| Novi Sad Born in Novi Sad the Serbian Athens, on the beautiful blue Danube, on which, in my dreams, white ships sail. The Danube I swam across with my brother and his friends, both ways, so they wouldn't think of me as a girl, only. There on the beach, while they played chess, I snuck into a boat and rowed up the river, far away. Stowing the oars, I lay on the bottom watching the skies flow while the Danube stood still. Suddenly, a huge white ship appeared right behind me. A ship? I had no time to be scared, it was so beautiful. It passed and the waves rocked me slowly back to the beach. I did this often in the evenings. Everyone gone, I rowed up the river landing at a sandbar, and walked on the cool, wet sand I, the owner of the land upon which there was nothing but the sand and I. How would it be to live on this deserted island, I wondered. My family would miss me. "You are wild like your father," Mom always said. The city would go on with life without me. When it rained, I took off my swimsuit, tied it around my neck and swam topless. Mom would be shocked if she knew! I dared not think what I would do if – God forbid – the water took it away. Sometimes, on the surface of the water tiny snake heads shimmered, like a pearly necklace. The snakes swim too? The River teaches. Novi Sad. The city of my youth, of farmers' market, opera, and the Danube Park in which a college boy tried to kiss me. I wouldn't let him. . "We will never walk together again," he said. Let's see how that feels, I thought, flipping my hair, like a horse's mane. It's best not to threaten me. He was a silent type, a mathematician. And those are unpredictable. We never talked again. I have no idea what equation he solved, I confirmed mine. Novi Sad, unique in the world. There I wrote poetry, went to school, collected chestnuts in the fall, smooth and shiny, like my hair, "chestnutty" Mom called it, with a smile. Novi Sad, close to Strazhilovo where each spring we went on a field trip to the grave of poet Branko Radichevich. We took a short train ride, and climbed the mountain to the sun-drenched, brilliant top. One year, the train moved back and cut off a boy's legs. Shocked and silent, our day darkened, we returned home never to go back again. Strazhilovo for me now means Branko Radichevic but this other memory has moved in as well. Novi Sad, the city where I graduated, left for Belgrade and college, married and returned with my husband and child, to visit my parents. First my parents gone, then my husband too, I left with my child for America. Now Novi Sad means memories; no more home, only Mom's grave in the churchyard overgrown with weeds. The city changed by the bombing. Not the one during WWII which, as a little child, in our cellar I experienced, but the last war, that half a century later, is even harder to endure. There are too many wars in one human life, not to mention the life of a nation. And now, far-away, in America, I remember it all. I crave to hear about Novi Sad, but all I hear from other people sounds like some other Novi Sad. Unrecognizable. With some other youth. Yet Matica Srpska, as a sentinel, is still there. I grew up in its Library, in "Letopis" published my first poetry. I am not there to walk the bridge and watch my city from the ancient Petervarad Fortress upon which the old tower clock still relentlessly counts the time. There is no bridge anymore, I hear. Much of what I knew is not there. But the Danube still flows and the new generation grows. They will build new bridges, and write poetry, make love in the parks, and read books in the Matica Library. I have nothing to regret. Rich with memories, I know, Life is always precious and beautiful. Those who love life have subscribed to Eternity. California, 2000 |
| Mira Mataric |
| Accident A screech of tires crash of glass. Silence. Then sirens, police cars, ambulance. The real background still is silence a strange silence of the bodies in the smashed car and the medics busily working on them. At home a child will miss his mother's kiss before going to sleep not understanding why the neighbor is there red eyed, avoiding to tell where the parents have gone. Pasadena, 2006 Improper Things I could’ve been happier in life if I were not raised so frugal, if I used more toothpaste to brush my teeth and splurged on large ice creams, instead of small cones. I could’ve been happier in life if I hadn’t been told ladies do not laugh loud, walk barefoot in the park, swim naked in the river, yet I have always craved to do just that to experience if once only the feel of a gentle summer rain on my bare body. I could’ve been happy, I believe if I had worn Katherine Hepburn’s hats, Marilyn Monroe’s shoes, even Sofia Loren’s bras. I wish I allowed myself to run with the wolves, and pee in the woods. That path is dangerous, I know. But I’ve always done what pleased my parents, even now when they are long gone and it is too late to turn the page, do all of these improper things that might have made me happy, with an illusion of freedom and unity with myself. Pasadena, 1998. KATRINA On a plane 33,000 feet above the ground over the Atlantic Ocean. On the TV screen devastation after the hurricane. Passengers nap, read magazines, eat chocolate and drink red wine. Some absorbed in science fiction, others in sappy love stories, younger passengers listen to the metal and rock. . Just then, an announcement: Somebody is caught in the lavatory – smoking. They are kindly asked to get Nicorette chewing gum instead. The federal offence for smoking on the flights is not mentioned. "Poor, old and black forced to stay behind as the hurricane strikes" – the newspaper in the hands of my neighbor says. If we are all equal in God's eyes and democracy is about equal rights what is amiss here? We are not in the God's Kingdom yet (only high in the sky). But aren't we in a democracy either? The flight attendants start serving food. The aroma of chicken pilaf envelopes all. Everybody hastens to eat the TV program abandoned. A baby in the front, close to the TV screen with the disaster news cries incessantly. Parents try warm milk, rocking and singing lullabies. Nothing works. The baby cries on. The only one on the entire big plane. September 5, 2005. Awakening The dream thins and vanishes and quietly I touch the bank of the day. Behind me rustling of the mist and the river. I'll push the boat into the mist into the dream and enter the light alone. Belgrade, 1959. |
