Ahmed Burić

- Bosnia and Herzegovina -

Ahmed Burić, born in 1967 in Sarajevo, is a poet, translator, literary critic, editor, screenplay writer and journalist. His works have been translated into English, French, Czech and Slovenian. He himself translates from Slovenian into Bosnian.

List of publication:

Literary works

Poetry:
Hipertenzija (Planjax, Tešanj, Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2017.)
Vrata raja (Goga, Novo Mesto, Slovenia 2015.)
Maternji jezik, (Šahinpašić, Sarajevo, 2013.)
Posljednje suze krvi i nafte, VBZ, Croatia, Bosnia Herzegovina 2010.
Bog tranzicije, VBZ (Zagreb –Sarajevo, 2004.)
(also performed on Radio BH 1, and the readings in Leipzig, Luxembourg, Trieste, Ljubljana, Zagreb, Podgorica, Skopje…)

Essays & columns:
Između Ivana i Azize, (University press, Sarajevo, 2015.)

Short stories:
Devet i po (2016.) Planjax, Bosnia and herzegovina
Najvažnija partija Alexandera Witteka (2017.) (OKF, Montenegro)

Novel:
Tebi šega što se zovem Donald (2017., Buybook, Sarajevo)
Also published as the radio play on BH radio 1
Dramollet: Drama je u krizi (Fantom Slobode, 2005.)

Common works:

Bibliothek Sarajevo (litterarische Vermessung einer Stadt), (Drava 2012.)
Sarajevo, an alternative guide (Co – author, 2014.)

Anthologies:
Zašto tone Venecija (anthology of modern Bosnian poetry, KBZ Preporod Zagreb, 2012.)
Vrijeme izmiče (anthology of contemporary short stories, narration from Bosnia and Herzegovina. (Plima, Ulcinj, 2010.)
His works are published in literary magazines “Lica“ (Sarajevo), Godine Nove, Fantom slobode (Zagreb) Balcanis (Ljubljana).
Editor of 2 books of Aleksandar Hemon – Hemonwood 1 & 2, the columns
Editor of the book of short stories Veliki shopping by Ante Tomic
Editor of collected poems of Kemal Monteno Za sve moje ljubavi

Translations (from Slovene to Bosnian)
Svinjske Nogice by Tadej Golob
Kako sem otrokom razložil demokracijo (How I explained democracy to the kids, by Miro Cerar, Bybook, 2012
Umjesto koga ruža cvjeta (Vlado Kreslin, Šahinpašić, 2010.)
Čefurji napolje, a novel by Goran Vojnović, VBZ, 2009
Dušan Čater short stories (Lica, Sarajevo)
Goli pijanist by Matjaž Zupančič, Center Andre Malraux Sarajevo.
Oprosti poezijo by Esad Babačić, Obzor Međugorje1999.

The courage of poetry that transcends boundaries

We can call it a wave, a new wave of Balkan literature (music is not excluded from that), but no longer the one from the 70s and 80s, a new wave of (old) Balkan authors in our country. We can call it that and believe it will last. Well, although launched from outside, therefore, European projects that encourage the mixing of culture, literature and their creators, that cross or break down borders. It is important that the Balkan Express is still running, and it is even more important to stop here. This time he unloaded an old friend, a Bosnian-Herzegovinian journalist, editor, musician and, above all, poet Ahmed Burić (1967). and his selection of poetry The Gates of Paradise. "I didn't know what were important things in life / I only know that all songs are tears of Snješko Bijelić." Although one of the main poems of the collection ends with a seemingly complete disillusionment of the meaning and mission of poetry, entrusted only to a handful of those who still believe in the good man, The Gates of Paradise are, however, written by the poet's sovereignty. is even confirmed and proven. The book is a selection from the author's three previous collections, compiled into a new solid "narrative" arc.

The introductory, programmatic autopoetological song opens the door wide to a poetic paradise, which he equates with hell right at the beginning, the last song with a gloomy look confirms this beginning: “Years pass / and there is less and less hope / that I will see Buenos Aires. / Let my homeland be / clean air. ”(This main idea in the collection is followed by the title illustration by Samira Kentrić, who turned the strings of the paradise harp into bars…) Between the covers we read intimate stories, aphoristic comments, lucid social diagnoses… Verses that gave birth persistent memory of "time receding." Burić's poetry is sharp, down-to-earth nostalgic, often sharply ironic and sarcastic in his painting of Atlantis - a tragically lost home, homeland and people connected with it, values, balance and the ideals of youth in general.

Ahmed Burić in accordance with his surname in which the bora blows, cunningly low verses, uncompromisingly comments and reflects the social event, the irrationality of the individual, his inverted nature… To finally understand, to explain his or his own tragedy (or vice versa). The poet does not travel through the lonely inner spaces of the individual - with which he does not necessarily give up giving up intimacy and lyricism - but creates poetry of epic imagination, intellectual momentum, perceptive mind, which deliberately provokes, irritates, touches. It could be said that the poet strikes back at the world with poetry (and that always means himself). It penetrates the soft tissue, ie the middle, with surgical precision, so that between the verses one can see how blood and pus come out. The song records the concrete experience of war, exile, exile, but also of returning to the shattered homeland and dealing with its decimated remnants. The distance allows the poet a broad, avian, almost global perspective, which does not alleviate pain, and does not diminish tragedy. Because the facts are relentless: "What is good for your poetry / is not good for you." In declarative engagement and social engagement, the poems gain the charge of a Kosovel. But not in the sense of current slogans, because the poet's apolitical nature is obvious: “I have never participated in the writing of national programs / neither programs for television / nor for computers. “The basis of the poems is the engagement of an intellectual and a socially active and sensitive individual, a poet who feels obliged to express his point of view. An attitude, born in the intimacy of love, friendship, experience, conversation, flashes.

This balance between the partiality of experience and the universality of the messages creates a rigid coordinate system, where the message of the poem is not left to chance. An example of such precision is the song U terc (in) ama, in which a comic conflict in the toilet, reminiscent of a scene from the comedy Police Academy, turns out to be a satirical commentary on American (foreign) politics, culture. The recognizability of Burić's poetry is in the combination of the rationality of tragic experience and disillusionment on the one hand, and on the other special uncompromisingness in being, and determination, although self-ironic: Thunder, or when the wind rocked the fence of the Empire State Building. 'In such an attitude one can feel that (stereotypical) Balkan spirit, which we are looking for in vain here on our chest. Such an almost sporty attitude towards the world merges quite frequent sports metaphors, certainly symbolic, when, for example, "the whole world dances in bloom" or the poet realizes: "Poetry is boxing with a high temperature. Or against her. ”Tragic, then, turns into bitterness, stomach acid, bruises before weeping or hopelessness, and there is anger, sarcasm, sarcasm, and, of course, unmistakable humor. The poet's strokes are measured accurately and uncompromisingly: "Nations like to show dances from petty-bourgeois schools / and secretly watch porn in the evenings." / I am convinced / I will be a river / that washes everything / And carries and flows / and stands / and everything is at the same time. Both powerful and crooked (but also right) like an arrow, which Telemach fired. Yes, I will be Rijeka, if you ask me. " The poetics of declaration, statement, idea, commitment in relation to social reality is inscribed in Burić's poetry, so the face of not only the submerged, but also the born and the future moment is drawn in detail in it. Globalization, transition, corporation, consumption, commercialization, and all forms of fascism and cowardice are well-known phenomena of Western and Eastern modernity, and their destructive existence can be accurately and personally revealed only by poetry. Burić's poetry, on the other hand, does so with a special, bitter sweetness.

The collection seems motivated and designed by the search for meaning in the absurdity of history and the present. "Today, when all / fewer words, / have meaning / as do people." in the words: "In these years / at almost regular intervals / poetry appears, / and almost regularly / is the remnant of an unexperienced childhood / abducted at an irregular pace / of changing generations." And after all that has happened, could love be a way / to make sure that this whole life, which we threw away in vain / was not in vain. ”Love as a theoretical counterpoint to death in practice sadly loses… Remains as an ideal, an amphora at the bottom of the sea again. "And I dreamed, how I once / kissed on Tromostovlje, and maybe then / I lost the train for my grandchildren / while grabbing her tongue / which is not my mother tongue / but it is the most delicious thing I have ever felt." Just as the book as a whole has an ingenious idea, so do the songs, each individually, in its distinct rhythm and melody, often with a refrain. Their sound uniform is anything but shy, and so there are as many as five translators in the translation, the songs are called performances, recitations, and in it, despite all the deaths, life vibrates, we could say ecstasy. Whoever is brave, let him cross the border.

Essay written by Diana Pungeršič .

More about the poet

Poetry

WOYTILA / Woytila

Brought to the walls of the Eastern Empire of evil rulers and the good
but hungry and naïve,
like Janosik,
to finally tear it down, you are leaving now.
You are leaving now
for the place where you preached the eternity lived,
you are leaving your audience, the show goes on,
all cameras are on the squares,
and all roads lead to Rome.

At Christmas, everyone will sing again,
Rejoice, O people,
and you will be like a dream. The one that has gone.
And we don’t know who will answer,
for the 80s Gdansk,
for the poverty after the Wall,
for the tea shortage in Georgia,
for the blank gaze
of the unemployed.
in Detroit or Dushanbe, all the same.
for the shameless world.

You are leaving now and I already
await a new world,
the same or worse than this one,
and one of the successors,
some clerk,
a protector of the brand of the Cross and
the institution of confessors.

You are leaving now and that is the only difference between us,
you and Coca-Cola will live forever,
they will read about you in
3D encyclopaedias. Merry singers will devote
farewell songs to you, mein gott, even Karel Gott may sing for you.

You are leaving now and I can’t help thinking
that your duty was only partially done,
I was 11 then, from the living room echoed
the voices of the elders, someone said, perhaps my Father,
he was happy the Pope was finally
a Slav. I mourn you today, but did you stop
the slaughter of my Slavs – you did not.
I had an illusion you could have after all,
you, the Polish poet who did not despise his Polish roots.

A woman who was crying in front of St. Anton’s Church
said her Muslim name and
said you were a father to all.
Well done for Africa and Jerusalem to you and all, and
for the church in Krakow and the friendship with the old poet,
we are all alike at this age,
so take surahs prayed for you,
but to me, I repeat, and to my people you were no father at all.

Mind is to sword what poetry is to banks,
no enemy worthy of respect,
I know it won’t be the same,
what is to follow, my dear,
could bring even more contempt.

Brought to the walls of the Eastern Empire of evil rulers and the good,
but hungry and naïve,
like Janosik,
to finally tear it down, you are leaving now.
You are leaving now,
for the place where you preached the eternity lived.
Buric Ahmed, Selected Poetry, English, March 2019
Doveden na zidine Istočnog carstva zle vlasti i dobrih,
ali lakomih i lakoumnih,
kao Janošik,
da ga konačno srušiš, ti sada ideš.
Ti sada ideš,
tamo gdje si propovijedao da život vječni živi,
odlaziš pred očima svijeta, predstava traje,
sve su kamere oko trgova,
i svi putevi vode u Rim.

Za Božić svi će već pjevati,
radujte se narodi,
i ti ćeš biti poput sna. Što prođe.
I ne znamo ko će sve biti pitan,
za Gdansk osamdesete,
za siromaštvo nakon zida,
za to što čaja u Gruziji nema
za izgubljeni pogled
čovjeka bez posla.
U Detroitu ili Dušanbeju, svejedno.
Za svijet bez stida.

Ti sada ideš, a ja već
čekam novi svijet,
isti ili gori kakav je bio,
i nekog nasljednika,
kakvog činovnika
zaštitnika brenda križa i
institucije pokajnika.

Ti sada ideš, i samo smo po tome različiti,
ti i Coca-Cola živjet ćete vječno,
o vama će čitati u
3D enciklopedijama. Pjevači lakih nota posvetit će
ti oproštajne pjesme, mein gott, i Karel Gott će ti možda zapjevati.

Ti sada ideš, i ne mogu se oteti utisku
da je tvoja dužnost obavljena samo do pola,
imao sam tada 11 godina, iz dnevne sobe dopirali su
glasovi starijih, neko je rekao, Otac,
da je sretan što je Papa konačno
Slaven. Danas te žalim, ali da nisi zaustavio
klanje mojih Slavena - nisi.
Imao sam iluziju da si mogao,
ti, poljski pjesnik koji nije prezreo poljstvo.

Žena koja je ispred Sv. Ante
plakala za tobom, rekla je svoje muslimansko ime i
da si bio otac svih.
Svaka čast, i za Afriku i za Jeruzalem i svima i svakome, i
crkvi u Krakowu i prijateljstvu sa starim pjesnikom,
svi ličimo u ovim godinama,
i nek’ ti se prouči fatiha,
ali meni, kažem, i mojima, otac nisi bio.

Mašta je za mač, što i poezija za banke,
nikakav protivnik respekta vrijedan,
znam da neće biti isto,
da sljedeći nastavak, dragi moj,
može biti još više bijedan.

Doveden na zidine Istočnog carstva zle vlasti i dobrih,
ali lakomih i lakoumnih,
kao Janošik,
da ga konačno srušiš, ti sada ideš.
Ti sada ideš,
tamo gdje si propovijedao da život vječni živi.
ULF KIRSTEN, THE RED STAR MAN / Ulf Kirsten, čovjek petokraka

There were several rounds of beer in front of us, our youth behind us.
And a match on TV: just like in a TV ad.
“Ulf Kirsten” – the commentator said, totally
unaware what those two words with a nine on his back
could stir in us.
“Ulf Kirsten” – you repeated and we remembered watching Dynamo Dresden
on the coast so many years ago, mourning the city and drunkenly cursing
the allies for flattening it. Yet, we were happy that
this fervent centre-forward defended their colours, the colours of the vanishing country, just as ours was vanishing, too.
“Ulf Kirsten” – I repeated and we laughed. When he ran on to the pitch in a white jersey
with an eagle on his chest, instead of a blue one with a sickle
and a hammer and a DDR sign, nothing was the same any more.
Neither we nor Europe. He alone, robust and strong-legged, always reminded us that it
was possible to survive. And score.
We drank beer and he played on. The result was 0:0, in life, too; the defence
opened up, the ball crept into the penalty box from the right, and he simply put his foot out.
He raised his arms, and stood with his legs and arms wide apart,
in shape of a red star.
A great monument to revolution.
“Ulf Kirsten” – was written on TV, and we jumped in front of the screen,
kissed him and promised to bid him farewell from the pitch
in his last match. The red and black jersey he celebrated in
evoked memories of Vardar and Sloboda, of Čelik, of football
that was once played for people to clear up their lungs shouting names,
swearing at the referee.
For Ulf Kirsten, the red star man.
Buric Ahmed, Selected Poetry, English, March 2019
Pred nama je bilo nekoliko puta po dvije pive, iza nas mladost.
Na TV-u utakmica: sve kao u reklamnim spotovima.
»Ulf Kirsten« – u jednom je trenutku rekao komentator, sasvim
nesvjestan što bi te dvije riječi s devetkom na le|ima u nama mogle
proizvesti.
»Ulf Kirsten« – ponovio si i sjetili smo se kako smo na moru prije
toliko godina gledali Dinamo iz Dresdena i žalili taj grad, pijani psovali
saveznike što su ga stukli. Ipak, bilo nam je drago što je taj
srčani centarfor branio njihove boje, boje države koja iščezava, kao što je iščezavala i naša.
»Ulf Kirsten« – ponovio sam i nasmijali smo se. Kad je istrčao u bijelom dresu s adlerom na grudima, umjesto plavog sa srpom i
čekićem i natpisom DDR, ništa više nije bilo isto.
Ni mi, ni Evropa. Samo je on, jak na nogama, stamen uvijek podsjećao na to da se može preživjeti. I dati gol.
Pili smo pive, a on je i dalje igrao. 0:0 je bilo, i u životu, odbrana
se otvorila, lopta se s desne strane došuljala na peterac, a on je samo postavio nogu.
Digao je ruke, i stajao raširenih nogu i ruku, u
obliku petokrake.
Veliki spomenik revolucije.
»Ulf Kirsten!« – pisalo je na teveu, a mi smo skakali pred ekranom,
ljubili ga i obećali sebi i njemu da ćemo ga ispratiti s terena, kad
jednom prestane igrati. Crveno-crni dres u kojem se radovao
podsjećao je na Vardar i Slobodu, na Čelik, na nogomet koji se
igrao zbog toga da bi ljudi vikendom pročistili pluća izvikujući imena, psujući sudiji majku.
Za Ulfa Kirstena, čovjeka petokraku.
THE MOTHER TONGUE / Maternji jezik

Last night I dreamt I found
my mother tongue
I spoke about something important with my mother
about my future, and
I laughed, and then bitterly cried
I woke up happy
some harmony echoed in my head
vineyard, vineyard, vineyard
ninth, tenth, bronze, Bosnia
and deep inside, with my mother’s help,
I found my mother tongue
but I found not much about myself.
She told me: you could have lived,
continued to love music and theatre,
continued the family name, gotten married,
so I could have some grandchildren
in my late days, but no,
you kept on dreaming.
And I dreamt how I once
kissed at Tromostovlje
and perhaps then missed the grandchildren boat
while holding on to her tongue,
which is not my mother tongue, but it was the
sweetest thing I had ever tasted.
The places I left at the crack of dawn
were meant to become well-lit, magic cities
with wide streets, but they had no such luck,
and neither did I with
my mother tongue,
we didn’t find each other, we just
occasionally meet in dreams.
Or in a French kiss.
I, merely a talker,
and he, a monster under beam lights,
but with little,
too little light
which gives any hope.
In my mother tongue.
Buric Ahmed, Selected Poetry, English, March 2019
Sanjao sam sinoć da sam pronašao
maternji jezik
razgovarao sam nešto važno s majkom
o svom budućem životu, onda sam
se smijao, a onda gorko plakao
probudio sam se sretan
u glavi mi je zvonila neka harmonija
Vinograd, vinograd, vinograd
Deveta, deseta, bronzana, Bosna
u sebi, uz majčinu pomoć
našao sam, eto, maternji jezik
ali o sebi ne nađoh mnogo.
Rekla mi je: mogao si živjeti,
nastaviti voljeti muziku i pozorište,
nastaviti lozu i ženiti si se
mogao da i ja neke unuke
snađem, pod starost, ali ne,
ti sanjaš.
A sanjao sam kako sam
se jednom ljubio na Tromostovlju
i možda sam tada propustio voz za unuke
hvatajući se za njezin jezik,
koji nije maternji, ali jeste
najukusnije što sam dosad osjetio.
Mjesta koja sam ostavljao u cik zore
trebala su postati svijetle, čarobne metropole
širokih ulica, ali nemadoše tu sreću
kao ni ja s
maternjim jezikom,
nismo se našli , samo se
eto, tu i tamo
sretnemo u snu. Ili poljupcu jezikom.
Ja, sa slabom dušom driblera,
i on monstrum, s puno reflektora
ali s malo,
premalo svjetla
koje daje nadu.
U maternji jezik.
UPSTARTS’ BANQUET / Pir malograđana

Tonight, in a theatre cafe,
after a play from Bonn
we had a pleasant chat over wine
and found faults with everyone.

We all get on well
as long as we talk food or the others
our words cling to napkins and
dance around the table, hanging out is so nice.

They ask “why don’t you write art critique”
you were so good at it once,
“No” I replay, mouthful,
why spoil fantasy for the audience?

Step by step, joke by joke,
the mild night pulled out its last caprice
and before sleep, there seemed to have arrived
some news of stable peace.

Landscapes pass by, the evening act is on
the wise proclaim banalities an “artefact”,
yet it hurts inside, I know, this peace is the devil’s act,
nothing more than the upstarts’ banquet.
Buric Ahmed, Selected Poetry, English, March 2019
Noćas smo u pozorišnom kafeu,
nakon predstave češke
ugodno ćaskali uz vino
i svima pronašli greške.

Svi se lijepo slažemo
sve dok pričamo o hrani i Drugima
naše se riječi lijepe o salvete
plešu oko stola, baš je lijepo s ljudima.

Pitaju “zašto ne pišeš umjetničku kritiku”
pa kako si ti to nekad sjajno radio,
“ne” velim preko zalogaja
zašto bih svima idilu kvario?

Mic po mic, vic po vic
blaga noć izvuče i posljednji hir
a pred san k’o da stiže,
vijesti opet kažu, stabilan mir.

Promiču pejsaži, gleda se večernji akt
mudre glave za banalnost vele - “to je artefakt”,
ali iznutra boli, jer znam, to je đavolji mir
ništa to drugo nije do malograđana pir.
BUENOS AIRES / Buenos Aires

For Milorad Popović
Years pass by
and there is less and less hope for me
to ever see Buenos Aires.
To take a deep breath
of fresh air.
We are Europe,
we fight against plastic packaging,
and for the human rights,
and for the aquarium fish
rights
we who enjoy living among
the artificial algae,
while through a pipe placed behind glass-walled sovereignty,
we are given oxygen.
There is less and less hope for me to sing and tango
and go crazy at La Bombonniera,
and, like a Polish prince, W. Gombrowitz,
not give a damn about what they think of me
back in my homeland.
To forge ahead fake plans
about my homeland,
plans that will fall apart as soon as
the plane touches its soil,
I, a former emigrant,
the herald of freedom.
They pretended to welcome me back
only to start strangling me
with bare hands.
Years pass by and there is less and less
hope for me to see Buenos Aires,
to have my homeland of
fresh air.
Buric Ahmed, Selected Poetry, English, March 2019

Miloradu Popoviću
Prolaze godine
i sve je manje nade
da ću vidjeti Buenos Aires.
Da i ja duboko udahnem
čisti zrak.
Mi smo Evropa,
borimo se protiv najlonske
ambalaže, i za ljudska prava,
i prava akvarijumskih
ribica
mi koji uživamo među
vještačkim algama,
dok nam kroz cijev
iza staklom ograničenog suvereniteta
puštaju kisik.
Da pjevam i plešem uz tango
i urlam na La Bombonnieri
i da me, kao poljskog princa W.Gombrowitza
ne zanima šta o meni misle
u domovini.
Da kujem lažne planove
o domovini,
koji će se raspasti pri prvom
dodiru avionskih točkova o njezino tle,
ja bivši emigrant,
navjestitelj slobode.
Za čiji su se povratak pravili da ga jedva čekaju
a onda me krenuli daviti
golim rukama.
Prolaze godine i sve je manje
nade da ću vidjeti Buenos Aires,
da mi domovina bude
čisti zrak.
THE GOD OF TRANSITION / Bog tranzicije

There is no need whatsoever to go across the ocean, to where He may have arrived from.
Or, at least, not until He goes somewhere else. To yet another bar where we will also go
to have one more pint before the waitress kindly warns us: it’s closing time. Like Maljević’s cross that has only kept its shape, my life stands.

Unstoppably, like a train through a field, the God of transition has dashed through it.
I ate His body today -

in a sausage pastry which an Albanian guy makes for a pence in a bakery near
the bridge, I saw Him in the papers this morning, I saw Him in the mirror tonight

for the last time before I decided not to see His face ever again.
As I said, there is no need whatsoever to go across the ocean, to where He may have arrived from.

Or, at least, not until He goes somewhere else.
Buric Ahmed, Selected Poetry, English, March 2019
Nikakve potrebe nema da se odlazi preko oceana, odakle je mogao stići On. Ili barem dok on, odatle, ne ode negdje drugdje. U sljedeću kafanu, gdje ćemo i mi »na po jednu« dok nas konobarica ljubazno ne zamoli i kaže: fajront! Poput Maljevičeva krsta koji je samo zadržao oblik, stoji moj život.

Kroz njega je, nezaustavljivo, kao voz kad pro|e ravnicom, projurio Bog tranzicije. Pojeo sam njegovo tijelo danas –

u kifli s hrenovkom koju Albanac, za samo pola marke, prodaje u pekari blizu mosta, pročitao sam ga jutros u lokalnim novinama, vidio ga večeras u ogledalu;

posljednji put, prije nego što sam odlučio da više nikada ne sretnem njegovo lice. Nema, velim, nikakve potrebe da se odlazi preko oceana, odakle je mogao stići On.

Ili barem dok on, odatle, ne ode negdje drugdje.
SALT-FREE SOCIETY / Društvo bez soli

“You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? Matthew 5:13-14

“Don’t put so much salt
it’s not good for your blood pressure.”
My mother says while
one drop of sweat falls into the plate
making the meal saltier.
My aunt takes a painting off the wall
and gives it to me saying:
“Look, I may check out soon, and the painter is also biting the dust,
so the painting may be worth something.” She gives me five books as well:
one, I throw away immediately, the others are
Death in Venice, a bibliophile edition,
Poetry by Crnjanski, Buñuel’s biography
and Miodrag Stanisavljević’s diary
published in Novi Pazar in which
he mocks chauvinists.
It doesn’t matter to anyone anymore,
our paintings will not be seen by anyone,
nor our books read,
we are a fallen society
we have fallen while
admiring beauty and fooling
ourselves that, for our fall,
we are not to blame.

In a salt-free society
we live our epoch,
it is still found only in tears,
in sweat.
Buric Ahmed, Selected Poetry, English, March 2019
“Vi ste sol zemlje, ako sol obljutavi, čime će se ona osoliti.” (Matej, 5. 13-14)

“Nemoj toliko soliti
nije dobro za pritisak.”
Kaže majka dok
kaplja znoja pada u tanjir
i zalogaj je slaniji.
Tetka skida sliku sa zida i
poklanja mi je, kaže
“čuj možda odapnem, a i slikar je sada
rahmetlija, pa slika možda vrijedi”, i pet knjiga:
jednu bacam odmah, ostale su
Smrt u Veneziji, bibliofilsko izdanje,
Poezija Crnjanskog, Bunuelova biografija
i dnevnik Miodraga Stanisavljevića
objavljen u Novom Pazaru u kojem
ismijava šoviniste.
To više nikome nije važno,
naše slike više niko neće gledati
ni čitati naše knjige,
mi smo propalo društvo
tako propali mi smo
gledajući u lijepo i tješeć’ se
da za svoju propast
krivi nismo.

Bez soli u društvu,
epohu živimo svoju,
ona je još samo u suzama,
u znoju.
WHAT REALLY MATTERS / Bitne stvari

I didn’t know what really mattered in life,
I am not making excuses here, before the towers of a new Babylon,
that imagine the sky to give absolution
for oil-stained money made by slaughtering brothers and infants.
I didn’t know what really mattered in life – birth, circumcision, baptism, marriage and death.
I didn’t know what really mattered in life: I preferred talking football
and retelling anecdotes about musicians whose talent I would never match.
It was more important to set out to save the world than to choose the right side.
I didn’t know what really mattered in life, it was more important to be loyal to my friends than to my homeland.
I cared more about hearing or telling a good story than publishing a book.
I didn’t know what really mattered in life: I loved, mostly in vain – is it not what real love is all about? - I didn’t take part in the creation of national programmes, or TV programs, or computer programmes, for that matter.
I didn’t know what really mattered in life.
I am the last of the Gutenberg dynasty.
The one reaches for a book rather than clicking a link, and who, in dreams, sees letters mixing with images collapsing like realism.
I didn’t know what really mattered in life.
I am the one who meddles in everything but is sure of nothing.
And the one who knows that having one thing means losing another, often at the same time, most often for good.
I didn’t know what really mattered in life.
I am standing in the desert, sand slipping through my fingers, wind blowing through my face and eyes.

I will remain here for a while, and then, like a phantasm of an oasis, like a mirage, disappear into nothingness.
I didn’t know what really mattered in life. I am Ahmed, the son of desert that
was created after my world dried up.

I didn’t know what really mattered in life.
All I know is that all the poems are Snowman’s tears.
Buric Ahmed, Selected Poetry, English, March 2019
Ja nisam znao što su u životu bitne stvari,
Nije da se pravdam ovdje pred kulama novoga Babilona,
što u nebu vide mogući prostor iskupljenja grijeha,
od naftom umazanih para zarađenih bratoubojstvima ili čedomorstvima.
Ja nisam znao što su u životu bitne stvari – rođenje, sunnet, krštenje, ženidba, i smrt.
Ja nisam znao što su u životu bitne stvari: bilo mi je važnije da komentiram utakmice, i prepričavam anegdote o muzičarima, čiji talent nikada neću dostići.
Bilo mi je važnije ispravljanje krivih Drina, od izbora prave strane.
Ja nisam znao što su u životu bitne stvari, više mi je bilo stalo da ne izdam prijatelje nego domovinu.
Manje da izdam knjigu, od toga da ispričam ili čujem dobru priču.
Ja nisam znao šta su u životu bitne stvari: volio sam, uglavnom bez rezultata – nije li prava ljubav upravo to? - nisam učestvovao u ispisivanju nacionalnih programa, niti televizijskih programa, niti programa za kompjutere.
Ja nisam znao što su u životu bitne stvari.
Posljednji sam izdanak dinastije Guttenberga.
Koja podiže papir prije nego otvori link, i kojem se slova u snu miješaju s slikama koje propadaju kao i realizam.
Ja nisam znao šta su u životu bitne stvari.
Ja sam onaj koji se miješa u sve, a nije ni u šta siguran.
I onaj koji zna da imati jedno znači gubiti drugo, često istovremeno, najčešće stalno.
Ja nisam znao šta su u životu bitne stvari.
Stojim u pustinji, kroz moje prste prolazi pijesak, kroz moje lice i oči, vjetar.

Još ću malo biti tu, i nestat ću kao slika oaze, kao fatamorgana u ničemu.
Ja nisam znao šta su u životu bitne stvari. Ja sam Ahmed, sin pustinje što je nastala nakon što se osušio moj svijet.

Ja nisam znao šta su u životu bitne stvari.
Znam samo da su sve pjesme suze Snješka Bijelića.

Ahmed Burić

- Bosnia and Herzegovina -

Poetry

WOYTILA / Woytila

ULF KIRSTEN, THE RED STAR MAN / Ulf Kirsten, čovjek petokraka

THE MOTHER TONGUE / Maternji jezik

UPSTARTS’ BANQUET / Pir malograđana

BUENOS AIRES / Buenos Aires

THE GOD OF TRANSITION / Bog tranzicije

SALT-FREE SOCIETY / Društvo bez soli

WHAT REALLY MATTERS / Bitne stvari