Katarina Saric (10.03.1976.) prof. of slavic literature and philosophy, master student of political science, is montenegrian civil rights activist and writer of socially engaged literature, designed for performance and theatre. She has published 12 books, most of which were translated and awarded and represented in numerous literature portals and platforms.
KORA
Kad protegne se ispod kore
ona
kojoj sinovi utrobu pocijepaše
i mine strah od
žene
majke
života
Ja sakupiću rubove naborane haljine
i sašiti
novo srce za svečanu priliku
da paše
kao saliveno uz ovo lice i sliku
oboljelu od anemije
– vazduha treba
izliveno rudarsko okno
pretopljeno
je
u posljednji ciklus alhemije
presušen
je
plač iz kolijevke
Kad izbaci more
posljednje kosti pitomih fosila
ja sjedjeću na obali
prebirajući krše
u pozi djevojčice s razglednice
u kliše
zaglavljene
i obavezno snene
u bijelom
s jednom šiškom preko čela
prebačenom naizgled ovlašno
poziraću u slavu nevinosti i ponovnog rođenja
a
zapravo ću željeti da vrisnem odušno
i
pocijepam taj ram
– vazduha mi treba
ispod Heraklovih stuba
grčkih tragičara koji slave oceubistvo silovanje
majke
zemlje
žene
pravdajući ga neznanjem
umro mi je sram
i niko nije došao na sahranu
otišao je u spam
Kad ustane i protegne se ona
prašnjava
silovana
pocijepana
pogrebena
zemlja
majka
žena
u posljednjem kriku
epske završnice
koja ostaje bez daha
Kad odu i otac i brat i drug
ja vratiću se na ono naše mjesto ispod gvozdenog mosta
otkopaću nam davno urezana imena iz betona
prenijeti u Afriku
ih
ja postaću prsten vremena
stih
što zatvara krug
daleko od zemlje naših predaka
SHELL
When stretched under the bark
she
whose womb is torn up by her sons
and the fear has gone from
woman
mother
life
I will collect the hem of the pleated dress
and will sew in a new heart
to suit a solemn affair
as sewed on
this face and this picture
sick from anemia
- I need air
the cast of mining shaft
is recast in the last
cycle of alchemy
dried out tears from the cradle
When the sea spits out
the last bones of the domesticates fossils
I will be sitting on the beach
plucking stones from stones
positioned as the postcard girl
in that cliche
stuck
and unavoidably dreamy
in white
with that lovelock over the brow
smoothed down
I will pose in the glory of innocence
of the new birth
while, actually, I would want to scream
and destroy the fram
I need air
under Heracles’ stairways
the Greek tragedians who glorified patricide
rape of
mother
earth
woman
justified it as ignorance
dead is my shame
and no-one came
to its burrial
it went straight to spam
When she gets up and streches
dusty
raped
ragged
scratched
earth
mother
woman
in the last cry
of epic storm
who stays breathless
When father and brother and friend are gone
I will come back to that old place of ours
under the Iron bridge
I will cut out from cement the names long engraved
take them away
to Africa
I will become the ring of time
a verse
that closes the circle
away from the land of our ancestors
