness in exhausted worker. mildness in indefinite. mildness

in slim trunks of birch. mildness in the warm and soft belly

 

blessings are the sealed and silent lips

 

blessing is the smile that approves

 

blessing

is

mild

getting

into

the

poem

and

touching

singing

of

each

word

in

it