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.
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.