Shared view I
Two birds, guy and a tree
Three guys, one winner
The Magic Study of Happiness
In the smallest theater in the world the bread crumbs speak. It’s a mystery play on the lost subject of paradise. Once there was a kitchen with a table on which a few crumbs were left. Through the window you could see your young mother by the fence talking to a neighbor. She was cold and kept hugging her thin dress tighter and tighter. The clouds in the sky sailed on as she threw her head back to laugh.
Where the words can’t go any further—there’s the hard table. The crumbs are watching you as you watch them. The unknown in you and the unknown in them attract each other. The two unknowns are like illicit lovers when there’re exceedingly and unaccountably happy.
Fog and Mist
Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.
New Years decorations
New Years decorations, detail
Someone hides from someone else
Hides under his tongue
The other looks for him under the earth
He hides on his forehead
The other looks for him in the sky
He hides inside his forgetfulness
The other looks for him in the grass
Looks for him looks
There’s no place he doesn’t look
And looking he loses himself
Shared view II
The Small Box
Now in the small box
Is the whole world quite tiny
You can easily put it in a pocket
Easily steal it easily lose it
Take care of the small box
The Spaces of Hope
I have experienced the spaces of hope,
The spaces of a moderate mercy. Experienced
The places which suddenly set
Into a random form: a lilac garden,
A street in Florence, a morning room,
A sea smeared with silver before the storm,
Or a starless night lit only
By a book on the table. The spaces of hope
Are in time, not linked into
A system of miracles, nor into a unity;
They merely exist. As in Kanfanar,
At the station; wind in a wild vine
A quarter-century ago: one space of hope.
Another, set somewhere in the future,
Is already destroying the void around it,
Unclear but real. Probable.
In the spaces of hope light grows,
Free of charge, and voices are clearer,
Death has a beautiful shadow, the lilac blooms later,
But for that it looks like its first-ever flower.
Ivan V. Lalic