MILORAD KOSTIC-THE OTHER POET IN THE FAMILY

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BIOGRAPHY OF MILORAD KOSTIC

Milorad Kostić was born May 10, 1966. He graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Sarajevo, History Department. He has published several books: It is Written in the Stars (Zapisano u zvezdama), a poetry collection, Sarajevo, 2003. The Sarajevo Enigma – Through the Memory of Oblivion – (Sarajevska enigma – Kroz sjećanje zaborava – ), a poetry collection, Sarajevo, 2015. Love Didn’t Want Him (Ljubav ga nije htjela), novellas and short stories, Tešanj, 2016. Diocetlian and Alexandra – The Clatter of Swords – TOM I /A Romance Novel/ (Dioklecijan i Aleksandra – Zveket mačeva – TOM I /Ljubavni roman/), Tešanj, 2019. He has been listed in numerous anthologies and collections. Milorad Kostić has worked as a co-author on multiple poetry collections and collections of short stories. Also, he has been awarded on various occasions. Kostić is a member of several artist associations. He lives and works as a freelance writer.

POEMS BY MILORAD KOSTIC


Your Name is Lada
Your name is Lada, the Mistress of Summer
Clad in a green dress beautified by flowers
You step towards me
My heart is racing. Love it is called.
Covert within the treetops of ripe fruit
You are deathless, while I remain mortal
Love braids new visions for me
I vanish in mist, you are washed by the morning dew
Repeatedly laughter adorns Your eternal visage
I beg of You to stay, You Goddess, The Only One,
To help myself, a mortal, beneath the shadow
To venture up alike the fierce wind
To touch the lips of the impenetrable Heavens
The bright Sun removes the cloud off my countenance
Again and again I rise into Your embrace
You dodge slowly, disappearing into the night
Into the swift summer night jewelled by music
By midnight chirrupers
One mortal and the Goddess of Forbidden Love
The aged sagas warn of oncoming misfortune
I mysteriously adore Your celandine-coloured hair
Prepared I am to perish within the fervent embrace
Your name is Lada, the Goddess of Love
In the honey-dew You sneak out a tear
Belonging to one brook thusly in love



Istanbulska Mona Liza


Plesala si taj istočni ples
Istanbulske pozne zimske noći
Kad početkom marta mjesec se smiješi
Kao nježni lahor u tvojoj kosi
Gledao sam te... gledao
Brod plovi Bosforom čežnje
Tamo gdje Orhan Pamuk novi roman sniva
U ustima ukus majske trešnje
Plešeš iznad mora nježna kao vila
Slušao sam svirku... slušao
A u tebi milost svih anđela svijeta
Osmijehom lomiš barijere krute
Pogled tvoj je mio poput djeteta
Koga brižno skrivaš među svoje skute
Mislim o tebi... mislim
Da se vratim tebi snena Venero
Skrivena si danju, noću otkrivena
Odložim svoje pjesničko pero
Zaprosim te da mi budeš žena
Puste moje želje... puste
U očaj da bacim svu laž i samoću
Dodirnem te jednom za sva vremena
Međ´ oblacima osjetim nebesku mekoću
Dok se vrtiš poput stamena vretena
Vrtnja plesa ljubavi... vrtnja


His Beloved Book


He was reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin
His beloved childhood book
He would place it under his arm and head home
While the shining covers would glisten in the dark
His father was Syrian, from Aleppo
His mother from a well-to-do Ethiopian household
From father he inherited his broad, brilliant mind
From mother he got the black skin-hue
He was reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin
His beloved childhood book
When the shells commenced falling
Syria turned into a bloodshed battlefield
He decided to flee
And alongside he brought the lovely childhood book
An escapee in the camp, an escapee on the street
A loathed man who gave his final dollar
For an escape into the land of tranquillity and merriment
He was reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin
And placed it under the jacket, nearest his heart
He was far away from home
Husein, his friend, was murdered by the border police
With Mehmed he would sell lotus tissues
He was reading his beloved childhood book
And was dreaming of a realm void of hate, war and famine
In a distant city, cold and foreign
Mehmed was beaten in the camp
He was chased into the cold by those haughty people
As though he could hear his mother’s sobbing voice:
“Ahmed, Ahmed, return once the war ceases!”
Yet warfare will never halt.
He pressed onwards, to a greater despair and squalor
With his childhood book and a few things
He found courage to venture and cross the border alone
Whilst reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin
The border policeman denies him entry
He resists and fends observing the man’s pale complexion
The man brandished the baton and broke his nose
He knelt down and fell…
It is said that in Aleppo the red roses are fairest
And the twilight thus gentle and quiet, so mysterious
The young man’s blood spattered his beloved book