Tuesday, July 10, 2018



The Promise

Promise is when you have nothing to say to anyone

So you wish to hasten, slur over and tell a lie

What about these funny poems

On serious philosophical subjects

Not a bit simple, not a bit plain, nor for a moment

So move on you idiot

You are doing it fine, you promising bastard hideous

Feel like the Great Gatsby

Believing in great future

Hasten faster, stretch your arms further

A great(er) morning awaits you...

How optimistically and inspirational it sounds

When a simpleton instructs you instead of fooling around

Force yourself with the wherry against the current

For it constantly pushes you back into the past

But keep your head up high like a giraffe or a flamingo

And pay no attention to the pebbles in front of you, the holes or puddles

But believe the words only

They are promising and not a bit obligative

So undoubtedly they lead you as a leashed bitch

Into a tomorrow - more-than-obvious worse and bewitched!

Waste Lands

There are no foxes running across

No weasels the lands to cross

White and grey rabbits are to the lands outsiders

And there are no webs of any spiders

Waste lands with no traces of foot or claw

Where we are closer and united with God

There are no birds to fly

Over the rose-hips, elder and brambles

No dog barks nearby

Since there have been no one to count the days, no such guy

Inhabit the heart of the waste lands

Because those are the only places where you needn’t be

Disappear completely

And vanish in no time

Unfreeze yourself and turn into high plant

Into a plant’s stem that germinates and rots by itself

Into birds that have never flown over there

Into fish that have never swum like that

Into self-eating insects

Having nothing else to others to give or inject.

The City As I Didn’t Want To See

All over mottled and glued with posters and billboards

Of pompous declarations: the best, the cheapest, whatsoever

Or special discounts: buying for a bargain price, better off without buying

Two In A Uniform

Should overcome people’s fear

But are themselves scared because they are two, although they are two, that’s why they are two

A woman, another woman,

And a bearded man

All of them picking into the garbage

And finding nothing

Because the only useful thing has been picked up by the first one

A guide in a bus

Like a raven croaking

Believes that what can’t be seen or noticed

Can be replaced with words

Instead of a footnote:

The helping hand

Is not a greeting hand

But a begging one!



HRISTO PETRESKI: Was born on 4th of February 1957. Year, in Krushevo (Republic of Macedonia). He works as professor in university of Skoplje. He is author of more than 50 books (poetry, prose, critics and essays). Winner of large number of republic’s and international prises. His works are translated on more than 20 languages. Founder and executive of Publishing house ‘’Phoenix’’  and Fondation ‘’Macedonia present’’. Leading chief editor of magazine ‘’Trend’’ and ‘’Literary academy’’. Member of Associated writers of Macedonia and honored member of Associated writers of Serbia. (Republic of Macedonia)*

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