STEFAN MARKOVSKI - POEMS

Stefan Markovski is a contemporary Macedonian writer, poet, screenwriter and philosopher.
 
Born in the town of Gevgelija (01. 12. 1990), he’s completed primary and secondary education in his hometown, graduating on both the Department of Comparative Literature, Faculty of Philology and the Institute of Philosophy of Ss. Cyril and Methodius State University of Skopje.
He’s obtained a MA in Screenwriting at the Faculty of Dramatic Arts (FDU) in Skopje with a feature film script titled “My Name Is Freedom” and theoretical explication of the potentials of the hybrid crime-drama genre within the future of Macedonian cinematography.
 
Markovski’s writing career and contribution to modern Macedonian literature has granted him literary prizes and honors in Macedonia, including the “Macedonian Literary Avant-garde” for a book of short stories, “Petre M. Andreevski” Prize for novel, “Beli Mugri” for a poetry book, “Krste Chachanski” for a book of short stories, The “7-th November Award” of Gevgelija municipality, “Knjizevno pero” of Croatian Writers’ Association (HKD), prize of UNESCO for Macedonian writers up to 30 years of age etc.
Mentioned in anthologies of modern Macedonian literature, participating in festivals around the country and abroad, some of Markovski’s works have been published in over 20 languages.  
He’s taken part in the Other Words literary residency in San Sebastian in 2018. 
Markovski is a member of Macedonian Writers’ Association, the Macedonian center of the International Theatre Institute, the European poetry platform “Versopolis” and other international associations.
He’s the chief editor of the oldest Macedonian literary magazine – Sovremenost as well as the poetry collections of the project Metric caravan.

Following the white griffin’s trail
​

​In a body of demigod beast imperial shadows of chthonic forces douse
kingdoms united into the singularity of all beings
become golden ruins under steel-feathered wings
in an incense smoke sighs are clothed
through which gods send answers
when you pass through tunnels of glass hope
virgin blood supplies your cells.
 
A griffin pierces far into the heavens
in search for
a magnificent day for a perfect melancholy.
Everyone knows
few believe
that the blank in each whiteness
holds the most colorful rainbow sewed up in a full stop
the well in which the souls drown
suggests an illusion of all destinies
buried into a tunnel with one exit
where the celestial blueness reflects off the lonely trains’ glass.
Asian winds blow statues of flesh
before showing you the way to the only truth - downward
all the definitions of joy and wisdom are carrying explosive 
waiting for its moment
in front of faces yet to blush.
 
The rain is rage of myriad of mirrors and swords
they guard the innocence of the land pieces between us
and the magic of the air with taste of white birds
black hounds chase the moon at dusk
and, hiding behind the mountains,
bark with a lion’s roar
then the night sculpts new tunnels of hope from itself
hope undefiled as an intact wine bottle
pointing the way.
 
 

Blossomlane 
​

​April comes slowly
calmly, gently, powerfully
getting into time
when the only arabesques
are question marks inverted like golden sixes
drawn onto the glassy morning fog
which tells the eyes where crimson rivers flow
that each herb of the greenery
competes for a more dazzling view of the Sun
that’s a path through it
to the mountain from which white doves carry
a cry in unopened envelopes
which resemble a flat plate sealed
with a myrrh blossom and a scent of a dawnworld.
 

Metaphysics of Love
​

​Under an iridescent rainbow of spices
shipwrecking through the air
under the eaves of Andromeda
awaits a portal
whose path is through the flesh of
the newly arrived in the country
that no one tries to conquer.
 
The guards in the sky
agree that your angel
tastes like rose
someone’s falling wings
are sending their regards
to the planet that eats its
unconceived children
impatiently waiting her deathtouch
or your nose
and your fingers
pining for holy spices,
god's dusts.

Get up again
​

Get up again
at night
collect the hate made out of lead and steel
and pour it into the stars;
before you lie down
drink the double blueness as if it’s a cure
yet it surrounds your island
when unextinguished specters dream of the Spark
when the sound is but a mere shadow of resting silences
get up again
and let the Thought of this
and every world run through your veins
a ragged tent made of stitched reveries 
                                                                            hides the warmth of the air
The holy mountain is a broken stalk of this planet
drowned in its oceans
the way up and the abyss down are the very same point
but you, try and find the spring in between
and get up again
breathe out the blue pain and name it healing
every tear that waters the fields
sowed with human dust
get up again, soar to the sky
clouds with different colors await new anthem
a golden dream shall rise 
​                                                                        through the night’s precipice
the black shadows of the cosmos will shine out a flare
from the eyes of the radiant phoenix
pointed at an unknown hero
who’s just stepped out of the new bibles.
 

A short history of а fireproof purity
​

​Exhaustion is a time not passing,
be patient and leave, it could be that
you’ll taste natural paradises again,
you extinguish by a prayer mortals, hasting
         to become rivers,
your eyes, never touched
are enough to the fields,
         with or without water
to hatch them and offer to the red-shining skies
O, flames, evaporating heretical thoughts
painted into a body,
only you, you give birth to purity
identical
to that of a new flesh,
novum and spiritum novum tribuam in carnem
potest,
every birth is a new path to Thinking,
ora pro nobis,
every craftsman, saint and sage,
every bishop of exorcisms,
every celestial clown and every mage
builds white pain in Snow White’s snow,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
and the truths shall remain One.
 
This moment is but a dust
flew from history, launched towards the zenith,
your facial proportions have the entire Cosmos
as a companion choice,
a red night granule in the sand of the city
dives through the pupils to the mind, where you're wearing a star,
the bag is filled with freedom,
the wine and the lipstick are serene friends
of the dawn that’s smiling,
welcomed by embraced voices of bonfires,
with uncontrollable instinct
to meet.