The Poetryzine Magazine presents the selected poems by the Bosnian poetess Amina Hrncic
Hidden interweaving
The roots of the trees in the forests are said to be knitting into an uncharted network of empathy, and all it takes for one being to exist is another that would support him unconditionally. Trees have been hiding their secret interweaving, hiding from the beginning of the world to the present, but our roots are neither long nor deep, and no one could truly rely on ourselves. Kill me with your whirlpool of misunderstanding, conversations are an endless source of sadness, words are what separates us from belonging, to those who do not name impulses from within. Imagine the souls living in synchronous peace, imagine the face of an oak tree that says it wants to be alone, imagine the soul of a tree that wants to live with the people and the lungs of a man living alone with the forests. Embrace me with your whirlpool of understanding, conversations are necessary sources of sadness, encourage my unreasonable hesitation, I divide people into the trees and the others.
Wheel of memories
The sun is burning too fervently today but this flow from the inside burns even harder to take the sunlight seriously. Endless movie tape and refining of the repetition can not preserve the moment, so I turn myself to writing. I want to relive with you all the memories that came about accidentally when you were not there and to keep all of those that happened with you, lasting longer than the rest, to re-invoke and prevent them if there is any possible way, not to become the past, to make all our happiness revolving at once in some new wheel of time that we have designed, as the only thing that happens without interruption, and that is forever remembered. You are laughing, but you know well what I do, the paper absorbs, the paper suffers. We who deal with the recollection of memories engage the senses in the endeavor to distinguish light from darkness, and to preserve, in this life that may never have even existed, our whiteness.
Miniature for piano
This is the repeater of familiar feelings. Everything we've ever cared about is an octave, our majors and minors, the prelude and the bagatelle we are practicing life. Fear and courage are in symbiosis, I'm becoming a walker on the hot stones, and pretending I won't be needing my feet later. Someone else's heart under my sternum is beating cheerfuly. Today, I need hope that someone truly believes in me someone who doesn't love me but knows me, even if that person is just myself. And all we will ever have is in that one octave, so don't tell me about height and depth, both are palpable with the same fingers, and keep your cheekbones safe from your nails, remove the corneal excess that hides them, not to scratch the shallow. At the moment, vulnerability and strength can not do without each other. When you don't have an instrument near you, practice on a hardwood plank, and until you find it, straighten your spine. This is the repeater of familiar feelings, and the present is just a mist between the tones, and nothing should foil our commitment to the emotions, and to their separation from the sensitive things that need life. Listen to me. Straighten your spine.
Scattered to the four winds
Order me a marimba From the other side of the world Made by an artisan from Ecuador, Three sticks with wooden balls, Hat made entirely of flowers, A gown to match my hat, And castanets. I will take you to a vibrant meadow, Аnd I'll pretend to be a child again. I want us to move in the rhythm Of the Peruvian smiles With the melody of their hearts, And the passilo will get under Our skin and naturally settle in our bones, Slow as a waltz, but vivid. Order us a marimba From the other side of the world Three sticks with wooden balls and castanets, We will play them at night to take revenge on our neighbors, They will suffer like us when their baby cries. That way, when we get far away, We will already understand the Shuar language, And hundreds of other lost ways To tell someone – „Be a friend of mine“. And we will hide in the forests of Amazonia, And we will look for each other on the tops of Patagonia, Once we get far away they will perceive us As wanderers whose souls sing Scattered to the four winds.
Eyes older than this world
We who doubt in legends Will never understand That the geometry is a gift given to us And as equally holy as consciousness, Nor that there really was the word at the beginning, The word that was the same From here to the lonely tribes Who still keep the living stories on their tongues While they flee to the primordial peace. Figurine of a woman. The experience between spaces. Words older than this world With signs whose meaning Will remain unknown And those wondering eyes watching us Looking at us in every home Always open Always included. Traces in clay And seven thousand years deep Need to engrave yourself In those big eyes Who admire.
*Amina Hrnčić was born in 1995 in Bosnia and Herzegovina. She graduated from the Faculty of Pharmacy, University of Sarajevo and obtained the title of Master of Pharmacy. She lives and works in Novi Sad, Serbia. She has published two collections of poetry, "The Road to Agape" and "Octave", as the winner of the 1st prize 51. Youth Poetry Festival, Vrbas, and the 1st prize for the best first book of Literary Youth Valjevo.
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