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.
A blooming day in autumn
The roads are hugged by branchless Christmas trees A beam cuts them like scalpel and gives the morning summerly autumn to the squirrels the natural hair of the street clown has whitened from too much fun the loneliness steals large canvases from the cinemas and sews itself in the dandy suits with which pedestrians go to work the tiny lights slowly set behind the grain mills The Earth is loaded on airships that change its orbit the fruits are planets in the yards the thoughts are safely stationed in a temporary parking like a hemisphere and the body chooses to juggle at crosswalks to the red light Gothic castles show the way of the soul with their sharp peaks the roundabouts calmly blossom autumn pastorals from the mouths of vagrants and few bums that burn those parts of the soul that are reflection of Heaven in you.
11 243 meters, purple Mediterranean
The airplane wings draw new summer fragrances in the fogs they’re expected by tomorrow's smiles like a dawn or maybe a dusk with a calm, lazy eyes the day can witness the providence through all the blue truths the winds lose their hearing with the speed of a fatal thought squeezed into a cloud that looks like Helderlin the three colors beyond the window are tightened in a harmony by the belt of a thought looking for waiting rooms with queues for the scents of summers to happen every doubt burns in the contact with the perfect sea right in front of us no mantra reveals the same silence again the airplane wings confine new pieces of rigour in the collages of death, Deceived like a flat rainbow at the end of the view.
The land, once again, with open arms and a deep breath is set to earn a temporary embrace counting the seagulls following the shade-loaded boats.
Going after the White Griffin
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.
Our ashes are dust on the bodies of the intact gods, a shadow that builds all the world's heavens, a flag waiting to be lifted by the wind in between that only sometimes moans out loud.
Our ashes hide the sunwords in an Easter basket braided with red thoughts, our ashes precede the gray shine of foreign universes once purified by moments of water and grains of fire our ashes are being crumbled in chrome plates from the dining rooms of the homes of children who are not yet born, light as the earth protecting us.
Slowly I wake as you get reborn along with a royal cape of bed sheets in my bed bent out of love as if your royal art suddenly becomes visible as if you exist along with art and I slowly touch your lips colored by the Sun disguising you as a redhead saint rising behind your visage - you’ll drink this day with them as these pupils have drunk the once upon a time.
In your now my lips grow blind while you flee I slowly sip wine and the black abyss from the glass as deep as your navel becomes the only landscape of your hiding my body is slowly being dyed by green flames purging me from your curses with the scent of basil soaked in water nourishing the skin of a newborn dressed in fig leaves that I tore one by one when the zenith was a candle under which the drunken god with red ink slowly versified our destinies built out of earth.
Soon enough The red prophets of the city’s skyworld will slowly shorten the day; the night will follow us soberly with a Venetian mask taking it out to greet everyone except us while the steel steps will ever slowly ever narrowly gently get us lost to the navels of the world.