THE BEGINNING OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE NEW?
SCREAM. TO PRINCE ALEKSANDAR KARADJORDJEVIĆ II
… I don’t know well enough neither my mother nor my father
nor my own brother, nor my closest relatives. Neighbours.
Blood relations are terrible.
Artificial ones have more sense, they are more justified
And more desirable. Chosen!
Bitter cold has covered everything.
God beholds all, he sees all.
I was ailing, I was bound
By something invisible
For almost two weeks.
God exists and acts through good people.
The hand sticks to frozen door knobs.
Horoscope writers had been right
I have exposed the works of Vlach magic
For God wished it that way.
Here lies my royal throne
Here where my Spirit has taken root.
Here, where in my absence
Fig leaves have commenced drying
Of Christ’s wreath .
Plants here are not watered and fed
By water and refuse
But by my spirit.
Many of the people I had known
Lie in the graveyard – Potocic.
Misljenovac, the entire homeland is
Covered by snow, in the graveyard.
Drivers steal petrol
From buses – pour in water.
And stop by the grove, covered in snow.
Serbia sinks like a ship run aground
Into immense darkness, into its reverse side
Not into what I had dreamt about and what I dream…
(Wednesday, January 9, 2002. Belgrade, 22, Jovanova Street)
Note – recommendations S.Ig. Mitrović
(…)Miroslav Lukich, a poet, a novelist, an essayist, a literary critic, an anthologist, an editor of the Almanach for live tradition, literature and alchemy and testament, had different life and literary destinu of all other Serbian novelistst of the second half of the XX century: from Ivo Andrich to Milorad Pavich. In a shelter for wunderkinds where he was shut when he was almost twenty , he met the whole world, experiences rare poet glory thanks to his first published poems. In a store house he learned well the tragic history of the Balkans and his own country Serbia and the world . In narrowness of one increadable quarantine, he cried out in the middle of ninetees with the cries of the best poets of the Balkans. In one little Belgrade attic surrounded with the whole archives of the Southeast Europe, he created a great literary work – firstly poetic, essayistic revealing series of extraordinary novels, anthologies, book of creative criticism.
If it somehow seemed, that, on the Balkans and in Europe world, that the time of poetry has passed , we suggest to doubting Tomas to dive in great poetic opus of Miroslav Lukich whose verses numbered more than of 20. 000 rhymes at the and of the last decade of XX century! The time of the original, persuasive, as much as ancient so as modern poetry has never passed, and never will! Lukich did not come from the ambus of socialistic metaphysics, but from golden long ago forgotten ambusses of old Balcanic heritage, Old Europe, disorder and muth, and under wing of the most vital streams of Europian and world poetic tradition. The peaks of Lukich’s poetry belong to the peaks of Serbian poetry , but also to the peaks of Europian and world poetic art at the turn of two millenium.
This poet was not supported by the governament publishers either from Tito’s, or from Slobodan Miloshevich’s time. For them, we know that , this poet does not exists! It is necessary that this be knowvn in the world.
… I believe Lukich’s liteary glory will begin with this book, which is being published now at the time when there have been already published, his seven books from his voluminous opus THE ART OF MAHOGANY; these are extraordinary shamanistic, prophetic poems, and they represent the whole Lukich’s poetry and the stronges marks of this poet : brilliance and the power of his intellect, sensibility, consisatnce, nobility, and thruthfulness.
So Lukich was a poet in his eighteen, nineteen, and he did not end up with contarversal withdraw like Artir Rimbaud. (…) Balanced creative development Nature, Destinu or God gave to Lukich everything that is desirable. That kept him on surface, that kept him and has been keeping him ON THE WIND, ON THE HEIGHST, ON THE CLEARING. Lukich iz not only the poet of the two, three or five extraordinary poems ( like Laza Kostich) or poet of only one , two , thre wonedrful books (like J. Duchich, M. Rakich, M. Crnjanski, Rastko Petrovich, Vinaver; Vasko Popa, Miodrag Pavlovich, S. Raichkovich, M. Bechkovich, Ljubomir Simovich…) ; he is the poet of the the deepest personal poems and verses in all Serbian poetry ; and that defines , or will define his place in the thrue hierarchy of contemporary Serbian poetry and in his history of Serbian poetry of XX century.
When one gives a deep and long look at everything that has been created in poetic art in whole, that ‘s to say, conquered and granted to the eternety, every ( sensible person) free spirit, can clearly and without anu doubt realise that the whole art ( poetry also !) from DARKNESS and NOTHINGNESS bit one little bite. (…) (…) his book is incorruptable report, persuasive, about unknown, other Serbia strengled disappeared in fires of history, the one which rises from ashes. And because this book is a feast where all the hearts open , at which the best wines is offered . He is the writer who belongs to the most rare race from the time immemorial, Dichter, as Borhes would say with the best meaning of the world. Through these poet a spirit of the climate which created him speaks, that ‘s to say the spirit of the best and the most typical in the part of the world . It seems as if prophecies and a voice of shaman speak trhrough him . But to this poet Christ helped the most giving his sole nobility and freedom. This poetry anouncens and confirms alman and altime, it is for all man kind and altimes.
A mother of perfection gave birth to these poems , a great loneliness, and they are turned to millions of soles desirious the real freedom and return of all things to their natural places. This poet will , from this moment , start to gain enormous , immense army of his invisible allies, readers, on the Balkans and also in the world. Miroslav Lukich is not the poet sinked in politics; he is the poet who , beside other, anounces the epoc which is destroyed. Maybe, considering everything else that has been created by a genius, the way another French poet desribed him a hundred uears before Lukich was born …
2000. S. Ig. M.
(Translation : Olivera Stojanovic – Maksimovic )